The Eye of the Heffalump

So Long, Heffalump

2008-01-25T04:56:00.000-07:00

Say goodbye to the Heffalump's Eye. I am onto other work that will hopefully help me develop my writing skills even further.

That is what I am doing now - working on the The Teton Chronicles - and trying to build a site that will best describe what it is like to live in the Teton Valley. Certainly I will always link back to the Heffalump when I want to relay a story to the readers of The Teton Chronicles , but as far as adding new content to this here blog, the time has come to retire the site and move on.

The Eye of the Heffalump was my second blog, and The Teton Chronicles will be my first "real" website.

Who knows what could be next?

Christmas Vacation, Revisited

2007-12-18T13:40:00.000-07:00

Christmas break becomes more and more difficult to plan as you grow into an adult. As a kid, everything is planned for you - the presents, the activities, the Christmas Spirit. But once you have tripped into the precipice of grown-upped-ness, it is on you to make it all happen.

Mind you, I am not a parent. I don't have any children clinging to my ankles eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa. But I don't use that as an excuse to simply ignore Christmas. I have the comforting Christmas Spirit packaged away in boxes that Tim has ceremoniously moved four times over the past year.

I am ready, at a moment's notice, to make Christmas happen.

Yes, one does have to make it happen. Again, the onslaught of adulthood nurtures a sense of irritability during Christmas. You have to overlook this. You have to overlook the traffic, the multitude of shoppers, the incompetence of customer service, the greed. You have to look past that extra ten pounds that you are hopeless to gain, the laziness that ultimately creeps in at work as the holidays approach, and the fact that yes your family did draw names this year - and no - you cannot trade with someone else.

None of us had to overlook this stuff as kids. It all happened so easily for us - we coasted into Christmas morning buoyed by thoughts of Santa's magic and the holy trinity of Christmas booty: toys, clothes and food. But the years creep on, and Santa creeps out, somehow becoming just another overzealous icon of consumerism.

But this year - this year Christmas is truly happening for me. Yes, I did have to make it happen. I had to buy airline tickets and renew a couple of passports. But beyond that, both Tim and I have had the luxury of looking forward to our Christmas vacation for months, knowing that plans were in place to make it the best Christmas on record.

We are bound for an eco-lodge in Nicaragua. We are not alone. There will be seventeen of our family present to enjoy this once in a lifetime holiday celebration. We are not taking presents - and I have to admit that I haven't wrapped a thing this time around. There is no tree at our house and not one twinkling light.

But Christmas is a feeling, isn't it? It is brought on by love and companionship, not the amount of gifts one scores, or lights that one strings - and that is something that I only learned as an adult. So before I go all Linus Van Pelt on you and deliver a speech about the true spirit of Christmas, I'll just hope that each of you enjoys the warmth and love of the holiday season.

Don't gaze at the possibility of that wrapped box - look into the eyes of those that surround you Christmas Day and be thankful that you are able to share a moment of holiday happiness with those that you love.

Of course when I do that this year, I will be able to look over the shoulders of the ones I love and see a beach in the distance.

To indulge in such an experience... now that, my friends, is Christmas.

You Are So Kind To Wait

2007-12-18T05:55:00.000-07:00

Oh Thanksgiving... weeks ago, yet not far from my mind. I promised you links to the recipes that I used to make my Thanksgiving spectacular, so here they are!

Camembert Mashed Potatoes

Blackberry Mustard Glazed Ham

Oven Roasted Green Beans

Cinnamon Streusel Topped Pumpkin Pie

Maple Roasted Turkey With Sage, Smoked Bacon and Cornbread Stuffing

Hello, Lovers.

Hm. Seems I am missing a recipe - oh yes, the now famous macaroni and cheese recipe that I pulled out of a Food & Wine issue from like, 2004. Famous, you ask? How so? Well, my friend Red-Head-Jen has now made this recipe twice since I gave it to her. The second time was for a dinner we both attended, and all present raved about the fantastic taste of this sublime version of good ol' mac & cheese.

This recipe calls for aged cheddar and both me and Jen used the Irish Dubliner Aged Cheddar. Food & Wine makes a recommendation... just use your best judgement and remember "the older the cheese, the better the dish...".

Of course, Food & Wine did not have the recipe I needed on their website. So read through the below and remember... if you make this, they will come.

Macaroni & Cheese
Serves 4 to 6

1 lb. tube shaped pasta, such as rigatoni or penne rigate
Salt
2 tsp. butter
1 med. yellow onion, peeled and coarsely chopped
1 clove garlic, peeled and crushed
1 sprig fresh thyme
1 sprig fresh rosemary
1/4 cup dry white wine
2 tbsp. flour
3 1/2 cups milk
2 tbsp. dijon mustard
1 lb. (yes!) aged cheddar cheese, such as Shelburne Farms Two-Year Farmhouse Cheddar grated on large holes of box grater (about 4 1/2 cups)
Freshly ground black pepper
1-2 tbsp. coarse dry bread crumbs

1. Preheat oven to 400 degrees. Meanwhile, cook pasta in a large pot of boiling salted water over high heat for 5 - 7 minutes or until not quite cooked through. Drain, rinse under cold running water, and drain again.

2. Melt butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add onions, garlic, thyme, and rosemary and cook until onions are soft, 8 to 10 minutes. Add wine and cook for 2 to 3 minutes. Remove and discard garlic and herbs. Whisk in flour and cook, stirring, for 1 minute. Gradually whisk in milk, then mustard. Reduce heat to maintain a gentle simmer and cook sauce, stirring constantly, until thick and creamy, about 30 minutes (get a stool and have a seat). Remove pan from heat and stir in 3 cups of cheese, 1 handful at a time, stirring until completely melted after each addition. Season to taste with salt and pepper.

3. Add pasta to sauce and stir until well coated. Transfer macaroni and cheese to an 8 to 9 cup baking dish, scatter remaining cheese on top, then sprinkle with bread crumbs. Bake until crust is golden, about 25 minutes.

There's the cheese laden concoction, ready to bake!

Pretty Lady

2007-12-11T16:10:00.000-07:00

Here I am, performing the two finger shovel with a bowl of crab dip at my office holiday party. Classy, no?

Thanksgiving 2007!

2007-11-30T06:15:00.000-07:00

This was my kitchen at 5:30 AM Thanksgivin' mornin'.

Ahhh, Thanksgiving. As some of you know, tis me favorite holiday (and why I slipped into an Irish Spring accent just now, I do not know). The Annual Day of American Sloth – well, the “official” annual day of sloth – not like those other days of sloth that Americans so adore, is simply the best.

Truly, I am looking for any shameless opportunity to share my love of finding recipes and then putting them into execution. Some call this “cooking”. I call it a knack for reading and following instructions.

Last Thanksgiving, my dad was here visiting. It was my great pleasure to have him in the kitchen with me helping to prepare the meal. In my eyes, my dad was some kind of renegade in the kitchen while I was growing up. He tried some super freaky shit, like the time he made liver (please suppress your gag reflex, my sister and I actually like liver [more super freaky shit]) and stuffed it with cream cheese. Even a true liver lover would reject that. We certainly did, and let me tell you, a pair of girls aged nine and ten years old can be vicious critics.

Then again, my dad made fantastic lasagna. In fact, any pasta dish he tried came out with a nice finish. My father also makes great burgers. He taught me and my sister how to flavor ground beef for hamburgers, and I still use his core method today (worchestershire, an egg and a piece of torn up bread) with my own modifications.

I always admired my father’s ability for seeming to be making things up as he goes along. Dad has plenty of tricks up his sleeve, and I suspect that he may sometimes use recipes as “guidelines”. Ultimately, though, he always leaves room for improvisation in the kitchen and that is what I enjoy most about his kitchen style.

This Thanksgiving weekend, I was very lucky to host my mom for leftovers. Although she didn’t arrive on the actual day of sloth, she was able to participate in the extended celebration of the slothfulness all the way through to the Monday that followed Thanksgiving. It was leftovers galore, and I couldn’t hope for a better person to share it with.

My mom loves food – much in the same way I do. We both give into cravings too much, which I believe is the plight of the average woman, not just a shared affliction in my family. What I admire about my mom’s approach to cooking, though, is her love of the recipe. This is where the recipe became a reality for me – watching my mom pour over every page of the classic Betty Crocker Cookbook. She had others, but it was good ol’ Betty that she worshipped.

I learned to admire those same pages at my own life speed, but with the same intensity as my mom. It was a challenge to read the entire recipe through, plan the ingredients and carry out the measure of every step with precision. The result? Well, the hope is to match the illustration of the dish that is mocking you from the pages of the cookbook: “Your version will never really look like I do in all my glorious color and deliciousness, but – nice try.”

The execution of a recipe still holds that fascination with me that my mom instilled – it’s a little experiment, let’s give it a try. And as I grew older, I finally started to throw some caution to the kitchen winds and improvise a little – like my dad. I feel that I have nurtured culinary attitude and skill that still requires vast improvement. But thanks to my parents, I have a solid foundation to build upon. And now, happy friends get to reap the reward.

The pie was finished at 6AM and the Chardonnay was open at 7AM (it's for a recipe, I assure you).

Prep the Food & Wine mac & cheese recipe...

...almost there...

Now I just have to put it in the oven.

Potatoes from Idaho? Well ya don't say!

Cornbread stuffing prep.

Now that is a fine lookin' bird.

Wah Lah! Lookit me now!

Check my Sharpie marked centerpiece, yo.

A little kitchen smoochy smooch never hurt anyone.

Bacon coated turkey? I think so!

Blackberry-Mustard Glazed Ham? Yessirree!

Hand over the vittles.

Emily came over just to mash the potatoes for me -

- but since she brought this amazing homemade apple pie, I let her stay for dinner.

Ready for the onslaught.

Scott is headed straight for the gourmet mac & cheese.

Score!

I made gravy this year - first time for everythang.

Our Thanksgivin' was might purty...

...hope yours was fantastic as well.

We Get Visitors

2007-11-25T06:11:00.000-07:00

Jamie and Jill were our last out of town visitors, but we often get local visitors out here - some unexpected.

We were out on the back deck enjoying the last rays of a long productive Saturday, when we received visitors.

First, a rather large bovine came into the yard. She had three acres of unspoiled natural grass to eat, and she was pretty much going to town. We walked through the house to watch her out in front, meandering past the driveway.

Just then, our second visitor arrived. He was a cowboy of sorts, although it seems he left either in quite a hurry or without any cares at all. He had ridden down the rode to our house bareback, and he kind of wasn't wearing any shoes. I mean, he had shoes on but they weren't cowboy boots or anything. They were flip-flops.

He gave us a wave as he trotted on horseback past the Xterra in our driveway and toward the wellhouse, where his quarry was headed. This cow wasn't fat, by the way, she was faaaAAAAT. Her girth was a little intimidating.

The chase was on. She realized that she was caught, and picked up the pace toward the back of the wellhouse. Cowboy Flip-flop closed the gap with a brief gallop and then promptly fell off his horse.

The pursuit suddenly changed to him leading the horse on foot through the rest of the yard while the cow made haste to the road.

Tim and I ended up exactly where we had started - on the back deck. The cowboy shouted instructions to us from across the yard not to tell his wife that he had fallen off the horse; at which time we realized that he was probably about three or four beers into enjoying his evening before Bessie the Bovine decided to go visiting.

Our visitors do vary. We take all kinds, though.

I think I might go running after my Thanksgivin' meal...

2007-11-21T14:27:00.000-07:00

nataliedee.com

Two Sisters, One Valley, So Little Time

2007-11-04T07:36:00.000-07:00

In the true spirit of adventurers before them; Ponce De Leon, Amerigo Vespucci, Lewis and that other guy Clark, two travelers came to my home at the end of our high desert summer to soak in a foreign landscape. One of them was from Minneapolis – a name derived from the Dakota word for water and the Greek word for city. The other came from far away Atlanta – a city name meaning “Don’t Come Here in the Summer – Ever”.

These two visitors are sisters, and even though they live in separate cities, they both traveled together to our remote location here in Idaho’s Teton Valley to soak in local culture, wildlife, National Park views and America’s “Way Out West” that they had never seen before. To sit back and observe them as they saw it all was my greatest joy during their trip. To see those that have never gazed upon the Grand Teton see it for the first time, and then on the same day see a moose in its own habitat for the first time; it’s all too inspiring. It is a great reminder that the beauty of this earth is a gift.

And so Minneapolis (Jamie) and Atlanta (Jill) set upon the Teton Valley with enthusiasm and eyes wide open.

I felt compelled to offer them a wee bit of culture right out of the gate, so the moment they arrived, we were off to Music on Main. I am pretty certain that this was the last event of the summer music series, and cannot recall from memory who played to the masses that evening.

However, this outing did afford an opportunity to view local art that one wouldn’t ordinarily see in the Teton Valley if one weren’t paying just enough attention.

And in order to keep paying just the right amount of attention, it was off to the Grand Teton Brewery the next morning to adjust our sites appropriately with a sample of finely microbrewed beer. What I love most about this photo is the Bitch Creek sign over Jamie’s shoulder.

What I love most about this photo is…. Emily! Emily, Jamie and I used to work at the same company in Minneapolis together. It was this highrise right downtown near the Ralph Lauren store. Very corporate. Very rat race. So Jamie is still in the trenches at the rat race in downtown Minneapolis, and Emily and I have our own version of the rat race here in the Teton Valley; after all, we are both still workin’ for da man. But Emily at least is doing God’s work: she is employed by a brewery!

This is the superbly crappy view that the ladies were disappointed to soak in at the top of Teton Pass. Isn’t it ugly here? No one should come. Stay away, the views are craptacular. What I really hate is that when you look out your car window, all you see is this kind of thing:

It’s gets to be a little annoying, all that ugliness.
*Sigh*.

We got to Grand Teton National Park and the first thing we got to see – BAM – there is the tourist ready moose all prepped and ready to pose for action. While all three of us marveled at this cow (the calf was nearby concealed by some brush) surrounded by around 15 or so other people all standing on the side of the rode, this guy with Arizona plates (it could have been a rental) climbed over the guardrail and right down to where the cow was feeding to, I presume, “get a better shot”. What I was hoping for was to witness a statistic: tourist gets attacked by moose – happens every year at both the Grand Teton and Yellowstone National Parks. My hopes were dashed when he made it out unscathed.

Jamie and Jill cheesed it up in front of a lovely view of the Tetons, and then off we went to cover the rest of the park.

There is another moose (brown dot near left of frame)! Seriously, this bad boy had an enormous rack. Those lucky dogs – first day in Wyoming and two moose! (mooses?)

The gratuitous Jackson Hole pose.

Back to Idaho to pose in front of the Spud Drive-In,

then off to the Knotty Pine to eat some chow (after margaritas).

Tucked in for another night of sleep in remote Idaho after staring at the stars on the back deck for some time, our adventurers were chomping at the bit to experience the Grand Poobah of parks – the one and only Yellowstone National Park. Naturally some things in life are guaranteed: if you make it to Yellowstone you will see one of these:

And one of these:

Walk some more,

And you’ll find more of these

And some more of these

And a really big one of these

And then some!

Here is the cool thing about going somewhere like this with the right people: we noticed this dragonfly eating an aphid on the boardwalk that surrounded one of the geysers. Jamie took a snapshot as we admired the busy life that dwells beneath the surface of everything. We were looking down at this thing, and got probably two Germans and at least two Japanese to stand by us and stare down for a second. They kind of moved on right away, but we all thought it was cool.

“No pictures, please. I am on private sojourn with my entourage.”

I am telling you, it is butt ugly here.

Heh heh.

On the way back from Yellowstone, we stopped at Mesa Falls. It was kind of nice to end the day just standing and staring at this much water rushing down to end in such a mesmerizing roar.

Go to your happy place…

Back to the homestead after having seen so much and spending time with people we see so little of.

We found reasons to celebrate the whole time Jill and Jamie spent time in the Teton Valley. First moose, first geyser, first raven (that is what those Wyoming crows are really called, Jame).

Still, I don’t think Hobbes noticed anything.

On the other paw, Lucy was thrilled to have the company!

(all photo credits to Jamie!)

It Was My Bright Idea

2007-10-19T04:04:00.000-06:00

The corndog that stole my heart.

Waaaay back in something like July, I was struck by the not so brilliant idea of signing up for a 5K with my work buddy Jennifer.

Not so brilliant due to the fact that I haven't run more than two minutes straight in about a year and a half. But Jennifer was game, and so after delaying the original date in September to a run in the middle of October, we were on.

Committing to run in October here in the Intermountain West is like willfully agreeing to run through sleet, or at least a snow flurry. But on the day of the run we got lucky: it was a balmy 40 degrees in Idaho Falls. There was a stiff breeze that took the temp down another 5 degrees when it really blew. We awaited the start of the race under a sky thick with gray and promising snow.

As my legs shook with ~~the onset of hypothermia~~ anticipation, I tried to remember what motivated me to attempt this inanity. I had tried to "trick" myself into exercising by implementing an end date that would require me to hoof it with some zeal. Unfortunately, it didn't really work out that way. I'm not saying I didn't exercise at all. I did. Some. My lack of focus didn't exactly prepare me to run this 5K.

Jennifer was a great sport for the whole endeavor. Not only did she agree to participate in this goal setting effort gone wrong, she came over the night before and made dinner for me and Tim. She basically rocks.

Jennifer poses with her Kung Pao Chicken

Jennifer and I arrived in Idaho Falls before 8AM. The race was at 9AM, so she drove me around and gave me a little mini-tour of I-Falls, which is all the bigger a tour gets in I-Falls. We hit the Starbucks (something I would regret later, around the 3rd mile), and then started walking through the park where the run would be held. We realized early on that the 5K was associated with something called Harvest Fest.

I was happy to celebrate the end of Almost-Getting-Killed-By-A-Potato-Truck-Coming-Down-My-Narrow-Dirt-Road season, so I was all about the Harvest Fest. Let me tell you as well that I found a new inspiration for finishing the 5K: there was a Pronto Pup truck sitting in the Fest area, ready to swing open its doors for business once the run was over. There is nothing like the promise of a fresh corndog to get you over the finish line.

Okay, so we actually did run. Not the whole time or anything, but off and on during the course. And get this, it was really pretty. I had no idea that I-Falls had any true quaintness about it, but it turns out that it does.

It was kind of this really unexpected experience - no matter how much poor planning went into it. The weather did warm up and it never actually snowed. Instead, we got some air, hung out with some locals, and had probably the best corndog ever from friendly vendors that were willing to take our photo.

Look at the crazed look in my eye. Me loves me some Pronto Pups!

Jennifer has now planted this seed of an idea in my head that I can run a 10K by next May if I really try, and we should drive to Boulder, Colorado to do this thing.

I am not completely opposed to it, but she is pretty much going to have to guarantee a fresh corn dog at the finish line.

Gratiutous self portrait before race - we did not plan the green thing, okay?

Harvest Fest musicians rock out - I was shocked that there was no smoke coming off this girl's bow.

Lookit all the cool stuff!

Quilts...

...and tie dye...

...and one man's junk is another man's future garage sale item if purchased...

...and small dogs wrapped in pink fleece!

This guy was great - he totally faked the whole power tool thing for a photo op - now that is a cooperative local!

Then his wife took our photo...

...and Jen met her dream date.

I Need A Staff Photographer

2007-10-08T21:01:00.000-06:00

Okay, so the title should probably be "Chili Cook-Off 2007!" My enthusiasm for this event subsided, however, after I reviewed my photos. Well, my enthusiasm hasn't completely subsided. Nothing can truly detract from the success that was our first annual chili cook-off.

About a month ago, I decided that Tim and I would throw a chili cook-off. This plan to invite competitors into our home to share their chili prowess was inspired by my own experience in Minneapolis both participating in a chili cook-off (2nd place first time out, thank you very much) and also performing as a judge one year for the same event.

I was craving kitchen competition for some reason. I blame this on my love of the Bravo channel's Top Chef. Regardless of how I came up with the idea or where I stole it from (thank you, Utility Engineering), it was on with the cook-off, results be damned. Wouldn't you know it - when there is competition involved, certain people simply cannot resist.

For my part, I created the house rule that the host cannot make chili. I mean, c'mon - it would be just a bit embarrassing if my name were on the chili plaque every year. It's like I would invite competitors over just to fail against my chili. Then, no one would want to come back. Right? (give a girl second place in a chili cook-off and modesty goes right out the door...)

Instead, I dove into the precise science of making cornbread from scratch. I've never performed this feat before and was pretty bowled over by the simplicity of the endeavor. I made a sweet potato cornbread and a batch of jalapeno-cheese cornbread that came from a recipe generously donated by one of my co-workers. Both were worthy sides to the chili that was brought into our kitchen.

As I intended to perform the judging by panel, I assigned Tim as one of the judges. The day of the cook-off, he kind of looked at me sideways and said, "you do realize that I don't like chili." Um, no. I didn't realize this. I suppose when you have been married only three years, you learn something new every day. Or every other day. Or frequently enough to still be surprised. I was not deterred. As the chili makers had crawled out of the woodwork to make the chili, I was certain that I would not have any trouble assigning judges once the contest began.

Danielle called me prior to the contest to ensure that her husband Steve could secure a spot on the panel. See? No problemo. At the very least, Steve was chomping at the bit to judge chili. I called Mel to invite her and her boyfriend Jeff, asking if he would be interested in judging. She wanted to know if she was chopped liver - why couldn't she judge too? Indeed - why not? And so she did.

The judges prepare to feast.

The panel was rounded out by our ever present buddy Mike and an out-of-towner in the form of Danielle's brother Eric. I will always brag that I flew one of our judges in from San Diego for the first annual chili cook-off. As the stage was set, it was time to pick apart the concoctions.

Steve really wanted to be a judge.

Check it out - it's like crack to him.

The other judges discuss an intervention behind Steve's back.

Mel finishes her round of judging with a piece of cornbread.

Here is where I stumble in my documentation of this event. I didn't take pictures of any of the chili. My camera, which I am unnaturally attached to (inanimate objects have a special appeal to me - wait here while I go make out with my new cell phone) decided to take grainy indoor photos that tested my patience and made me want to take it out to the wellhouse and lecture it for poor performance.

I didn't take pictures of any of the chili-makers. Well, some of them made it into a frame or two - but let's just say that it wasn't necessarily my shining hour as a self appointed photo-journalist. My only saving grace is that this will be an annual event. There is always next year for me to attempt to improve my observation techniques. And there is always next year for the participants to have a fair shot at the title.

This year's winner was Blaine, who was represented by a traditional chili - thick with both meat and beans, and with some subtle flavor of sweetness that my girlfriend Jenny and I guessed might be brown sugar. I am sure that he will never tell. Jenny didn't do so bad either - she received the honor of second place. This position is sometimes more pivotal than first; remember that in a mousetrap situation, the second mouse always gets the cheese. Third was a tie between Stephanie and Cheryl. I will leave it to the judges next year to break a tie rather than implement one. Lesson learned in chili contest hosting.

In this situation, the winner's only honor is braggin' rights. Also, ya get yer name emblazoned in fine point Sharpie on a super homemade plaque! Will you dare enter next year? Will you walk the plank that is chili competition and put your cooking ego on the line? Will someone please take pictures for me next year????

Jack isn't a chili fan, but sure loves dip! (Hidden Valley Ranch, sour cream and salsa - works every time)

Here's our out of town judge Eric (far right) discussing the finer points of chili tasting. (actually he was the one elected to perform the intervention...."Steve, just put the spoon down, man....")

Danielle and Nicole share some pre-chili time with others.

Contestants wait nervously by as the judges taste their wares.

It's a free-for-all in the kitchen once the judging is complete.

Thanks everyone for coming!!!

Jaime Sommers vs. Jaime Sommers

2007-10-01T19:02:00.000-06:00

Okay, so they remade The Bionic Woman. "They" meaning unoriginal television producers, and "The Bionic Woman" meaning a show named "The Bionic Woman" but having no resemblence to the original 70's television series.

I am tainted, tis true. I have an unnatural nostalgia for the original of "The Bionic Woman" due to the fact that my first and only female action figure was that of Jaime Sommers.

You could peel back this plastic flap of "skin" on her molded arm that would reveal a 2D depiction of intricate bionic wiring. In fact, on the show when she sometimes got hurt, wiring would be exposed and sparking from either her arm or her leg. Ahhh. Good television watchin' times, folks.

Naturally when I saw the previews for the new "The Bionic Woman", I was struck with a severe case of sentimentality. You don't know how excited I was to see the new 21st century Jaime Sommers. I guess I never gave any real consideration to how they would "improve" on the original.

Well, let's just say that those television programmers way back in the 70's broke the mold when they made the original. This time 'round, there is no Oscar, no OSI, no bionic dog, no guy that makes the gadgets or soups up the bionics. Instead, we are talking about a sleek production that seems like a cross between Alias and 24 - production value wise - but not as good as either of those shows. Mind you, I never watched either of those TV shows, but they were critically popular and had large audiences.

"The Bionic Woman" may actually gain a following. I dunno. Perhaps there are those out there that will embrace the idea of a bartender named Jaime Sommers (um, original JS was a school teacher), that takes care of her orphaned sister (yeah, that didn't happen 30 years ago either), dates a scientist with a super secret job (JS of the 70's dated the freakin' Six Million Dollar Man - I guess they couldn't top that) who gets her some bionics; after which time she has to do battle with the first bionic woman that her boyfriend helped make in the super secret lab before Jaime - and that beta version of the bionic woman is like, really pissed.

Jaime never did battle with a version of herself like that - although I do vaguely remember some storyline involving a clone of her... but it is all so hazy and misty at this point (which I am sure has nothing to do with the fact that I watched far too many hours of television in the 70's). At any rate, and to further my point - this 2007 version of Jaime Sommers isn't even Jaime Sommers. Jaime SOMMERS got hurt in a parachuting accident, okay? She was not injured in car wreck with her boyfriend that has a super secret scientist job.

How can I express my disappointment?

Perhaps it is best that I do not embrace the current version of "The Bionic Woman". I mean, I don't need to like anymore television shows. But it sure would have been nice to have an old friend back every week - and that familiar noise that the bionics used to make - remember? - whoosh sh sh sh sh - woosh sh sh sh sh....

...no, this one doesn't even have that either.

This Is Jamie

2007-09-20T19:12:00.000-06:00

Look how tired she is.
Usually she only looks this way at work.

Just kidding Jame.

She had just spent three days exploring the American West through visits to Grand Teton National Park, Teton Valley ID, Yellowstone National Park and Jackson Hole WY.

She also saw three moose, one elk, endless amounts of bison and some exotic Wyoming crows.
Oh, and a fox.
No bears.

Her sister Jill was along for the ride and I have to say that both Jamie and Jill really stuck it out as first time visitors to our little neck o' the woods.

They ate at the Knotty Pine. They attended Music on Main. The stood and stared at Jenny Lake in Grand Teton National Park.

They walked - as most tourists do at Yellowstone - over boardwalk after boardwalk in order to view the unique natural wonder that is Yellowstone.

And also, they got to witness a middle aged Asian tourist lean down and stick her finger in one of those natural features. We didn't get a photo of that, but here is a recreation:
you may click on the image for a larger version...

...and you may wait to see more of Jamie and Jill's Teton Valley Adventure!

Still Life With Cow

2007-09-18T19:48:00.000-06:00

I have this thing about cows. I don’t know why. It’s not as if I hold them to the highest esteem, as I am still happy to have a steak on my plate. But for some reason, I have always looked at a field of cows from a car window and smiled. Cows make me smile.

You could not imagine my thrill to find that we would be living cow adjacent in our new home. When we first moved in, the cows were across the road in a field; now they are in a field that abuts the west side of our property, often feeding directly against our fence – oh joy!

I used to have proof regarding my early connection to a cow: a photograph of my sister and I shows us standing near a cow, she six years old and me five years of age. The photo is long lost, but my mom always used to say “that was the first cow you ever milked”, as if my association with cows continued and I have a long list of cows that I have milked. Not so. As a matter of fact, that may have been the first and last cow that I ever milked.

Early on, I believe that I was able to connect cows with cheese very quickly and therefore could fully understand their value. I mean, you don’t watch Sesame Street or Mr. Rogers for nothin’. Surely I must have been shown during my young PBS viewing years that milk comes from cows and that milk always has the potential to become cheese. Cheese has figured prominently in my life. Therefore, cows should be regaled and thanked for this gift to my palate.

Once, when I was about nineteen or something, someone told me that only black and white cows give milk. I bought this statement hook line and sinker, feeling that it had to be true due to the fact that one really only sees Holsteins on large dairy farms, not your brown Jersey or other breed. Yes, you may mock my naiveté. I do. I think I finally figured out the error in this belief in my mid-twenties. Boy, did I feel duped.

So it goes to follow that just because I like cows – I definitely like their meat and the cheese that they bless this world with – doesn’t mean that I really know that much about cows. And even though that picture of me and my sister standing next to a cow is proof that I was at one point very close to a cow, I do not have a distinct memory of the event. I don’t really know what it feels like to touch a cow, but I kinda want to.

Lately, I’ve been taking pictures of the cows. They are not so cooperative, especially when Lucy is with me and starts barking at them the closer I get. Lately I have been trying to approach the fence alone and without Lucy’s “help”. Um, the cows still think that I should find other subjects… unless they actually like me taking pictures of their rear ends as they walk away. I’m not so fond of this angle, but I am getting used to it.

I was hoping to capture a cow unawares and therefore unable to run away from me, mooing in disgust. I tried this on the road when I came across some wayward cows that had escaped their fence. Again with the running. Whatever.

So, me and cows: I adore them, and they don’t care. That is okay, though, I can still worship their primary mission in life, which is to give me cheese and meat. Maybe someday these cows will eventually allow me to simply walk up to them and take pictures of their gorgeous faces without the skittishness that has so far characterized our relationship.

I feel like I should be studying the moves of Jane Goodall or Diane Fossey, tempting the cows to make friends with me through my constant presence in their midst. Tim will awake one morning to find me in our backyard at 5AM, poised with a tripod and ready to snap the cows just being themselves. I don’t know what I expect to find… perhaps they really let their hair down and just moo with reckless abandon.

I will definitely keep you up to date.

What I Did On My Summer Vacation

2007-09-15T06:25:00.000-06:00

Okay, so July 4th was ages ago. I know, I know. Needless to say, our summer has been jam packed.

After my last entry, Tim and I started the arduous process of completing a punch list that was to be accomplished by the time we had our housewarming party on the 21st of July. It was a long list, and we were on the case. Tim worked especially hard at not losing his mind over the small things, like the fact that the former owner used four inch screws to mount the towel racks in the downstairs bathroom. But really, all of the obstacles were small and nothing caused him to completely lose it, which I was thankful for.

The toilet in the photo is new, and the walls are no longer 80's pink/muave... but check out the screw that came out of the wall!Ain't no doubt... that towel rack was secure.

Before the party, we did manage to leave the house for a couple of events that made the weeks prior to "Rein-Fest" a little more bearable. We caught Greg Brown at the Music on Main series in Driggs.
A great turn out for Greg Brown.
The ladies at the Miso Hungry food tent show their stuff.

We traveled, mid-week (unheard of) to Jackson for a concert that included both Collective Soul and Live at the Snow King Amphitheater. It was a real throwback to the 90's. The whole reason why I wanted to attend, however, was to see Rocco DeLuca and the Burden. They opened for the other two acts, and by the time we arrived I had just missed them. I cursed myself all the way through Collective Soul's set - until Live took the stage. Let me tell ya, folks, they sound the same. They obviously still play together, as the band was tight and blew the crowd aWAY. It was totally worth the trip we took over the pass on a Wednesday night.

Our preparations continued for the shindig. Party day arrived, and I couldn't have been more relieved. The preparation could now cease and we could finally enjoy the fruits of our labor.
The house sparkled. See that big reddish colored wall? I painted that!

Awesome party treat: Bacon Wrapped Jalapeno Thingies (click here for recipe! be popular! make these morsels of goodness!)

Additionally, I was fortunate enough to have invited guests that wanted to help. I couldn't have done it without Jennifer, Jenny, Danielle and Nicole.
Danielle and Jenny take a break from helping out. Um, no one said you could sit down.

Jennifer, why are you talking to Emily? Chop, chop!

All told, we had about forty people in attendance at the peak of the party. We also had about fifteen dogs running around in a pack making their own event... Tim called it Lucy's "coming out party".Lucy: Hostess with the mostess.

We were also in for a real treat: fire spinning. No lie. The clowns and the tightrope walkers showed up later.

The morning after, we served about fifteen people for breakfast - most of them had pitched tents on the property, but we had a mix of tent sleepers and car sleepers.

Breakfast was cranked out by Tim, and it was Danielle to the rescue again: she brought coffee and muffins.
Danielle digs through her trunk for muffins: "...let's see, carjack, WD-40, emergency flares...Oh, here they are!"

The girl is some kind of wunder-hostess. If she worked those muffins and coffee out of her car trunk at large public gatherings, she could make millions. Or, she could just continue with the success of the Local Jo coffee drive-thru that she owns and operates out of Victor, Idaho.

Mere days passed as we tried to recover from the long drawn out party planning and execution process. We had barely managed to clean up the rubble when we were off for our only summer road trip: a sixteen hour drive one way to the state of Washington. My mom lives up there - way up there - about seven miles south of Canada. For this visit, my sister and her family would be visiting at the same time. Our intent was to camp on the way there, camp while there, and camp on the way back.

We took Lucy with us, who proved once again to be the good dog that we have tried to bring her up to be. Every park we stayed at, poor Lucy had to be staked to a picnic table or something similiar so that we would be following state park rules. It worked out better than we expected. She was very good and did very little barking compared to other dogs that we encountered on the road trip. Especially the "RV Dogs", which seemed to be characterized by a very small size and a very loud and disturbingly yippee bark emitting from the depths of the RV in which they were confined.

Are we there yet?

Scenery on the way...

Lucy shakes.

Lucy swims.

Mukilteo Ferry.

Amy's Butterfly Bush

Token Sunflower Photo

Amy: long time friend and former roommate. She knows a lot about me. In fact she knows too much! (son Daniel in background)

Prepare to meet yo' doom, crabby!

Mmmm... tasty cholesterol laden shellfish....

Bellingham's Fairhaven District

Lunch with sis and family.

My niece took this. Note the aging skin riddled with freckles.

My nephew is used to being embarrassed by his parents - he is a teenager - so he was primed to hang out with Uncle Tim.

A boy and his dawg.

Tim's chips? Tim's chips!

Ahhh, the Cascades....

...the never disappoint.

Doesn't this make ya wanna rip open a packet of Swiss Miss and sing a song?

Our trip was great, but looong. Driving takes a lot out of you, you know? Well, traveling in general for me usually kind of kicks my butt.

Upon our return, we were greeted by our neighbor and told that our canoe had become the victim of a windstorm and had been picked up and carried about 50 yards away and into the neighbor's long driveway. No damage to the canoe - we were astounded.

Tim walks to assess canoe damage.

August got away from me and progressed in a blur of hot days and long lazy weekends. We tried to catch the last of the Music on Main series by attending three weeks in a row. It made me regret missing the big act of the season: Los Lobos came to our small mountain village on July 26th and blew the concertgoers away in between lightning strikes and heavy rain. The Teton Valley Foundation scored a major coup by booking this group; we have a huge Hispanic population here in the Teton Valley. The attendance for this performance proved to be the highest for the season, despite the rain.
During the third weekend of August, we chose a Saturday to run to I-Falls for a little exposure to civiliation (i.e., stoplights and strip malls) and Home Depot. When we returned, we discovered that our home had been victim to a lightning strike. Not directly upon the roof or anything, but it did affect our home PC in a very negative way - the strike traveled up the phone line and fried our internet card, among other things. The television in the bedroom got it too - it died from shock, I suppose. I have been told by both an IT professional and the local electric company that all appliances must be plugged into surge protectors here in the ol' Teton Valley. That includes our washer and dryer. Yeah, okay.

Labor Day weekend was finally upon us, and our summer was coming to a close. Lo and behold, we were going to be hosting our first out of town guests in the new house! My buddy Jamie and her sister Jill came into town and we played tour guide for four long days - cramming as much local flair into our comings and goings as possible.

The night they arrived, we drove straight to Music on Main to watch the last show of the season. The next day, the girls and I tackle Grand Teton National Park - and saw two moose! A mama with her calf (calf concealed by brush, but the scuttlebutt among the tourists stated that there was in fact one there), and a huge bull mooose feeding from a distance that was still photo viable.

Friday evening brought us all to dinner at the Knotty Pine, as we continued to soak in the local ambience and talk about what we might see the next day at Yellowstone. Our day trip on Saturday to this park took us through the geyser features and left an indelible mark on all of our memories.

Stand by for some photos of that visit... I am certainly not finished telling you about everything we got to see while they were here. But I am done for now giving you all a comprehensive and very apologetic update: I am so sorry it took me this long!!!

Catching Up....

2007-07-12T18:30:00.000-06:00

Independence Day was over a week ago, and yet here I am just now posting a blog about it. That is okay, though - that is just me. Not always on time, not always up to date, but continually plodding along with the best intentions.

Of course we had last Wednesday off, which is weird to me - having a federal holiday in the middle of the week - but it afforded us the opportunity to just kind of laze about the house in the morning and take our own sweet time lollygaggin' into town to catch some 4th festivities.

For this holiday, we chose to hang in Victor. Our timing could not have been better: we arrived in town just as the last parade onloookers were leaving in mini-droves. What? Was it something we haven't yet said? Quite literally, cars were pouring out of Victor as we drove in and parked it at the Knotty Pine.

Every year, the Knotty has a free pig roast and free live music. It was my first 4th o' July at the Knotty and I am pleased to report that the event did not disappoint. Music, people watching GALORE and fabulous conversation filled my day.
A great reggae group performed for most of the afternoon... the dancers were slow to start, but got their groove on later.

They jammed, I am here to tell ya.

The Knotty Pine crowd revels in the holiday spirit...

While Tim gives peace a chance...

Here are my favorite coffee slingers, Danielle and Nicole. We were happy to share our table with them and the beautiful Teton Valley sun....

...we laughed a lot.

Okay, check this dude out - he was really bustin' a move that day!

I will entice you with my moves, stroller - you cannot resist me!

One thing I can say for the Hispanic crowd is that they like to parTAY.

Everyone - get down! A white Jamaican band with a Hispanic dance machine and a few caucasions trying to keep rhythm ... only in the Teton Valley.

Then ya got yer set of public drunkards makin' an appearance...

Trying to avoid public drunkenness ourselves, we hustled back to the north end of the valley, catching some of nature's fireworks on the way home...

... and in our own backyard.

I hope everyone enjoyed the middle of the week day off as much as we did! Happy - belated - Fourth of July!

Up, Up and Away!

2007-07-04T05:43:00.000-06:00

Why is this girl smiling so huge at 6:30 AM on a Tuesday morning? Well, here it is: this is my work buddy Jenny, thrilled at the prospect that she and her husband Cody have been awarded the chance to jump into a hot air balloon and soar above the Teton Mountains on a beautiful summer morning. The Hot Air Balloon Rally is part of Teton Valley's Summerfest. Every year, balloon enthusiasts come to the valley to launch their odd aircraft into our blue skies.

It cost me five bucks to park behind the Teton Valley Museum to witness this spectacle. Worth every dime, and even worth the ridicule I got at the gate for paying two of those five dollars in change (um, I didn't know there was a fee; the frantic digging in my Xterra's center console for change deeply amused the parking attendant).

I've never been up in a hot air balloon (she is afraid of heights, kids). But I love hot air balloons and I love taking pictures of them. I was so excited to get up early just to document the launch on the second day of rally. It reminded me of an event back East in St. Louis that I adore: the Great Hot Air Balloon Race. Participants launch their balloons in pursuit of the Energizer Bunny balloon... it is quite literally a race, and much like a fox and hound type deal. No race here, just smiles all around and beautiful balloons filling the valley's skies.

Ahhh... Summer

2007-07-02T19:11:00.000-06:00

The Teton Valley Summer Fest has already kicked off with the annual Old Time Fiddler's Contest in Driggs. The sounds of this event reached my ears while I walked through the ACE Hardware parking lot to buy a wheelbarrow, among other things. No time for fiddling, but I did talk Tim into putting down the irrigation system hose in the evening and driving into town for a bratwurst at the Democratic fundraiser.

Mostly, we attended to see Erika's band Seriously perform. Erika is my hair stylist and also rocks out with some finesse in a three piece girl band that kind of reminds me of Hole. I'm only trying to give you an idea of what their sound is like - because quite honestly, Seriously rocks with enough unique sound not to really sound like Hole. But if you were trying to draw a parallel.... well, forget it. I am no Rolling Stone writer. The length and breadth of my opinion lies within these few words: the ladies rock, okay?

We were treated to a few wise words from this guy, who informed the crowd that Teton Valley is being poorly represented by "a real bonehead over there in Boise".
And I cannot tell you who this particular Democrat is, but I know he is an elected official, and I do not doubt that his description of our representation in Boise is accurate. All you have to do is drive down the road in the Teton Valley to recognize that there is very little money or effort being pushed our way to accomodate the influx of both transplants and tourists - and I am speaking specifically about the road. There is only one two lane highway that traverses our little corner of Idaho, and it is a complete mess. No, I will not go into the quagmire that is Teton Valley politics, as this entire blog entry would have to cover the ugly issues that have arisen relating directly to money and property. Meaning, a lot of money is being spent to develop a lot of property, and I will just leave it at that.

After the speaker stepped down, the crowd was treated to both African dance and drumming on behalf of a local group. Remember Daria from my blog about the African dance class at Balance Studios (12/08/06)?

Well there she is, strutting her stuff on stage to the beat of the native drumming. It was a real departure from what you might oridinarily see at a Democratic fundraiser. Only in the Teton Valley - I tell ya. Their enthusiasm was contagious.

While all of this was going on, there were some purveyors of sugary sweetness posted quite near to where we sat. Oh yes, you know what I am talking about. The dreaded cotton candy peddlers were far too close to me for comfort.

I wanted to knock one of those bluehairs over and make away with the glorious sweetness that is cotton candy. But I held back. I didn't really need to approach them... the cotton candy was flying everywhere in buoyant chunky threads. It landed on the grass, in people's hair, and inevitably, in the mouths of the children that endeavored to catch the morsels. Unfortunately, the overexposure led to some casualties, as illustrated below.

That's right: Cotton Candy Coma

After an incredible Italian Sausage from Schultz's sandwich truck and some great people watching, Seriously hit the stage. Their opening number made it evident that they hadn't practiced in a while - something that Erika warned me about. But fortunately for all of us watching, these ladies have a healthy sense of humor. They finished the song and their seventeen year old drummer annonunced, "We are never opening with that song again."

After that, it was smooth sailing through the rest of the set. Erika was on, as usual, Kelly hit the skins with her regular tenacity, and Ange (Ang? Sorry girl, I've never had to spell your name before!) did not give birth on stage. Yep - see that? She is due on July 28th. Rock on, sistah.

It was well worth the trip to town, and I am happy to report that I have booked Seriously for our housewarming party on the 21st of July. Erika revealed to me that Ange would rather have her water break while she was playing than anything else, so I was sure to tell her that we have Pergo floors - very resilient and easy clean up of any - um - liquid. Wow, what a housewarming present that would be!

Stay tuned for more images from the Teton Valley Summer Fest!

Home Sweet Home

2007-06-22T06:08:00.000-06:00

Since last July, Tim and I have moved four times. Once from Minnesota to the Teton Valley, and into a temporary living situation in a friend’s converted garage; then to a home that we wished to purchase, ended up renting, and then left dejected when our home in Shakopee refused to sell; then into an old farm home where we kept company with our landlord’s jackasses, horses and about 15 head of cattle.

And now, for the fourth time, we have moved yet again. This time, though, it is for good.

We were finally able to purchase a home in the place that we have been calling home for almost a year. It is a feeling of both relief (finally something that is ours) and anxiety (a mortgage that is ours), but mostly, complete and utter bliss.

When we met, Tim had been a homeowner for going on eleven years. I had always rented, and never truly saw a way out of this situation, therefore I didn’t really concern myself with the ramifications that becoming a homeowner brings. Certainly, I shared the home that was Tim’s before it was ours, and we lived together there for three years. But had I signed the title paperwork with Tim? No. Was I there to help when a windstorm blew through and landed a tree on the roof? No, that was pre-Jenn.

I did participate in changes to the finish work – not to mention the appliances that suddenly needed purchasing only after we got married: a new water softener, hot water heater, dishwasher, and refrigerator. We made the home ours throughout the duration of our stay there. Tim’s friends told him that it got “girl’d up”, but little did they know that he picked every paint color, even the light and subtlety purple hue we had in our master bedroom.

That’s what a Masters degree in Fine Arts will get ya – great taste in paint.

Now onto the current situation, in which I do sign the title paperwork and the two of us are involved in both the choice of the home itself and all of the headaches that come along with a closing. We did finally close, cleaned out the farm home in one fell swoop, and started digging our roots in immediately at the new place.

A dramatically vaulted ceiling will present painting trouble – I can feel it. I wonder how one acquires scaffolding.

We have an invasive weed in our yard that hails from parts unknown, but that we have to keep an eye out for and dig up when necessary.

There is an irrigation system in place that Tim fiddles with constantly – replacing the heads that allow the water to dribble at the base of the many fir trees on our property.

But the peaked ceiling that will challenge our painting prowess is ours, the invasive weed is ours and the irrigation system is ours. The cattle that feed on the property across our road are our neighbors, and evening songstresses. The frogs, the swallows, and every manner of mountain bug that surrounds us do so while on our property.

It is a fine feeling, friends.

We are home.

The Happy Couple

2007-06-07T22:52:00.000-06:00

My first experience as an ordained (and very official) minister has been photographically documented at the website for the talented photographers at Blue World Studios in Atlanta!

Javi and Stacy had an amazing wedding and party after! Their happiness is totally evident in every photo that was taken. I love you guys!

Of course this is not one of the professional photos, but there I am at the altar, not bursting into flame.

Evil Lives.... On My Desk

2007-06-06T06:19:00.000-06:00

When we lived in Minnesota, I used to park and ride at the Southwest Metro Transit’s Eden Prairie station. Although I have to admit that I was not religious at parking and riding – which will surely disappoint my “greener” parental figures, especially since I drive a mid-sized SUV – I did have something to look forward to every time I used the transit center’s parking garage:

There was a Krispy Kreme donut shop on the property.

I am not a huge fan of donuts. I will occasionally get overwhelmed with a need for sweetness, but I have to admit that the first thing to cross my mind in order to satisfy any sweet craving is not a donut. I will more than likely go for some kind of chocolate based product. I attribute this to the fact that for a short period of time while I lived in Washington, I worked for a bakery. Cookies and pastries of all kinds lost their luster to me as I was surrounded by them on a daily basis.

But on the days when I parked at Eden Prairie’s Southwest Station, the aroma of the the classic glazed donut would drift from the modestly sized Krispy Kreme structure right up to the level where I was parking.

Upon exiting my vehicle, the smell was overwhelming to the point of triggering my saliva glands. As I wiped the drool from my chin and rushed to catch my bus, I would glimpse Krispy Kreme from the corner of my eye. Oh Krispy Kreme. Why do you mock me with your sweet smell and glowing “Hot Light”?

Yes, there were times when I would succumb. I would buy a box of goodness from these purveyors of deep fried dough and arrive at work to responses of “Thank you!”, and “Wow, I love the glazed!”, and “You shouldn’t have got so many… okay, I’ll have two!”

Tip to becoming popular at work: buy a dozen Krispy Kreme and share.

Also: Try to avoid being an ass to your co-workers on a daily basis. This will help your popularity even without donuts.

Alas, I have had to give up even the occasional donut in recent years due to a diagnosis of Type II Diabetes. Don’t feel bad for me. It’s really okay. Life is too precious to be sacrificed on a brief encounter with a donut that will really only land either on your gut or ass and stay there, stubbornly refusing to disappear.

But the smell, the look of the classically glazed donut still entices me. It is often still hard to say “no” to the sweet, yet evil circular goodness that is a donut. However, as the old adage says, if you love something, set it free. If it does not return, consider yourself lucky that you are maintaining low blood sugar.

All Grown Up!

2007-05-28T17:45:00.000-06:00

Ah, Memorial Day. In our little family, this holiday marks a time for travel. At this time last year, Tim and I were underway and on the road, headed for the Teton Valley. It was just a vacation, at the start of it. But while our journey came to a close and we traversed the hundreds of miles back to our home in Minnesota, we had already decided that we were going to move to this beautiful place.
(Our holiday weekend destination...)

As a result, this year’s Memorial Day is a celebration of sorts – like an anniversary of “the big decision”. This decision made me have to walk into the office of the General Manager of the firm that I worked for in Minneapolis and tell her in no uncertain terms that we had decided to drop out of the rat race and take a gamble on Idaho. Of course, she told me to do what makes me happy. I always feel fortunate when I encounter people like that. It just makes me feel really lucky, you know?

So this weekend got me thinking about milestones and their consequences. Especially because this weekend was Lucy’s first camping trip. Lucy is our Labrador retriever. I picked her up from a nice lesbian couple that lived near Lake Nokomis in Minneapolis. I dropped about one hundred fifty bucks on her cute butt, and then drove home with her. Tim was of course completely unaware of the situation on the day that I decided to do it. We had talked for months about a dog, but he was basically duped into Lucy. Once I pulled into our driveway, I came inside and alerted him that I needed help getting something out of the front seat. He opened the passenger side door, turned to me and said, “What did you do?”

(Wherever you are taking me this weekend better be good)

Indeed, what did I do? Well, a handful of friends around me professed with certainty that raising a puppy into a dog is some kind of child rearing preparation. But I think that if you have been married for a short time and haven’t had kids yet and you are quickly approaching the age of forty whether you like it or not, there will be certain types around you searching for signs that a child is coming. Lucy raised a red flag, and I had opinions on all sides of me concerning the inevitability of growing our family with not just a canine, but another human as well.
(So much air, so little time)

(Sidebar: yeah, okay. You people and your baby-crazy brains. Did it ever occur to you that I do things my own way? What’re ya? New? Just met me? I wanted a dog, so that is what I got. If I ever want a baby – well, that is what I will try and get. And by the way, the urge hasn’t struck yet to procreate and the dog is totally fulfilling our need to nurture, so back off).

My good friend Kurt was stunned that I got a puppy - his reasoning? “Dogs are harder than kids,” he said to me with a serious look on his face. His is not a serious person, so I took that comment to heart. It echoed in my brain when Lucy ate Tim’s favorite pair of hiking boots (and not inexpensive boots, either). I remembered again Kurt’s somber warning clearly the day that Lucy escaped the confines of the laundry room and went hog wild chewing up CDs, a phone recharging cord, and various other items that meant we had to figure out another means of confining her.

Lucy will be two years old in November, so she is still very much a puppy. Even worse, she is kind of like an adolescent now, so puppy-ish yet set in her ways at the same time. We brought her along this weekend to camp hoping that it would be a lesson to her on many points: you have to stay near us (is the shock collar full charged?); you are sleeping in a tent; you cannot chase every animal that you see; bark when necessary, which often means not at all; no begging for food – house rules still apply; etc.

I am happy to report that Lucy did a swell job. After three hours of driving on the first day, we reached our final destination in Wyoming to convalesce on Bureau of Land Management Property (thank you, National Park Service membership program!). The perfect site chosen, Lucy hung around during the time that we set up camp, not wandering off as we had worried that she would. She hiked with no problem whatsoever – never going far enough to get the ol’ shock collar zap – and would come back when called. Late in the afternoon, we decided to nap in order to get her used to the idea of sleeping in a tent. After about a twenty minute acclimatization process in which she sat in the middle of our tent and stared at its ceiling, walls, windows and the like, she finally curled into a ball and took a nap that lasted longer than an hour.
(Look where I slept!)

Later in the evening, as we hosted one of Tim’s old friends at our cozy campfire, walked to the point near our site that provided a spectacular view of the sunset, and prepared to turn in for the evening, Lucy seemed to become more and more restless. She was hanging around the car a lot. It occurred to me that she wanted to jump in the backseat and have us drive her home – for – what else would we do in this situation? She’s been on all day hiking trips with us, but never an overnight stay such as this one.
(Just another beautiful sunset Out West)

We coaxed her back into the tent for the evening and she did what every good dog should do – she hunkered down near our feet, curled up in a warm blonde ball, and went to sleep.

And so it went for the rest of the weekend. Our second day provided a chance for Lucy to swim in a pond that was within sight of our camp, but not terribly close to us. It was a long downhill walk into a valley to get there, and an even longer walk back up the hill to our tent. Once we had arrived at our destination, though, we hung around the pond and watched Lucy swim like crazy… the… whole… time. I mean, had I tried to keep up, I would have definitely induced a coronary.
(Hiking with Mom)

(Lucy's Pond)

(Swim! Swim like the wind!)

(Long hike home...)

(The wildflowers were really poppin')

(More of the same...)

This dog is full of boundless energy, but on that day, she managed to really wear herself out. As we took our time preparing and cooking a spectacular dinner of kabobs, she kept creeping closer to the tent. She finally went in. Then she came out and lay by the fire again. Then she went back into the tent. The she came out. Then she went back in. Her desperate attempt at dropping a hint (when are we going to bed, I am TIRED – COME ON!) was finally taken around 10:30PM. We all climbed into the tent at Lucy’s behest. Her work done, she again cuddled up to our feet.

The three of us endured a terrible night of sleep that can be attributed to a wind storm that blew just above the trees that crowded our campsite, but never seemed to really affect us in any dangerous way. I actually did have a dream that a large branch from the fir we slept beneath came crashing down upon our tent; I rolled over to wake Tim up and found that he had never really gone to sleep. Even now, I wonder how I dreamt at all, not having any recollection of sleeping for more than ten minutes at a time that night.

But Lucy – she took it like a champ. If anything, we were worried that the weather system that bid us a fond farewell on our last night in camp would cause her, at least, to bark. Or howl. I was really waiting to hear some howling. Not a peep. I honestly believe that she slept as poorly as we did, but she stayed in her spot down near our feet and kept quiet.

(Proud Papa)

All in all, Memorial Day weekend did not disappoint. It lived up to its expectation by providing us with some kind of milestone to mark – to look back upon and remember as one of our “firsts”. We hope that by this time next year, Lucy will be more of a dog and not so much a puppy. We hope that her aging will provide a calmer demeanor and that she will ease up on her tendency to bark at everything. But none of that bad puppy teenaged behavior struck this weekend.
("Say, I didn't come all this way to get cheated out of a kabob.")

She is well on her way to becoming a “real” dog.

("So seriously, uh, which one is mine?")

A Bit of Spring...

2007-05-24T21:51:00.000-06:00

Sunset From Moose Creek Ranch

2007-05-24T11:57:00.001-06:00

Get Thee Back, Ol' Man Winter!

2007-05-22T06:38:00.000-06:00

As spring gears up and starts rolling into summer, I am treated to the following weather report:

Snow showers in the morning will give way to a mixture of rain and snow
in for the afternoon.

Colder. High 37F. Winds WNW at 10 to 15 mph.

Chance of precipitation 70%. Snowfall around one inch.

Around one month from today, we will experience the summer solstice. Yes, already. And yet, in my neck of the woods, well, my woods are snowy. This morning as I watched the nationally syndicated news show that wakes me daily, I was treated to a national weather map that drew my attention to one thing only: it was snowing in Idaho.

Right next door in often bitterly cold Wyoming? Not a flake in sight. Montana? Sunny. Oregon? Well, it might have been raining, but it sure as hell wasn’t snowing.

Frankly, we need it. I am not going to bore you with water conservation and usage issues here in the Teton Valley (these people might, but I won’t). However, precipitation is just that. We need it due to the fact that we had such a dry winter. Remember that I am new to this place and the amount of snow was just fine with me. But in this high sage desert, lack of moisture is always a huge factor during the summer months.

Already, I am dreading camping without a fire, which is entirely possible due to our lack of substantial snow pack over the winter months. I have an image in my mind of Tim and I just sittin’ around with our headlamps on, staring at one another and the dog. BorING. Of course, I would do it just to get tent time, but camping really sucks without a fire.

So, snow. Big deal. What do I care?

It’s not really the snow. It’s the cold.

It’s the fact that April showers are supposed to bring freakin’ May flowers, okay?

I mean, couldn’t it just be 15 degrees warmer and raining?

I’d take that. Really, I would.

Expect the Unexpected

2007-05-20T06:32:00.000-06:00

My trip to Atlanta was more than just the wedding. When I arrived, I was greeted at baggage claim by Chris and Lisa. Chris and I were friends way back in 1988/89. We shared a college experience in Munich, Germany that was both fun and destructive. Chris is now a "grown-up", just like me. At one point in our conversation that first night in Atlanta, I happened to mention the unbridled love that I harbor for my energy efficient washer and dryer. Chris just shook his head and stated desperately, "We are so old!" Not so much - in my mind - but we are certainly older, and a long way from the dorm where we met and shared our youthful dance with substance abuse and complete irresponsibility.

Chris and Lisa will be married in December. They seem very well matched; a lot of that is due in part to Lisa's willingness to accept Chris' Star Wars Addiction (SWA). As they whittle down his collection in order to prepare for the merging of households, there are certain things he simply will not part with. I do believe, though, that he loves Lisa more than his Hans Solo frozen in liquid carbon mold, so they are off to a good start (although he did tell me that his collection will now "...focus on just Vader").

(Javi got a hold of my camera later and was completely entranced by this image: "That is coooool", he stated rather seriously. It is a boy affliction from the late seventies - watch out, ladies, you never know who might have SWA.)

I tucked myself in on their couch at 1AM EST, after a delicious pizza dinner and a couple of hours of sharing memories and bringing one another up to speed on our lives. Chris and I have not seen one another in 18 years - not since we both left Germany. He or I found one or the other via the internet about three years ago and have been keeping in touch via email off and on. Neither one of us can remember what precipitated the finding of each other; and neither of us is one hundred percent certain who initiated the search. It doesn't matter - I am happy to know Chris again. He always had this great generous heart and a fabulous sense of humor. None of that has changed - I have found in my life that the important stuff kind of sticks.

Know what I mean?

(Yoda made for an excellent roommate, as he did not complain about my snoring.)

Another Happy Ending

2007-05-15T06:38:00.000-06:00

In late May of 2006, Tim and I had just started the driving vacation that would take us from Minneapolis out to Wyoming and back. The first day out was a long drive that landed us in Cheyenne, Wyoming at the Plains Hotel for the night. I awoke from a heavy night of sleep to work out and check my email on the computer station that was provided to the guests. It was then that I was thrilled to learn my dear friend Javier had proposed to his girlfriend Stacy atop the Eiffel Tower during their trip to Europe. She said "yes", and from there, the wedding plans rolled forward.

A couple of months later, much to my surprise, I was asked to play an integral part in the ceremony: the happy couple asked me to become ordained on the internet so that I may officiate their wedding ceremony. I distinctly remember my stomach turning at the thought of public speaking, but was so honored by the request that I enthusiastically agreed to do it.

I became ordained in November 2006 through the Progressive Universal Life Church, one of four websites that Stacy researched on her own and sent to me. I chose this organization because I got the biggest kick out of their spiel. If you visit their website, you will certainly understand what I mean. Neither Javi nor Stacy practice their spiritual beliefs within the confines of a church. We have that in common, and through several discussions it became clear that this would be a nontraditional affair; a way of acknowledging their partnership in marriage without any pre-defined religious fanfare.

I am certain that my own family has gotten a pretty huge kick out of the fact that I am now a minister. Hey, I have the certificate to prove it. However, I have spent the majority of my adult life trying to separate myself from any religious affiliation. Yes, jokes are made concerning the possibility of my bursting into flame when near a church. Hardy har har... although my skin does become a little warm when I pass by the LDS temples that are here in Teton Valley.

As time passed, I felt more fully able to conceive a true reflection of their beliefs, and I finished a set of vows that made it through only one proofread on their part with no changes. Not having to perform any edits, it was now incumbent upon me to start practicing my delivery. I am sure that Javi did not know when he asked me to do this that my role as lead in Agatha Cristie's Mousetrap during our senior year of high school caused me to throw up before every performance (how stage actors do not constantly suffer from this affliction, I will never know).

While I considered whether or not vomit on a bridal gown was a good omen in some far flung part of the world, I tried very hard not to think about the big day. Despite my internal denial, though, time continued to march on, and the month of the event finally did arrive. May of 2007 came faster than I anticipated, and it would soon be show time.

Up to the month of the wedding, I had practiced maybe eight times. I did it in my car during my lunch hour, I did it in front of Emily, in front of the mirror, and in front of Tim. I own a digital recorder, and was intent on focusing on the pacing of my cadence so that the "congregation" (is that what you call them in an event hall?) could actually understand what I was saying. You see, I have a bit of a problem with rambling. I talk too fast. In addition to that, I have been swearing like a drunk 1800's sailor since I was about 15 years old. Javi, painfully aware of this fact, warned me that my psuedo-Turrets would not be appropriate while performing the ceremony. I do believe that he emailed me the following: "...no, it probably wouldn't be good if you suddenly spewed out PISS SHIT FUCK while running through our vows." He knows me well.

I was able to slow it down enough to get the ceremony at an efficient ten minutes. And that wasn't even including the readings which were to be performed by friends and family. Unfortunately, when I performed for both Emily and Tim, I could not get through the delivery without getting choked up. I mean really choked up. Emily and Tim as well both shed tears during my practice sessions and I kept wondering how the hell I was going to overcome this obstacle.

I arrived in Atlanta not quite ready to rumble. I was intent on practicing throughout my stay, a very full four days of wedding associated meals, trips to the salon, meals, meeting at the event center and meals.

Did I mention meals?

The distraction of being around everyone there and participating in all things wedding did make me relax more and more. I met Stacy's mom and dad, in addition to her cousin and his beautiful wife. I met Javi's parents for the first time. Jose and Carmen looked at me, wondering if I had really attended high school with their son. I had, in fact, but had never really met his family. This was primarily due to the fact that anytime I was at Javi's house in high school, his parents weren't there. There were usually several of my classmates there, but parents? Not so much. I looked at Javi's dad at one point during the rehearsal dinner and stated that I remembered their dearly departed dachschund, Chico. I followed that up by saying, "If that dog could talk..." when pressed for details, I pointed across the room to my friends Mike and Leslie (also Torrejon Air Base classmates, and married for going on 20 years) and said, "well, those two were certainly at your house more than I was, you will have to ask them".

I am all about passing the buck.

After having spent time with those guests that arrived early for the event, I realized that this wasn't going to be as difficult as perhaps I thought it would be. I had a safety - I knew everyone in the front row at the ceremony. We had spent days together laughing and eating, and if that wasn't going to help me, I don't know what would. Most everyone that I met early on knew about my qualifications. Stacy's mom Erma found out by asking me, "So what made you want to become a minister?" She asked me this at a BBQ where I had already made a great first impression by drinking and dropping the f-bomb in a couple of conversations. When I told her that I got ordained just for her daughter and future son-in-law, I could feel a little relief come over her, and then a little worry.

I hoped that Erma wasn't too terribly worried. I mean, I hope she wasn't as worried as I was. I still had trepidations regarding my attachment to Javi - meaning, that I knew I would be running the risk of bawling throughout my entire delivery. In fact, the evening of the rehearsal made me kvetch even more about the possibility of runaway tears. Javi, Stacy and I all cried during the practice.

That was late on Friday afternoon. I had until Sunday to steady my nerves and emotion. My date for the wedding arrived at the hotel on Friday, and relief started to set in. This was Cat, who lives in N. Carolina and is five months pregnant. But she still drove six hours to participate in this event for me. Now that, dear reader, is friendship. She also left her two children at home with her husband for me. Not that I doubt Russ's talent in taking care of an almost 1 year old and a two year old (that's right, folks, when she gives birth to the third, all of her children will be under three... the courage astounds me), but it was the first time in almost a year that Cat had left for an overnight trip without her family. She would be without her family on Mother's Day, the day of the wedding. She stated that she couldn't think of a better gift to herself - to be out of town and have her very own time.

After a Thursday night BBQ, a night out on Friday after the late afternoon rehearsal, the official rehearsal dinner on Saturday,

a manicure, a pedicure and hair and make-up,

I had to accept the fact that the wedding was on and that vomiting was out of the question.

I had this brilliant idea that I would somehow be able to take a picture after they had kissed in order to capture the moment from my own viewpoint as the officiant. Didn't really work out. I could not do anything except to try and plan the ceremony so that it would be memorable for all of the right reasons. I went over my notes again and again. I encouraged Stacy to breeeaaathe while saying her vows. I tried to relax. I drank lemon juice that had been squeezed from lemon wedges by the bartender so that my throat would not sieze up. I hugged Javi as many times as was tastefully appropriate, had my picture taken by the wedding photogs, drank a glass of champagne and commenced the ceremony right on time.

Folks, what can I say except that I surprised even myself. I didn't cry at all (Javi did the crying for everyone in the wedding. I cannot stress this enough. Stacy only had one tissue with her at the altar, and she gave it to him as soon as she made it to his side from her long walk down the aisle.). I cracked a couple of jokes that got a warm response from the guests. I didn't flub any words. I didn't talk too fast. I didn't laugh uncontrollably at the phrase "by the power vested in me by the State of Georgia", as I had been doing for months. All went well. I was stunned. Further, I received many compliments from those that attended (someone actually said to me, "nice service", which almost made champagne come out of my nose). The guests that were then told the truth - that it was my first time and that I was an internet minister - were at first aghast and then amused. Naturally, I reveled in the gag.

Ultimately, it was my privilege and honor to be a part of something so amazing and touching. Javi and Stacy will be very happy with one another. They are well matched, and one of those lucky couples that waited to find the right person... and because of this, received the big pay-off in the form of true love. It was a very long and nerve wracking nine months for me, as I wondered if I had done the right thing by saying yes. But even my nerves and the fear of puking were overcome by the place, the people, and the occasion.

This was an adventure that I will never forget.

A Rare Outing

2007-05-09T06:45:00.000-06:00

So, I'm about to take off to the airport in Idaho Falls. I have to get on a plane, fly to Salt Lake City, get a connection and then fly to Atlanta - my final destination. Been to the airport once, but never really been to Atlanta. I am not 100% certain what it is all about, but I will soon find out.

I am going for a wedding. It is a once in a lifetime event for a friend that I have known since I was sixteen and living in Spain with my Air Force associated family. So there you go. That is what being a brat will get you. Maybe, if you are really good at keeping in touch, you will have an old friend that you met in your adolescence. Any hope of knowing anyone prior to that for a lifetime of friendship is pretty out of the question. You have to be of age to really stay friends, you know?

I did that with my buddy that is about to get hitched. The year of our twentieth high school reunion is rapidly approaching with the year 1988. Unbelievably to me, Javier and I have been friends for over twenty years. His beautiful and super smart fiance is a real catch. Her name is Stacy. She seems just for him. That is how I believe that it should be. Here he is - my old friend - becoming a husband and starting his own family. What a trip.

And so, I do commence my trip! Off to Atlanta, where it is supposed to be in the high 80's all week, with a daily low of around 60. 60! HA! 60 here is like a glorious thrill ride. Two days after that, it will be snowing, but when it is 60 it's like the valley residents just want to peel back the layers and expose every surface that winter laid its frigid hand upon.

My suitcase is filled with shorts, t-shirts and sandals. The thought of arrival in this magical place called "Atlanta" fills me with anticipation, excitement and just a small bit of dread.

What is the humidity going to do to my hair?

See you when I get back!

Locker Sentimentality

2007-05-01T22:31:00.000-06:00

We all started with the cubby and a coat hook. Remember? Maybe not; that was way back in kindergarten. But by the sixth grade – at least - each of us felt really grown up when we got our own locker. Initially, we shared space with others. The half locker was a standard in middle school. High school marked a time when most of us then were assigned full lockers; from the floor to just above your adolescent height, it was all yours.

Between classes, the school locker was a constant destination; an expectation, even. “Meet me at my locker after third period.” You might look forward to the location of your locker due to its proximity to a member of the opposite sex that you found uncontrollably appealing. Or maybe you shared the row of lockers with a friend whose path you always looked forward to crossing.

For some, the locker was a bastion of embarrassment. Shoved inside a locker? No, fortunately that never happened to me. But it has happened. Just watch any John Hughes movie from the 80’s. Film exaggerates every day life, but reflects it nonetheless. I just viewed Napoleon Dynamite (again) and was reminded that I have seen plenty of boys shoved against the bank of lockers by a larger male passerby; this, a friendly reminder of the level of testosterone that existed in high school. Those were the days.

On my first day of 8th grade, I walked down a floor to my former 7th grade stomping grounds just to say hi. I wanted some perspective. I got it – just walking down a floor to confront last year’s locker made me feel superior somehow. I was in 8th grade now; one floor up. The air was better. Even the lockers seemed bigger.

When in high school, I really loved my locker. We were in a hall that was one side lockers, one side windows. Our row of lockers in both my junior and senior years afforded bright sunlight to us as we exited our classes, exchanging books and notes. This solidifies my theory that everything is better when cast in sunlight - even school.

The classes are gone now. They reside in the past with my locker. I have a desk at present – having evolved past the cubicle farm. The variation on workspace that I have experienced over the years is somewhat similar to my school locker. I have shared workspace, and also worked in an office of my own. As such, my workspace – the actual size of it – has been both roomy and confined. Gradually, just as we did with our lockers, I pretty much insisted on personalizing my space at work. Now don’t forget – it’s not as if I have had the same job for years on end. Just as changing lockers every year dictated what approach you might choose in decorating it, my resume reflects the fact that I basically have an average three year ceiling on work positions.

Some desk décor moves forward to the next work area – some does not. But there is always a way to make life more personal – whether it be an assigned locker in school or an assigned work area in the “real” world. I don’t have a mirror mounted like I did before, nor do I have any pictures of Rob Lowe or the members of Duran Duran (John Taylor was my favorite – hands off, ladies!). I do believe, though, that I have the grown up version of locker space right on my desk.

Check it out:

The only reason why this isn't a Hello Kitty radio is because they were out of them at Target.

A reminder that I do have friends in far flung places.

I go to my happy place when I look at these postcards.

You like it, just admit it.

From my office in Minneapolis all the way to a wall in Teton Valley, Idaho

Busch Stadium. Gone but not forgotten.

Inspiring words for us all.

Just a little reminder that if a monkey sat at my desk long enough, he would eventually be able to accomplish most of what is assigned to me.

Nothin' feels better than a moose full of coffee.

1st Annual Montana Beer Festival

2007-04-14T20:17:00.000-06:00

In the middle of the day last Friday, my jubilant end of work week attitude was given a further boost at the answer to a phone call. Emily was in a bind. As an employee of the Grand Teton Brewing company, she had drawn the short straw along with co-worker Ed to head up to Bozeman, Montana to represent the brewery in Montana's first annual beer festival.

Now, there was some explanation as to why this had occurred so quickly - as Emily gave me twenty minutes to do what I could only do in 35 minutes in order to get ready to take this overnight trip. She told me that the employee that was originally signed up for this important task had somehow forgotten that he had to do taxes instead. Yeah. Okay. That's like refusing to go to an amusement park so that you could stay home and rearrange your sock drawer.

I was already due to leave work a little early due to some longer workdays that I had experienced earlier in the week. I was ready to go as soon as she called. I said yes, and rushed home to pack my toothbrush, camera and fresh underwear. Within 40 minutes, I was in Emily's VW stationwagon rolling precariously through a twisty turny mountain pass - like every road seems to be structured in the place where I live - and hoping that this spontaneous decision would live up to its potential as a highly entertaining experience.

I was not disappointed. Bozeman is a college town, and I would like to say that I looked up the college on the internet to verify which one it was, but for this story I couldn't be bothered somehow. Just know that it is a state school, and for the 1ST ANNUAL MONTANA BEER FESTIVAL, the whole campus showed up. I mean, it was just a crush of people like you wouldn't believe. The safest place was behind the kegs, pouring.

I'm not trying to litter your mind with the idea that it was a racous out of hand ordeal - because it wasn't. Everyone that we encountered was just happy to be there and having a really good time. But the crowd. I just hadn't been quite that elbow to elbow since - well, since I don't know when.

We witnessed a Johnny Cash tribute band that really rocked. We ate decent food and people watched all night long. At the end, we were able to say that it was worth the trip. Emily and I left before midnight to climb into bed at the motel that we chose downtown. It was straight out of the fifties, with toilet accessories to match. We were out cold before the clock struck twelve.

The next morning, I was treated to good use of Emily's life experience. She had lived in Bozeman once - for two weeks. She tells me - "let's drive through this neighborhood". We are suddenly off the beaten path and driving through residential streets that had quaint homes posted on every corner. Then suddenly, we were driving through what seemed to be open pasture land, over some railroad tracks, nearing into an industrial area, and wah lah, there we landed at the Stockyard Calfe.

The 'Yard, as the locals describe it, sits on the grounds of a now defunct stockyard. Some of the fencing still stands - signs reflecting what the wood structures were meant for, while the 'Yard guards the old grounds like a sentinel promising to make good use of the space. Inside, it is something that can only be experienced to understand. Sorry, I can't really tell you where it truly is; I didn't pay attention, and even if I did know, I wouldn't tell you.

We went back into town after that, wondering aimlessly from shop to shop wondering how much money we should spend and then justifying every purchase. Good friends always should do that for one another.

It was a beautiful ride back to our mountain valley - the sun shined down on us while we listened to Jeff Buckley and I read aloud form BUST magazine. The Tetons greeted us in their full glory - every peak wanted to be seen against a blue sky that was reserved just for that day.

Montana Beer Festival next year? Maybe. Back to Bozeman sooner than that? I say definitely.

So Long, Mr. Vonnegut

2007-04-13T06:48:00.000-06:00

Kurt Vonnegut 1922 - 2007

North America At Night

2007-03-22T19:41:00.000-06:00

See how the bright lights of all of our American Cities are prevalent East of the Continental Divide? Yeah, I used to live in one of those sparkley light infested regions - see if you can figure out where Minneapolis would be. Got it? Okay, now look West. Keep going. Okay stop. If you know anything about Geography, you can more or less pinpoint where Idaho is. Our home is in Southeastern Idaho, just over the border from Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Now we live in one of the dark spots on this satellite photo - miles away from any densely populated area. Our stars are bright, our nights are quiet without city traffic. When I lived in St. Louis, I would lay awake in bed at night and listen to the police helicopters hovering over Tower Grove Park, in search of some hot footed derelict. Now I keep company with crickets. I'd have to say that my life has improved with less light in it.

2007-03-20T19:19:00.000-06:00

An Ode To Saint Patrick

2007-03-16T19:36:00.000-06:00

This is one race of people for whom psychoanalysis is of no use whatsoever. -- Sigmund Freud (about the Irish)

In Ireland, the inevitable never happens and the unexpected constantly occurs. -- Sir John Pentland Mahaffy

Ireland is a fruitful mother of genius, but a barren nurse. -- John Boyle O'Reilly

St. Patrick's Day is an enchanted time -- a day to begin transforming winter's dreams into summer's magic! -- Adrienne Cook

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Okay, so I didn’t really write an “ode”. If I had, that would mean that I possessed poetic talent, which certainly isn’t the case. I did write a really depressing poem once that was published in my high school paper, but I think the type of motivation I had at the time had little to do with talent and more to do with adolescent angst. So although not an “ode” to St. Patty, I have come up with some text in honor of this sprightly saint.

Is he really a saint? Well, yes. According to this web site, though, “he has nothing to do with green food or leprechauns.” Not only that, but he was not even Irish. In fact, he was born in Scotland, but wasn’t even a Scot. He was a Roman; a child of parents present in Scotland as part of a Roman colony. Naturally, when I read this I was a little disappointed. Read on:

When Patrick was sixteen years old, Irish warriors raided Scotland and carried captives back to Ireland to be slaves. Patrick was among them. His head was shaved and he was put to work as a shepherd for an Irish Druidic high priest named Milchu. He must have been very scared and lonely.

The website, obviously religious in nature, then goes over the nuts and bolts of St. Patrick’s pious life. Prayed hundreds of times a day, blah blah, God spoke to him, yadda yadda, he converted all of Ireland to Christianity, etc…. Wait a second. What got me at this point was the reference to the fact that he performed this major religious conversion to an entire country of people. A country that before, had practiced religion primarily as Druids.

Now, it is mentioned that St. Patrick performed numerous miracles. I guess that got the Druids attention. Maybe they were thinking “trees can’t do THAT”, and kind of went along with the whole package of goods. St. Patrick even catered to their love of nature worship by using a shamrock, with its three leaves, to explain the concept of the trinity (according to the above mentioned website). Hook line and sinker, Ireland was entirely Christian by the time St. Patrick died in 461 AD.

This research made me reconsider my subject. Maybe I should have just performed it on leprechauns or the origin of corned beef and cabbage. What about the whole “leading the snakes out of Ireland” thing?

Further internet delving has turned up the following from http://www.americancatholic.org/:

He didn't chase the snakes out of Ireland and he may never have plucked a shamrock to teach the mystery of the Trinity. Yet St. Patrick well deserves to be honored by the people of Ireland—and by downtrodden and excluded people everywhere.

Yeah, okay. Well to be honest with you, I consider those that are not given religious freedom and forced into conversion by shamrock trickery to be downtrodden, but whatever. Not only that, but this website dispels the whole snake thing and the shamrock deal.

Despite my best efforts to reject St. Patrick for being just another meddling reformer/missionary/goody-two-shoes, however, reading further about him reveals that he was one of the first proponents of anti-slavery sentiment. This is primarily due to the fact that he was a slave himself. Not even the papacy at that time found fault with slavery, and let us remember also that his stance on this issue took place before the Middle Ages. St. Patrick was progressive. How about that?

The slavery issue does not stand alone in the vein of progression with St. Patrick’s history. He was also a staunch believer in the strength of women. He admired the fairer sex for their courage and tenacity, even writing about it in depth much to the chagrin of his drinking buddies (okay, I made that up. The guy probably never touched a drop in his life. He was too busy trying to convert a bunch of pagans. The pagans were probably drunk, though. I bet much mead was imbibed during many a conversion in St. Pat’s heyday.).

So let’s get it all straight: St. Patrick never chased away snakes. Odds are, the shamrock has little to do with the trinity, but I could’ve told ya that. He didn’t minister to a mystical land of leprechauns, but instead to a bunch of tree huggers that liked to enslave foreigners. I’m guessing that his status as a saint didn’t come because he was a heavy drinker. What about the color green? Pinching someone for not wearing green on St. Patrick’s Day? Corned beef and cabbage?

Well, I am only left to accept the fact that like many saints that are celebrated – to include St. Nicholas and St. Valentine – St. Patrick’s life story has been modified to fit what we believe to be an appropriate celebration of his impact on history. I don’t know why the leprechauns come into play. I am not completely certain, either, about the color green, the copious beer drinking, or that pesky weed – the shamrock.

What I do know is that I have always adored St. Patrick’s Day. Since grade school, I have loved the color theme and the festive nature of all things Irish (as they were presented to me in the form of handouts made by my teachers depicting pots o’ gold and the like that we were supposed to color with reckless abandon – “HEY! Quite hoggin’ the green!”). No one ever gave me a St. Patrick handout to color. I wonder if he would have been depicted as a slave or as the bishop that he turned out to be. No matter, I never got one. And in any case, the leprechauns would have looked a little out of place in a picture of the saint himself administering “The Word” to the Druids.

So I am left with the current cultural significance of St. Patrick’s Day: the beer, the shillelagh, the shamrock, the pot o’ gold, the beer, the leprechauns, the color green, the beer, the corned beef and hash, the luck o’ the Irish, and the beer. Did I mention the beer?

Raise your glass this weekend and drink to the legend himself – despite his complete non-affiliation with this pagan holiday.

First Winter, New Warmth

2007-03-11T20:52:00.000-06:00

This winter in Idaho’s Teton Valley was a mild one. Our local resort – Grand Targhee – boasts 500 inches of powder yearly. I know they fell short this year – and here on the valley floor we coped with cold that made it too cold to snow; then a warming trend that made the skiers hang their well toned heads.

Now, I don’t ski. I know, I know. For any of you reading this that skis out there; I am certain that you view my residency status in one of the world’s best winter playgrounds as a complete waste. Whatever. I own snow shoes. I had just gotten used to the snow shoes after a few times out, only last weekend. I was actually excited about deep snow because of my pair of Tubbs. Not that I am averse to snow. I just never really lived in a place where there was so much snow; and yet, this year’s snowfall is apparently a real disappointment.

To me, it is not disappointing. I still got a real feel for what inclement weather can bring. Don’t forget that I drove that damn pass for four months – two of them winter months – and had visions of my own demise on a couple of occasions. It’s not hard to conjure up the possibility of death when one is driving Teton Pass; even when the weather is fair. When you add snow, ice and the possibility of avalanche activity to the mix, well then ya got yer very own ulcer cocktail.

After having been able to give up that drive, I was then left to actually enjoy our winter weather instead of having to hate it fully on a daily basis, which brings me back to the supposed “lack” of snowfall. There was puh-lenty of snowfall for me this year. The skiing suffered on both sides of the Tetons, but for me, it was a nice pleasant way to get introduced to my new home.

I remember this email that got passed around a few years back; one of those letter parodies. The author is writing about their decision to move north to somewhere like Maine in an attempt to get in touch with nature. While the first letter starts as a song to the beautiful winter surroundings, the last letter has progressed to a point of complete disdain for the place. The letter writer has endured shoveling the stuff, driving in it, and being beleaguered with a general sense of malaise due to the lack of sunlight.

When I moved here, I feared that I would be that letter writer by January. We arrived in the patiently hot days of August, and I still felt able to look forward – to see my misery develop over time so that by spring I would be regretful about the move. I feared the worst, as my Catholic upbringing taught me. And the worst really was….?

Well, our pipes froze at work. There are only six of us full time in the office left to suffer the consequences of frozen pipes. We were only without water for maybe a week and a half. Finally we were able to get in touch with a plumber that was willing to hook us up to someone else’s house and let us siphon water from them. This is done with a very lengthy garden hose and two hose bib connections. I had never seen the likes of this type of solution before; when I lived in Washington and my pipes froze (gosh, that sounds like some kind of female malady that I definitely do not want: “Say, ever had your pipes freeze? It’s a real bitch.”), my landlord came over, crawled under the house, and took a blowtorch to ‘em.

So we got the water fixed at work and didn’t have to use the bathroom at our nearest and only grocery store anymore. Then suddenly, a mere three weeks after it all went down, our pipes unthawed on their own. Mind you that this was after the local paper published a front page news story on the frozen pipes in Driggs. A great many businesses had the same problem we did this year. It had something to do with the frost level creeping downward at an accelerated rate due to our warming trend, and then stopping squarely at the level where the city pipes had been installed. Now, in Driggs, the city pipes were installed a mere three feet below the surface. I’m no civil engineer, but I have worked with them for years, and my first impression is “three feet below the surface – how the hell did they get away with that?”, and, “what the f*ck were they thinking?”, and “I’m glad we live in Victor.”

Another casualty of lack of snow was an entire week of weather that was so cold, it couldn’t have possibly snowed even if there had been clouds for it – which there was not. It was a beautiful blue sky with blinding sun coming off of what snow there was on the ground; it was deceptively sunny if you happen to be inside. For outside, it was 25 degrees below zero. During this time, I sent many emails to my friends in Minnesota about this temperature so that they could gain a little perspective: it was 25 degrees below zero without a wind chill. It was an eerie calm surrounded by a devastating cold.

But the snow – the snow was bearable. The snow I saw coming down this year made me feel like I lived in my very own snow globe. Naturally, that snow globe would have a panoramic vista inside of it, ensuring that the viewer understood that there are mountains on all sides of this place. We were welcomed this year with a mild winter, and welcomed in more ways than that by the people and the activity that swirls around us in a lazy dance. I can see myself already looking back on our first winter and appreciating the warmth and the early arrival of spring.

Postcard from the Desert

2007-03-08T21:40:00.000-07:00

My good friend Emily went to Arizona to visit her wintering Minnesota parents in Tucson. She was only there for four days, but managed to not only purchase a postcard for me, but to also write a message and address it to me. Okay, so it took her a plane ride home to drop it in the mail; but still.

So Emily has been back for days now, and I just got her postcard. It was a beautiful black and white portrait of Georgia O’Keefe taken in 1956. O’Keefe is advanced in her years in this portrait; her eyes are cast down in the direction of a doorway that provides the only light for the photo, yet is only partially visible to us.

Dressed all in black, she keeps company with the skull of a herd animal that is mounted on the wall above and behind her head. This skull sports a rack of antlers – a full ten points curve elegantly from the top of the head, pointed safely away from the top of O’Keefe’s own skull.

Sitting, her right hand curled around a portion of a large dry gnarled log, she looks just about ready to put her mind to getting up. Or perhaps, she has just sat down.

I contemplated both the photo on the postcard and the message that Emily wrote to me as we sat in the Knotty Pine waiting for appetizers to arrive at our table:

Arriba ya del caballo, hay que aquantar los respingos.

OR

Once mounted on a horse, one must hang on when he bucks.

It feels good when someone sends something to you like this. Emily knows me well enough to know that even though I have never heard this phrase before, that I believe it. I believe that reacting to life requires a good grip – whether it is on a horse, or on one’s own psyche. I also believe that as individuals, people are often stronger than what they know. The trick is to find out just how stalwart you may be.

As far as friends go, Emily has stuck by me as I have by her in the three years that we have known one another. We indulge each other’s idiosyncrasies, and we listen to one another. I feel that knowing her reflects how well I am doing at staying on the bucking horse. Our friendship is a gauge of wellness between the two of us.

And so a thank you must go out to Emily. She thought of me, yet again. She filled my post office box with the elegant visage of another strong woman, a legend in the art world, but a woman just the same. She was thoughtful enough to go to the trouble to find a quote to suit me, she affixed a stamp, and she followed through.

To me, our friendship is a gift that I was lucky to be given.

Hands Off, Office Depot!

2007-02-20T07:02:00.000-07:00

I am a fan of office supplies. I have worked in multiple office environments for many years, and always find that the supplies help to keep life interesting. The Post-It dispenser. The one pen that you love that is just the right ink weight. The desktop organizer that you cannot live without. I have even found myself leaving positions only to miss… my stapler.

Although I know I am coming off like an office supply geek, I am certain that many office workers such as me couldn’t help but agree that one does get attached to the items on their desk. And this doesn’t have to be a personal item. It is the cool thumbtack, the mechanical pencil, the thesaurus, and the paper clip container that makes your day go ‘round when you work in an office.

When talking ad campaigns for office products, I am struck first by the creative bent that Office Max took with their “Rubberband Man”. You remember. He walks around the office, a giant ball made of rubber bands - spinning as in a disco - attached to the cart full of supplies that he is pushing. As he walks, the song Rubberband Man by the Spinners plays. The character is portrayed by actor Eddie Steeples, now a regular cast member on NBC’s My Name is Earl. He has big hair and a magnanimous smile; an appealing advertising character if I ever saw one.

Then there is STAPLES. They currently have an ad campaign that sells the idea of an “Easy Button”. Press and all errant office systems are instantly organized with the help of STAPLES. One of the reasons why I like the Easy Button idea is because STAPLES chose to also market the button as a promotional item. One of their buttons sits on the desk of a woman that I work with; and in fact, the company that I work for uses STAPLES as its main office supply vendor. Their website is a very easy tool to use. Truth in advertising does help.

Now onto Office Depot: they are currently running an ad campaign that features a hand popping out of a box to help unorganized office workers. This hand is of course reminiscent of “Thing” from The Addams Family. My difficulty with the new mascot for Office Depot is the fact that it is just creepy. It was meant to be creepy on The Addams Family, and while the character actually fits into that ensemble cast so that viewers would get used to its disembodied status as just a hand, it simply does not belong in a commercial about the ease of ordering or using office supplies.

Let me paint a picture for you: an office worker is at her desk. She is writing with her favorite pen, which suddenly runs out of ink. What will she do?

A) Wait for the friendly, happy and dancing supply guy to come by with another pen – and she is totally happy to wait for him because he is so entertaining and pen friendly.

B) Press the button on her desk marked “EASY” so that a new pen will magically appear with little or no effort on her part.

C) Tap quietly on the box that has been placed on her desk that happens to contain a human hand that is both animated and disturbingly knowledgeable about office products, leaving the employee to wonder if she is having an acid flashback or just needs to check herself into the psych ward.

The thing that baffles me the most about this ad campaign is the not so shallow coating of desperation that kind of oozes off of the whole situation. Office Max had their time in the sun with the ol’ Rubberband Man. STAPLES followed up with a relatively simply concept that holds simple appeal. Obviously these two advertising successes forced the hand (pardon the pun) of Office Depot. They were cornered in a room full of advertising executives, wondering how they could make their own mark. Someone mentions Thing from The Addams Family, and suddenly the viewing public is subjected to this lazy and poorly conceived advertising train wreck.

Were you that desperate, Office Depot? Couldn’t you have gone with a talking ruler or some kind of other usually unanimated object that one would find in any office? How about a disembodied voice rather than a disembodied hand? I mean, I am down with so many other options other than the hand concept – didn’t anyone else speak up? Was it the one guy with the hand idea and that was it? I find that pretty hard to believe.

There are plenty of things about the medium of television that leave a great deal to be desired. The programming and the advertising both pander to the lowest denominator as it is. And I do believe that this commercial is just another example of what “they” assume “we” will like. No imagination was used when this so-called character was affiliated with Office Depot. Not only is the idea recycled from a television show, it isn’t used in the correct context.

And it’s creepy. Don’t forget the creepy part.

Bring In Da Noise, Bring In Da Funkin' New Year!

2007-01-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

My holiday season here in Idaho's Teton Valley has been both surprising and memorable. Commencing with Thanksgiving, festivities rolled through a cookie decorating party, an intimate gathering on the Tuesday before Christmas, a veritable eating frenzy on Christmas Day, and then finally the culmination of it all on New Year's Eve.

Many of you may have already reviewed the Thanksgiving coverage. We had visiting family during the famed holiday of sloth. I distinctly remember trying to announce the meal with some witty sentiment, but only choked on my own sentimentality. Needless to say, my attempt ended in vain with a "let's eat" and a little embarrassment while I tried not to shed any tears.

A few weeks later, I was kindly invited to a cookie decorating party. Initially, I had to chuckle at this baking version of a sewing circle slash quilting bee. I am not one that ordinarily seeks out the company of large groups of women. Going in, I could only hope that those attending would be just as smart, funny and gracious as Danielle and her sister Nicole, the two ladies tht invited me. I was not at all disappointed. Cookie decorating aside (which peaked at hilarity a few times that night), I was fortunate enough to meet and converse with a group of ladies that held my attention with a positive air of genuine kindness. Bottom line: we had fun, and the cookies were money, baby. Money.

Nicole - Wunder Barista and one of the lovely hosts of the cookie clatch

Following that, my new friend Erika invited me to her warm embrace of a home to celebrate all things holiday before she and her husband Mark hit the road on their driving vacation to the coast. Erika and Mark throw a glorious shin-dig. The food alone was enough to make me want to move in with them and insist on becoming their 36-year-old adopted child. The even more wicked cool thing about this particular party is that Erika entertains through song.

"I'm Erika, and I will be your Cruise Director for the evening."

To the tune of Runaround Sue, she and housemate Dave created a video for YouTube that was definitely holiday appropriate (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FC-IXMK73Uc). Mark managed to project the video onto their ceiling for all to enjoy. We craned our necks, laughed hysterically, and ate more food.

The long Christmas weekend gave us pause to do nothing but unpack our household goods. The new rental is a farm home that was built in the 1930s. Christmas lights would look so festive on the pine trees out front - there are several, the two tallest being at least thirty feet in height. Our move put Christmas on hiatus, however, and neither one of us felt any remorse. We didn't have to. On Christmas night, we were invited to participate in a large family feed. The dinner guests totaled only five, the food was plentiful, and the companionship held promise for friendships that would last long past the New Year.

John and Jack create atmosphere for the guests...

Wrapping up this year appropriately could only take place at The Knotty Pine Supper Club. The Knotty booked a slam dunk with U.S. Pipe And The Balls Johnson Dance Machine - busting out funk tunes for a crowd that danced 'til the proverbial ball fell. 2006 was a whirlwind, friends. A move to a new place, new jobs for the both of us, and a whole new community in which to settle and enjoy.

My wish is peace to each of you during this bright and shiny New Year.

Even in the most oddest of places... CARDINALS RULE!

Happy 2007!

Spinach Inspired Rant

2006-12-18T13:26:00.001-07:00

I usually try and keep a list of potential blog subjects that I might tackle. Going through my notes this morning, I found that I had written the following item down:

SPINACH BETWEEN MY TEETH: NO INFORMANTS

A little while ago, while at work, I tackled a rather large salad for lunch. There were a multitude of greens in this particular dish; spinach being one of them.

I ate this meal at around 1PM.

When I arrived home, just after 6PM, I was greeted warmly by my husband who also immediately pointed out that I had a “huge” chunk of spinach stuck squarely between a couple of my front teeth. Hardly invisible to the naked eye, I was then left to wonder why no one had pointed this out before he had.

Between the hours of 1PM and the moment when I was finally alerted to this dental disaster, I had experienced plenty of face to face interaction with many people. Not one of them had enough honesty to tell me that I had a freakin’ head of spinach wedged between my front teeth.

People, people. Many of you, apparently, were raised by wolves. I can only surmise this due to the fact that wolves do not require social norms such as telling someone that they have

 Spinach between their teeth (okay, wolves more than likely do not eat greens, but I guarandamntee you that wolves do not have a need to pick elk gristle from their pearly whites…)
 Snot/buggers falling from their noses
 Something – anything – on their face that shouldn’t be there.

Now, I get it. I am completely empathetic to your situation. You are embarrassed to tell the spinach/bugger/foreign object-on-face victim that there is a problem. You are embarrassed for them; you ascertain that they would be completely humiliated if attention is called to this situation, so you keep your mouth shut. Better to just let them discover it on their own, right? Stay out of it, right?

Wrong.

I am here to tell you that the hiccup of time that occurs during the moment that you are helping the victim in question by telling them the truth is nothing compared to the humiliation that the victim will undergo when realizing that no one in their life – not their co-workers, not the bus driver they smiled at, not even the guy at the post office, had the gumption and common decency to point out the facial violation. The victim is also then left to wonder “well, why wouldn’t they point it out – don’t they like me?” and “whatever happened to honesty?” and “well, I know I won’t be telling them if they have something in their teeth.”

That’s right, kids. If you don’t exercise brutal honesty in situations like this – if you don’t treat people the way you want to be treated, eventually you will have something in your teeth and no one will tell you. Due to your lack of spine, you have cultivated a world around you of bitter, cynical people that now could care less if you know about spinach in your teeth. They look at you and think, “Well, he wouldn’t tell me if something was wrong, so why should I help him out?”

So next time, just suck it up. Bury your discomfort in favor of the greater good. The person in question will invariably be endlessly grateful to know that they are coming across to the world with a produce section peeking out from between two of their pearly whites. Trust me.

African Dance In Idaho?

2006-12-08T12:24:00.001-07:00

I had the pleasure of stopping by Balance Studios last night. Kari was there, but not teaching on this particular evening. Instead, the class that was being held was being led by Daria.

Daria's full story is unknown to me, but I could surmise the following from talking to her for five minutes or so prior to the class: she is a talented artist and photographer; she has spent copious amounts of time in Africa; she has taken the lessons of culture learned from these journeys and channeled them into a dance class.

That's right.

At Kari's open house, I was intrigued by the "African Dance" class that was listed in the Balance Studio schedule - certainly intrigued enough to make time to witness this unique form of dance by stopping by and taking some photos (Kari - you will get me into one of your Pilates classes sooner or later...).

What surprised me about this learning experience is that Daria uses the talent of local percussionists during her class. Having the drums there, having Daria's form in on display for inspiration... made me a bit jealous that I didn't have my workout clothes on!

And how can you argue with a cardio workout that requires NO SHOES?!

It was great fun to watch...

2006-12-08T12:22:00.001-07:00

2006-12-08T12:22:00.000-07:00

2006-12-08T12:21:00.001-07:00

2006-12-08T12:21:00.000-07:00

Sometimes You Just Can't Avoid The Truth...

2006-12-08T11:26:00.000-07:00

Thanksgiving, 2006!

2006-11-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

I’m sure that each of you can understand why Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Experiencing criticism for being lazy or eating too much should not occur on Thanksgiving. This is the free pass that all Americans should look forward to. No need to explain why you are on the couch watching the TBS "A Christmas Story" marathon with your belt unbuckled.

It is each American’s God given right to measure up to the expectations of Thanksgiving. Too much food? You are right on track. No plans for the evening? Have a seat on your couch, where you are expected to digest your multiple courses in comfort.

This Thanksgiving certainly did not disappoint. We had visitors in town to help us celebrate our first turkey day in Idaho, in the form of my parents and my eight year old niece. Although my husband was lovingly prodded into intense physical activity on this, the holiday of sloth, it was still a wonderful occasion that provided much to be thankful for. Besides, one of us had to take cross country skiing lessons… lest we live through this winter without a viable outdoor hobby.

The meal that I planned was far too large for the crowd that attended, but honestly - if you don't have leftovers for weeks, what is the point? I hope each of you had a wonderful holiday spent with people, food and television that you love :)

Peak of Teton Pass, 7AM, 11-22-06

Madeleine enjoys the early morning view...

Lookit the size of those antlers! She couldn't get over the fact that antlers are simply everywhere in Jackson. Neither can I.

A break from the cross country lesson - Grand Targhee Lodge

Madeleine's instructor teaches on the "you must fall" theory... look how great she did!

Woo hoo! Downhill in one piece!

Future ski bunny - look out, boys!

A break for sledding.

This ACE Hardware sled rocks!

STEER!

I was definitely thankful for the help in the kitchen!

More help!

Prepare to meet your doom, turkey!

"mmmm...the sacrificial bird was yummy!"

Mike packed leftovers into his Spider Man backpack, I just know it.

This was the last good chuckle Ryan had before he succumbed to the requisite holiday coma.

Too much pie: a common Thanksgiving affliction.

TOO MUCH OF EVERYTHING!

YEE HAW! We love Thanksgiving!

Teton Valley Social

2006-11-21T10:22:00.000-07:00

I am certain that through my sporadic updates you may have a bit of a skewed opinion as to what may occur on your average Friday night here in Idaho's Teton Valley. Between my cattle drive report and my constant fascination with the commute through Teton Pass, I would hate to think that anyone reading this may ascertain that we are just here living amongst livestock and driving remote and treacherous roads - which we are doing - but not all of the time.

Sometimes, we have time to frequent a local watering hole - or perhaps even soak up some culture... believe it or not.

On Friday, November 10, 2006, my girlfriend and I went on a little trek through the valley for the evening. We started at the SKI SWAP, which was held in the brand spankin' new Driggs Community Center.

Neither one of us really ski - Emily more than me that is for sure - so the five dollar admittance fee caused us to turn away. Maybe someday I will attend the ski swap, actually pay to get in, and find myself some winter sporting equipment that I never pictured myself using. Everyone here tells me that someday I will snowboard. I do believe that I will find myself on cross country skis looong before I snowboard, but it's hard to say what I may actually be talked into doing. These crazy winter sports lovers are pretty persuasive.

After lingering at the entrance to the swap, we departed to our next destination: Balance Studios, Victor Idaho. Balance Studios is run by a very friendly young lady named Carrie. Carrie just opened her studio space. She held an open house with free food and wine, so naturally we had to check it out!

She does this thing called "cardiolates", okay? So, picture Pilates type moves performed while jumping on a trampoline. You got that picture in your head? If so, please remove me from the image. I told Carrie, "not a sports bra on the planet that would help me while doing THAT." Additionally, I am not graceful. So top heavy + non-graceful = no cardiolates for Jenn. I'll stick to Pilates mat work, thank you very much.

Emily and I were gettin' thirsty, so we stopped by the Knotty Pine in Victor for a beverage.
Can you believe the Knotty Pine has a myspace account?! I just love it when I get an interesting return like that on a Google search. At ye olde Knotty, we indulged in some margaritas.

We were able to chat with a few people that Emily is familiar with (I swear, this girl knows EVERYONE) while we imbibed. I then felt the rush of "this is my third drink, we had better go", so we hit the bricks. All the while, we were thinking that it was much later than it actually was... we were back to my house by 9:15PM. So basically, I was able to squeeze a few drinks in and a relatively active agenda - and still get home by my bedtime. Go ahead. Mock. However, in my current effort to age gracefully, I place a great deal of value on sleep and going to bed on time. I know I sound like I'm six years old - or maybe even seventy. But I can take the mocking, while my skin and general disposition thank me for trying to be responsible for my own well being.

Now, this past weekend, I let it slide just a bit. We were to meet up with Emily and Scott (Emily's "significant other", as I cannot bring myself to call him her "boyfriend". When introducing them, I usually say, "this is Emily, and this is Scott - they are together". I think past the age of thirty, the terms "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" kind of lose all effect) at the Knotty to see some kind of ski film. Once we arrived, I realized that we were paying a cover charge to see a band - not dropping a fee for the benefit of Teton Gravity.

Now get this - and please look at the Knotty's myspace account so you too can realize the significance... I have never seen a band at the Knotty Pine. Locally, it is a legendary venue for some very talented bands. This night was no exception. After said ski movie ended (okay, if you have seen one of them haven't you seen them all? Obviously, I am no skier.), the unbelievably talented B-Side Players took the stage. Kids, I was blown away. Every heard "reggae salsa"? Yeah, me neither. The crowd adored every beat. It kept me there until almost midnight (unheard of!). I am definitely exposing myself to the event schedule there at the ol' Knotty. You never know who may show up.

So there you go: my past two weekends hanging in the Valley. I do have a tendency to seclude myself on the weekends. Maybe my recent exposure to local culture will get me out more and give me more to say...

...and more for you to read!

Teton Pass: Down But Not Out

2006-11-16T11:26:00.000-07:00

On both Monday and Tuesday, I chickened out on driving in the snow. We have moved to an area of the country that prides itself in the shear volume of snowfall that occurs every year, and guess what? My driving skills do not apply.

Everyone at work balked at my fear.

First question: didn't you drive in snow in Minnesota? Well, I would like to say that "Yes, of course I have driven in snow in Minnesota! Who hasn't driven in snow in Minnesota? I mean, if you've been to Minnesota, you have driven in snow - even in the summer!" Unfortunately, the truth isn't all that easy. I lived in Minnesota for a total of three years. Every winter during that time, I was subjected to my husband lamenting the lack of snowfall. It's true. Snowmobile folk had to travel to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan just to get time in on their toys. Most of what I was subjected to on the inclement weather front in Minnesota were extreme temperatures. The wind doth blow with ferocity in Minnesota. The result? It's too freakin' cold to snow.

And okay, maybe it did snow there when I lived there. I seem to remember a faint flickering of snow somewhere in those three years. But the DOT in Minnesota uses salt liberally. I mean, they start salting at the first flake. The DOT crews would work all night to ensure that the roads were passable. In addition to that, none of the roads I drove on had a 10% grade or were all that twisty turny.

The difference here: in addition to many of the "danger" signs that are posted, the motorist must bear the burden of the steep mountain pass grade. The "snow removal" effort consists of very large snow plows laying gravel for traction as they plow and plow and plow... until 9PM at night, when they cease all efforts. They don't pick it up again until 5AM the next day... safety permitting, I am sure.

And speaking of safety permitting, I awoke on Monday to see snow falling from above and being blown from below. It was a visibility issue that I wasn't quite certain I could contend with behind the wheel. In addition to that, it had been snowing all weekend. Between the blowing of the haughty Western wind, which tends to create ice on the road a great deal faster than if it weren't blowing, and the snow accumulation factor, I lost my nerve.

I knew that I would be mocked out the door when I finally did make it to work. This place is rife with skiiers. And I don't mean "downhill skiiers" - which is true as well. What I am referring to is that contingency of athletes that feel it necessary to ski "backcountry". This involves the not so simple chore of actually climbing the hill and then skiing down it. No chairlifts for these hardy folk! Oh, I was definitely going to be a target when I finally showed my face at the office: the mamby pamby girl from Minnesota can't drive in the snow! HAAAAAAA!

On Tuesday, I drove toward the pass. I never even got to the crest of the commute, some 8,000 feet up. I turned around and went to our office in Driggs - only a one mile commute from my house. I checked in, and then went promptly to the local tire dealer for snow tires. Additionally, I made the call to our Jackson office and was relieved to find that spineless or not, someone was willing to ride share with me from Idaho to Wyoming.

I am encouraged. My ride share buddy has been here for almost nine years... and she is originally from Minnesota.

There is hope for me yet. With the right wheels, a certain amount of patience and yes, the inclusion of a spine, I may just get used to this place.

With five months of winter, I had better!

2006-11-09T09:30:00.000-07:00

Photo Credit: Reuters

2006-11-09T09:22:00.000-07:00

A shining example of Rumsfeld’s leadership is reflected in a quote from a February 12, 2002, Department of Defense news briefing:

As we know, there are known knowns. There are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know.

Hm.

Were the WMDs in Iraq part of the unknown known, or known unknowns?

Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.

(For more Rumsfeld prose, visit Slate Magazine!)

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

2006-10-27T15:55:00.000-06:00

It’s hard to think of baseball when it’s around thirty degrees outside, and your very own lawn has a fresh coat of snow. Baseball conjures hot days, cold beer, and the requisite all beef dog that you never regret eating, diet or not. Baseball means short sleeves, sandals, and a motivation to stay away from the bleacher seats, lest you fry in the sun and come away from the game absolutely miserable.

But this October, despite the lack of warmth, baseball got me.

It’s always your favorite team, isn’t it? You’re not really paying attention until something extraordinary happens, but it has to apply to the team that you traditionally root for. This is the curse behind fanaticism. I wasn’t even going to watch the World Series if the pairing were going to be the NY Mets and the Oakland A’s. Out of pure spite for any coastal team (the Seattle Mariners excluded), I simply wasn’t willing to watch this world championship battle if I would have to root for either California or New York.

Suddenly, Oakland was out. The Detroit Tigers – the come from no where team of the entire season – were now poised for a match up with either the Mets or the Cardinals in the World Series of 2006. This changed things for me. Not because I am a fan of Detroit. No. I am a fan of St. Louis.

Detroit’s play off win woke me up to the reality that not only would I not be seeing the two dreaded coastal teams in the Series, but there was an actual chance that the Cardinals may be pitted against the Tigers in the World Series. I had watched the tail end of the National League play-offs with so much trepidation and fear that I was certain I was developing an ulcer. All the way to game seven, the Mets and the Cards had me biting my nails to the quick. I was unable to watch game seven, to tell you the truth. I couldn’t stand the possibility of watching St. Louis lose, while in the back of my mind I tried to make myself feel better about it: well, at least I can root for Detroit for the championship if St. Louis tanks in the play-offs.

Now, now, before you spout off about my Negative Nancy approach to being a sports fan, just know that this outlook is really for my own good. I am far too concerned of a fan. I had to stop watching professional hockey about four years ago, because I found myself getting too overemotional while the puck was in play. It turns out that just two years later, I found myself undergoing a stress diagnosis due to an unexpected fainting spell. I need not exaggerate the affect that being a sports fan has on me.

Let us also not forget about the last time the Cardinals were in the World Series. What? You don’t remember?! Oh, well that’s okay. In 2004, the Boston Red Sox won the World Series. This, in and of itself, was a miracle of miracles. It’s easy to forget that they actually had to play another team in order to win… and that team just happened to be St. Louis.

So, back in 2004 as this pairing of baseball skill took place, I was in yet another grip of fan related anxiety. I got through one game and had to stop watching after that.

But this time… I don’t know what it is this time. Seeing Lou Brock throw out a first pitch? The fact that “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” during the seventh inning has been replaced by “America the Beautiful” (which chokes me up every time)? Maybe it is just the mere fact that this is damn good baseball. Although a pitching competition for most of what this series has been; Game 4 changed all that. The edge of your seat plays. The gasp inducing errors. The BASEBALL, my friends.

And so I have reeled in my over anxious approach to watching, sat back and enjoyed this Cardinal run of luck. It may not last the whole series – although they only have to win one more to enjoy the coveted “Whole Enchilada” – but I am willing to bet that every minute of watching will be better than an all beef frank.

Play ball!

2006-10-24T16:27:00.000-06:00

Just Another Stunning Sunset

What You Will Learn, Ya Learn Right Quick

2006-10-24T13:58:00.000-06:00

One of my assignments this week was to travel to Cheyenne, Wyoming from Jackson for a meeting. We were on the road by 6AM the morning of the meeting. We were to jettison across the 400 miles that separate Cheyenne from Jackson and arrive by the meeting’s start time, which was 3PM. Barring all catastrophes, this was plenty of time to arrive at our destination. My sole travel partner was a long time Wyoming resident. This trip would give him an opportunity to “school” me in the ways of Wyoming living.

On the way, we discussed the reasons behind the meeting itself; he prepping me on the subject matter so that I could at least nod intelligently at whomever was talking. This was a long story for him to tell, as the issues we would be confronting came to light in the year 1868. We would be meeting at the State Engineer’s Office to discuss water development for a portion of one of the Indian reservations in the state.

Lesson Number One: Native Americans in Wyoming still have no valid reason to trust the White Man.

Hey, I barely trust Whitey myself, especially when it comes to public policy. But let’s face it, all you Caucasians out there: we really screwed them over. The varied Native American population in this country has approached life in one of two ways: either they try to adapt to the culture that was forced upon them and make a profit in the mean time (see Minnesota’s Mdewakanton Sioux); or they stubbornly cling to the virtues of the culture that is historically their own. It seems the latter is the prevalent approach in the state of Wyoming.

During the meeting, I was regaled with stories concerning the tribe’s business approach: their unreliability when it comes to acknowledging time as “we” define it, for instance. Many times, appointments are made to discuss any given issue with the tribal representatives, only to have the expected attendees show up hours past the appointed time.

What we consider important simply does not measure up to their own priorities of participating in the rituals that define their culture. These rituals are often what seem to interfere in the conducting of what we consider regular business. So naturally, when one is discussing a water rights issue that started in 1868 and resulted in a Supreme Court decision in the year 2001, it is just the natural progression of time that one needs to consider – as defined by the tribe itself.

We were inundated with the type of information that only meant we had to perform more research. At one point, one of the hydrologists at the table actually mentioned the Bell Curve. My mind not being designed to understand the vast landscape of mathematics, I kind of took a mental vacation at that point.

Our travel route, up the point of arriving in Cheyenne, had not allowed for a mental sojourn of any kind. I was at the wheel for at least four hours on Interstate 80. As I drove over the ice and snow that littered this thoroughfare, a constant reminder of the treacherous conditions was laid to waste in the median and on the shoulder. We passed a total of eighteen semi-trucks in various states of disrepair all along Wyoming’s Highway 80 to our destination.

Lesson Number Two: Wyoming roads are not forgiving.

Apparently the weather system from the night before had gotten the better of a few long haul truckers. My travel companion insisted that they deserved it. I could have hardly argued with him as I gripped the steering wheel in white knuckle fashion while he asked me, “You do know how to drive on ice, don’t you?” I nodded with what I hoped was an aura of complete confidence. Of course, my internal dialog was spent planning my own funeral. Only been here two months, and I die in a rented Ford Escape with a guy I barely know. Perfect. I realized that I was going to live once we were able to get through Laramie in one piece. But the prevailing sense of doom felt willing to reserve itself for the next time.

That morning, I had listened intently to the radio trying to pinpoint the locations where we were not supposed to be driving. On that particular day, there were one hundred mile radiuses where travel was not advised in random parts of Wyoming. It is an unrelenting feature of Wyoming’s climate that the wind doth blow with some severity, especially in locations where there are no physical attributes like, say, a mountain to give one any protection. As a result, wide open spaces abound in which the wind is given ample room to blow… and blow… and, well, you get the picture. Oftentimes, especially during the winter months, motorists are blown right off the highways. When precipitation is added to this deadly inclement driving condition cocktail, you never know what you are going to get. We witnessed semi-truck cabs separated soundly from the tractor portion of their bodies; passenger vehicles tangled one on top of the other, and a variety of other traffic melees that convinced me of one thing: when advised not to travel along certain routes in the state of Wyoming, one best listen.

Our travels, after having taken us to Cheyenne, landed us in Casper, Wyoming for the night. By choosing this round about way to get back to Jackson, we were avoiding the stretch of highway that we had already traveled in an effort to make better time – and, to hopefully avoid any further ice delays. The hotel was in full convention mode. We could barely find our way from the lobby desk to the elevator without some difficulty due to the amount of people crowding the lobby. And then… “Hey Frank!”

Lesson Number Three: Wyoming is a small town with a long main street.

Yes, my co-worker did in fact know someone that was crowded into the mob of people just as we were, trying to navigate the narrows of the Best Western lobby. Had this been the only time that he had run into someone he knew unexpectedly on our trip, I may have chalked it up to coincidence and ignored the core meaning behind Lesson Number Three.

The first time this happened, we were coming around the corner in a government building in Cheyenne and ran into his daughter’s best friend from high school. This was totally unexpected, but seemingly normal for him. As we walked through the building, everyone knew him (some of them not having seen him in years). I chalked this up to his many decades in Wyoming coupled with his professional activities, which took him all over the state.

The fact of the matter is, when you live in a state where the antelope outnumber the people, you are bound to run into someone you have already met – whether it is at home or on the road. Frank told me that it was not unusual for him to run into acquaintances in this manner quite frequently, from Jackson to Cheyenne, from Casper to Cody. I am convinced that he was not exaggerating.

Our final travel day took us from Casper back to Jackson in a westward direction. We were bound to visit the project site that was associated with our meeting. This commitment drove us through the Wind River Indian Reservation .

Lesson Number Four: Wyoming is beautiful.

Don’t forget that if you drive through the “wrong” parts of Wyoming; you may come away thinking “Why would anyone want to live in this rocky, dry, windy place?” Frank likes this – he says that if the beauty is hidden from the traveler, they will more than likely not return. “Keeps the riff raff out”, was his exact assertion. Oh, but do not be fooled by these long stretches of nothingness. Apart from the obvious draw of the Jackson area –the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone Park, to be exact – Wyoming harbors topography that would knock any view hungry tourist’s socks off.

We drove by buttes, some low, and some high, some with stories attached to them like the sagebrush that clung to their circumferences. We blew past picturesque homesteads that have been a matter of history since Wyoming became a state way back in 1890. The Wind River followed our own route, cut away by trees and small ravines, flowing through private property and small quaint towns that milk the tourist trade. In the background, badland formations exposed themselves to the wide open blue sky and fell hush in response to the prevailing winds.

Our trip came to a breathtaking close as we traversed Togwotee Pass, at a pinnacle of almost 10,000 feet, and motored our way down to arrive within the outskirts of Grand Teton National Park before finally coming to a stop in Jackson.

I have not learned it all, by any means.

But I do believe that I am off to a good start.

2006-10-12T12:10:00.000-06:00

MOOOO-ove OVER!

Out of the Gate

2006-10-12T09:32:00.000-06:00

As many of you know, we made it. The trip was uneventful – and seems so long ago. We departed for the peaks on Monday, August 7, 2006, and had arrived by the end of that week.

I vaguely remember the fog that overtook me throughout the first month of our transition. We were without permanent residence, but had access to satellite television. That, combined with the fact that I spent most of my time with an adolescent, not quite one-year-old Labrador Retriever, turned me into a bit of a head case – even more so than normal.

All of that ended when I finally made the decision to aggressively pursue the local job market. “Local”, when applicable to my skills and experience, meant that I would more than likely have to commute to Jackson, Wyoming in order to make a living and to meet what I like to call “The Marriage Overhead”. Sooner or later, I got lucky. My first day of work was on September 20, 2006.

Not quite a month into my employment here in Wyoming, I find the commute far less daunting than I originally feared. I perform the daily climb up the pass in my Nissan Xterra – a not completely harrowing 2,000 feet from Idaho’s Teton Valley floor up to the uncommonly stunning view at the crest of Teton Pass. What goes up must come down, folks. I put ‘er into second gear and crawl safely down the other side, first through the tiny burg of Wilson, Wyoming, and then to my final destination.

At the same time, please understand that currently, there is no snow on Teton Pass. Once that occurs, according to my new co-workers, I am inevitably screwed. Oh yes, tales abound here regarding the tragic end to many lives in relation to the twists and turns of Teton Pass. One of my colleagues was sure to note, “Well, at least they have a guardrail now.” Like that would stop a vehicle from plummeting to the earth with snow under its tires and a hairpin curve to negotiate.

I have been advised to purchase snow tires at the appropriate time. This, I assume, will be when the snow has been falling long and hard enough to force the snowplows into action. Unusually enough, plowing stops at 9PM in the evening and doesn’t start again until 5AM the following morning. This timing is obviously indicative of the danger that Teton Pass harbors, even for the snowplow set.

It is also vastly different from Minnesota’s plan of attack when it comes to plowing: they go all night long to ensure that the roads are safe the next morning. Additionally, chemical salt comes into play. Not here, dear friends, not ever. The usefulness of salt is replaced with the need for the appropriate tires, or else you are chaining up every morning.

And while on the subject of traffic related issues, let me point out that no matter where you go in this beautiful country of ours, there remains to be a coalition of drivers that prioritize speed over safety. Certainly, each of you is aware of this. You may even BE one of THOSE DRIVERS. And while the Minneapolis Coalition of Careless Drivers (MCCD) may dodge, parry and turn through multiple lanes of overcrowded traffic, all the while ensuring that they maintain an unsafe distance from the bumper of the driver in front of them, the Teton Valley Coalition of Reckless Enthusiasts (TVCRE) performs this inanity on a two lane highway. That’s right. I am not driving on an interstate any longer. As a matter of fact, one has to travel at least an hour and twenty minutes to hit any thoroughfare that uses on and off ramps. This is strictly rural, this traffic conduit.

Rest assured, not every driver using Highway 33 through Idaho’s Teton Valley feels the need to shock and awe with their speed and carelessness. But beyond those that do, it is incumbent on the defensive driver to watch out for farming equipment on the road, mule deer (often packs of them), moose, and sometimes – much to my delight – a cattle drive.

In my own opinion, any impedance on the road is yet another opportunity to soak in the scenery. Cattle drives, especially, slow your vehicle to a crawl. This is a blessing in disguise. This is a deep breath moment that propels you down the road with a smile on your face and a song in your heart. New to this beautiful part of the country, I can only hope that those that have lived here for a lifetime still take the time to notice; cattle drive or not.

2006-08-07T16:30:00.000-06:00

See you in the mountains!

2006-08-07T16:29:00.000-06:00

Our suns will soon be setting in the Teton Valley.

2006-07-31T13:34:00.001-06:00

Welcome to SAINT LOUIS!

2006-07-31T13:34:00.000-06:00

MoBOT's Chihuly Exhibit

2006-07-31T13:33:00.000-06:00

Hagar Happy (Sorry, I'm Not The Blonde)

2006-07-31T13:32:00.000-06:00

Sweet Relief at the St. Louis Zoo

2006-07-31T13:31:00.000-06:00

Soulard Market, St. Louis, MO

It Was A Hot One

2006-07-31T13:06:00.000-06:00

Soulard Market, St. Louis

Sweet, Cool Relief at the St. Louis Zoo

Happy At Hagar: I am not the blonde.

Chihuly Exhibit at Missouri Botanical Garden
On my return flight from Saint Louis last Monday morning, the Captain’s mention of a temperature of 72 degrees Fahrenheit over the intercom was cause for celebration. Yes, it was in fact 7AM CST, and the day held the promise of both heating and moistening up. However, any temperature below 90 degrees in our Midwestern region at this time of the year sends my temperate sensitivities into positive overdrive, especially after what I encountered when I landed in Saint Louis on Thursday, July 20th.

Having been so preoccupied with the sale of our home, the absence of my husband and the closure of our brief tenure in Minnesota, I boarded my outbound flight completely unaware of the devastation
that had occurred in the St. Louis area just the night before.

Mother Nature’s fickle hand had wrought what was described to me as a tornado coupled by straight line winds by the passenger that sat next to me. My concern rose as his description progressed to include the stories of destruction in the St. Louis area; he was in fact flying home early from a business trip due to his wife’s desperate situation: half of their roof was apparently missing. Additionally, the airport itself had been struck, scattering debris far enough to reach Highway 70, landing haphazardly in the midst of this well traveled thoroughfare.

As I responded with incredulity to his delivery of this news (“What?!”, “No way!”, “Get out!”), it never truly sunk in that the ramifications of said situation could have been any worse than the storm itself. That is, until we landed.

Exiting the airport to search for my father, I was first struck square in the face by an outside temperature of 99 degrees coupled by a dewpoint of at least 95%. As anyone that knows me will attest – especially my family – I am a world class whiner when confronted by the type of heat that enveloped me on that day. It closes its tight fist of discomfort around you, and chokes out any possibility of enjoyment from the idea of being outdoors.

Not until I settled into the backseat with my bubbly squirrel of a niece was I delivered the news that became the bitter cherry on top of my rapidly melting cake: 500,000 citizens in the St. Louis area were without power, my parents included.

Arriving at their home, there was no discernible difference between inside and out. The only comfort provided came from my parent’s basement. At least 15 degrees cooler, it became our headquarters for the evening. Candles were lit and flashlights became both toys and beacons of comfort on trips up the stairs to use the restroom.

Once tucked in to bear a night of uncomfortable slumber, I took the high road in my imagination: perhaps the power would be on when we awoke.

Friday July 21st provided no joy in this regard. We were left to awaken to another unbearable heat index and begin our search for breakfast at an eatery with electricity. After having lucked out at our attempt to be fed, I then commenced my visit by joining my sister and her two kids at Missouri’s Botanical Garden to enjoy what turned out to be a spectacular exhibit of Chihuly’s pieces scattered through the grounds in a semi-organic fashion.

During our wanderings through MoBOT’s Climatron, the clouds gathered with fierce intensity from the West and swiftly exploded just above our hot heads. As the rain hammered down on the glass that surrounded us, my father called with news of relief: the temperature was dropping. Still however, no power. At the same time, my sister received a call from my more than miffed brother-in-law reporting that this new weather system had conquered a tree in their backyard. The end result: although they had not lost power to the initial swath of storms, they were now a part of the vast majority. My back up plans to enjoy an evening of central air promptly fell through.
Back to Dad’s home, the difference was instantly noticeable. We could all inhabit the main level of their home due to the drop in temperature. While my inner dialogue exclaimed, “Yes!” the idea of moving West to the cool mountains continued to solidify its appeal.

On Saturday, we awoke to the disconcerting hum of the neighbor’s generator; yet another reminder that the lack of power would continue to taunt our every endeavor. The newspapers reported two deaths now – both of them having been elderly citizens. I envisioned St. Louis’ countless brick structures as one giant kiln.

Now having hit the actual weekend, I felt that certainly power would be restored to the many – and that the few would soon follow. My need for air conditioning having been placated by this drop in temperature, I still longed for the hum of it, the reliability of its mere sound seemingly enough for my weak constitution when it comes to Midwestern heat.

I departed mid-afternoon for my sister’s home. She still lacked electricity when I arrived. We sat in her living room. We talked and we sweated. My cell phone rang. Dad had power, but alas I had made plans that required me to stay with sis all night. Why cruel weather gods, must you mock me?

That evening, a group of us bore witness to Sammy Hagar in concert at the UMB Bank Pavilion. This is an amphitheater, and thanks to Friday’s spate of thunderstorms, the weather had taken a turn to “pleasant”; especially in the evening and outdoors.

We arrived back to my sister’s after the Red Rocker rocked St. Louis. Still no electricity.

Despite the lack of power, I was provided with a rather effective alarm clock in the form of my niece’s new parakeet on the morning of my final day in St. Louis. I made my way back to my parent’s house in short order. Walking into their home brought the sweet relief of central air and all of the trappings of electricity. I was able to finally go to the bathroom without the aid of my cell phone’s glow. I could open the fridge and pull out a cold beverage to my heart’s content.

My last day progressed far too rapidly, and I was brought to tears upon having to say goodbye. No lack of power, no weather system could have really ruined my visit. It was my family that I went to see, and see them I did.

Amongst the things that I did while there:

Soulard Market
St. Louis Zoo (penguin and puffin coast facility always a cool 60+ degrees)
Movie: Monster House (worth every dime and every breath of cool theater air)
Hitting balls at the driving range
Hanging out at the community pool
Missouri Botanical Garden
Sammy Hagar (that is another blog entry – talk about a subculture of fans)
A rousing game of Boggle outside with a flashlight

Onward!

Listmaker Strikes Again

2006-07-03T16:48:00.000-06:00

Tim lives in Driggs!

I can't tell you how excited I am at the prospect of Tim working and living where he belongs. I am only 28 days from following him into the West so that we can start together what I am certain will be the adventure of a lifetime.

I must voice my concern over a few things that are nagging at me prior to my own parting of ways with Minnesota. They are as follows:

My girlfriend got mold on her butter from using the butter bell that I gave her as a gift. I am currently wondering whether or not the fact that her butter bell is handmade has anything to do iwth it (mine is this assembly line manufactured pottery with little character, while hers was made by some dope smoking potter in Oregon - much more interesting, if you ask me - and I don't really know if he smokes dope, I just thing making pottery in Oregon equals smokin' dope...).

I must solve the riddle of the moldy butter bell before I leave. And if you don't know what I am talking about, that is totally okay. BUT - if you know anything about preventing mold in a butter bell, submit comment!

I am not sure how to mow the lawn, and I am not 100% sure as to why this has happened. I am a little baffled by the mental block I am having between push mower and riding mower. We have a riding mower, of course. I have never used it. Okay, Tim showed me once how to do it, when I first moved in. After that, I lost interest. Now I have to mow the lawn.

You see, you have to pump up one of the tires before you get going, and I know the starter had a problem at one point. I can't think of what other ritualistic methods are entailed to get the thing to work, but I need to act soon.

Wait - perhaps get the not so unattractive neighbor to perform said mowing with his new riding mower. Yes, but how to bribe him? Hm.

No comments from the sordid peanut gallery out there, please.

I am on my way to resolving this next dilemma, which I can assure you is the easieset to sort through.

Consequence of living somewhere that has so much varied cultural experiences to offer: you take it for granted and don't do enough of it.

Case in point: I have never been to the following places, which I intend to rectify over the next 28 days:

The Walker Art Museum
The Minneapolis Library
Basilica Block Party
Valley Fair
Sailing on one of the Cities gorgeous lakes (White Bear Lake, in this case)
Mall of America*

*This is tentative - I just cannot envision myself actually doing it. The Japanese plan whole trips around visiting this ode to American consumerism. There are people in Tokyo that have got down at Camp Snoopy while I am stilted at the thought of it.

Mind you that I have born witness to many of the sights and sounds of Minneapolis during my stay here, to include the Guthrie Theater for a three hour sixties love-in version of As You Like It (dost thou diggeth?). The Guthrie has been reincarnated into some fancy schmancy architectural marvel, and if I can squeeze in a tour before I go, mission over.

Oh, but there are more places that I have been lucky enough to see here - I have gone "Up Nort" on several occasions, visiting the park that marks the start of the Mississippi River on one of them, hiking on the Superior Hiking Trail on another. And I will never in my life regret or forget my ice fishing experiences.

I've seen NHL Hockey, Major League Baseball, and the beloved Vikings. On that note, I have frequented the following establishments, and encourage every visitor to pick any one of them (but more than one would be best, of course):

Brit’s Pub
Psycho Suzie’s
Chatterbox
The Local
Rossi’s Blue Star
Mission American

All with great people and great food - and, at Psycho Suzie's: tropical drinks served up in tacky ceramic islandware that would make Isaac "Your Bartender" on Le Love Boat green with envy.

As I go, I can only say - please come! Honestly, visiting the Twin Cities is a trip to be treasured; just be sure you get here during those two weeks in late May that they call spring - before the mosquitos and after the thaw.

I'll let you know what happens with the butter bell.

2006-06-21T18:34:00.000-06:00

It's All Happening

Once More Please, This Time With Feeling

2006-06-21T18:08:00.000-06:00

Here is how it started: Tacoma, Washington

Here is how it progressed: DeSoto, MO; Pacific, MO; Scott AFB, IL; St. Louis, MO; San Antonio, TX; Bellingham, WA

Here is how it continued: Montgomery, AL; St. Paul, MN; Osan AFB, Korea; Alcala de Henares, Spain; Munich, Germany; St. Louis, MO; Seattle, WA; St. Louis, MO; Shakopee, MN

Here is how it ends: Driggs, Idaho

The above reflects – more or less – all of the places that I have lived. There are time spans that matter (my living in Korea lasted a full summer) – and stretches of time that don’t (I also lived in Alabama for a full summer, but don’t remember it as fondly…). There are moves that aren’t reflected – like the number of places I actually lived in during my stint in the Seattle area – and there are places I don’t remember so well.

There are schools in my past – many schools. And jobs. Lots of jobs. Even my full time jobs were ordinarily coupled with some part time gig, like when I moved back to St. Louis after eight years in the Seattle area. I worked full time at an engineering firm and showed people to their seats at the Savvis Center in the evenings (got to watch NHL hockey for free all season, but also suffered through a Backstreet Boys concert in addition to witnessing several matinees of Sesame Street Live).

There are people back in my wake as well, some just shadows in my memory, others playing roles that varied in consequence. I remember my best friend from the fifth and sixth grade in San Antonio - Linda Takamini - but I fail to recall the name of the girl in Bellingham, WA that I first skipped school with in the ninth grade. As an adult, trying to remember where it was that I was working when I knew "so and so" is not an easy task.

And so now, as my life has wont to progress, I am moving yet again.

This time it is not my father’s military career that moves me, nor is it my own restless feet. It is Tim this time, and it is a place. Our vacation to the West provided Tim with an opportunity that he couldn’t possibly refuse. The future family home of The Reins will be located in the Teton Valley, on the Idaho side of the Grand Teton Mountains.

This is one hour south of the west entrance to Yellowstone. The grandeur we will witness on a daily basis in this mountain paradise is something that we have both had in our lives before, but separately and in different places. Tim got his fix before we met while working in Logan, Utah.

Of course, I was addicted to the views that the Seattle area provided and spent a lot of my time either mountain biking or white water rafting. And now, as we approach our final destination, I see that this move will provide us a chance to dig our roots in together as a family.

On the road I go again, with Hobbes and Lucy in tow. Tim leads the way with his guarantee of employment, but it is the Teton Valley that pulls us with its magnificent views and laid back lifestyle.

Saying goodbye to this Minnesota sky will not be easy. All of the people that I have met here will be sorely missed once I beat feet. But this is not your ordinary move. This is a chance to start our family in a place that is new to both of us, and this place makes me feel at home already.

ONWARD!

May Day - Or Not

2006-05-01T13:51:00.000-06:00

Today I was going to write about May Day. Here I was, all excited to write about flowers and may poles. I was really looking forward to my Google search on the subject.

Then, I found this at Wiki: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/May_Day

Here is an excerpt:

International Workers' Day (a name used interchangeably with May Day) is the commemoration of the Haymarket Riot of 1886 in Chicago, Illinois, and a celebration of the social and economic achievements of the international labor movement. The 1 May date is used because in 1884 the Federation of Organized Trades and Labor Unions, inspired by labor's 1872 success in Canada, demanded an eight-hour workday in the United States to come in effect as of May 1, 1886. This resulted in a general strike and the riot in Chicago of 1886, but eventually also in the official sanction of the eight-hour workday. The May Day Riots of 1894 and May Day Riots of 1919 occurred subsequently.

“The May Day Riots” of 1894 and 1919? I have this vision of people dancing in the street demanding to be afforded the time to celebrate spring. Truth of the matter is, this “International Workers’ Day” overshadows my May Day with its serious message of labor fairness. I feel compelled to cease referring to May 1st as May Day.

Before reading this, I had my head wrapped around the traditional vision of May Day. You know: flower garland, may poles, dancing, crowning a May Queen, etc. Additionally, I vaguely remember making a May Day flower basket when I was a kid. You are supposed to leave it on someone’s doorstep, ring the bell and run. Doesn’t that sound fun? Putting together a basket lined in fresh flowers for the purpose of just surprising someone with a gift of nature? I mean, so far in my head, May Day rocks! Of course now I have come to realize that my version of May Day is so outdated that the Wiki entry about May Day refers the reader to “Beltane”, a pagan festival, to explain all of the dancing and flower flinging.

Now I can just ask my neighbors, “Say, do you celebrate the pagan holiday of Beltane? Care to build a may pole?” Rather than, “Hey, it’s May Day! Any of you want to picket Wal-Mart?”

Not that the core values behind May Day should be ignored. Did you know that we have Labor Day because of May Day? Did you know that the above referenced riots resulted in this nation’s eight hour workday being put into practice? Did you know that the United States stopped officially celebrating May Day when the Soviet Union jumped on board? That’s right. Wiki says: “The Red Scare period ended May Day as a mass holiday in the United States….”

And today, this 2006 May Day, you may have already noticed that our nation’s population of immigrant workers is demonstrating today. And if it is International Workers’ Day, then they should, by gosh. Not to throw any further wrenches into their efforts, but our current Commander in Chief has tried to co-opt this day by making it "Patriotism Day". I hope that doesn’t ruin the plans of all of the illegal workers that have walked out of work today. Tough to demonstrate your patriotism, I suppose, when you are living in a country illegally.

Although I find it tough to reconcile my version of May Day with the historical definition of it, I can honestly say that the Hawaiians have it down. Today is known to them as Lei Day.

So, put some flowers in your hair, dance around a maypole while chanting “workers rights, management bites”, wave a U.S. flag, and look for a lei. After having done so, you will have had the most well rounded May Day on record.

Happy May Day, everyone!

Avoid The Hurry

2006-04-27T15:33:00.000-06:00

I was driving home from work yesterday off in my own little world, as I have wont to do when I am driving, and it suddenly struck me that I didn’t feel hurried. Please note that the term “off in my own little world” does not mean that I was on my cell phone, nor does it mean that I was inattentive to the task at hand. When behind the wheel, I drive. I have even been accused of coming across as “snobby” due to the fact that I don’t always wave back to an acquaintance in my neighborhood when our vehicles pass on the road. Hey – don’t fault me. I’m driving.

Back to the issue at hand: while driving yesterday, a moment of time provided me with the realization that I did not feel hurried. Once aware of this, I glanced at the motorists that surrounded me. It was rush hour, past 5:30 in the evening on a Wednesday. Propelling forward with the assumption that the most common destination here must be home, I imagined that these motorists had evening chores, errands to run, children to kiss, pets to feed, spouses to love, and gardens to water. When compared to life on a lonely crowded highway, who wouldn’t be hurried?

I was not.

I had just left behind my nine to five (okay, on that day: seven-thirty to five-thirty) daily obligation to The Man: he that doth pay my mortgage, as it were. This obligation, without fail, always makes me feel hurried. From the moment that I walk through the door of my office in the morning to the point that I leave, I feel at different times throughout the day that I have forgotten information, misplaced information, haven’t been given enough information, and that I must chase down said information even if I don’t necessarily need it. And to top it all off, I am always in a hurry.

I hurry out of bed, because I hate getting up. I hurry to get busy at work, because if I don’t get started right away, my whole motivation will be thrown. I hurry to answer questions, because that is simply what I do. I hurry myself through proofreading exercises, budgeting tasks, and electronic filing. I hurry to the point of departure, which may end after eight hours or ten – or even twelve occasionally.

Then I hurry home.

Yet on this day, I found that I didn’t feel hurried. I enjoyed the ride. The sun was shining, Van Morrison’s “Tupelo Honey” was playing on my favorite radio station, my sunroof was open, and I can honestly say that I felt blessed at the amount of good fortune that has graced my path through this life. I rejected The Hurry.

I spotted a bird of prey perched on one of the many lampposts that grace the edges of Minneapolis’ crowded highway system. I was able to recall what I friend of mine had said about seeing the same thing on his way to work one day: “That bird was just sittin’ there, lookin’ at all of us like ‘how sad – they can’t even fly’”. Would he be in a hurry to find his prey? Would he hurry to hover over prairie grass? Would he hurry to catch the wind in a lengthy coast to his final destination?

I doubt it.

And so my approach to life was improved upon during that commute time. I headed home to feed my pet, water my grapes and love my spouse. No need to hurry. It was all there for me when I arrived.

Pearl Jam Inspired

2006-04-05T12:21:00.000-06:00

Today is the fortieth birthday of Mike McCready. Mike is no friend of mine; in fact, we have never met. I recognized his birthday however, due to the fact that he plays guitar in one of my favorite bands. Mike is a member of Pearl Jam.

Pearl Jam’s significance in my life will never be overshadowed by any other band. I was a resident of the Seattle area during the time that the members of both Pearl Jam and Nirvana came to the fore as stand out musicians. The media called their style “grunge”, and lumped Mudhoney, Alice in Chains and the like into the same category. I have never quite agreed with the moniker “grunge”, as Pearl Jam and their talented peers of the time simply played decent rock ‘n roll.

Pearl Jam’s string of hits, released off of the album Ten, came out during a time when Paula Abdul ruled the airways with her whiny pop sound. Ten resulted in Ms. Abdul’s almost immediate extraction from the top spot on Billboard’s Top 40. This “grunge” was introspective, mildly depressing and plenty angry - and surprise surprise - that is what the public wanted.

During the time of this musical movement, I personally was introspective, more than mildly depressed, and plenty angry (although at the time I did not recognize the anger; I usually just pushed it down and took it out on my roommates at crucial moments in our day to day lives together). In effect, the soundtrack of my life during this period of time resounded with a passionate riff from Mike McCready’s guitar on an almost daily basis.

And so today, as Mike McCready turns the big four-O, I have taken some time out to reflect upon those days in Seattle. The days in my early twenties when I had to scrounge for change to afford a pack of smokes, when I worked at various jobs in addition to being a member of the Air National Guard, when I was never quite seriously attached to any one member of the opposite sex, but found myself recovering from a string of heartache instead. Eddie Vedder’s voice, backed in true incendiary force by the other members of Pearl Jam, sent my soul soaring, validated my feelings of inadequacy, made me think, and otherwise inspired me in ways that no other band has.

To this day, I am left with a bit of a vacancy in my life as I have grown past the need for Pearl Jam. Ten remains tucked away in my vehicle for those times when I want to be taken back, but the truth of the matter is – I don’t want to go back. I don’t want to be the girl that needed Mike and Eddie to round out her life with their musicianship. That girl has grown past so many things: from multiple jobs to one, from multiple boyfriends to a husband, from smoking to quitting.

At the time that it was needed, Pearl Jam’s music changed me. Those Seattle days have become a collective memory punctuated by the sounds of my youth. And on the day of Mike McCready’s fortieth birthday, I am made to feel younger just from conjuring up his sound in my own mind.

Thanks, Mike – and happy birthday.

2006-03-09T12:35:00.000-07:00

Pre-Thaw Conditions

Taking My Own Temperature

2006-03-09T12:29:00.000-07:00

The first sign that spring is on the verge of being sprung has finally presented itself to me. I have spotted the Girl Scouts of America selling their evil wares at my park and ride. Aren’t we supposed to pack on the fat before winter commences? Perhaps a change in the choice of season during which their evil deeds are put into practice needs to be suggested to these minions of the Simple Sugar Devil.

Other signs have made their way past my winter hazed peripheral as well. For instance, it is becoming closer to daylight when I leave the house in the morning. I am a true believer in Seasonal Affective Disorder; having purchased an alarm clock that simulates the sunrise for me every morning. Encountering the sight of that big ball of gas at 6:30 AM elicits true joy from me the most of all.

The many songbirds that occupy our neighborhood are starting to flit back in so that I am confident enough to add “wild bird seed” to my grocery list. By the time they had vacated our region for warmer climes, they seemed to thoroughly enjoy the smorgasbord of seed that I provided to them; so much so that it was hard to keep the feeders filled to their satisfaction. They are voracious, those birds – but they better be warned. Another first sign of spring is Hobbes dragging an avian carcass to our doorstep.

My first winter here started in what others in the nation call “autumn”. October 2003 brought the bitter cold that lasted through to May of 2004. Having finally succumbed to the idea that becoming snow blind is just another phase of extreme weather acceptance here in Minnesota, the arrival of May brought another color to the fore: brown. To be specific: mud brown.

Everywhere.

This year, the color brown has risen to the surface ahead of schedule. My view, with its dazzling blue sky, is juxtaposed against the surface of our thawing mucky earth and barren trees. The promise of green exists in the appearance of buds on these trees, also early this year. Despite the evidence of this climate shift, which might ordinarily raise the environmentally conscious hairs on my neck, I am riveted to the weather man in the morning.

Today: 46 degrees Fahrenheit.

Sunset this evening: 6:12 PM.

And on my calendar, I can envision the change that will bring these rolling hills of farmland and pasture to life.

Number of days until the first day of spring: 11.

Number of days until Daylight Saving Time: 24.

And in my closet, as I stare at the layers of Gortex and fleece, I can envision them packed away and replaced by light jackets or sweaters. I am poised over my sandals, I am motivated by the possibility of shorts, I am inspired by the truth of the upcoming season when all that has been hidden from our eyes will be revealed in a form of newness that only Mother Nature can deliver.

Take your own temperature. Perhaps you have a fever as well that can only be described with the word “spring”.

2006-02-23T16:51:00.000-07:00

She knows not who her nemesis truly is..

My Cat Is A Homicidal Maniac

2006-02-23T14:14:00.000-07:00

Let me start off here by mentioning the fact that I did have multiple pictures of Lucy posted here until I realized that I was coming across as one of THOSE dog people. You know who they are: the ones that talk about their animal as if the genetic material bestowed upon the beast came directly from their own loins. After having realized that I was borderline obsessive about sharing the details of her every move, I decided to pull back and change my approach to the situation.

Part of this new approach is to share with you the high drama that is currently running our household, i.e., Cat vs. Dog. The Mr. Hyde side of our family feline has reared its ugly head with the arrival of Lucy. The below anecdotal evidence is being submitted for your consideration.

The road that borders our backyard serves as a shortcut from one other, moderately busy road, to a rural highway where speeds run in excess of sixty miles per hour. Drivers down our little piece of asphalt can often be observed driving well over the 30 MPH speed limit. Naturally, my mothering instincts belay Lucy from enjoying true freedom on our property, hence the construction of her kennel.

Hobbes on the other hand, has a better than working knowledge of not only our property and the existence of the road that abuts it, but also of the cornfield across the road itself. He is able to access the cornfield in order to perform random acts of killing via the culvert that runs under the road. We have often bragged about his instincts of staying away from the danger of the thoroughfare; if he is near the road and a car speeds by the house, he runs closer to our back door. Good kitty! You hate cars!

Life has moved forward with Hobbes at a rather pleasant pace, occasionally tainted by the carcasses of dead rodents that he brings back from his cornfield excursions, but whaddaya gonna do?

Enter Lucy. A naive little lab with a friendly outgoing nature, Lucy has convinced herself that Hobbes is her friend. When in the same room, she often badgers him to play with her, unaware of the fact that he is not a dog. Or perhaps she is aware that Hobbes is not a dog but feels that he is obligated to entertain her since they live beneath the same roof. At any rate, she is wrong.

Striking the “play” stance, Lucy delights in the fact that she is able to get so close to him. No amount of striking out on the cat’s part seems to deter her enthusiasm. To date, we are talking about multiple scratches on the dog’s nose, a wrestling incident in which Hobbes tried to disembowel her with his back claws, several occasions where he employed a death grip on her ear and bit down hard, and of course the “let’s play chase” game in which the two of them use our furniture to hide beneath, around and under.

About two weeks into this daily melee, Lucy was outside trying to focus her energy on voiding her bladder. As you dog owners know out there, the puppy attention span leaves a great deal to be desired. Tim and I have managed to encourage Lucy on this particular issue by saying to her over and over “Lucy go potty?”, and “Lucy, go potty.”, and “Potty, Lucy, potty.” So far, so good. This keeps her focused on the task at hand, and she is also learning to equate the word potty with her urges to go. I can’t tell you how excited this makes the two of us (there I go again – for f@ck’s sake, it’s a dog – not a fully potty trained human toddler).

During one of Tim’s encouraging potty moments with Lucy, Hobbes made his way into her line of vision (he baited her). Despite Tim’s encouraging “potty” talk, Lucy was riveted to the image of Hobbes making as if he wanted to play with her. He ran up close to her, swatted his paw at her nose to get her attention, and then took off like a bat out of hell.

Across the road.

Again – Hobbes has never crossed the road since the day that he entered our lives. He disdains all things automobile.

He did this on purpose.

I am convinced that he wants her dead.

Fortunately for Lucy (and Hobbes), Tim’s bellow stopped her at the tree line just before the road. Tim still had to walk over and retrieve the retriever, but she did stop and therefore avoided being killed at the conniving paw of our tabby.

I honestly view this as an animal kingdom version of sibling rivalry. Watching my niece and nephew interact with one another draws many parallels to this situation. Yes, there is sometimes scratching, although neither of them has been known to sink their teeth into the other. My niece is younger than my nephew and is often disappointed when he does not pay her the attention that she craves. In order to get that attention, she will sometimes morph into a big ol’ ball of negative energy, forcing him to perform a smack down of one kind or another – the result being that they both get into trouble.

Here is the difference: Thomas is not going to lure Madeleine out into the street in order to get her out of his life. He may, in his worst moments, entertain the thought – however, due to the fact that he is a human being and possesses not only a conscience but basic reasoning skills, this will never happen. Notice how I didn’t say that he loves her too much, but that’s brothers and sisters for ya.

This brings me; although I may not enjoy it, back to the issue at hand. My cat is a homicidal maniac. The worst part? He is a wickedly smart homicidal maniac. And when I say “wickedly smart”, I am taking into consideration the peanut size of his brain. I only hope that Lucy, at one point or another will be able to outwit him.

For now, they are simply not allowed outside together at the same time; for fear that he will somehow find a way to get her to play with a rope. Naturally, if that were to happen, Lucy would end up hanging herself. And despite the fact that Hobbes lacks opposable thumbs, it would surely be he that would tie the slipknot.

A Million Little Truths

2006-02-01T15:28:00.000-07:00

I have been sucked into the drama that unfolded concerning the book A Million Little Pieces by author (read: tall tale teller) James Frey. Ordinarily, I am apt to turn my head the other way when Oprah endorsed issues arise. Don’t get me wrong, I like Oprah Winfrey. While I respect her from a distance and admire her generosity, business genius, and seemingly endless ways to educate and inform her audience, I still draw away from become a fully committed fan. That would require way too much reading (some of it Dr. Phil) and I already have my own list of books that I need to digest (without nausea). At any rate, Oprah has legions of fans devoted to her every recommendation. That is a heavy burden to bear. Until most recently, I did not know how gracefully she would be able to withstand that burden.

From what I can tell, Oprah has grit. Grit is not an ordinary thing, in my opinion. True grit (insert John Wayne joke here) is a staggering thing to encounter. Along with her grit is an enduring honesty that I find quite refreshing in the media blitz that comprises these United States. Our public is so inundated with celebrity, so truly caught up in the whirlwind of what the media delivers to our insatiable appetite for information, that I am relieved to find that someone like Oprah Winfrey can command our attention.

Let’s face it. Oprah has great ideas. It’s almost as if one doesn’t want to like her too much. Hey, that is A-okay. You don’t need to love her. You don’t even need to build a shrine in her honor in that tiny basement room of yours that no one knows about. That is completely unnecessary. Just admit it, though. You like her. She is a powerful force of positive energy. She wants people to read. Why? For the pure joy of reading. I know. Baffling. Also, she likes to help those in need. I know, I know. She’s a giver. She gives. Then there is all of the other stuff. You know, nice dresser, decent sense of humor, etc. She is not all that bad.

Once the buzz that surrounded “A Million Little Pieces” roared to the sound of a deafening jet engine, the situation held my attention. I couldn’t look away from this car wreck. I was riveted to the scene. Thing is, I wasn’t aware of the book club recommendation because of my arms length policy with Oprah endorsed anything. So when this current mess regarding the author’s sincerity surfaced, I wasn’t one of the millions of readers that had bought into the truth of this work of “nonfiction”. That doesn’t make me any smarter. As a matter of fact, I have a great deal of empathy for all readers that bought this story of addiction recovery as fact - for I could have easily been one of them. And this was not a mere “misquote”, this was not a tiny indiscretion delivered in the form of amateur plagiarism. This entire memoir - this chronology of addiction and recovery - was a lie.

Oprah had the misfortune of endorsing this publication for her book club. She also made efforts to stick up for Mr. Frey while he was being lambasted by the media during the unveiling of this web of deceit. She was showing her grit, ya see? Sticking to her principles and her belief system while standing by this author is exactly what we expected her to do. As the controversy grew, she then did something else that each one of us should commend her for: she admitted that she was wrong.

Human nature can often lend itself to pure cynicism. Through my own life experience, I have found that moving forward with hope is a lot more difficult than just giving into negativity (everyone’s doing it! You try!). It’s so much easier to be bitter, to be judgmental and petty. What you don’t know going in, though, is that this approach will only cheat you in the long run. I do not honestly believe that any one person desires to end their life wondering “what if” and regretting words that cannot be taken away once spoken.

Oprah, in this situation, has nothing to regret. She need not regret the endorsement of “A Million Little Pieces”, because she was doing what she does best: trying to keep those that are willing to listen in tune with the precious journey that each of us take through life. A poignant, riveting story about addiction, knowing that the addict is in recovery, is an excellent way to communicate hope. She chooses genuinely well written prose, and I am certain that this book was no exception.

The maelstrom that ensued regarding the authenticity of this work brought out an even more effective side of Winfrey. Not only did she admit to being wrong, she also confronted author James Frey (Sir Lies A Lot) on her television show. She gave him a genuine opportunity to defend himself. He walked away from that experience even deeper into the hole that he started digging the day that this “nonfiction novel” was published. He had met his match in the form of Oprah Winfrey - honest person. She was honest with him during this interview just as she tries to be honest with her audience; and let me tell you, the discomfort surrounding his cushy Oprah Winfrey Show piece of set furniture was palpable - even through my 27” screen.

The empire that Oprah Winfrey has built, to me, has very little to do with her wealth. It is the way in which she uses both the income and the power that comes along with celebrity that defines her empire. And this benevolent force, this messenger of spirituality and introspection should still be heard.

We should, all of us, continue to listen.

Up To Date Irritants

2006-01-25T14:12:00.000-07:00

What is up with me? I’m here to tell you.

Let me start with a few things that have been bothering me.

It bothers me that I enjoy a television show enough to be tortured by re-runs. The Gilmore Girls, the most well written show on television (which has never been acknowledged by those elitist Emmy folk, by the way), is in the throws of perhaps its most suspense filled season and I am left to wallow in self pity both when a re-run airs and when a new show airs – and then ends. I remember yelling, “NO!” at the television last time a new episode came to its end. I can’t really win either way. I just know I won’t be exposed to a new script written by the brilliant Sherman-Palladino team for another couple of weeks.

I am miserable.

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I am sincerely disturbed by the latest Pillsbury ad campaign, which features the Pillsbury Doughboy singing a Barry White song. Yes, the voice of Barry White is coming out of the Doughboy’s computer generated mouth. I don’t actually listen to the finely tuned voice of Mr. White on a regular basis, but even I know what his music is designed to do: seduce, baby.

Thus I am profoundly flummoxed at the mere idea that this pop ‘n fresh cartoon character is singing sexy about cinnamon buns. It’s just wrong. That’s baby makin’ music, Pillsbury! Honestly, should we really be affiliating the Doughboy with the raw physical act of love?

Gives a whole new meaning to “bun in the oven”.

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Winter is genuinely starting to get under my skin. I am now counting the days until day light saving commences. It begins at 2AM on the first Sunday in April. April 2, 2006 is now 67 days away. I can deal. I can. Wait – I’ve almost convinced myself…

In the mean time, I think it is incumbent upon all of us to ensure that the lack of light does not drive us to do something unreasonable. For instance, I have been paying a great deal of attention lately to housework.

That can only be from lack of sunshine.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I am very bothered by the fact that I cannot start a new magazine subscription, order something from a catalog, or start giving to a charity without automatically getting put onto a shared mailing list of some kind. After having basically accused my local PBS station of sharing my information, it was pointed out to me by the person on the phone that it is not the policy of our local PBS affiliate to share data with anyone in this regard.

Who to blame now? Amnesty International. I sincerely believe in the rights of political prisoners and that is what spurned my joining. However, I did not join so that every charity and its associated product pandering catalog could send me information. Any idea how much paper one person wastes in a week? Well, I can guarandamntee ya that most of that waste generates itself directly out of one’s mailbox.

After having started and finished a phone calling campaign that occupied my Saturday mornings for a good month that was designed to nix the unwanted catalogs from my daily mail call, I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never truly limit the amount of junk mail I get – no matter how hard I try.

There is a greater force at work here, folks. It will rise above us all and one day prove – through overuse of landfills – that the end of this earth will come at the hand of the U.S. Postal Service and all who encourage the evil dissemination of useless paper.

“Help! I am trapped without fresh air under this pile of coupon mailings….!”

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I am genuinely irritated that automobile manufacturers are now making car seats wider to accommodate the girth of the American public. That is like just giving up.

From the newspaper The Australian:

The front seats of Honda's 2006 Civic are 2cm wider than this year's model. Subaru's new B9 Tribeca, designed for the US market, offers front-seat passengers an extra 1.3cm over other models in the line. Mercedes Benz's R-Class Grand Sports Tourer gives front-seat riders 2.5cm of extra girth over its M-Class.

US producers say they have already accounted for the ample American derriere. But Ford, in what it says is an industry first, recently began using virtual mannequins in nine different body types - including extra large - in its computer-aided design.

The company is studying the possibility of using inflatable seats to fit passengers of every shape.
The changes are being forced on the car makers by the much-heralded "obesity epidemic" in the US, where almost one in four adults is clinically obese and almost two-thirds are overweight.

Um, I’m thinking this epidemic will require more than just bigger seats in cars. The possibilities are endless! We will have to retrofit airplanes, buses, trains, and all movie theater seats. Perhaps it is best not to eat that carrot stick. Have another bag of Doritos. Someone is bound to accommodate the expansion of your hips for you. And making bigger seats means more employment!

“Obesity Lowers Unemployment Rate” News at eleven.

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And finally, I have been irritated with myself for not keeping this blog up to date as much as I would like. I am appreciative to each and every person that takes time to read my ponderings and such, and hope that this time of year will provide me with more material to document.

Soon to come: Ice Fishing, 2006!

Read about last year’s ice fishing experience at

http://thizizjenn.livejournal.com/2005/02/19/

and about my very first ice fishing experience at

http://thizizjenn.livejournal.com/2004/01/23/

part two of this story is here:

http://thizizjenn.livejournal.com/2004/01/30/

Off to get inspired! See you in my next blog….

Read Me

2006-01-12T18:42:00.000-07:00

Sorry kids, inspiration has not been striking lately with my ten hour workdays and long commute (one hour each way every day - commmeee ooooonnnn LOTERRY!). Any ol' way, I leave for you a link to my old blog so that you may reread or maybe find stuff that you have never read before: www.livejournal.com/users/thizizjenn

I'll start watching more Jon Stewart's Daily Show so that I might become inspired!

Then I'll get some much needed sleep.

Later.

Oh yeah, consider The Year of the Dog, please. The Chinese New Year commences on the 29th of this month. I think we are fortuitous to have peaked at this Chinese Zodiac defined canine juncture. Just do a Chinese Zodiac Google search and you'll hit pay dirt.

Welcome, 2006

2006-01-07T06:32:00.000-07:00

Ahhhh, 2005.

Good riddance.

As for 2006, well, I don’t think that I have ever welcomed a year with more open arms. I am happy to put the images of the major natural disasters that occurred in 2005 behind me; although those that were directly affected are still dealing with the aftermath on a daily basis.

Although 2006 would seem to bring more promise, I am still dreading the late spring and summer of this year. The North American Hurricane Season has changed, friends. Storms will live through to their last gasp with more ferocity than ever due to the surface temperature of the oceans having increased. And the increase? Well, congratulations, folks. You have just won a big fat package of Global Warming!

The realist in me cringes while I continue to watch the American Soldier body count increase in Iraq, and our beleaguered president promising now not to rebuild Iraq as it is costing too much money. I am just throwing out a shot in the dark here, but I am thinking hmmm, how is this going to nurture a friendly alliance with an already war torn country that is plagued with a thousand year old personality disorder?

I digress.

What will 2006 bring? Or better yet, what will each of us bring to the year 2006?

2005-12-27T17:26:00.000-07:00

Straight out of Earth & Fire Productions: Tim performed a museum prep on this 50 million year old fossil for a couple in the Minneapolis area. They intend to mount this in their kitchen in order to complement the center island he fabricated from another fossil deposit that reflects a "school of fish" fossilized in action. The picture simply does not do it justice

2005-12-27T13:05:00.000-07:00

A Fine Example Of MN Beauty

2005-12-27T12:59:00.000-07:00

Tree Soaked View

2005-12-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

Postcard of Paradise

Good News in 2005?

2005-12-27T08:44:00.000-07:00

A co-worker of mine just pointed out to me that there wasn’t any really good news in the year 2005. If there had been good news, it was definitely overshadowed by the major natural disasters that occurred over the past year. Over 200,000 people died in the Indonesian tsunami disaster; starting 2005 off with a cry for aid. As our year unfolded, the United States was then treated to the longest hurricane season on record – and with Katrina’s arrival, the most disastrous as well.

I don’t know that there wasn’t any good news in the face of these occurrences, however. From what I understand, the overwhelming amount of giving that took place in the wake of both of these horrific events was unprecedented. My take on that reaction is that there is a glimmer out there. A glimmer of what in fact we all need to be reminded of – we are the same across the globe.

We love our families the same. We suffer the same. So many lives are being led out there that are not so vastly different from the lives we live here in this country. And after Katrina, how can anyone say that the Third World is the only true representation of poverty? 2005 was a true reflection of what binds all of us together, and that can be good news as long as we keep it in mind going into the New Year.

A short attention span toward life is detrimental in many ways. The mainstream media news shouldn’t be the only reminder that we all need more good news. Find it every day. Look around you, and it is there.

I received fantastic news this morning. My friend’s 13 month old son took ten steps over the holiday weekend all on his own. How many babies across the world saved that for their parents during this season of peace? We are all connected by the tiny triumphs that life provides us, as well as the tragedy. But the triumphs, now that is the stuff of true good news. May 2006 bring some of it to each and every one of you.

Merry Everything To All....

2005-12-27T07:07:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to Odd Todd for posting a link to this here blog under his “Daily Letter” link. Yes, I was sucked in by his magnanimous attitude and sense of humor – and he received a Christmas card from us. Check it out at www.oddtodd.com!

2005-12-20T20:02:00.000-07:00

2005-12-20T15:02:00.000-07:00

Minnesota Fridge

Defining Marriage

2005-12-20T11:20:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up to use the bathroom after Tim had gone through his morning routine. His work clothes were in a folded pile on top of our scale in on the bathroom floor. I had to weigh myself (according to my doctor – believe me, I don’t do it because I like it or anything), so I moved his stuff over and closer to the door. I then left the bathroom.

Tim comes back around to the bathroom. He goes to open the door and finds that he is having a hard time opening it all the way. He is thinking, what is behind this door? I was just in here. Well, his clothes are behind the door because that is where I put them.

So he says to me, “it's funny how you leave things a certain way and then two minutes later it has all changed.”

Um. Your point?

Then he says, “I guess I am still knocked over by the consequences of living with someone else.”

Okay. How long does it take to get used to someone? And when I say “used to”, I mean that we have been married for just over a year and lived together for a full year before that. Just like I know that Tim will inevitably leave his empty milk glass wherever he finished drinking it and that I will more than likely be the one to take it into the kitchen, he should understand that I am in his life to move his stuff around and confuse him.

I am sure that it is confounding for my husband to come back to a spot and find that his keys/mail/any given piece of paper/other item has been moved to another location. What I am trying to do is to organize him. Often, I will take important items that are his and put them up on the bulletin board, or in a place that seems more fitting (to me), instead of just on the coffee table or end table or whatever. That’s just me. I move my own stuff around as well, sometimes not always having instant recall as to where it ended up. Usually a good two minutes of hard thinking and wondering around our 1,000 square foot home (you would think the small size would help with misplacing stuff, but I have to tell you: not necessarily) will solve the lost item issue.

So, I am here to move his stuff. He is here to ensure that I always have drinking glasses with milk film on them to pick up, and we are together to share the experience. That is marriage, right? One big fat compromise and the ability to keep your sense of humor throughout.

I noticed while watching useless television last night that Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt noted “Irreconcilable Differences” when they filed for divorce. Doesn’t that just mean that you have lost the ability to negotiate with the other person? I mean, if it is all a compromise, shouldn’t you anticipate that you will be compromising with one another on one thing or another for the rest of your lives? “Irreconcilable Differences”? Maybe a new box to check should be created: “We give up.”

Ms. Aniston and Mr. Pitt were married for over four years. What was irreconcilable? I mean, I don’t need to know. I am only using their situation as an example. However, I am curious as to how long couples seem to think that marriage is supposed to last. And if you have issues that cannot be reconciled, is divorce the only answer?

I’m not going to kick Tim to the curb for his errant milk glasses any more than he would fire me from wifehood for moving his stuff around. But maybe Jennifer just got fed up with Brad’s wet towel being left on the bed. He will never learn, she thought to herself as she dialed her lawyer’s number.

Perhaps there is a learning curve that I have failed to acknowledge as a newlywed. Like in four years if I don’t stop messing with Tim’s stuff placement, he will have to seek legal counsel. Or what if his milk glass thing escalates into leaving dishes everywhere, with more than just milk film on them?

As certain as I am that I cannot predict the future, I feel that most of what we will confront as a couple can actually be reconciled. We may have to agree to disagree at certain points (that has already been proven), we may even be able to note small victories with one another as behavior changes to favor the other’s preference, and I may be talking out of my ass because I have only been married for one year, two months and twenty days (give or take an hour).

It would seem that our situation could actually be termed “irreconcilable differences”. I do not plan to stop moving his stuff around anymore than he plans to pick up his glass and put it in the kitchen when he is done drinking from it. I suppose it is a matter of tolerance and trying to always remember what is important.

Rather than see it as a situation that cannot be changed, I just look at it as one more challenge that marriage presents. And maybe in ten years, I will have stopped with the irritating habit of moving his stuff around; while he in turn will finally pick up after himself.

Then again, if either one of us gave in completely to the other on points of pet peeves it wouldn't really be a marriage, now would it?

On The Other Hand...

2005-12-15T11:40:00.000-07:00

You know, sometimes I can get all touchy feely in this here blog. Like my last entry. I dazzled all of you with my descriptions of Minnesota as the winter paradise that it can be, having convinced myself that I am becoming a native of this here Upper Midwest Popsicle.

Let me tell ya something, though. Just because I have convinced myself that I am fast becoming a native doesn’t mean that I cannot complain about my adopted home.

After I got over the first enchanting snowfall, I was then treated to eight more inches of the stuff, which has accumulated over the past two days or so. Enchanted no more, I am glued to the traffic report on television in the morning. I have envisioned my own imaginary encounter with a tractor trailer while driving these sometimes treacherous roads.

Being cautious is important to me. However, I don’t think it bears as much weight on many of the drivers around me. Yes, you have witnessed my diatribe on other drivers before: http://heffalumpseye.blogspot.com/2005/11/open-letter-to-my-fellow-motorists.html But now you have to take my prior rant out of its original context and couple it up with ice and snow. I mean, WTF people? So there. I am not so totally brainwashed that I would actually enjoy the whole “driving in it” thing. I just don’t.

I’m not bad at driving in it. On the way home from Thanksgiving, I lost control of the Xterra on very icy roads about four hours Up Nort. I lost control, and then I got it back again. But not before I had fishtailed into a full spin, which I believe I executed twice before managing to point ‘er forward and pull over safely.

Tim was in front of me with his buddy Pete, watching his rearview mirror in horror until I was at a safe stop. I had a small dog, a fourteen year old girl and a borderline hysteric in my vehicle with me at the time. I remember talking through the whole incident as if I were some 60’s stewardess: “Okay, it looks like we’re going to fishtail a little bit. Don’t panic, we are still on the road. Okay, we’re going to spin around. We’re still on the road, just hang on.” And then it was over. The fourteen year old girl wanted to do it again. I just wanted to vomit.

The point being that I would not have spun crazy out of control had the road not be ENCASED in a layer of ice. A Zamboni could not have done a better job. Once pulled over with Tim in front of me on the shoulder, he got out of his truck to check on us and SLID to our vehicle. So there you go. Minnesota, although lovely and glorious with its amazing sky (blah blah blah, Jenn) is also a death trap.

I have to mention as well that I have been socked into an episode of Seasonal Affective Disorder as of late. This place is bleak in the winter. There are maybe two hours of sunlight a day in deep winter. Alright, alright, I exaggerate. However, sunlight hardly counts to me if I can only enjoy it trapped behind glass on the 29th floor of a building downtown all the while fearing the cold outside. It would be nice if I caught a glimpse of sun in the morning and had a couple of hours of it to do with as I please once my long ass commute has come to an end in the afternoon.

Ah Spring. I barely knew ye.

After the winter solstice December 21st, though, I am looking forward to milking every added on minute of every day that passes until probably February.

Then there will be an entire extra hour to play with.

Whee.

"Going Native" Requires Mittens

2005-12-08T10:49:00.000-07:00

My gypsy upbringing never truly afforded me an opportunity to become a "native" to any geographical location - at least, not that I was able to acknowledge in my youth. When I made the choice to leave the nest, I hustled west. I landed in the Seattle WA area and stayed for eight years. Eight years is still the longest time that I have spent in one place consecutively.

I still feel a deep connection with the Pacific Northwest, and regard it as one of the most beautiful places that I have ever had the fortune to live. Did I become a native? The answer, I believe, lies within my developed tolerance and acceptance of the weather.

Does it rain in Seattle? Yes, although I try sometimes to describe to others that it is not so much the rain as it is the oppressive gray that seems to bear down on the citizens of the Emerald City with unrelenting patience. "Love me or leave me", it seems to say, and lies in wait for the weak to pack their bags or commit suicide (see blog entry at old site from March of '04: http://www.livejournal.com/users/thizizjenn/2004/03/09/).

I adapted, and my connection to that corner of the country remains fully in tune.

I believe that at this point - after two years of having lived here - that I am on the verge of becoming a native of Minnesota. My departure from Seattle now six years behind me, I have been confronted again with a make or break weather issue.

It is important to describe the behaviorial modification that has led me to believe that I am approaching native status: I am overjoyed at the prospect that Saturday will bring a whole entire 31 degrees farenheit to our region. 31 degrees! Balmy! I already have plans to do things outside due to this tropical heat wave.

Let me take it one step further: I can now feel the difference between 2 degrees and 15 degrees, and actually (gulp) appreciate 15 degrees. Naturally both static temps are affected by Minnesota's prevailing wind issue. At 15, you could still be forced to bear a gust in your face that may range around 10 below. At 2, the same thing could happen - or it could be worse - OR - it could just be 2 degrees. It all depends on the breeze - nay - veritable SQUALL that may occur.

When the wind has calmed to minimal and it is simply a matter of the difference between 2 and 15, walking a few city blocks does not seem at all daunting when confronted with 15 degrees. Getting further down into the single digits edges me into the skyway* with the rest of the downtown masses.

(*skyway: structure of walkways that connect buildings in downtown Minneapolis; think "human habitrail")

My point is this: who actually thinks 15 degrees is bearable? What part of my genetic make-up has allowed me to adjust to this insanely cold climate? Next stop, Antarctica?? I mean, come ON!

And by the way, the word "cold" does not encompass the truth. "Cold" is too short. It is somehow lacking. Try "unbearably bitterly" cold. Try "frigid to the point of insanity". Try "insulting wind that bitch slaps you across the face" while waiting for a bus. And I DON'T MIND.

Well, I mind more when it is below fifteen, but I digress.

Only a native would find this little slice of subzero enchanting. There are reasons why. The sky, in its infinite blue refraction of water in this land of 10,000 frozen lakes, is special to Minnesota. The snow lends a hush to the outside world that cannot be duplicated by any other weather system. The promise of green in the spring keeps my heart warm, even when my head is forced down from the impact of the surly biting wind.

It is all here. And here, I am home.

No Good Deed Goes Unnoticed

2005-11-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Let me lay this down for you. The ability to follow through the consequences of this tale will be a feat on your part, and an exercise in brevity on my own.

I waited almost one full year to change my driver’s license to my married name. I vaguely remember “attempting” to perform this ID swap on the occasions when I was able to leave work a little early. However, terrible obstacles such as shopping at Super Target and Pier One seemed to throw themselves haphazardly into my path.

Okay, brevity.

I did it finally. In August I DMV’d my morning. I walked away with an expired license (they punch a hole in it, give it back – blah ditty blah), a yellow carbon copy of a state government designed form folded to the size of my license, and a license sized civil service yellow (not in your Crayola box) colored envelope containing the proof of my “in limbo” identification status.

Four days after the above listed items were issued to my flighty self, I lost them. I returned to the DMV (read: glutton for punishment) to obtain a new copy of The Carbon Form. I moved forward with proof of my existence nestled securely in my wallet. Remember, though, that I lacked the “photo ID” that is currently so necessary in these United States.

The DMV informed me that my new license would arrive eight weeks from the original date of filing. I was booked to fly to Denver approximately eight weeks from the day that I filed for a new license. I considered the state government shut down in July. They were probably still trying to catch up. Having been a civil servant myself at one point, I also considered the network of paper that defined bureaucracy.

I wasn’t going to get my license in time. No way. No how.

Having just moved within the past two years, any trace of “old” identification had gone missing. My passport, now a mythical item that I think I had once but cannot prove as much, could not be located. Old licenses from other states had been either disposed of or buried so deeply within my stored paperwork that they proved impossible to find.

I wallowed in thinly veiled self pity for weeks before my departure to Denver. I replayed the day that I lost my tiny government issued packet of paperwork: I had walked a block from my office in downtown Minneapolis to the nearest Barnes and Noble. I had the tiny envelope of critical items when I left my desk, but failed to find it upon my return. Let’s see, I thought, I dropped my ID on the street in downtown Minneapolis. It will never be seen again. I have provided a whole new identity to some miscreant individual who surely intends to sully my already crappy credit history with fraudulent charges at Rent-A-Center.

And so it went for a full eight weeks, as I tried to prove my identity on several occasions with my wee yellow piece of paper and my work identification badge. It worked most of the time, but I was left frustrated and surly on a couple of occasions in which my paperwork did not do the job.

I also found myself haunting our mailbox a la Charlie Brown. I walked back to our front door each time I did not find what I was looking for; just as dejected as good ol’ Chuck when it came to the little red haired girl on Valentine’s Day.

The date of my departure loomed closer and closer, until I was finally forced to pack my bags and head for the airport, steeling myself for the cavity search.

Fortunately for me, I was only subjected to The Wand at the airport here in Minneapolis. In Denver on the way home, they accepted my yellow scrap of crap, my work ID, my marriage license and my birth certificate and zipped me right through security. My relief was palpable.

A week after I was home, I received my new Minnesota driver’s license in the mail. All possible tragedy having been avoided while I functioned without it, the only thought that I had when I finally received the item was, Of course it’s late. I was able to ditch the tiny envelope and move on with my life.

But wait. There’s more.

Two weeks after receiving my new license, and a full eleven weeks after I had filed for a new one/lost the old one, my mailbox came forth with a surprise: my lost envelope. Yes. The tiny civil service envelope containing my old driver’s license and my original yellow slip had been sent to me.

I was astounded.

A Good Samaritan – nay – a SAINT had taken the time to pick up my documents off the street. Not some identity theft stealing miscreant, but instead a concerned citizen. How many feet had kicked my envelope? How many gusts of wind had launched it to land at the feet of this stranger? What day did this do-gooder slip it into a postal box? Had it been the same day? Weeks after? I will never know.

All the pre-flight worry, the anger at myself while realizing that I had also somehow lost my passport, the traditional “if I could, I would kick my own ass” attitude that occurs when I lose something important all meant nothing. Losing my driver’s license in the first place meant nothing.

It all boiled down to this unexpected gesture of kindness and honesty. In a city of close to three million people, a good deed is a treasure. It is an affirmation that cynicism need not prevail. It is a reminder that amongst all of our daily angst – mine being the situation I created when I lost my license – there are undercurrents of kindness that exist when we least expect it. Rest assured that my amazing proof of this is getting filed away – just in case.

2005-11-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

Lovely New Tail

2005-11-29T11:48:00.000-07:00

Post Surgery