This morning, I went bouldering before work. After I traversed a few moves, I realized that I hadn’t taken my wedding ring off.
I hopped off the wall and walked over to my clutch. I was about to drop my ring into the little change purse where I store it while I climb (the only time I take it off), but stopped for a minute.
Brad proposed to me on top of Free Blast (also known as the first 12 pitches of the Salathe Wall) on October 15, 2005. We hadn’t been dating long – just 10 months or so – and I was so shocked by his proposal that I almost fell off Heart Ledge (Free Blast ends at the base of the Heart of El Cap, which is formed by two corner systems leading to adjacent roofs).
That morning, Brad broke out a new chalk bag – one with a zippered pocket. “Sweet,” I thought. “I can put my chapstick in there.” (We weren’t taking water on the route, and in the absence of actual fluids, chapstick tricks me into feeling hydrated).
“Get out of there!” Brad shouted as I reached for the chalk bag. “What are you doing?”
“Jesus,” I thought. “Why is he so edgy?”
“I just want to put this in your pocket,” I held up the tube.
“I’ll do it,” Brad said, snatching the balm and turning his back on me to stow it safely away.
Deciding to table the weird vibe, I started walking to the base. Brad seemed fine again in no time, offering me the rack for Pine Line (YES, I know most people just solo it, but I’m not most people, thank you very much) and chatting happily about the pitches above.
Most people link the first few hundred feet of Free Blast, so when we saw a party practically camped out at the top of the first pitch, we got a little nervous.
“We’ll just pass them,” I said, trying to ease the look of concern on Brad’s face. “Of course they’ll let us – they’re moving like alpine snails.”
But when Brad got to the top of the first pitch, intending to climb through to the second, the party was reticent to let us get ahead of them.
“No, that would not be ok.” They said in broken English. “We don’t want to get stuck behind someone and get benighted.” They spoke to us like we were four-year olds who required walking-helmets and short busses.
They weren’t going to get stuck behind us, you see, because we’d just completed the first pitch (not easy) in something like an eighth of the time it took them. We were moving quickly and smoothly; they were lurching along and yelling at each other.
And then, in a most unusual display of fuck-you-itive-ness, Brad said, “I guarantee you will not get stuck behind us,” and took off up the second pitch. “Put me on belay,” he called down to me, barely breaking his stride.
“Who is this man?” I thought to myself. “This is NOT Brad-like behavior.” As I glanced up at him, I caught the glowering eye of the slow party’s belayer. He was staring at me with such disdain that I momentarily considered unclipping from the belay and simul-climbing.
He appeared to be European (which is to say, he was wearing a bandana around his neck and very colorful trousers), and I found myself worrying that Brad’s uncharacteristic brazenness would put him off Americans forever.
“Sorry,” I attempted feebly. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him; he’s not usually like this.” I was hoping the Euro-tortoise would take pity on me and stop with the stink eye already. No such luck, though, and I tried to avoid eye contact with him until Brad pulled up the spare rope and shouted, “CLIMB!”
“Good riddance,” muttered my new friend as I chalked up and willed myself to move quickly. The climbing was good; I would have enjoyed it if I hadn’t been so worried about encountering the slow party’s leader, laboring along a few feet above me.
“Excuse me,” I was a little timid when stepping over the man, who was struggling to place what appeared to be a hemp-slung hex. I braced for the verbal-assault.
“Oh, it is no problem!” He shouted, delightedly. “Your man, he tell me it is very important you move fast today!” Then he winked at me, not lecherously, but as though we shared a secret.
I had no idea what prompted his change of heart, but I appreciated it, so I just smiled, said thank you and moved on. When I got to the belay, Brad was smiling and seemed calm.
“What was that all about?” I began, wanting to figure out what he’d said to shift the leader’s perspective of our climbing past.
“I guess he just sees how much faster we are,” Brad didn’t meet my eye, but instead pulled the gear off my harness and slipped back into his shoes. “Ready?”
“Wait,” I said, grabbing for his chalk bag.
“Get off!” Brad shouted, pulling away and looking horrified.
“I just want some lip balm,” I shouted back. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“Nothing, but just hold on!” Brad fished in the little pocket. “You can’t go around grabbing at peoples’ chalk bags whenever you want.”
He produced the tube and I put some on, staring at him, slightly unnerved. “He’s being so weird,” I thought. “Why is he so touchy about his chalk bag? What’s going on?”
The climb progressed without any more explosions, and we both had fun, climbed well and I fell in love with El Cap. It was hot, though, really hot, and by the time we got to the top of the final pitch, we were both in desperate need of water. As I climbed onto Heart Ledge, I immediately prepared to rappel.
Brad was surprised. “What are you doing? Don’t you want to hang out?”
“No, I’m super dehydrated. It’s really hot. Let’s just rap.”
“Maybe chapstick will help.”
“ No, Brad, seriously, I’m over it. Let’s just go down and get some water.”
But he hadn’t heard and was once again fishing in his chalk bag. “Here, it’ll make you feel better,” he was offering something to me.
It wasn’t a tube of lip balm, but a ring. And he had tears in his eyes. And my heart started pounding.
“What’s that?” I asked. I wanted to make sure I understood what was happening.
“It’s an engagement ring,” Brad said, walking towards me (it should be noted, at this point, that we were 1200 feet off the ground and Brad hadn’t bothered to clip into anything). “Will you marry me?”
Oh. That explains the nervousness.
And that explains why he didn’t want my grubby mitts rummaging through the pocket of his chalk bag.
It was hard to rappel while crying and laughing. And telling everyone we saw that we’d just gotten engaged. And repeatedly asking Brad, “Really? You planned this? Really? You want to marry me?” As it turns out, I'm the only person who didn't know this was coming. Our families, our friends, the slow party who let us pass them - they were all in on the surprise. I love that Brad thought it out. Planned for it. Knew how to best make it happen.
And so, this morning, in the climbing gym, what I saw wasn’t the ring with its sapphire baguettes, delicate filagree and clear round diamond. It was Brad’s face when as handed it to me, his eyes full of promise and intention.
I think my ring is beautiful, but – and I never thought I’d say this – it isn’t all that important to me. The ring itself, well, it’s just a thing. I don’t wear it because it defines me; I wear it because it reminds me of Brad, of his commitment to me, of mine to him. I think of the look on his face when he handed it to me, when he asked me to marry him.
I put it in the little change purse and kept bouldering. I felt a little stronger and a little braver. I climbed a little harder. It was nice.
4.11.2008
"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines, Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream."
Mark Twain
Mark Twain
4.08.2008
Musing
Happy because:
Arnie famous. Red has been famous for a long time, but today, after months of ceaseless badgering, Brad succumbed and added Arnie to the list. ARNIE VERY HAPPY.
I ran 15 miles on Saturday. Well, ok: I ran 11 miles then walked for 10 minutes through a boring stretch, then ran again, then walked it in. But still. Pretty goddamn rad.
I’m surrounded by some of the coolest women I’ve ever met. To climb with. To run with. To ski with. To drink wine with. To teach me things. To help me through tough times. To tell me I’m ok. To inspire me to keep running even though we’ve already been running for 2 hours and I’m out of water and there’s no sign of the trailhead (you know who you are).
We had dinner with those hot-tubbing fools, Colleen and Derek, last night, and Ed came with us, too, and we ate great food and laughed and laughed and laughed and Brad ordered one of his fruity cocktails and it was great.
There are always new opportunities on the horizon, and it seems like as soon as I take a moment to look for them, they appear. More on this later.
Last Friday, Brad and I went bouldering in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Just the two of us. We hopped from boulder to boulder and he pointed out the good problems and we both climbed well and felt like a team. It made me excited for the Valley, Bishop, the Red and more remote objectives like the Incredible Hulk. It’s all coming soon.
I finally found a china pattern I like. Not that I actually want or need or have anywhere to store china, but still, it makes me happy to have found something this delightful.
Arnie famous. Red has been famous for a long time, but today, after months of ceaseless badgering, Brad succumbed and added Arnie to the list. ARNIE VERY HAPPY.
I ran 15 miles on Saturday. Well, ok: I ran 11 miles then walked for 10 minutes through a boring stretch, then ran again, then walked it in. But still. Pretty goddamn rad.
I’m surrounded by some of the coolest women I’ve ever met. To climb with. To run with. To ski with. To drink wine with. To teach me things. To help me through tough times. To tell me I’m ok. To inspire me to keep running even though we’ve already been running for 2 hours and I’m out of water and there’s no sign of the trailhead (you know who you are).
We had dinner with those hot-tubbing fools, Colleen and Derek, last night, and Ed came with us, too, and we ate great food and laughed and laughed and laughed and Brad ordered one of his fruity cocktails and it was great.
There are always new opportunities on the horizon, and it seems like as soon as I take a moment to look for them, they appear. More on this later.
Last Friday, Brad and I went bouldering in Little Cottonwood Canyon. Just the two of us. We hopped from boulder to boulder and he pointed out the good problems and we both climbed well and felt like a team. It made me excited for the Valley, Bishop, the Red and more remote objectives like the Incredible Hulk. It’s all coming soon.
I finally found a china pattern I like. Not that I actually want or need or have anywhere to store china, but still, it makes me happy to have found something this delightful.
4.04.2008
Creepy.
I haven't done an interactive, time-waster post for a while, so when I saw this on Kerry's blog, I decided to try it. It's scarily accurate, but then, as you'll learn from "what my name says about me," I'm prone to believing this sort of stuff. It's not all true, though, so in the name of Full-Disclosure Friday, I've added editorial comments (in parentheses). What Katherine Means |
 You are a seeker of knowledge, and you have learned many things in your life. (Fairly true) You are also a keeper of knowledge - meaning you don't spill secrets or spread gossip. (Patently untrue. Never tell me anything.) People sometimes think you're snobby or aloof, but you're just too deep in thought to pay attention to them. (True, but I'm not deep in thought, I have low-grade social anxiety that emerges around skinny bitches.) You are usually the best at everything ... you strive for perfection. (I'm the best at nothing, and that pisses me off.) You are confident, authoritative, and aggressive. (Yep. Wanna make something of it?) You have the classic "Type A" personality. (Yes. I like to blame it on my East-coast upbringing.) You are a seeker. You often find yourself restless - and you have a lot of questions about life. (Put it this way, I have over 300 bookmarks on my computer and at least three windows open at all times.) You tend to travel often, to fairly random locations. You're most comfortable when you're far away from home. (This is only half-true; I do travel often, and I don't go to typical places, but I also love to be at home, and I'm definitely most comfortable in my own house.) You are quite passionate and easily tempted. Your impulses sometimes get you into trouble. (I possess zero logic or reason and crash through life based solely on what feels right at the time.) You are truly an original person. You have amazing ideas, and the power to carry them out. (Sometimes.) Success comes rather easily for you... especially in business and academia. (True. When I apply myself and resist the urge to play with internet applications all day.) Some people find you to be selfish and a bit overbearing. You're a strong person. (Uh, yeah. It's pretty much all about me most of the time.) You are friendly, charming, and warm. You get along with almost everyone. (As far as you know. Actually, I can be friendly, charming and warm, but only when I feel safe and loved and in my element.) You work hard not to rock the boat. Your easy going attitude brings people together. (I don't like conflict.) At times, you can be a little flaky and irresponsible. But for the important things, you pull it together. ("At times?" Try 24-7.) You are wild, crazy, and a huge rebel. You're always up to something. (I'm a dreamer.) You have a ton of energy, and most people can't handle you. You're very intense. (True, except when I'm tired.) You definitely are a handful, and you're likely to get in trouble. But your kind of trouble is a lot of fun. (It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission.) You tend to be pretty tightly wound. It's easy to get you excited... which can be a good or bad thing. (True.) You have a lot of enthusiasm, but it fades rather quickly. You don't stick with any one thing for very long. (I have a lot of interests. As I said, I get bored easily.) You have the drive to accomplish a lot in a short amount of time. Your biggest problem is making sure you finish the projects you start. (True. I work best under deadlines.) You are very intuitive and wise. You understand the world better than most people. (I have insight.) You also have a very active imagination. You often get carried away with your thoughts. (Um, yeah. Like, for example, when I self-diagnose via webMD...) You are prone to a little paranoia and jealousy. You sometimes go overboard in interpreting signals. (Sad but true.) |
4.02.2008
And Again.
Apparently it's poetry week at the Wasatch Report. I woke up thinking of this line:
"Suddenly in this doorway where I stand
in this house I see this place again"
Even in bed, in the dark, knowing what day it was or what time it was, I knew that line to be the first line of the second stanza of William Stafford's "At Our House."
I first read this poem in Dr. Burkholder's class, "literature and the natural world," during my freshman year of college. That class altered nearly everything for me: my course of study, my career path, my feelings toward wild places, my belief structure.
At Our House*
William Stafford
Home late, one lamp turned low,
crumpled pillow on the couch,
wet dishes in the sink (late snack),
in every child's room the checked,
slow, sure breath--
Suddenly in this doorway where I stand
in this house I see this place again,
this time the night as quiet, the house
as well secured, all breath but mine borne
gently on the air--
And where I stand, no one.
*I've posted this poem before, but it's worthy of another.
"Suddenly in this doorway where I stand
in this house I see this place again"
Even in bed, in the dark, knowing what day it was or what time it was, I knew that line to be the first line of the second stanza of William Stafford's "At Our House."
I first read this poem in Dr. Burkholder's class, "literature and the natural world," during my freshman year of college. That class altered nearly everything for me: my course of study, my career path, my feelings toward wild places, my belief structure.
At Our House*
William Stafford
Home late, one lamp turned low,
crumpled pillow on the couch,
wet dishes in the sink (late snack),
in every child's room the checked,
slow, sure breath--
Suddenly in this doorway where I stand
in this house I see this place again,
this time the night as quiet, the house
as well secured, all breath but mine borne
gently on the air--
And where I stand, no one.
*I've posted this poem before, but it's worthy of another.
4.01.2008
What It Is I Do All Day.
Yesterday I was struggling to create a concept for a client. Nothing I came up with was moving or funny or unique or good.
I worried.
What if I couldn’t produce anything? What if my clients didn’t like my work? What if my boss gave up on me, thinking my initial creativity an offshoot, a one off?
(Shudder) What if I’m not as good as I think I am?
I sighed. I browsed the Inter Webs. I walked around the office, only to find that everyone else was Very Busy and therefore Not Interested in talking about my concept ideas.
I sighed again. I walked back to my desk and thought about Yosemite. I checked some of my favorite blogs (I’m getting to a blogroll, I promise). I ate some pretzels. I thought about Bishop.
And then it hit me.
An idea.
It was good enough to write down, and as I stared at it in written form, removing words, rearranging sentences, I decided that it might be good enough to present to my boss.
And then I remembered this:
How Poetry Comes to Me
By Gary Snyder
It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
I have to remember that; the words, concepts, ideas are there, just beyond my reach, waiting.
It takes effort. Time.
I worried.
What if I couldn’t produce anything? What if my clients didn’t like my work? What if my boss gave up on me, thinking my initial creativity an offshoot, a one off?
(Shudder) What if I’m not as good as I think I am?
I sighed. I browsed the Inter Webs. I walked around the office, only to find that everyone else was Very Busy and therefore Not Interested in talking about my concept ideas.
I sighed again. I walked back to my desk and thought about Yosemite. I checked some of my favorite blogs (I’m getting to a blogroll, I promise). I ate some pretzels. I thought about Bishop.
And then it hit me.
An idea.
It was good enough to write down, and as I stared at it in written form, removing words, rearranging sentences, I decided that it might be good enough to present to my boss.
And then I remembered this:
How Poetry Comes to Me
By Gary Snyder
It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light
I have to remember that; the words, concepts, ideas are there, just beyond my reach, waiting.
It takes effort. Time.
3.24.2008
An Interactive One That Just Might Bore You.
On this, the birthday of Lawrence Ferlinghetti, co-founder of City Lights, I'm celebrating poetry and poets. Keen to new talent and power of change, Ferlinghetti knew, when seeing and hearing Ginsberg's Howl for the first time, that American literature would never be the same.
Last week, I couldn't stop thinking of this line:
I tell you now, the glacier may take years to advance, but it never stops moving.
It's one of my all-time favorite* lines of poetry, but I couldn't remember who wrote it. Convinced that it was Gary Snyder, I paged through my tattered and highlighted copies of Riprap, Mountains and Rivers With No End, No Nature and even The High Sierra of California for good measure. Nothing.
Then I thought, "Maybe it's Billy Collins. It could be Billy Collins." So I grabbed Sailing Alone Around the Room and re-read his perfect, precise words. My favorite of his, another that ranks among the greats, is "On Turning Ten." The spectacular part of that poem, the moment of connection, of empathy and regret, comes here:
But then I found it. I can't remember how, what combination of words ultimately led me to it, but suddenly, there it was.
The Kiss, by Jean Monahan
We've been saying something like this
For months: Slow-ripened sounds
Wafting out of our mouths the way
The hot sweet sweat of cut hay
Whispers and lifts out of a noon field;
Setting each other in our sights
The way the black and whits and staring eye
Of the egret fishes; with precision
Interpreting the light, the ridged waves
The streaked and mottled back of the catch;
Leaning nearer, close enough to watch
The beloved vein in the neck fire, see
Salt on the lip, the whole forest smoking
As the meteorite burns a swath.
I tell you now, the glacier may take years to advance,
But it never stops moving.
The eyes of the wolf are bigger
And hungrier than we remember.
Look at how my mouth years toward yours.
Far at sea, a small swell aims for shore.
And all this talk of poetry has me thinking about scansion and form and meters, of balancing love of language with reverence for structure. It has me looking into the Napa Writers' Conference and justifying both its expense and the effort of getting accepted. It's not hard to come up with a manuscript or 5 poems before April, right?
Actually, I could probably do that. I could even write in falling dactyls, my favorite, the long-short-short of them offering finality and decision. (Dactyls are most commonly written in hexameter, with 6 metrical feet per line, a form known as Heroic Hexameter, popular with Greek Masters and political speech writers.)
*Another favorite, this stanza:
"Bless you. You came back,
So I could see you once more, plainly,
So I could rest against you
Without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
Without thinking you were alive again."
(Those lines come from Mark Doty's The Embrace and never fail to remind me of the first time I heard Doty read, in 1997. He's coming to Utah, to a university about 2 hours away, in early April. I'll be making the drive that night.)
Last week, I couldn't stop thinking of this line:
I tell you now, the glacier may take years to advance, but it never stops moving.
It's one of my all-time favorite* lines of poetry, but I couldn't remember who wrote it. Convinced that it was Gary Snyder, I paged through my tattered and highlighted copies of Riprap, Mountains and Rivers With No End, No Nature and even The High Sierra of California for good measure. Nothing.
Then I thought, "Maybe it's Billy Collins. It could be Billy Collins." So I grabbed Sailing Alone Around the Room and re-read his perfect, precise words. My favorite of his, another that ranks among the greats, is "On Turning Ten." The spectacular part of that poem, the moment of connection, of empathy and regret, comes here:
It seems only yesterday I used to believeBut it wasn't from one of Billy Collins' poems, that line I was reciting over and over. And countless variances of "poem + glacier+ advance + never stops moving" yielded little in the way of the mystery poet.
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.
But then I found it. I can't remember how, what combination of words ultimately led me to it, but suddenly, there it was.
The Kiss, by Jean Monahan
We've been saying something like this
For months: Slow-ripened sounds
Wafting out of our mouths the way
The hot sweet sweat of cut hay
Whispers and lifts out of a noon field;
Setting each other in our sights
The way the black and whits and staring eye
Of the egret fishes; with precision
Interpreting the light, the ridged waves
The streaked and mottled back of the catch;
Leaning nearer, close enough to watch
The beloved vein in the neck fire, see
Salt on the lip, the whole forest smoking
As the meteorite burns a swath.
I tell you now, the glacier may take years to advance,
But it never stops moving.
The eyes of the wolf are bigger
And hungrier than we remember.
Look at how my mouth years toward yours.
Far at sea, a small swell aims for shore.
And all this talk of poetry has me thinking about scansion and form and meters, of balancing love of language with reverence for structure. It has me looking into the Napa Writers' Conference and justifying both its expense and the effort of getting accepted. It's not hard to come up with a manuscript or 5 poems before April, right?
Actually, I could probably do that. I could even write in falling dactyls, my favorite, the long-short-short of them offering finality and decision. (Dactyls are most commonly written in hexameter, with 6 metrical feet per line, a form known as Heroic Hexameter, popular with Greek Masters and political speech writers.)
*Another favorite, this stanza:
"Bless you. You came back,
So I could see you once more, plainly,
So I could rest against you
Without thinking this happiness lessened anything,
Without thinking you were alive again."
(Those lines come from Mark Doty's The Embrace and never fail to remind me of the first time I heard Doty read, in 1997. He's coming to Utah, to a university about 2 hours away, in early April. I'll be making the drive that night.)
3.18.2008
A Tangent in Two Parts
I.
My friend Majka has a beautiful article in the current issue of Climbing. Like alot of us, Majka has lost many friends to our sport, several of them also friends of mine. Their stories are always the same, “they went before their time, they had so much potential, they were too young.”
Majka’s article includes a poignant passage about the pregnant widows some of these men have left behind, and it got me thinking about choices. The choice to continue pursuing something dangerous, even though it’s not just about you anymore, versus the choice to give up something that makes you who you are, even if it contains an element of danger.
And that’s where the offhanded, go-to statement, “at least he died doing what he loved,” fails me. I absolutely hate that statement. I hear it way too often, and every time I do, I want to respond with, “well, actually, if he’d have known that he would die climbing today, I’m pretty sure he’d have opted for a trail run instead.”
But…maybe not. Many years ago I met a man who told me that his happiest times are when he’s completely alone in the mountains, running around and soloing and lost in his thoughts. I probably told him I felt similarly, because I wanted him to think of me as a kindred spirit, but in truth, I never understood that side of him. I never understood what it was about the mountains that were alluring to the point of courting death, just like I think a lot of those pregnant widows never expected to be single moms.
And that’s what breaks my heart. We fall in love with these men who push their limits in the mountains, but at the same time, we make plans to share a life with them.
It took a long time for me to be able to admit that I don’t enjoy being alone in the mountains, that I don’t enjoy suffering and that no route – no matter how incredible the climbing – is worth dying in its pursuit.
Then Marit wrote a post about her friend, Christine, who she misses dearly.
And it got me thinking.
I miss my dead friends every day. I think of their faces – so young and happy. I think of where I last saw them, of our final conversations. They haunt and comfort me. Their deaths fill me with fear and motivate me into action.
Sometimes I look at our friends, especially the young ones who are still restless and wild, and fear that I’ll be attending their memorial services – the ones where their parents fly out, from the East Coast or the Mid-West, trying to understand what it was about the West that so captivated their children, that lured them deeper into the mountains, what it was that, ultimately, killed them.
I know it’s fatalistic and unhealthy, thinking this way. And Brad’s typically logical response to my brooding is, “then live as much as you can while you’re here.”
And he’s right, I know. It’s important to die with no regrets. There are country songs, fortune cookies, Hallmark Cards and Lifetime Television For Women movies suggesting as much. There are probably bible verses, too, but I wouldn’t know about those.
But I can’t help it; I do have regrets. I regret that I didn’t tell Zack how much I appreciated his friendship, how much I respected him. I remember the first time I met him, at the Hungry Toad in Boulder, the night before he and Joe Vallone left for a climbing trip to Peru, I think. I was with Leah; there were other people there – Dan Gambino, maybe? I knew very quickly that Zack and I would be friends; he was easy to talk to, he was nice to me.
We did become great friends. Over the span of a few years, Zack and I climbed together, took roadtrips together, sang Greatful Dead songs through the boring stretches of Western Colorado and Eastern Utah, drank bottomless cups of coffee, spent hours in Trident – him with his schoolbooks, me with my journal. A couple times we even slept in the same bed, though there was never a question that we were just friends, that we both just needed a place to crash, and for that I loved him all the more. I miss him. I would have liked to introduce him to Brad; they would have gotten along well.
And I regret that I didn’t spend more time with Chris. I remember the last conversation we had. It was at the OR Show, and he was dressed all snappy. As a housemate, I’d seen Chris in sweats and chalked-up climbing clothes and old t-shirts, but never really dressed like the urban hipster that I secretly always thought he was. I thought then, in the line for free coffee at the Royal Robbins booth, that my housemate and friend had lots of facets I hadn't yet seen, that I should make it a priority to get to know him. He died ice climbing the next day.
I was skinning up Flagstaff around mid-day when I got the call from Brad. It was strange; he was busy with OR and shouldn’t have been calling then.
“What’s up, honey?” I kept skinning while I talked, slightly out of breath.
He sounded strained. “I’m on my way home. I left the show early. Where are you?”
“I’m skinning up Flag. Come meet me!”
“No,” he sounded really odd. “Just come home as soon as you can. I have to talk to you.”
Something wasn’t right. I knew it then. Brad would never leave a work obligation early. He’s not that kind of guy. Plus he sounded super tense. As I ripped my skins and skied to the truck, I decided that Brad was going to divorce me. That was the reason for the tension, the weirdness. (I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes.)
Turns out, he drove home to tell me the news of Chris’s death in person. I sank to the floor, staring at the carpet and trying to let the words sink in. “Chris Hunnicutt died today.”
Brad used his full name, I still remember that. So there would be no confusion, no doubt. So I couldn’t say, “Not our housemate Chris. Not him, right?”
I still feel Chris’s presence in our house sometimes. His family told us that Chris was happier in Utah than he’d ever been in his life, and it breaks my heart to think that I never told him how much we appreciated him. How kind we thought he was, what a good friend. How much we respected him.
II.
And then, all of a sudden, a moment of absolute presence, of clarity. One came a few nights ago, leaving Mazza with Nicole and walking down the sidewalk toward our cars. Our paths diverged, and after we said goodbye and promised to see each other again soon, I walked on, my truck half a block ahead.
And in that moment: awareness. It had just rained, and the sidewalk was dotted with little puddles where the concrete dipped or cracked. Just after dusk, the sky was peacock blue, the shade J. Crew calls “Regal Purple” and Pantone calls 2685C. The restored bungalows along 15th Street were lit from within, creating warmth and comfort. “This is my home,” I thought. “I live here.”
And I breathed in the dusty air, the scent of spring and grass, of opportunity and atonement, and got into the truck and drove toward the canyons, toward home.
My friend Majka has a beautiful article in the current issue of Climbing. Like alot of us, Majka has lost many friends to our sport, several of them also friends of mine. Their stories are always the same, “they went before their time, they had so much potential, they were too young.”
Majka’s article includes a poignant passage about the pregnant widows some of these men have left behind, and it got me thinking about choices. The choice to continue pursuing something dangerous, even though it’s not just about you anymore, versus the choice to give up something that makes you who you are, even if it contains an element of danger.
And that’s where the offhanded, go-to statement, “at least he died doing what he loved,” fails me. I absolutely hate that statement. I hear it way too often, and every time I do, I want to respond with, “well, actually, if he’d have known that he would die climbing today, I’m pretty sure he’d have opted for a trail run instead.”
But…maybe not. Many years ago I met a man who told me that his happiest times are when he’s completely alone in the mountains, running around and soloing and lost in his thoughts. I probably told him I felt similarly, because I wanted him to think of me as a kindred spirit, but in truth, I never understood that side of him. I never understood what it was about the mountains that were alluring to the point of courting death, just like I think a lot of those pregnant widows never expected to be single moms.
And that’s what breaks my heart. We fall in love with these men who push their limits in the mountains, but at the same time, we make plans to share a life with them.
It took a long time for me to be able to admit that I don’t enjoy being alone in the mountains, that I don’t enjoy suffering and that no route – no matter how incredible the climbing – is worth dying in its pursuit.
Then Marit wrote a post about her friend, Christine, who she misses dearly.
And it got me thinking.
I miss my dead friends every day. I think of their faces – so young and happy. I think of where I last saw them, of our final conversations. They haunt and comfort me. Their deaths fill me with fear and motivate me into action.
Sometimes I look at our friends, especially the young ones who are still restless and wild, and fear that I’ll be attending their memorial services – the ones where their parents fly out, from the East Coast or the Mid-West, trying to understand what it was about the West that so captivated their children, that lured them deeper into the mountains, what it was that, ultimately, killed them.
I know it’s fatalistic and unhealthy, thinking this way. And Brad’s typically logical response to my brooding is, “then live as much as you can while you’re here.”
And he’s right, I know. It’s important to die with no regrets. There are country songs, fortune cookies, Hallmark Cards and Lifetime Television For Women movies suggesting as much. There are probably bible verses, too, but I wouldn’t know about those.
But I can’t help it; I do have regrets. I regret that I didn’t tell Zack how much I appreciated his friendship, how much I respected him. I remember the first time I met him, at the Hungry Toad in Boulder, the night before he and Joe Vallone left for a climbing trip to Peru, I think. I was with Leah; there were other people there – Dan Gambino, maybe? I knew very quickly that Zack and I would be friends; he was easy to talk to, he was nice to me.
We did become great friends. Over the span of a few years, Zack and I climbed together, took roadtrips together, sang Greatful Dead songs through the boring stretches of Western Colorado and Eastern Utah, drank bottomless cups of coffee, spent hours in Trident – him with his schoolbooks, me with my journal. A couple times we even slept in the same bed, though there was never a question that we were just friends, that we both just needed a place to crash, and for that I loved him all the more. I miss him. I would have liked to introduce him to Brad; they would have gotten along well.
And I regret that I didn’t spend more time with Chris. I remember the last conversation we had. It was at the OR Show, and he was dressed all snappy. As a housemate, I’d seen Chris in sweats and chalked-up climbing clothes and old t-shirts, but never really dressed like the urban hipster that I secretly always thought he was. I thought then, in the line for free coffee at the Royal Robbins booth, that my housemate and friend had lots of facets I hadn't yet seen, that I should make it a priority to get to know him. He died ice climbing the next day.
I was skinning up Flagstaff around mid-day when I got the call from Brad. It was strange; he was busy with OR and shouldn’t have been calling then.
“What’s up, honey?” I kept skinning while I talked, slightly out of breath.
He sounded strained. “I’m on my way home. I left the show early. Where are you?”
“I’m skinning up Flag. Come meet me!”
“No,” he sounded really odd. “Just come home as soon as you can. I have to talk to you.”
Something wasn’t right. I knew it then. Brad would never leave a work obligation early. He’s not that kind of guy. Plus he sounded super tense. As I ripped my skins and skied to the truck, I decided that Brad was going to divorce me. That was the reason for the tension, the weirdness. (I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes.)
Turns out, he drove home to tell me the news of Chris’s death in person. I sank to the floor, staring at the carpet and trying to let the words sink in. “Chris Hunnicutt died today.”
Brad used his full name, I still remember that. So there would be no confusion, no doubt. So I couldn’t say, “Not our housemate Chris. Not him, right?”
I still feel Chris’s presence in our house sometimes. His family told us that Chris was happier in Utah than he’d ever been in his life, and it breaks my heart to think that I never told him how much we appreciated him. How kind we thought he was, what a good friend. How much we respected him.
II.
And then, all of a sudden, a moment of absolute presence, of clarity. One came a few nights ago, leaving Mazza with Nicole and walking down the sidewalk toward our cars. Our paths diverged, and after we said goodbye and promised to see each other again soon, I walked on, my truck half a block ahead.
And in that moment: awareness. It had just rained, and the sidewalk was dotted with little puddles where the concrete dipped or cracked. Just after dusk, the sky was peacock blue, the shade J. Crew calls “Regal Purple” and Pantone calls 2685C. The restored bungalows along 15th Street were lit from within, creating warmth and comfort. “This is my home,” I thought. “I live here.”
And I breathed in the dusty air, the scent of spring and grass, of opportunity and atonement, and got into the truck and drove toward the canyons, toward home.
I'm Going to Do This.
Brad will be away much of Spring. He's got a big climbing goal he needs to take care of, and last night, as I got to thinking about how much time I'll have on my own in the coming months, I decided that I should make something of that time.
I'm not emotionally psyched for a big climbing goal, so instead, I signed up for the Steamboat Marathon.
It's in 9 weeks.
I know, after last time, I swore I'd never do something like this again - sign up for a race I hadn't properly prepared for. But the thing is, most marathon training guides I've seen are 16 weeks long, and the first 5 weeks are so low mileage that I'm already hitting those marks. So I figure if I just start the program at week 5, I'll be on track in no time.
Right?
Gulp.
I'm not emotionally psyched for a big climbing goal, so instead, I signed up for the Steamboat Marathon.
It's in 9 weeks.
I know, after last time, I swore I'd never do something like this again - sign up for a race I hadn't properly prepared for. But the thing is, most marathon training guides I've seen are 16 weeks long, and the first 5 weeks are so low mileage that I'm already hitting those marks. So I figure if I just start the program at week 5, I'll be on track in no time.
Right?
Gulp.
3.14.2008
Without Missing a Beat.
One of my projects at work involves a Mother's Day Promotion, so after concepting headline ideas and slowly turning stupid, I decided to poll my office mates.
"What's the first thing you think of when you hear the phrase 'Mother's Day?'" I asked Mario.
"MILFS."
Thanks for that, Big M. Stay classy.
"What's the first thing you think of when you hear the phrase 'Mother's Day?'" I asked Mario.
"MILFS."
Thanks for that, Big M. Stay classy.
3.13.2008
I Want. I Make. I Have.
I adore this necklace. I saw it today and desperately wanted it, though its $250 price tag prevented me from clicking "add to cart."
I've seen similar designs in the yoga community, Chakra jewelry. As I studied the version for Free People, I thought, "If I'd made that necklace, I'd have paid more attention to the symbolism of the colors; I'd have chosen beads that imbue the natural world."
So I did.
After work, I met the lovely and talented Nicole at our local bead store, where she helped me select beads and wire. I chose clear, red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple beads to represent the base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye and crown chakras, respectively. (Learn more about all that stuff here.)
I found other beads and charms to symbolize concepts that are often on my mind: a feather for freedom, a bird for journey, a leaf for change and a small wooden oval for strength.
I added two turquoise beads because both Native Americans and Sherpa lore suggests that turquoise enhances communication and guards against evil.
And then I strung it together.
It's not perfect, and as I look at it I see elements I'd change for Katie's Necklace Version 2.0, but it cost far less than $250, and it's far more me than anything I could have purchased. I'm excited to wear it tomorrow.
Here's a closer look, and kindly ignore the dirty carpet.
(I also love this necklace, also designed by Beth Orduna, who is close to usurping Jeanine Payer as my favorite jewelry artist.)
I've seen similar designs in the yoga community, Chakra jewelry. As I studied the version for Free People, I thought, "If I'd made that necklace, I'd have paid more attention to the symbolism of the colors; I'd have chosen beads that imbue the natural world."
So I did.
After work, I met the lovely and talented Nicole at our local bead store, where she helped me select beads and wire. I chose clear, red, orange, yellow, green, blue and purple beads to represent the base, sacral, solar plexus, heart, throat, third eye and crown chakras, respectively. (Learn more about all that stuff here.)
I found other beads and charms to symbolize concepts that are often on my mind: a feather for freedom, a bird for journey, a leaf for change and a small wooden oval for strength.
I added two turquoise beads because both Native Americans and Sherpa lore suggests that turquoise enhances communication and guards against evil.
And then I strung it together.
It's not perfect, and as I look at it I see elements I'd change for Katie's Necklace Version 2.0, but it cost far less than $250, and it's far more me than anything I could have purchased. I'm excited to wear it tomorrow.
Here's a closer look, and kindly ignore the dirty carpet.
(I also love this necklace, also designed by Beth Orduna, who is close to usurping Jeanine Payer as my favorite jewelry artist.)
3.11.2008
The One I Haven't Written.
A few weekends ago, Brad and I went to Boulder to visit Megan and Ward. It was wonderful to meet the man who makes my friend so happy, and as I'd expected, Ward is a helluva guy. Funny. Supportive. Smart. Skilled at making things out of wood and steel. Nice to be around. I really like him.
In addition to meeting Ward and hanging out with Megan, Boulder afforded Brad the opportunity to climb with his buddy Fremont in Eldorado Canyon, which is one of my favorite places in the world. I didn’t climb, but I did boulder a bit on Sunday.
I miss Boulder almost as much as I miss Megan, who has been a sound voice in my life since our first run to the old airstrip in Carbondale, probably a month after we met. (That private airstrip, incidentally, is reportedly how Hunter S. Thompson got his drugs into Aspen. Entirely hearsay, but nevertheless, running up to it always made me feel part of the Gonzo Journalism movement.)
Megan is far kinder and more forgiving than I am, and her actions always make me act a little more nicely than I otherwise would. At the same time, she’s got a better sense of humor than 99.9% of the people in the world, and can make me laugh like few others. David Sedaris and Stephen Colbert excepted. Oh, and Germans. The Germans always make me laugh, with their “make photo” and their, “Schnell! Schnell!”
Saturday, after wandering through town and patronizing my favorite outdoor store (I needed new climbing shoes, and I like to support Outdoor Divas as much as possible), I went for a beautiful run up the Creek Path and into Boulder Canyon. Along the way, I passed moms pushing Chariots, adolescents pushing drugs, professional runners (actually, they passed me), speed-walking co-eds, labs straining against their leashes, homeless people sleeping on blankets, drummers pounding out beats, frat boys tossing footballs, high school girls trying to get their attention, old men mediating, couples napping by the river, families picnicking in the shade by the library and cyclists trying to cross town. It was Boulder – all of it mixed up and interacting – as diverse and beautiful as I remember. (It really is diverse, even though many people would have you believe otherwise.)
The night before, when Brad and I got into town, we went with Megan and Ward to the Med, which was always one of my favorite restaurants. As soon as we walked in, we saw two old friends, Chuck and Jonny, and found a small table in a crowded section across from the rowdy bar. Perfect. I’m not being sarcastic; it was perfect. It was busy and noisy and hard to hear and overwhelming, and it was nice to just sit with friends and drink vodka lemonades and talk and soak in the Boulder of it all: college girls dressed like hookers, dirty climbers with leaves in their hair, older academics frowning around and playboys out-talking each other at the bar. Everyone was different, and everyone was fine with that. I think I saw Matisyahu, but Megan says it wasn’t him.
Over the weekend, Megan and I went for a couple hikes around Flagstaff and Chautauqua, and I realized how much I miss her company, her advice and the Front Range.
As Brad and I walked through the parking lot of the Salt Lake airport after landing Sunday night, I focused on the thwacks of our wheelie bags rolling over the cracks in the pavement.
Boulder was my first great love, even though my years there weren’t always easy and blissful. In fact, they were peppered with hard lessons, heartbreak and loneliness, but still Boulder remains foremost in my heart, the setting for many of my fondest memories and a place I'd love to live someday with Brad and Arnie and Red.
Thwack, step step, thwack. Brad sped up on the down-ramp, and I shifted my interest from thwacking in unison to thwacking on opposing beats - first his heavy bag (filled with climbing gear), thwack, then my light one (filled with clothing that I didn’t need or wear), thwack. Thwack thwack.
I wondered if anyone else does things like that - listen for rhythms or actively change course to create rhythms out of the banal. I suppose the childhood warning, "step on a crack, break your mother's back," is of the same vein – a superstition that affects kids' footing the way my need for emotional stability affects my thwacking of wheelie bags.
It's probably not normal, but it’s a defense mechanism I use to avoid thinking about the things that might hurt, the things I’d rather avoid. It provided my mind with a safe task that didn't involve picturing the Flatirons at dusk, or the Mesa Trail at Dawn, or climbing in Eldorado after work. It allowed me some presence instead of situating me firmly in my life 10 years ago, when I arrived in Boulder a naive intern.
In addition to meeting Ward and hanging out with Megan, Boulder afforded Brad the opportunity to climb with his buddy Fremont in Eldorado Canyon, which is one of my favorite places in the world. I didn’t climb, but I did boulder a bit on Sunday.
I miss Boulder almost as much as I miss Megan, who has been a sound voice in my life since our first run to the old airstrip in Carbondale, probably a month after we met. (That private airstrip, incidentally, is reportedly how Hunter S. Thompson got his drugs into Aspen. Entirely hearsay, but nevertheless, running up to it always made me feel part of the Gonzo Journalism movement.)
Megan is far kinder and more forgiving than I am, and her actions always make me act a little more nicely than I otherwise would. At the same time, she’s got a better sense of humor than 99.9% of the people in the world, and can make me laugh like few others. David Sedaris and Stephen Colbert excepted. Oh, and Germans. The Germans always make me laugh, with their “make photo” and their, “Schnell! Schnell!”
Saturday, after wandering through town and patronizing my favorite outdoor store (I needed new climbing shoes, and I like to support Outdoor Divas as much as possible), I went for a beautiful run up the Creek Path and into Boulder Canyon. Along the way, I passed moms pushing Chariots, adolescents pushing drugs, professional runners (actually, they passed me), speed-walking co-eds, labs straining against their leashes, homeless people sleeping on blankets, drummers pounding out beats, frat boys tossing footballs, high school girls trying to get their attention, old men mediating, couples napping by the river, families picnicking in the shade by the library and cyclists trying to cross town. It was Boulder – all of it mixed up and interacting – as diverse and beautiful as I remember. (It really is diverse, even though many people would have you believe otherwise.)
The night before, when Brad and I got into town, we went with Megan and Ward to the Med, which was always one of my favorite restaurants. As soon as we walked in, we saw two old friends, Chuck and Jonny, and found a small table in a crowded section across from the rowdy bar. Perfect. I’m not being sarcastic; it was perfect. It was busy and noisy and hard to hear and overwhelming, and it was nice to just sit with friends and drink vodka lemonades and talk and soak in the Boulder of it all: college girls dressed like hookers, dirty climbers with leaves in their hair, older academics frowning around and playboys out-talking each other at the bar. Everyone was different, and everyone was fine with that. I think I saw Matisyahu, but Megan says it wasn’t him.
Over the weekend, Megan and I went for a couple hikes around Flagstaff and Chautauqua, and I realized how much I miss her company, her advice and the Front Range.
As Brad and I walked through the parking lot of the Salt Lake airport after landing Sunday night, I focused on the thwacks of our wheelie bags rolling over the cracks in the pavement.
Boulder was my first great love, even though my years there weren’t always easy and blissful. In fact, they were peppered with hard lessons, heartbreak and loneliness, but still Boulder remains foremost in my heart, the setting for many of my fondest memories and a place I'd love to live someday with Brad and Arnie and Red.
Thwack, step step, thwack. Brad sped up on the down-ramp, and I shifted my interest from thwacking in unison to thwacking on opposing beats - first his heavy bag (filled with climbing gear), thwack, then my light one (filled with clothing that I didn’t need or wear), thwack. Thwack thwack.
I wondered if anyone else does things like that - listen for rhythms or actively change course to create rhythms out of the banal. I suppose the childhood warning, "step on a crack, break your mother's back," is of the same vein – a superstition that affects kids' footing the way my need for emotional stability affects my thwacking of wheelie bags.
It's probably not normal, but it’s a defense mechanism I use to avoid thinking about the things that might hurt, the things I’d rather avoid. It provided my mind with a safe task that didn't involve picturing the Flatirons at dusk, or the Mesa Trail at Dawn, or climbing in Eldorado after work. It allowed me some presence instead of situating me firmly in my life 10 years ago, when I arrived in Boulder a naive intern.
3.10.2008
Anticipatory
I’m excited for the end of the workday, when it will still be light and I can take Arnie running in the mountains. It’s Spring – I don’t care what the calendar says – and my favorite time of year in the Wasatch. It’s cool enough to climb in the sun, warm enough to run in shorts and the days are long enough to be outside till I’m tired.
Our weekend plans changed; we didn’t drive to Indian Creek. Honey had a head cold and I was kind of tired from a long week. We kind of relaxed on Saturday – with intermittent trail runs, gym climbing and longboarding – and yesterday went climbing in Little Cottonwood canyon.
Our backyard and home crag, I have a love/hate relationship with Little Cottonwood. When I arrived in Utah three years ago, I marched into the canyon expecting to send everything in a season. What followed was a season of me getting my ass kicked, crying, screaming and declaring climbing to be stupid.
I worked very hard to avoid climbing in Little Cottonwood last season – “It’s too hot/crowded/overrun with rattlesnakes (true)/scary (also true)” – but now I’m excited to explore it. I’m even being cautious about the routes I get on, and working hard to not get in over my head on climbs that are too hard for me.
Is it possible that I’ve matured? Maybe, but doubtful. I think I just have a healthier sense of fear than I did when I moved here, meaning, I actually think while I climb. Brad used to holler at me to place more gear, and I’d look down to realize that I was 20 feet above my last piece. “Huh, look at that,” I’d think, wiggling in a stopper and shrugging. Now I holler at him to toss me extra cams because I’ve already placed my double set ofcams and all my stoppers and I still have 60 feet to the anchor.
(I’m not going to explain that, even though I know lots of you aren’t climbers and won’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Suffice it to say that I’ve crossed the line from dumb-but-brave to smart-but-unbelievably-chicken.)
But yesterday was wonderful. It was around 55 or 60 degrees, sunny and clear, and the rock temperature was perfect for the frictiony slapping that Little Cottonwood demands.
We went to the Mexican Crack area, and started on a mellow, 2-pitch finger crack. Well, it used to feel mellow. It felt kind of hard yesterday, but that’s all part of getting in granite climbing shape, I guess. We moved on to Mexican Crack proper, as well as some nondescript pitch beside it and a moderate 3-pitch route around the corner.
We were climbing with Brittany and JT, who are hilarious. JT is in standard form in his picture, which I took. I stole the picture of Brittany, who is a total badass. I think I took it from the Patagonia website.
(That’s right, Patagonia, I stole it from under your titanium-frame-bespectacled noses.)
Anyway, it’s really fun to climb with these two. They’ve traveled to some of the more interesting parts of the world to climb, including Siberia and Oman, and I love to hear about their adventures, which remind me that even though I don’t climb all that much anymore, and when I do climb it’s often in the gym, there are still lots of routes out there waiting for me. Waiting for Brad and me. Big routes with long approaches and lots of pitches and beautiful settings. Routes that require air travel then bus travel then wooden-cart-and-mule travel.
Little Cottonwood felt like home yesterday. I’m looking forward to going back up there later this week, like I'm looking forward to big routes in faraway mountains, like I look forward to the Spring.
Our weekend plans changed; we didn’t drive to Indian Creek. Honey had a head cold and I was kind of tired from a long week. We kind of relaxed on Saturday – with intermittent trail runs, gym climbing and longboarding – and yesterday went climbing in Little Cottonwood canyon.
Our backyard and home crag, I have a love/hate relationship with Little Cottonwood. When I arrived in Utah three years ago, I marched into the canyon expecting to send everything in a season. What followed was a season of me getting my ass kicked, crying, screaming and declaring climbing to be stupid.
I worked very hard to avoid climbing in Little Cottonwood last season – “It’s too hot/crowded/overrun with rattlesnakes (true)/scary (also true)” – but now I’m excited to explore it. I’m even being cautious about the routes I get on, and working hard to not get in over my head on climbs that are too hard for me.
Is it possible that I’ve matured? Maybe, but doubtful. I think I just have a healthier sense of fear than I did when I moved here, meaning, I actually think while I climb. Brad used to holler at me to place more gear, and I’d look down to realize that I was 20 feet above my last piece. “Huh, look at that,” I’d think, wiggling in a stopper and shrugging. Now I holler at him to toss me extra cams because I’ve already placed my double set ofcams and all my stoppers and I still have 60 feet to the anchor.
(I’m not going to explain that, even though I know lots of you aren’t climbers and won’t know what the hell I’m talking about. Suffice it to say that I’ve crossed the line from dumb-but-brave to smart-but-unbelievably-chicken.)
But yesterday was wonderful. It was around 55 or 60 degrees, sunny and clear, and the rock temperature was perfect for the frictiony slapping that Little Cottonwood demands.
We went to the Mexican Crack area, and started on a mellow, 2-pitch finger crack. Well, it used to feel mellow. It felt kind of hard yesterday, but that’s all part of getting in granite climbing shape, I guess. We moved on to Mexican Crack proper, as well as some nondescript pitch beside it and a moderate 3-pitch route around the corner.
We were climbing with Brittany and JT, who are hilarious. JT is in standard form in his picture, which I took. I stole the picture of Brittany, who is a total badass. I think I took it from the Patagonia website.
(That’s right, Patagonia, I stole it from under your titanium-frame-bespectacled noses.)
Anyway, it’s really fun to climb with these two. They’ve traveled to some of the more interesting parts of the world to climb, including Siberia and Oman, and I love to hear about their adventures, which remind me that even though I don’t climb all that much anymore, and when I do climb it’s often in the gym, there are still lots of routes out there waiting for me. Waiting for Brad and me. Big routes with long approaches and lots of pitches and beautiful settings. Routes that require air travel then bus travel then wooden-cart-and-mule travel.
Little Cottonwood felt like home yesterday. I’m looking forward to going back up there later this week, like I'm looking forward to big routes in faraway mountains, like I look forward to the Spring.
The Wasatch Report: Now 100% LOUDER!
I’ve already lambasted you with my opinions (and god love you, you’re still reading); now I’m going to infiltrate your ears, too.
You’ve been warned. But don’t worry; it won’t ALL be the Boss and Jewel. I’ll try to vary the sound.
You’ve been warned. But don’t worry; it won’t ALL be the Boss and Jewel. I’ll try to vary the sound.
3.07.2008
Celebrate something every day.
Marit asked what I'm celebrating today.
I'm celebrating this: The official start of climbing season.
Tonight, Brad and the boys (Arnie & Red) and I will hop into the van and drive to Indian Creek, (a climbing area outside Moab) for the weekend. I love weekends in Spring and Fall: leaving town Friday night, giddily anticipating a sunny weekend spent entirely outside. Arriving at the campsite after dark and just crashing, exhausted from the lone drive. The promise of Brad waking me up before sunrise with a cup of strong black coffee, just the way I like it. The day starting out cold enough for hats and down jackets, but warming up to shorts weather by mid-day. Good friends, laughing, trying hard, encouraging each other, getting sandy and dirty from climbs that have been rained and snowed on all winter. Being totally drained at the end of the day, drinking a glass of wine next to a campfire (depending on the camping rules, of course), falling asleep as soon as you close your eyes, and waking up stiff and sore and convinced you can't possibly climb until you step out of the van and look at the cliffs, pink and orange in the light of the rising sun, and suddenly you can't wait to get up there.
And I'm also celebrating the kindness of others. Bloggers I've never met offering supportive words, people I've just met helping me through a tough time, family members calling and emailing and reminding me that I'm loved. I'm a lucky person. I have an incredible support system, and I'm grateful for that.
Thanks, everyone. Have a great weekend.
I'm celebrating this: The official start of climbing season.
Tonight, Brad and the boys (Arnie & Red) and I will hop into the van and drive to Indian Creek, (a climbing area outside Moab) for the weekend. I love weekends in Spring and Fall: leaving town Friday night, giddily anticipating a sunny weekend spent entirely outside. Arriving at the campsite after dark and just crashing, exhausted from the lone drive. The promise of Brad waking me up before sunrise with a cup of strong black coffee, just the way I like it. The day starting out cold enough for hats and down jackets, but warming up to shorts weather by mid-day. Good friends, laughing, trying hard, encouraging each other, getting sandy and dirty from climbs that have been rained and snowed on all winter. Being totally drained at the end of the day, drinking a glass of wine next to a campfire (depending on the camping rules, of course), falling asleep as soon as you close your eyes, and waking up stiff and sore and convinced you can't possibly climb until you step out of the van and look at the cliffs, pink and orange in the light of the rising sun, and suddenly you can't wait to get up there.
And I'm also celebrating the kindness of others. Bloggers I've never met offering supportive words, people I've just met helping me through a tough time, family members calling and emailing and reminding me that I'm loved. I'm a lucky person. I have an incredible support system, and I'm grateful for that.
Thanks, everyone. Have a great weekend.
3.06.2008
In response.
Yeah, I was vague. Sort of intentionally, because I don't like to make anyone feel uncomfortable.
So here's the deal:
When I was little, I developed a huge fear of being kidnapped. It kept me up at night, it kept me constantly vigilant and fearful. It's important to note that I grew up in very safe and peaceful rural suburbia. Nevertheless, instead of sitting on the backseat of my mom's Jeep Cherokee, I sat behind the driver's seat, on the floor. I was afraid that if the kidnappers saw me, they'd come after me and hurt my mom in the process. I wasn't quite as scared when my dad was in the car, too, but I still regarded every car we passed or that passed us with wariness and suspicion. This couldn't have been normal - an otherwise healthy 8 year old with so little trust in the world - but that's how it was. I got over it eventually, though I still imagined horrible harm with a weird clarity. Driving home from a friend's house at 16, I was so worried about a driver behind me (I thought he was following me so he could run me off the road and kill me) that I called 911. Of course the guy wasn't following me, but that wasn't the last time I called 911 with such concerns.
After high school I spent a year in Sweden before going to college. After the darkest winter imaginable (though I did see the northern lights at like 4 pm, which was very cool), I was dying for sunlight. I went to the Canary Islands - Fuerteventura - with a friend to recover from the season of endless night. On our last night there, I was walking alone from a restaurant to our hotel and was abducted and assaulted by a coked-out local who'd probably seen me leave. I'm fine - I'm so lucky - but it's not lost on me that I'd spent years fearing what had ultimately come to pass.
That's why the comment about how constant worrying can become a prayer for the negative. The comment about object fixation; it interests me because I think it's very true, and not just in mountain biking.
And as for inner peace, well, when I'm raging inside, I think about this, the siren song of tortured (or, ahem, melodramatic) artists:
"one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star."
-Frederich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, part I
So here's the deal:
When I was little, I developed a huge fear of being kidnapped. It kept me up at night, it kept me constantly vigilant and fearful. It's important to note that I grew up in very safe and peaceful rural suburbia. Nevertheless, instead of sitting on the backseat of my mom's Jeep Cherokee, I sat behind the driver's seat, on the floor. I was afraid that if the kidnappers saw me, they'd come after me and hurt my mom in the process. I wasn't quite as scared when my dad was in the car, too, but I still regarded every car we passed or that passed us with wariness and suspicion. This couldn't have been normal - an otherwise healthy 8 year old with so little trust in the world - but that's how it was. I got over it eventually, though I still imagined horrible harm with a weird clarity. Driving home from a friend's house at 16, I was so worried about a driver behind me (I thought he was following me so he could run me off the road and kill me) that I called 911. Of course the guy wasn't following me, but that wasn't the last time I called 911 with such concerns.
After high school I spent a year in Sweden before going to college. After the darkest winter imaginable (though I did see the northern lights at like 4 pm, which was very cool), I was dying for sunlight. I went to the Canary Islands - Fuerteventura - with a friend to recover from the season of endless night. On our last night there, I was walking alone from a restaurant to our hotel and was abducted and assaulted by a coked-out local who'd probably seen me leave. I'm fine - I'm so lucky - but it's not lost on me that I'd spent years fearing what had ultimately come to pass.
That's why the comment about how constant worrying can become a prayer for the negative. The comment about object fixation; it interests me because I think it's very true, and not just in mountain biking.
And as for inner peace, well, when I'm raging inside, I think about this, the siren song of tortured (or, ahem, melodramatic) artists:
"one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star."
-Frederich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra, part I
3.05.2008
It happens every year.
Yesterday’s attempts at inner peace didn’t work, and last night I was irritable, moody, impatient and sad. Poor Brad is a little bit nervous to be around me right now, and I don’t blame him.
Because I was too ill at ease to go to bed, I stayed up late dealing with iPod and iPhone issues. It wasn’t going well (syncing, restoring, losing things…totally annoying), which did nothing to improve my mood. After only making things worse for my sleek little black units, I gave up and went to bed, where I decided to read to help quiet my mind.
I’m reading a typical chick lit novel featuring fashion and friends and men. Normal stuff for the genre. Predictable. It’s set in Dublin and London and for the duration of the book didn’t stray from those locations. Then, in the last chapter, one of the characters up and went to Fuerteventura of all places.
Remember my post about coincidences? Well this is the king of all chance happenings. It shocked me so much I almost threw up.
Fuerteventura is what I’ve been trying not to think about for the last 12 years. Fuerteventura is what has been making me irritable and moody and impatient and sad last night. Fuerteventura is actually causing me physical pain this year – aches and nausea, a headache and tremendous tightness in my neck and shoulders. I think it was Fuerteventura that nearly kept me in bed two Sundays in a row – the effort of lifting my head from the pillow seemingly monumental.
I’d almost forgotten its name. I talked about the Canary Islands a few times a year, but nothing specific. I certainly haven’t said – or seen – its name in a long, long time.
I have very few memories of that trip. I don’t remember flying there. I don’t remember being in either airport – Stockholm’s or Fuerteventura’s. I don’t remember checking a bag, but I’m sure I did because I’ve never packed lightly in my life. I don’t remember how Lisa, my friend from Sweden, and I got to the hotel or what it even looked like. I have no idea how I got my bag packed and got to the airport. I must have slept through the majority of the flight, though I remember waking at one point and wondering if it had all bee a dream.
I also remember that I the only book I took on that trip was Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. Nice, light beach reading. I remember this because in the ensuing 12 years, I shudder and get chills whenever I see it referenced.
Is it any wonder that I stick to Chick Lit and magazines now?
So tomorrow is an anniversary of sorts. 12 years since I was in Fuerteventura and the course of my life was forever altered. Sometimes I wonder how I’d have turned out if none of it had ever happened. If I’d made it back to the hotel safely, or if I’d never have gone away for Spring Break in the first place. If I’d never gone to Sweden. Who would I be? Would I have gone to Penn State? Would I have stayed in Pennsylvania or on the East Coast somewhere? Would I have fallen in love with the mountains? Would I have met and married Brad?
But then, I like who I’ve become in so many ways. I like that I think to protect myself, that I’m not naïve. I like that
Right now I feel a little bit like Derek Zoolander outside the coal miners’ bar, asking God for advice just seconds before his very tiny phone rings. And just like they did nothing to help Zoolander, these questions aren’t going to help me. It’s a waste of time to wonder about how things would be different, because they aren't.
In a yoga class recently, my instructor mentioned that focusing on the negative was like “praying for things we don’t want.” In mountain biking, if you look at an obstacle, you’ll run right into it. It’s called object fixation. The goal, then, is to look where you want to go instead of at the tree, the rock, the huge and scary drop-off.
So now, instead of continuing to dwell in this place, this memory, this pain, I am going to focus on where I want to be, on HOW I want to be.
Calmer.
Nicer.
Patient. er.
Because I was too ill at ease to go to bed, I stayed up late dealing with iPod and iPhone issues. It wasn’t going well (syncing, restoring, losing things…totally annoying), which did nothing to improve my mood. After only making things worse for my sleek little black units, I gave up and went to bed, where I decided to read to help quiet my mind.
I’m reading a typical chick lit novel featuring fashion and friends and men. Normal stuff for the genre. Predictable. It’s set in Dublin and London and for the duration of the book didn’t stray from those locations. Then, in the last chapter, one of the characters up and went to Fuerteventura of all places.
Remember my post about coincidences? Well this is the king of all chance happenings. It shocked me so much I almost threw up.
Fuerteventura is what I’ve been trying not to think about for the last 12 years. Fuerteventura is what has been making me irritable and moody and impatient and sad last night. Fuerteventura is actually causing me physical pain this year – aches and nausea, a headache and tremendous tightness in my neck and shoulders. I think it was Fuerteventura that nearly kept me in bed two Sundays in a row – the effort of lifting my head from the pillow seemingly monumental.
I’d almost forgotten its name. I talked about the Canary Islands a few times a year, but nothing specific. I certainly haven’t said – or seen – its name in a long, long time.
I have very few memories of that trip. I don’t remember flying there. I don’t remember being in either airport – Stockholm’s or Fuerteventura’s. I don’t remember checking a bag, but I’m sure I did because I’ve never packed lightly in my life. I don’t remember how Lisa, my friend from Sweden, and I got to the hotel or what it even looked like. I have no idea how I got my bag packed and got to the airport. I must have slept through the majority of the flight, though I remember waking at one point and wondering if it had all bee a dream.
I also remember that I the only book I took on that trip was Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. Nice, light beach reading. I remember this because in the ensuing 12 years, I shudder and get chills whenever I see it referenced.
Is it any wonder that I stick to Chick Lit and magazines now?
So tomorrow is an anniversary of sorts. 12 years since I was in Fuerteventura and the course of my life was forever altered. Sometimes I wonder how I’d have turned out if none of it had ever happened. If I’d made it back to the hotel safely, or if I’d never have gone away for Spring Break in the first place. If I’d never gone to Sweden. Who would I be? Would I have gone to Penn State? Would I have stayed in Pennsylvania or on the East Coast somewhere? Would I have fallen in love with the mountains? Would I have met and married Brad?
But then, I like who I’ve become in so many ways. I like that I think to protect myself, that I’m not naïve. I like that
Right now I feel a little bit like Derek Zoolander outside the coal miners’ bar, asking God for advice just seconds before his very tiny phone rings. And just like they did nothing to help Zoolander, these questions aren’t going to help me. It’s a waste of time to wonder about how things would be different, because they aren't.
In a yoga class recently, my instructor mentioned that focusing on the negative was like “praying for things we don’t want.” In mountain biking, if you look at an obstacle, you’ll run right into it. It’s called object fixation. The goal, then, is to look where you want to go instead of at the tree, the rock, the huge and scary drop-off.
So now, instead of continuing to dwell in this place, this memory, this pain, I am going to focus on where I want to be, on HOW I want to be.
Calmer.
Nicer.
Patient. er.
3.04.2008
From Grrrr to Great.
Here are a few things I don’t like:
I am filled with hate, and I don't like feeling this way.
This morning, my Daily Inner Peace Card said to focus on inner peace (duh), and reminded me that there are two ways to look at everything - the violent way and the peaceful way. I can choose to be peaceful right now. I can choose to realize that this is a very small moment in the big picture, and that when the world is over, what will really matter are things like:
My family, my pack (Brad and the dogs), my friends.
My health - I'm so lucky.
One day going to Argentina where Brad and I will rock climb and beach (verb) and pet the friendly goats and donkeys. Before eating them. Just kidding.
Being nearly brought to my knees by the beauty of the sunrise this morning, and thinking to myself, "This is my home. I live in this place."
And aside from the momentary work-related yuck, I'll tell you why this day has been otherwise wonderful:
Brad and I woke up at 4:40 and prepared for our fun morning adventures. He went skiing and I went for a medium-length hill run with Arnie and Red, then met the lovely Ms. Fish in the pool. (The nickname stems from her last name as well as the grace with which she moves through the water. Truly inspiring as I paddle and gasp along beside her.) The day remains beautiful, and the light slanting through my window is warm and golden. Tonight, Brad and I have a delicious and healthy dinner planned, as well as pack-time with the boys and a fire.
So now, by the end of this post, I've shifted from, "I'm goddamned done with this, I'm quitting today!" to "Wow, my life is full of so many cool things, and even if work sometimes blows, at lease I have countless other greats (noun) to focus on."
Thanks for listening. I just needed to talk it through.
- People I work with appropriating my ideas and passing them off as their own.
- The same people publicly mocking me shortly after stealing my ideas.
- Those very same people then admonishing me for not knowing to proceed with my idea, even though my confusion stemmed entirely from my idea being stolen by someone who, I thought, would maintain ownership of said idea, even though doing so would require some actual work.
This morning, my Daily Inner Peace Card said to focus on inner peace (duh), and reminded me that there are two ways to look at everything - the violent way and the peaceful way. I can choose to be peaceful right now. I can choose to realize that this is a very small moment in the big picture, and that when the world is over, what will really matter are things like:
My family, my pack (Brad and the dogs), my friends.
My health - I'm so lucky.
One day going to Argentina where Brad and I will rock climb and beach (verb) and pet the friendly goats and donkeys. Before eating them. Just kidding.
Being nearly brought to my knees by the beauty of the sunrise this morning, and thinking to myself, "This is my home. I live in this place."
And aside from the momentary work-related yuck, I'll tell you why this day has been otherwise wonderful:
Brad and I woke up at 4:40 and prepared for our fun morning adventures. He went skiing and I went for a medium-length hill run with Arnie and Red, then met the lovely Ms. Fish in the pool. (The nickname stems from her last name as well as the grace with which she moves through the water. Truly inspiring as I paddle and gasp along beside her.) The day remains beautiful, and the light slanting through my window is warm and golden. Tonight, Brad and I have a delicious and healthy dinner planned, as well as pack-time with the boys and a fire.
So now, by the end of this post, I've shifted from, "I'm goddamned done with this, I'm quitting today!" to "Wow, my life is full of so many cool things, and even if work sometimes blows, at lease I have countless other greats (noun) to focus on."
Thanks for listening. I just needed to talk it through.
2.26.2008
Telling it like it do be.
In the New Yorker, a great article.*
It’s about six – as word limit. Our life stories as a sextet.
Why shouldn’t biographies be brief, abrupt? Our life spans so short, overall.
Diesel makes me think of Nepal. A shawl, long skirt and sandals. Stepping around beggars, breaking my heart. Geography, it seems, determines class, station. Why should I be so lucky? Millions of others are going without.
Brad taught me compassion, understanding, love. People think he’s unable to be patient. But he’d wait for me forever. Red reminds me to make demands. Arnie helps me forgive, move on. We are a pack, a family. We are happiest as a foursome. Wagging tails and laughter, being outside.
I hope to see Marit soon. And Lizzie – I’m proud of her. And Mavis, so capable and kind.
I’ll spend the weekend with Megan. She and I find humor everywhere. I miss her, our hiking conversations.
I’m thrilled to go to Boulder. Always full of promise and possibility. Running along shady streets, up Flagstaff. Bouldering at that spot I like; above the Monkey Traverse, less crowded. At least, it was back then. I remember one evening with Rolo. He was quiet for a minute. A mountain lion chased a rabbit. I didn’t know to be scared.
So much changed when fear entered. Not just mountain lions, but everything. I’m different now, more careful, hesitant.
Just yesterday, I thought of “Go.” The shortest sentence in our language. It’s another coincidence, perhaps, this article. To read it today, fate maybe. As I’m struggling for words, headlines. As I’m trying to create meaning. To be relevant and clever and pithy. As I write and overwrite, explaining.
A concept shouldn’t require an asterisk.
Hemingway, famous for his brevity, wrote: “For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”
Powerful, with more weight than words. He, a master of concision, prevails.
*I was nearly halfway before realization; each sentence has just six words. Of the article, of the report. Brilliant, this author, such smooth writing. I wondered how she did it. Did she write a “regular” sentence? Then return to whittle and rearrange? To create a revised six-word summary (as I have with this sentence)?
Or did she write each exactly? Six words only, more or less. The occasional forgiveness of a colon; perhaps a semi-colon or a dash.
It’s about six – as word limit. Our life stories as a sextet.
Why shouldn’t biographies be brief, abrupt? Our life spans so short, overall.
Diesel makes me think of Nepal. A shawl, long skirt and sandals. Stepping around beggars, breaking my heart. Geography, it seems, determines class, station. Why should I be so lucky? Millions of others are going without.
Brad taught me compassion, understanding, love. People think he’s unable to be patient. But he’d wait for me forever. Red reminds me to make demands. Arnie helps me forgive, move on. We are a pack, a family. We are happiest as a foursome. Wagging tails and laughter, being outside.
I hope to see Marit soon. And Lizzie – I’m proud of her. And Mavis, so capable and kind.
I’ll spend the weekend with Megan. She and I find humor everywhere. I miss her, our hiking conversations.
I’m thrilled to go to Boulder. Always full of promise and possibility. Running along shady streets, up Flagstaff. Bouldering at that spot I like; above the Monkey Traverse, less crowded. At least, it was back then. I remember one evening with Rolo. He was quiet for a minute. A mountain lion chased a rabbit. I didn’t know to be scared.
So much changed when fear entered. Not just mountain lions, but everything. I’m different now, more careful, hesitant.
Just yesterday, I thought of “Go.” The shortest sentence in our language. It’s another coincidence, perhaps, this article. To read it today, fate maybe. As I’m struggling for words, headlines. As I’m trying to create meaning. To be relevant and clever and pithy. As I write and overwrite, explaining.
A concept shouldn’t require an asterisk.
Hemingway, famous for his brevity, wrote: “For Sale: Baby shoes. Never worn.”
Powerful, with more weight than words. He, a master of concision, prevails.
*I was nearly halfway before realization; each sentence has just six words. Of the article, of the report. Brilliant, this author, such smooth writing. I wondered how she did it. Did she write a “regular” sentence? Then return to whittle and rearrange? To create a revised six-word summary (as I have with this sentence)?
Or did she write each exactly? Six words only, more or less. The occasional forgiveness of a colon; perhaps a semi-colon or a dash.
2.25.2008
English is Funny.
I saw this on a sign in front of someone's house yesterday:
"Woman and Man Alterations"
Either this person is a tailor, a chi adjuster or a life coach.
"Woman and Man Alterations"
Either this person is a tailor, a chi adjuster or a life coach.
2.22.2008
A Shout Out from the Left Coast
I've been tagged by the delightful Cindy who pens an outrageously worthy blog.
The topic: 5 things about me.
1. I absolutely love clothes shopping, and usually like to go alone, all day, when I can take as long as I want to prowl through sale racks. I've found some timeless gems that way, including a black cashmere Dolce & Gabbana cardigan for $29, a rare-print Lilly shift on the clearance rack and $49 Frye Campus boots (yeah, they were a size and a half too small, but I wore them for a year anyway).
2. I love crossword puzzles, Sudoku, Scrabble and most other word or mind games. LOVE. But I hate playing cards. Feels too seedy.
3. I proudly subscribe to "smart" magazines with "good" writers and "important" articles, but the only novels I read are situated firmly in the chick-lit category. And I love reading them.
4. I adore dancing (especially hip-hop and NIA) and would like to do it everyday. As it is, I only dance in the kitchen with socks on, because I can slide around on the floor. We're heading to Boulder in a week, though, so maybe I can go to a NIA class or two there.
That was a nice way to close out the Friday of a very long week. I tag: Marit and Paige.
HA! Edited to add:
5. I'm not good with numbers. It's quite apparent, I know, but really, I can surround myself with words and pictures all day, but the moment numbers come along, I throw my hands up and run away screaming. Thanks, for keeping me honest, Cindy!
The topic: 5 things about me.
1. I absolutely love clothes shopping, and usually like to go alone, all day, when I can take as long as I want to prowl through sale racks. I've found some timeless gems that way, including a black cashmere Dolce & Gabbana cardigan for $29, a rare-print Lilly shift on the clearance rack and $49 Frye Campus boots (yeah, they were a size and a half too small, but I wore them for a year anyway).
2. I love crossword puzzles, Sudoku, Scrabble and most other word or mind games. LOVE. But I hate playing cards. Feels too seedy.
3. I proudly subscribe to "smart" magazines with "good" writers and "important" articles, but the only novels I read are situated firmly in the chick-lit category. And I love reading them.
4. I adore dancing (especially hip-hop and NIA) and would like to do it everyday. As it is, I only dance in the kitchen with socks on, because I can slide around on the floor. We're heading to Boulder in a week, though, so maybe I can go to a NIA class or two there.
That was a nice way to close out the Friday of a very long week. I tag: Marit and Paige.
HA! Edited to add:
5. I'm not good with numbers. It's quite apparent, I know, but really, I can surround myself with words and pictures all day, but the moment numbers come along, I throw my hands up and run away screaming. Thanks, for keeping me honest, Cindy!
2.21.2008
What a coincidence.
There’s a hilarious article in the current issue of the New Yorker. Entitled, “Call Me Loyd,” it’s an introspective look at nicknames – why we use them, what they represent, why they’re good.
It struck a chord with me, because I’ve been using nicknames like crazy lately. I don’t know why or what sparked it, but I just can’t seem to use real names at all. Bud, pal, big guy, mouth (for Arnie at the dog park), sweetie, doll, friend…you name it. You nickname it. Heh, heh.
This is something that my dad and his friends do, use nicknames. It’s a sign of familiarity and admiration, yes, but in my dad’s case, it’s also because he forgets names a lot. You can be sure that if my dad greets you as “guy” or “kiddo,” he’s probably wondering who you are, how you know him or why on Earth you’d be talking to him.
Unless you’re a close friend. Then it’s a sign of affection. See how tricky it can be?
I call Brad a number of things: mydoggydaddy, bird, sweetie, honey. But seldom “Brad” unless I’m referring to him while speaking to someone else, writing about him or mad at him.
I’m telling you this now because you should track down the article (written by David Owen, in the February 11th & 18th anniversary issue) and read it (I’d link to it, but it’s not online yet). It’s super funny – it made me laugh out loud – and very relate-able.
I’m also sharing this because it represents another in a string of instances of my life mirroring – almost exactly – what I’m reading or watching or dreaming about.
Here’s one example: Since I was a little girl, I’ve been dreaming of a house – the same house – every month, year after year. It’s made of dark wood and glass, all windows and asymmetry and shaded southern exposures. It is very precise in my dreams – sunken living room with a two-sided fireplace; 1970 meets Dwell. Yesterday, driving from the shoot location back to the hotel, I saw it. It’s just off Lincoln in Scottsdale, a few blocks from the bell tower that Frank Lloyd Wright designed, on the way to Paradise Valley.
My jaw dropped when I saw it; I mean, it was the same house. Ok, well I don’t know if it has a sunken living room and two-sided fireplace, but everything else was exactly as I’d dreamed it, right down to the landscaping (several sage plants, a rosemary bush and xeriscaping).
This morning, driving to the set, I saw a billboard for jobing.com. I noticed it, because I wondered if it shouldn’t actually be “jobbing.com.” I just feel like the “b” would be doubled before the gerund. I don’t know why. Anyway, I was pondering this for a few blocks after the billboard, when suddenly, on the radio, I heard a commercial for an event at "the jobbing.com arena." (Actually, the event was a Bon Jovi concert of all things.) I know, it’s not that big a deal, but it’s a connection, a bridge between thoughts and life. It made me smile.
Last night, on the phone with my mom, Westinghouse came up (we were talking about unions). We hadn’t talked about Westinghouse for years; my grandfather worked there for 40 years, and my father spent time there in the early part of his career. In the 1970s and 80s, Westinghouse was by far Pittsburgh’s largest employer (until 1988, when it closed its East Pittsburgh plant). I remember Westinghouse-branded watches, address books, notepads, pencils, ball caps, windbreakers, golf balls; Westinghouse was everywhere, but I haven’t seen that blue “W” logo for probably 20 years.
Just now, sitting on the set, I glanced up and saw a Westinghouse decal on the back door of the studio. There’s another one on the window. Wow. Weird.
Now, part of me is thinking that this is an issue of awareness. Because I’d been thinking of jobing.com, I noticed the commercial more acutely than I otherwise would have. Likewise, if my mom and I hadn’t talked about Westinghouse last night, my eye line might have scanned the doorway and window without noticing the logo.
But, I don’t know, I choose to think it’s something bigger, something more connected, more universal. Yesterday, I heard that peyote is legal on Indian Reservations in Arizona. Last night, I caught the last 10 minutes of a documentary about Carlos Castaneda. See? I think there’s something happening…
It struck a chord with me, because I’ve been using nicknames like crazy lately. I don’t know why or what sparked it, but I just can’t seem to use real names at all. Bud, pal, big guy, mouth (for Arnie at the dog park), sweetie, doll, friend…you name it. You nickname it. Heh, heh.
This is something that my dad and his friends do, use nicknames. It’s a sign of familiarity and admiration, yes, but in my dad’s case, it’s also because he forgets names a lot. You can be sure that if my dad greets you as “guy” or “kiddo,” he’s probably wondering who you are, how you know him or why on Earth you’d be talking to him.
Unless you’re a close friend. Then it’s a sign of affection. See how tricky it can be?
I call Brad a number of things: mydoggydaddy, bird, sweetie, honey. But seldom “Brad” unless I’m referring to him while speaking to someone else, writing about him or mad at him.
I’m telling you this now because you should track down the article (written by David Owen, in the February 11th & 18th anniversary issue) and read it (I’d link to it, but it’s not online yet). It’s super funny – it made me laugh out loud – and very relate-able.
I’m also sharing this because it represents another in a string of instances of my life mirroring – almost exactly – what I’m reading or watching or dreaming about.
Here’s one example: Since I was a little girl, I’ve been dreaming of a house – the same house – every month, year after year. It’s made of dark wood and glass, all windows and asymmetry and shaded southern exposures. It is very precise in my dreams – sunken living room with a two-sided fireplace; 1970 meets Dwell. Yesterday, driving from the shoot location back to the hotel, I saw it. It’s just off Lincoln in Scottsdale, a few blocks from the bell tower that Frank Lloyd Wright designed, on the way to Paradise Valley.
My jaw dropped when I saw it; I mean, it was the same house. Ok, well I don’t know if it has a sunken living room and two-sided fireplace, but everything else was exactly as I’d dreamed it, right down to the landscaping (several sage plants, a rosemary bush and xeriscaping).
This morning, driving to the set, I saw a billboard for jobing.com. I noticed it, because I wondered if it shouldn’t actually be “jobbing.com.” I just feel like the “b” would be doubled before the gerund. I don’t know why. Anyway, I was pondering this for a few blocks after the billboard, when suddenly, on the radio, I heard a commercial for an event at "the jobbing.com arena." (Actually, the event was a Bon Jovi concert of all things.) I know, it’s not that big a deal, but it’s a connection, a bridge between thoughts and life. It made me smile.
Last night, on the phone with my mom, Westinghouse came up (we were talking about unions). We hadn’t talked about Westinghouse for years; my grandfather worked there for 40 years, and my father spent time there in the early part of his career. In the 1970s and 80s, Westinghouse was by far Pittsburgh’s largest employer (until 1988, when it closed its East Pittsburgh plant). I remember Westinghouse-branded watches, address books, notepads, pencils, ball caps, windbreakers, golf balls; Westinghouse was everywhere, but I haven’t seen that blue “W” logo for probably 20 years.
Just now, sitting on the set, I glanced up and saw a Westinghouse decal on the back door of the studio. There’s another one on the window. Wow. Weird.
Now, part of me is thinking that this is an issue of awareness. Because I’d been thinking of jobing.com, I noticed the commercial more acutely than I otherwise would have. Likewise, if my mom and I hadn’t talked about Westinghouse last night, my eye line might have scanned the doorway and window without noticing the logo.
But, I don’t know, I choose to think it’s something bigger, something more connected, more universal. Yesterday, I heard that peyote is legal on Indian Reservations in Arizona. Last night, I caught the last 10 minutes of a documentary about Carlos Castaneda. See? I think there’s something happening…
2.19.2008
Shhhhh....Quiet on the Set.
I'm on a tv set now, watching as a commercial I wrote is filmed. Everything, from the location to the wardrobe to the make-up to all the people (there are like a hundred people listening to little headphones watching screens running cameras holding microphones handing me bottles of water yelling things) seems in-motion and rapid and overwhelming. I'm kind of wondering what I'm doing here. There's no reason for my presence, as the actors are just reading my lines.
It's giving me insight, though, into the immensity of the television commercial industry. If this much effort is put into one 30-second spot, think of all the time, money, resources and energy that goes into all the commercials we see. I mean, already - it's noon - I've seen dozens of water bottles in the garbage can instead of the recycling bin. Plus, the fact that we're using water bottles in the first place...wasteful.
As I sit here, killing time on the set of my fairly small scale commercial, I'm trying to imagine how much money is spent on commercials every year. Even this spot, with its anemic budget, commands big money. Larger commercial budgets run into the millions. Imagine if every company cut one commercial from its annual budget and gave the money to a charity, a non-profit organization, me...
No, no, not me. Something worthwhile. And I know this is a silly, immature daydream, but I don't have much else to do, so I'm allowing my mind to run.
And yes, I'm taking issue with the very industry that signs my paychecks and buys me lovely things like the adorable outfit I'm wearing, but I can't help it.
It's giving me insight, though, into the immensity of the television commercial industry. If this much effort is put into one 30-second spot, think of all the time, money, resources and energy that goes into all the commercials we see. I mean, already - it's noon - I've seen dozens of water bottles in the garbage can instead of the recycling bin. Plus, the fact that we're using water bottles in the first place...wasteful.
As I sit here, killing time on the set of my fairly small scale commercial, I'm trying to imagine how much money is spent on commercials every year. Even this spot, with its anemic budget, commands big money. Larger commercial budgets run into the millions. Imagine if every company cut one commercial from its annual budget and gave the money to a charity, a non-profit organization, me...
No, no, not me. Something worthwhile. And I know this is a silly, immature daydream, but I don't have much else to do, so I'm allowing my mind to run.
And yes, I'm taking issue with the very industry that signs my paychecks and buys me lovely things like the adorable outfit I'm wearing, but I can't help it.
You're Driving Me to Phoenix!
Who said it (the title quote)? Anyone? Anyone?
Hint: It's from a wonderfully silly movie that I can recite beginning to end.
I’m in Scottsdale working on a commercial project for client #1, while staying up all night writing a development plan for client #2. It’s busy and stressful, but the upside is that I have my own room in a swanky hotel (there seems to be nothing BUT swanky in Scottsdale), and on this February morning, I went running – outside – in a tank top and shorts.
As I left the hotel to start my run, a kindly silver-haired fellow bundled in a tracksuit warned, “Ooooh, it’s cold out there this morning!”
I think it was 70, maybe 75 degrees. Somehow I managed.
It was dark when I started running, but once I turned around and headed back, the sun was rising and both Camelback and Superstition Mountain were bathed in morning light. The houses in this area fascinate me; some are gaudy and not my taste, but others integrate with the landscape and the climate. Single story with northern exposures, flat roofs, built into rock, shaded glass panes instead of walls, stone and steel. They’re breathtaking.
As I tripped along (too much watching the houses, not enough watching my footing), I imagined having house in the desert someday. Maybe not Moab – it’s no secret that Moab creeps me the hell out (AS IT DAMN WELL SHOULD) – but in the high desert among sage and scrub pine and funky new age spiritual centers.
Too bad there’s not more good climbing near Crestone (I know, there’s Penitente, but it’s kind of limited, and the alpine climbing season is really short, and alpine climbing sucks anyway), because it would otherwise be an ideal getaway.
Back to work. More to come.
Hint: It's from a wonderfully silly movie that I can recite beginning to end.
I’m in Scottsdale working on a commercial project for client #1, while staying up all night writing a development plan for client #2. It’s busy and stressful, but the upside is that I have my own room in a swanky hotel (there seems to be nothing BUT swanky in Scottsdale), and on this February morning, I went running – outside – in a tank top and shorts.
As I left the hotel to start my run, a kindly silver-haired fellow bundled in a tracksuit warned, “Ooooh, it’s cold out there this morning!”
I think it was 70, maybe 75 degrees. Somehow I managed.
It was dark when I started running, but once I turned around and headed back, the sun was rising and both Camelback and Superstition Mountain were bathed in morning light. The houses in this area fascinate me; some are gaudy and not my taste, but others integrate with the landscape and the climate. Single story with northern exposures, flat roofs, built into rock, shaded glass panes instead of walls, stone and steel. They’re breathtaking.
As I tripped along (too much watching the houses, not enough watching my footing), I imagined having house in the desert someday. Maybe not Moab – it’s no secret that Moab creeps me the hell out (AS IT DAMN WELL SHOULD) – but in the high desert among sage and scrub pine and funky new age spiritual centers.
Too bad there’s not more good climbing near Crestone (I know, there’s Penitente, but it’s kind of limited, and the alpine climbing season is really short, and alpine climbing sucks anyway), because it would otherwise be an ideal getaway.
Back to work. More to come.
2.16.2008
Repas de Soirée
This is tonight's dinner.
Orecchiette with broccoli florets, soy bacon crumbles and fresh parm.
Yum.
Dinner followed a long run in the foothills with Arnie.
We were hunting coyotes, who were yipping and singing to the setting sun.
And now we're watching 2 Days in Paris, which I'm loving. Acerbic and quick with smart, natural dialogue. Makes me want to move to Paris, but then, so does everything: alarm clocks, kleenex, driving through the city, driving through the country, choosing a new sofa, the number 12, Thursdays, jaunty toques...you name it.
Someday soon. As soon as we can figure out how to get to Europe with the dogs - with zero to minimal time in quarantine.
Anyone have any ideas?
Orecchiette with broccoli florets, soy bacon crumbles and fresh parm.
Yum.
Dinner followed a long run in the foothills with Arnie.
We were hunting coyotes, who were yipping and singing to the setting sun.
And now we're watching 2 Days in Paris, which I'm loving. Acerbic and quick with smart, natural dialogue. Makes me want to move to Paris, but then, so does everything: alarm clocks, kleenex, driving through the city, driving through the country, choosing a new sofa, the number 12, Thursdays, jaunty toques...you name it.
Someday soon. As soon as we can figure out how to get to Europe with the dogs - with zero to minimal time in quarantine.
Anyone have any ideas?
2.14.2008
It's my Arnieversary, so Happy Valentarnie's Day.
I got Arnie 4 years ago yesterday. His actual birthday is December 26th, but he came to me - about 7 weeks old - on Valentine's Day 2004.
He came from a breeder in Northern Colorado. The owners are very protective of their pups, and won't release them until they've approved his or her new home, so they drove the him to my house in Carbondale (four hours away) intending to have a look around.
I flung open the door before they knocked, and without noticing the humans standing on my porch, I reached for the puppy, all huge paws and wagging tail. It was love at first sight, and the breeders didn't bother to run through their standard questions: Where will he sleep, what will you feed him, how much time will he be alone during the day.... They knew he'd be loved and adored and taken care of, so they happily left the pup and headed home.
I named him Arnie, and we were inseparable from that moment forward. I had never owned a dog all by myself before, so Arnie and I kind of grew up together. As I made mistakes as a "parent," we both learned the importance of training and discipline. I eventually learned that even though I love Arnie, sometimes I had to be firm with him - like when he rolled in dead animal carcasses, for example, and wanted to hop on the couch immediately afterwards....see, that's bad.
Arnie is very mellow. He takes everything in stride, doesn't seem to take it too personally on the rare occasions when I do have to put my foot down ("No, Arnie, you can't have a slice of pizza"). That said, there's very little that Arnie doesn't share with me. He is my running partner, skiing partner, road trip buddy and frequent pillow.
Arnie is an athlete and friend, family member and sage. On cold mornings, Arnie keeps me company when I shovel the driveway, making snow-angels, burrowing into the drifts, and reminding me to have fun, to relax. In the summer, Arnie and I swim in a creek near our house. He's learning to dive from the big rock into the deepest part of the swimming hole, and when he pops his big yellow head up from underwater, he snorts and sneezes and smiles at me, his wagging tail serving as a rudder.
Three years ago, when I met Brad, I worried that Arnie would be jealous. But he embraced his new friend, falling in love with Brad instantly. A firm "Heeler Man," Brad initially dismissed Golden Retrievers as silly (well, of course they are - that's why they're so freakin' awesome). Arnie was patient, though, and eventually taught Brad that Goldens are probably wiser than any of us - all open-hearts and compassion, love and warmth.
Brad is now a confirmed "Golden Man," too.
Brad is now a confirmed "Golden Man," too.
Happy Arnieversary, buddy.
2.13.2008
Yoga Makes Everything Better.
A few weeks ago, at a morning yoga class, I unrolled my mat next to a woman I knew from the Bikram studio. She’s an instructor there, one I’ve always adored. Everything about her – from her teaching style to her open and easy-going countenance – conveys presence and balance. She is really, really nice to be around.
As I stretched out, loosening up for class, I thought about her bio on the Bikram website. I remember it clearly, because it was of those “after my first Bikram class, I knew yoga was my life’s calling” bios. Her’s was one of those “yoga altered the path of my life” stories.
I admire that. And I envy it. A few posts ago, I commented on how I’m good but not great at lots of things: climbing, running, yoga, skiing, playing guitar, playing djembe, knitting, dancing, ultimate Frisbee, CrossFit.
Scratch that. I’m a great dancer.
But you get my point. And sometimes I think that I could be great at one thing – yoga, for example – if I had fewer distractions. If I was more focused. If I totally committed to that one particular sport or activity.
I used to think I got bored when I got too focused on one thing. It’s very K-typical: in the middle of ski season, all I want to do is climb in the warm sun. In climbing season, I dream of snow. If I’m sport climbing, I think about placing gear on desert towers, and if I’m alpine climbing, I just want to be clipping bolts.
Part of that, I think, is that I don’t feel good enough to be dedicated. To really “be a climber,” I need to be climbing much, much harder. To be a “real” rando skier, I need to be logging lots of vert. and skiing big objectives all the time.
I Suppose I think it’s safer to be a dilletante. By doing lots of things, I have an excuse for not being great at any one thing.
This is where my mind was that morning, on the mat. But as D’ana, the instructor, walked in and started class, it occurred to me that even though I’ve bounced from climbing to skiing to running for years, yoga has quietly and continually been along for the ride. From my very first class in State College to impromptu rooftop practice in Kathmandu, from Boulder’s crowded Bikram workshops to flow classes in the posh studios of Aspen, yoga has been part of my life.
As we segued from the initial breathing exercise into forward bends – diving forward, gently moving our heads back and forth and relaxing our crown charkas to the floor – I realized that yoga is more than “part of my life.” Yoga is critical, is huge, is, well, my ee ki guy*
*Ee Ki Guy = a sense of purpose. A reason to live. A life force. I learned about this concept from the lovely Marit.
It’s like a family member whose unconditional love is so assured that it’s easy to take it for granted. As such, I frequently turn away from yoga, preferring the faster, sweatier, easier sports: running, skiing, climbing.
But I always return to the mat, usually a little achy and overworked, and hard as it is to imagine focusing on my breathing for an hour to 90 minutes, it never takes long to realize this: yoga makes everything better.
Yoga saw me through college, when I battled anorexia the injuries that came from running a hundred miles a week on six hundred calories a day. It was like a friend in Nepal, where I practiced alone for hours while staring at the fishtail peak and thinking about the thesis I wasn’t writing. In Boulder, yoga was a respite from heartbreak and tragedy, my daily 90 minutes on the mat providence from the acute awareness of what I no longer had. And in Western Colorado, where I felt like a visitor the entire three years I lived there, yoga was something I knew intimately, even while I re-introduced myself to the same classmates and instructors I’d met countless times.
Backbends boost confidence. That’s no secret; it’s been a yoga fact since Sidartha sat under the Bodhi tree. But only recently have I switched from hearing it spoken in class while half-listening/half-daydreaming, to feeling it for myself.
My home is now Salt Lake City. I feel grounded here. Maybe that’s why I’ve returned to yoga with the fervor of revival tent converts – snake handling types. I’m releasing into backbends with little fear of nausea or dizziness. I’m letting go of mind control. Instead of focusing on how poses should look, I’m just letting them evolve by deepening my breath and relaxing my brain. And from that relaxation comes contentedness.
Since returning to the mat two months ago, I’ve moved through self-consciousness and embarrassment. I’ve fallen out of more poses than I’ve stuck, but I think that’s because I’m trying harder. Crow to side crow to crane. The feeling that I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing; the feeling that this is what I was meant to do.
As I stretched out, loosening up for class, I thought about her bio on the Bikram website. I remember it clearly, because it was of those “after my first Bikram class, I knew yoga was my life’s calling” bios. Her’s was one of those “yoga altered the path of my life” stories.
I admire that. And I envy it. A few posts ago, I commented on how I’m good but not great at lots of things: climbing, running, yoga, skiing, playing guitar, playing djembe, knitting, dancing, ultimate Frisbee, CrossFit.
Scratch that. I’m a great dancer.
But you get my point. And sometimes I think that I could be great at one thing – yoga, for example – if I had fewer distractions. If I was more focused. If I totally committed to that one particular sport or activity.
I used to think I got bored when I got too focused on one thing. It’s very K-typical: in the middle of ski season, all I want to do is climb in the warm sun. In climbing season, I dream of snow. If I’m sport climbing, I think about placing gear on desert towers, and if I’m alpine climbing, I just want to be clipping bolts.
Part of that, I think, is that I don’t feel good enough to be dedicated. To really “be a climber,” I need to be climbing much, much harder. To be a “real” rando skier, I need to be logging lots of vert. and skiing big objectives all the time.
I Suppose I think it’s safer to be a dilletante. By doing lots of things, I have an excuse for not being great at any one thing.
This is where my mind was that morning, on the mat. But as D’ana, the instructor, walked in and started class, it occurred to me that even though I’ve bounced from climbing to skiing to running for years, yoga has quietly and continually been along for the ride. From my very first class in State College to impromptu rooftop practice in Kathmandu, from Boulder’s crowded Bikram workshops to flow classes in the posh studios of Aspen, yoga has been part of my life.
As we segued from the initial breathing exercise into forward bends – diving forward, gently moving our heads back and forth and relaxing our crown charkas to the floor – I realized that yoga is more than “part of my life.” Yoga is critical, is huge, is, well, my ee ki guy*
*Ee Ki Guy = a sense of purpose. A reason to live. A life force. I learned about this concept from the lovely Marit.
It’s like a family member whose unconditional love is so assured that it’s easy to take it for granted. As such, I frequently turn away from yoga, preferring the faster, sweatier, easier sports: running, skiing, climbing.
But I always return to the mat, usually a little achy and overworked, and hard as it is to imagine focusing on my breathing for an hour to 90 minutes, it never takes long to realize this: yoga makes everything better.
Yoga saw me through college, when I battled anorexia the injuries that came from running a hundred miles a week on six hundred calories a day. It was like a friend in Nepal, where I practiced alone for hours while staring at the fishtail peak and thinking about the thesis I wasn’t writing. In Boulder, yoga was a respite from heartbreak and tragedy, my daily 90 minutes on the mat providence from the acute awareness of what I no longer had. And in Western Colorado, where I felt like a visitor the entire three years I lived there, yoga was something I knew intimately, even while I re-introduced myself to the same classmates and instructors I’d met countless times.
Backbends boost confidence. That’s no secret; it’s been a yoga fact since Sidartha sat under the Bodhi tree. But only recently have I switched from hearing it spoken in class while half-listening/half-daydreaming, to feeling it for myself.
My home is now Salt Lake City. I feel grounded here. Maybe that’s why I’ve returned to yoga with the fervor of revival tent converts – snake handling types. I’m releasing into backbends with little fear of nausea or dizziness. I’m letting go of mind control. Instead of focusing on how poses should look, I’m just letting them evolve by deepening my breath and relaxing my brain. And from that relaxation comes contentedness.
Since returning to the mat two months ago, I’ve moved through self-consciousness and embarrassment. I’ve fallen out of more poses than I’ve stuck, but I think that’s because I’m trying harder. Crow to side crow to crane. The feeling that I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing; the feeling that this is what I was meant to do.
2.07.2008
Wild Oats is No Longer Dead to Me
Ok, Wild Oats, you win.
While the man behind the deli counter was glacially slow-moving, at least he asked me no questions other than, "red pepper or basil pesto?"
I opted for red pepper; it was the right choice.
Have I mentioned how much I'm loving being omnivorous once again?
Today's lunch followed a trip to the dog park, where Arnie and Sammy the Hound Dog played, "I BARK IN YOUR FACE! BARK AT YOU! BARK AT YOU! BARK AT YOU I DO!" and Red chased a ball in an attempt to feign normalcy. His facade cracked when a puppy waddled over to say hello, which so unnerved Red that he ran to a corner of the park and quietly licked his paws while maniacally staring at everyone like a sociopath.
I don't care, though, I love my little social misfit.
In fact, even as I delight in my red pepper-pestoed sandwich, the furry deviant is sitting on my feet to remind me that he's very, very, very hungry.
And Arnold is doing this.
2.06.2008
In Which Brad Wears His Wedding Ring
Andrew took this picture of Brad after a particularly harrowing rappel into either Heaps or Imogene Canyon (don’t even get me started on canyoneering, but suffice it to say that I associate it with people who wear zip-off pants, no deodorant and enjoy eating gorp – no offense Brad and Andrew, I know you guys like canyoneering. And probably gorp).
What I love about this picture is not that my husband is especially adorable (but he is), nor that he’s sporting a bad-ass rope burn (from the aforementioned rappel) on his leg.
No, what I want you to notice is that he is wearing his wedding ring (on the cord around his neck).
For the first time.
Ever.
I’m touched.
Even if he only wears it in front of the canyoneering dorks (probably a lot like Dungeons & Dragons dorks, but with more gore-tex), it still makes me happy.
Oh, and the other item on the necklace is a Saint Bernard Charm. He’s the patron saint of skiers and alpinists, and while I typically disregard religion as a bunch of hooey, I often find myself praying to Saint Bernard.
It's Funny Because It's True.
I found this on Libby’s bloggie thingie – not a blog, but like a blog, but more interactive and also purpler – and had to share it.
So funny, so funny, so funny.
The cat totally has the voice of Stewie from Family Guy . The dog might sound like Arnie, but probably sounds more like Satchel from Get Fuzzy.
A Day In The Life Of A Dog And A Cat
The Dog’s Diary:
8:00 AM - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 AM - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 AM - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 AM - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
The Cat’s Diary:
Day 983 of my captivity.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an Attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and Snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously Retarded.
The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the Guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an Elevated Cell, so he is safe.
For now.
So funny, so funny, so funny.
The cat totally has the voice of Stewie from Family Guy . The dog might sound like Arnie, but probably sounds more like Satchel from Get Fuzzy.
A Day In The Life Of A Dog And A Cat
The Dog’s Diary:
8:00 AM - Dog food! My favorite thing!
9:30 AM - A car ride! My favorite thing!
9:40 AM - A walk in the park! My favorite thing!
10:30 AM - Got rubbed and petted! My favorite thing!
12:00 PM - Milk bones! My favorite thing!
1:00 PM - Played in the yard! My favorite thing!
3:00 PM - Wagged my tail! My favorite thing!
5:00 PM - Dinner! My favorite thing!
7:00 PM - Got to play ball! My favorite thing!
8:00 PM - Wow! Watched TV with the people! My favorite thing!
11:00 PM - Sleeping on the bed! My favorite thing!
The Cat’s Diary:
Day 983 of my captivity.
My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.
They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.
The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape. In an Attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet. Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet. I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates my capabilities. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a “good little hunter” I am. Bastards!
There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of “allergies.” I must learn what this means, and how to use it to my advantage.
Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow, but at the top of the stairs.
I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and Snitches. The dog receives special privileges. He is regularly released, and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously Retarded.
The bird must be an informant. I observe him communicate with the Guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an Elevated Cell, so he is safe.
For now.
2.05.2008
I almost just killed everyone in Wild Oats.
I hate Wild Oats.
I know - "hate" is an incredibly emotional word. I shouldn't just throw around because it carries a lot of weight and power. I usually try to limit my use of "hate" for those things that really deserve it: white jeans, bad blond highlights, peep-toe shoes in Winter (HAVE YOU PEOPLE NO SHAME???).
But just now, at Wild Oats, I felt hate in a big way. Here's why:
It's lunchtime in Salt Lake City, and I have 2 options for organic-ish cuisine. The Oasis - a delightful restaurant - takes too long, so Wild Oats it is. As I steer into the too-small parking lot of the too-expensive food conglomerate, I am forced to slam on my brakes because the guy in front of me stops short. Aha! He's noticed a woman walking to her car parked in a nearby spot, and because he can't be bothered to walk more than 15 feet from parking space to food merchant, he causes a traffic back-up that reaches into the main road.
I park in my usual spot, waaaaaaay over there. I like parking far away because it reminds me to be grateful for my healthy body and my ability to walk long(ish) distances. Plus, it allows me to judge the seemingly able-bodied lazy people who take up all the front-and-center spots, forcing old people to walk farther than is probably advisable.
Once inside the store, after I recover from walking into a wall of patchouli, I head to the deli counter. No browsing today - I'm busy at work, so it's in and out. I patiently* wait my turn , and once the mouthbreather behind the counter understands that the woman in front of me wants her sandwich "TO GO" but "WITH NO MAYO," he turns to me.
"Hi, I'd like a small container of the Sonoma Chicken Salad."
"Hey, didn't I meet you at the Depot?" Mouthbreather is staring, all slackjawed and blank-eyed, at my face. He is temporarily taken back to some night at the Depot (local music venue) when he met someone who in some way maybe resembled me, probably because she also happened to be female and alive.
"No, you didn't. Just a small container of Sonoma Chicken Salad, please."
"Cuz you totally look like this chick I met there. Maaary? Jenniferrrr? Saaaarah?"
Remember all that patience I was displaying? Well, neither do I, but if I HAD BEEN being patient, rest assured, I wasn't now. "I'm sorry, but I really need to get back to work. I'm quite sure that I've never met you - I mean, you're like 12 and I'm 30 - so could I please just have a small container of Sonoma Chicken Salad? There are lots of people in line."
There are. And they are evenly split between laughing at me and glaring at me. I hate them all.
"Yeah, dude, no worries. What do you want again?"
Jesus Christ. "No worries" (which is a close second to "it's all good" on my list of things-people-say-that-makes-me-want-to-punch-them) is bad enough, but to then forget what I'd asked him for no less than three times, less than 5 seconds ago, well...this is why it sometime sucks to not just eat ramen noodles everyday.
After a few more moments of similar polite and jovial banter, I head toward the cash register, Sonoma Chicken Salad in hand. I'm so desperate to get out of the store I don't even pause to consider buying a chocolate covered graham cracker or an Uncle Eddie's cookie for dessert.
After waiting in line behind a man who had taken the time to select and bag numerous items from the bulk food aisle, but not to write down or remember their codes, I watch the cashier attempt to bag those many little parcels of seeds and nuts and grains and twigs. When, on his 4th go, he successfully lands each bag into the shopper's grocery tote, I almost applaud his fine display of both agility and efficiency. Then it dawns on me that this is no ordinary cashier. This is a man who has very recently smoked such copious amounts of weed that he can neither open his eyes nor stop laughing.
For the love of god. I don't care if you smoke pot. I don't care if you bake it into brownies or take massive and frequent hits out of a 5 foot bong. Whatever works for you. Be my guest.
But really, being this stoned at work? Is this what we're doing now?
This guy is completely obliterated. He can't type on the cash register - which is "so hilarious, dude"- and he can barely scan the container. When he finally looks up at me, presumably to tell me the price, he pauses, looks momentarily befuddled, then bemused. Instead of asking for $4 or 5 dollars or however much the chicken salad cost (what, is it made of gold?), he cocks his dreadlocks to one side and asks, "Didn't I meet you at the Depot?"
*By "patiently," I mean that I tap my boots and check my email and sigh and cross and uncross my arms. I would make a big show of checking my watch, too, but I left it in Lizzie's car so I can't.
I know - "hate" is an incredibly emotional word. I shouldn't just throw around because it carries a lot of weight and power. I usually try to limit my use of "hate" for those things that really deserve it: white jeans, bad blond highlights, peep-toe shoes in Winter (HAVE YOU PEOPLE NO SHAME???).
But just now, at Wild Oats, I felt hate in a big way. Here's why:
It's lunchtime in Salt Lake City, and I have 2 options for organic-ish cuisine. The Oasis - a delightful restaurant - takes too long, so Wild Oats it is. As I steer into the too-small parking lot of the too-expensive food conglomerate, I am forced to slam on my brakes because the guy in front of me stops short. Aha! He's noticed a woman walking to her car parked in a nearby spot, and because he can't be bothered to walk more than 15 feet from parking space to food merchant, he causes a traffic back-up that reaches into the main road.
I park in my usual spot, waaaaaaay over there. I like parking far away because it reminds me to be grateful for my healthy body and my ability to walk long(ish) distances. Plus, it allows me to judge the seemingly able-bodied lazy people who take up all the front-and-center spots, forcing old people to walk farther than is probably advisable.
Once inside the store, after I recover from walking into a wall of patchouli, I head to the deli counter. No browsing today - I'm busy at work, so it's in and out. I patiently* wait my turn , and once the mouthbreather behind the counter understands that the woman in front of me wants her sandwich "TO GO" but "WITH NO MAYO," he turns to me.
"Hi, I'd like a small container of the Sonoma Chicken Salad."
"Hey, didn't I meet you at the Depot?" Mouthbreather is staring, all slackjawed and blank-eyed, at my face. He is temporarily taken back to some night at the Depot (local music venue) when he met someone who in some way maybe resembled me, probably because she also happened to be female and alive.
"No, you didn't. Just a small container of Sonoma Chicken Salad, please."
"Cuz you totally look like this chick I met there. Maaary? Jenniferrrr? Saaaarah?"
Remember all that patience I was displaying? Well, neither do I, but if I HAD BEEN being patient, rest assured, I wasn't now. "I'm sorry, but I really need to get back to work. I'm quite sure that I've never met you - I mean, you're like 12 and I'm 30 - so could I please just have a small container of Sonoma Chicken Salad? There are lots of people in line."
There are. And they are evenly split between laughing at me and glaring at me. I hate them all.
"Yeah, dude, no worries. What do you want again?"
Jesus Christ. "No worries" (which is a close second to "it's all good" on my list of things-people-say-that-makes-me-want-to-punch-them) is bad enough, but to then forget what I'd asked him for no less than three times, less than 5 seconds ago, well...this is why it sometime sucks to not just eat ramen noodles everyday.
After a few more moments of similar polite and jovial banter, I head toward the cash register, Sonoma Chicken Salad in hand. I'm so desperate to get out of the store I don't even pause to consider buying a chocolate covered graham cracker or an Uncle Eddie's cookie for dessert.
After waiting in line behind a man who had taken the time to select and bag numerous items from the bulk food aisle, but not to write down or remember their codes, I watch the cashier attempt to bag those many little parcels of seeds and nuts and grains and twigs. When, on his 4th go, he successfully lands each bag into the shopper's grocery tote, I almost applaud his fine display of both agility and efficiency. Then it dawns on me that this is no ordinary cashier. This is a man who has very recently smoked such copious amounts of weed that he can neither open his eyes nor stop laughing.
For the love of god. I don't care if you smoke pot. I don't care if you bake it into brownies or take massive and frequent hits out of a 5 foot bong. Whatever works for you. Be my guest.
But really, being this stoned at work? Is this what we're doing now?
This guy is completely obliterated. He can't type on the cash register - which is "so hilarious, dude"- and he can barely scan the container. When he finally looks up at me, presumably to tell me the price, he pauses, looks momentarily befuddled, then bemused. Instead of asking for $4 or 5 dollars or however much the chicken salad cost (what, is it made of gold?), he cocks his dreadlocks to one side and asks, "Didn't I meet you at the Depot?"
*By "patiently," I mean that I tap my boots and check my email and sigh and cross and uncross my arms. I would make a big show of checking my watch, too, but I left it in Lizzie's car so I can't.
Women Who Reached for the Ballots. Or, That Deaf Girl From Weeds For President.
At the risk of alienating my beloved readers, I'm posting this video. Now, I'm not even sure, at this point in the day, who I'm going to vote for (so Mitchell, if you're reading this, you can just settle right on down), but the message in the video, the idea that "yes we can" affect change - in our government, in our healthcare system, in our economy - is one that transcends candidates and - at least in this election cycle - even parties. So vote, ok?
Because you CAN. And that's not true everywhere, for everyone.
Because you CAN. And that's not true everywhere, for everyone.
2.04.2008
It's like they somehow got inside Brad's brain.
Animals? Check.
Rocky theme song? Check.
Rocky training montage reference? Check.
Damn, they know him better than I do.
Rocky theme song? Check.
Rocky training montage reference? Check.
Damn, they know him better than I do.
2.01.2008
I'm from Pennsylvania, see?
So Groundhog Day is a very, very big deal.
Very, very big.
I'm thinking of making some official Groundhog Sugar Cookies tonight. Incidentally, even though they use the same recipe as Holiday Sugar Cookies (and those include both Dreidel and Christmas Tree Sugar Cookies), Valentine's Day Sugar Cookies, Birthday Sugar Cookies and I-Need-a-Vehicle-From-Which-to-Consume-Icing Cookies, Groundhog Sugar Cookies taste different....More gamey, I suppose.
Rainbow Bike
Now that I’ve freed myself of all things bike, including shoes, pedals, knickers, arm warmers (although I still wear the knitted variety) and my foot pump (but only because I lost it), I’ve been thinking about cyclocross.
I know. It’s very K-typical (typical of Katie). As soon as something’s out of my life, I want it back.
The thing is, cyclocross reminds me of mountain biking when I first got into it. Back when cross country races didn’t require 8 inches of travel and a 40 pound bike. Back when there were like 3 women racing NORBA Sport class and we all knew each other and we all helped each other finish strong.
Back when mountain bikers wore lycra instead of gangster clothing.
Not that I ever actually enjoyed wearing the lycra, but at least it made sense. The baggy apparel? I don’t understand it.
And all these bike thoughts reminded me of the best bike I ever owned.
Rainbow Bike.
A found treasure, Rainbow Bike had green rims, a blue frame, red handlebars and an aftermarket purple horn (a birthday present from my folks). There was yellow on it, too, but I can’t remember where. I found it in the alley behind Zeno’s. I worked there, and one night when I walked out back to toss a trash bag, I noticed Rainbow Bike on top of the garbage pile. It was raining that night – it was Pennsylvania, after all – so the bike looked shiny and new.
“So much depends on a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens.”
When my shift ended, I walked it home (two flat tires on wheels badly in need of truing) and showed it to my housemate Eric, who nobly carried it into our workshop, emerging a few hours later with my functional, rollable art.
It was beautiful. 3 speed. Springy seat. Basket. I miss it.
I pedaled it all over State College and on one ill-advised kayak shuttle, through Bellefonte. It was a fun way to travel. With wide handlebars and big tires, it threw people off; it made them smile.
I parked Rainbow Bike on our sagging, wooden back porch amidst prayer flags, empty IPA bottles, an old rope spool that served as a table and a couple cracked plastic chairs.
Four days a week I walked it off the porch, off the curb and pedaled down Buckhout Street. At Beaver Avenue I took a left, and at Pugh Street I took another. A few blocks north, I crossed College Avenue – pausing at the corner to window shop at Moyer’s Jewelers – and rolled onto campus.
I always locked Rainbow Bike around a skinny elm in front of the Burroughs building, which housed most of my English and poetry classes. That particular tree – among the dozens of others on that mall in front of Patee Library – reminded me of a old man: a little wrinkled, a little gaunt, but proud enough to stand up straight. I looped a chainlock around the trunk and secured everything with a hot pink padlock. I still remember the combination: my grandparents’ wedding anniversary.
I know. It’s very K-typical (typical of Katie). As soon as something’s out of my life, I want it back.
The thing is, cyclocross reminds me of mountain biking when I first got into it. Back when cross country races didn’t require 8 inches of travel and a 40 pound bike. Back when there were like 3 women racing NORBA Sport class and we all knew each other and we all helped each other finish strong.
Back when mountain bikers wore lycra instead of gangster clothing.
Not that I ever actually enjoyed wearing the lycra, but at least it made sense. The baggy apparel? I don’t understand it.
And all these bike thoughts reminded me of the best bike I ever owned.
Rainbow Bike.
A found treasure, Rainbow Bike had green rims, a blue frame, red handlebars and an aftermarket purple horn (a birthday present from my folks). There was yellow on it, too, but I can’t remember where. I found it in the alley behind Zeno’s. I worked there, and one night when I walked out back to toss a trash bag, I noticed Rainbow Bike on top of the garbage pile. It was raining that night – it was Pennsylvania, after all – so the bike looked shiny and new.
“So much depends on a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens.”
When my shift ended, I walked it home (two flat tires on wheels badly in need of truing) and showed it to my housemate Eric, who nobly carried it into our workshop, emerging a few hours later with my functional, rollable art.
It was beautiful. 3 speed. Springy seat. Basket. I miss it.
I pedaled it all over State College and on one ill-advised kayak shuttle, through Bellefonte. It was a fun way to travel. With wide handlebars and big tires, it threw people off; it made them smile.
I parked Rainbow Bike on our sagging, wooden back porch amidst prayer flags, empty IPA bottles, an old rope spool that served as a table and a couple cracked plastic chairs.
Four days a week I walked it off the porch, off the curb and pedaled down Buckhout Street. At Beaver Avenue I took a left, and at Pugh Street I took another. A few blocks north, I crossed College Avenue – pausing at the corner to window shop at Moyer’s Jewelers – and rolled onto campus.
I always locked Rainbow Bike around a skinny elm in front of the Burroughs building, which housed most of my English and poetry classes. That particular tree – among the dozens of others on that mall in front of Patee Library – reminded me of a old man: a little wrinkled, a little gaunt, but proud enough to stand up straight. I looped a chainlock around the trunk and secured everything with a hot pink padlock. I still remember the combination: my grandparents’ wedding anniversary.
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