I’m usually reading.
I read in the car, on planes, in bed, in lines for coffee or at the grocery store, at climbing areas between burns....Whatever the situation, I'm usually reading.
I read blogs, magazines and novels, not particularly in that order and never non-fiction unless Brad tricks me into a roadtrip-worthy book-on-cd that sounds like fiction, but turns out to have actually happened (he’s sneaky like that).
The things I read are always uplifting and rarely deal with heavy issues, with the exception of the New Yorker, which I read solely because it allows me, in what I like to call “grad school tones” to say things like, “Oh, did you see that article in the New Yorker about the fortune cookie fortune writer shortage? It’s heartbreaking that such a centuries-old trade is dying with its tradesmen.” (For more on this side of me, see here.)
Lately, though, I’ve read a few books that are worth a mention, by which I mean, “These books were so good that upon their conclusion I put my head down and cried because they were over.”
These weren’t my usual brain-fare, either; these weren’t chick lit novels or websites devoted to finding the Veronique Branquinho tie dye maxi dress Sarah Jessica Parker wore in the Sex and the City movie (which has only recently replaced my quest for the long, patchwork, J. Crew Talitha dress).
Full disclosure: I’m shallow and black-hearted and the search for these, the holy grails of dresses, does, actually, seem like a good and worthy way to spend my time. There. Now that that’s out there, we don’t have to go on pretending otherwise.
I mention these books now in hopes that you’ll rush out the bookstore and buy copies of these gems so that the authors (brilliant and hilarious) will receive fat advances from their publishers, allowing them to continue to churn out the material that delights me so.
(Add “selfish” to “shallow and black-hearted.”)
The first book:
"I Was Told There’d Be Cake," by Sloane Crosley
Wonderful and charming. More than once, while reading this book, I had to stop and put it down so I could throw my head back and laugh and clap my hands in delight. It’s that good. I want to be friends with this woman whose writing is so sharp while so subtle. From all the interviews I’ve read, it sounds like she’s even wonderfuller in real life – like she has that ability, unique to Swedes and hipsters from the East Village, to wear jeans and a black tank top and not look boring.
The second book:
"Possible Side Effects," by Augusten Burroughs
Actually, everything by Augusten Burroughs.
All his work is good. While a little sad at times (his unconventional childhood couldn’t have been easy), he manages to tell the unhappy parts with such a distanced bemusement that it’s not hard to read. One of my favorite parts of “Running With Scissors” (his big hit) is when he talks about how, as a kid, he covered his family’s Golden Retriever, Cream, in aluminum foil, because he “loved shiny things.”
So there you have it: my two-book list for pleasurable reading.
Enjoy.
7.23.2008
7.18.2008
Today I Thought of Gary Snyder.
Early this morning, Brad and I climbed the Third Pillar of Dana with four dear friends. After waking and quickly drinking one cup of coffee (just barely enough), we left our Tuoloumne Meadows campsite early enough to see steam rising from the creeks.
This five-pitch route features what is widely considered the best 5.10 pitch in the Sierra; it is as close to perfect as anything I’ve ever climbed.
I almost didn’t go. I said that I needed to work, which was only partially true. Actually, I was scared. I was nervous about the approach that the guidebook promised was 2-3 hours. I was afraid of the “loose, steep gulley” that led to the base of the climb. I was nervous about the route itself – about getting lost, about the exposure, about loose rock. I was worried about not being able to keep up with the group, about holding everyone back.
In fact, it was fine. I kept up. The approach took us 90 minutes. The gulley was no big deal, and actually, kind of fun. The routefinding was tricky, but manageable, and the exposure was mild. The day was casual; the climbing stellar, not scary. I found a groove I thought I'd lost. I discovered strengths I'd forgotten about. I remembered that I love the mountains, the experience outweighing the possibility of danger.
And as I sat on a comfortable ledge in the warm Sierra sun and belayed Alex on the second pitch, I thought, "I can’t imagine missing this day."
And it struck me: this place takes patience. The routes wander, the approaches climb gradually. The descents require care, the stream-crossings caution. The Sierra is a place to take things slowly, to reflect, to consider.
Gary Snyder knew that. Here's a representation of his awareness:
This five-pitch route features what is widely considered the best 5.10 pitch in the Sierra; it is as close to perfect as anything I’ve ever climbed.
I almost didn’t go. I said that I needed to work, which was only partially true. Actually, I was scared. I was nervous about the approach that the guidebook promised was 2-3 hours. I was afraid of the “loose, steep gulley” that led to the base of the climb. I was nervous about the route itself – about getting lost, about the exposure, about loose rock. I was worried about not being able to keep up with the group, about holding everyone back.
In fact, it was fine. I kept up. The approach took us 90 minutes. The gulley was no big deal, and actually, kind of fun. The routefinding was tricky, but manageable, and the exposure was mild. The day was casual; the climbing stellar, not scary. I found a groove I thought I'd lost. I discovered strengths I'd forgotten about. I remembered that I love the mountains, the experience outweighing the possibility of danger.
And as I sat on a comfortable ledge in the warm Sierra sun and belayed Alex on the second pitch, I thought, "I can’t imagine missing this day."
And it struck me: this place takes patience. The routes wander, the approaches climb gradually. The descents require care, the stream-crossings caution. The Sierra is a place to take things slowly, to reflect, to consider.
Gary Snyder knew that. Here's a representation of his awareness:
Mid-August at Sourdough Mountain Lookout
Down valley a smoke haze
Three days heat, after five days rain
Pitch glows on the fir-cones
Across rocks and meadows
Swarms of new flies.
I cannot remember things I once read
A few friends, but they are in cities.
Drinking cold snow-water from a tin cup
Looking down for miles
Through high still air.
7.15.2008
Oh, you're still here?
I wonder if anyone's still reading?
I have been lazy about writing lately. It's been hot, I haven't been sleeping well and the more I didn't write, the easier it was to continue not writing, the harder it was to get my thoughts down.
So here I am, checking in and saying, "stay tuned. There's more to come."
It's just that I have to get some exercise right now, and I have to give Arnie a bath because he just rolled in dead fish at the river.
It's totally awesome that he's sleeping on the bed right now, too.
I have been lazy about writing lately. It's been hot, I haven't been sleeping well and the more I didn't write, the easier it was to continue not writing, the harder it was to get my thoughts down.
So here I am, checking in and saying, "stay tuned. There's more to come."
It's just that I have to get some exercise right now, and I have to give Arnie a bath because he just rolled in dead fish at the river.
It's totally awesome that he's sleeping on the bed right now, too.
7.01.2008
Whodaho
This weekend, Brad and I and some dear friends met in Idaho for some climbing, eating, drinking (thanks, Ian, for the grappa!) and campfires.
We were in the City of Rocks. Here are some photos, courtesy of Nicole (and you're so lucky, because Nicole is a total magician with a camera...check out her site to see how amazing she is).
Here I am with my boys (see my fancy and protective sunshirt? I bought it at a secondhand store for $8. It's like a Hokusai on polyester...):
Here's Brad sending a hard, technical route while the rest of us sat around and waited for him to put the rope up:
Here's Lizzie with the Foxy Moxie (note her pretty polka-dotted collar):
Here are some ponies:
I know I sound like Fletch again ("and here are the dogs who tried to bite me, and this is my rental car...") but I can't help it, because I think Nicole's pictures are so pretty, I want you all to see them.
And one final shot of Idaho. See? It's not all doomsday cults and potatoes. There are rocks there, too:
We were in the City of Rocks. Here are some photos, courtesy of Nicole (and you're so lucky, because Nicole is a total magician with a camera...check out her site to see how amazing she is).
Here I am with my boys (see my fancy and protective sunshirt? I bought it at a secondhand store for $8. It's like a Hokusai on polyester...):
Here's Brad sending a hard, technical route while the rest of us sat around and waited for him to put the rope up:
Here's Lizzie with the Foxy Moxie (note her pretty polka-dotted collar):
Here are some ponies:
I know I sound like Fletch again ("and here are the dogs who tried to bite me, and this is my rental car...") but I can't help it, because I think Nicole's pictures are so pretty, I want you all to see them.And one final shot of Idaho. See? It's not all doomsday cults and potatoes. There are rocks there, too:
6.26.2008
Caledonia, part II
A couple weekends ago, six friends met in Vail to celebrate the upcoming birth of M’s baby. We used to live near one another in Carbondale, a small mountain town on Colorado’s Western Slope, but jobs and relationships and other plans carried three of us elsewhere. When we all lived in Carbondale, one of us was married and, initially, no one had kids. Now there are two kids (one of them in utero), four marriages, different jobs, new homes. There have been deaths and births and fights and reconciliation. There have been phases (short, dark hair) and trends (skinny jeans) and altered perspectives. There has been - as there will be - lots of change.
I didn’t realize, until this weekend, how much I’ve forgotten about Carbondale. It was a lonely place for me; I felt terribly awkward most of the time. Sitting in that condo in Vail, listening to the gossip and stories about the people and places in that town caused blocked-out memories to flood at a staggering rate. As my friends, one by one, washed their faces and brushed their teeth and went to bed, I grew increasingly uneasy, agitated. All of a sudden it was 3 am and I was astonishingly awake, entrenched in memories I’d worked hard to bury.
Looking back, I see that I made it harder than it really was. I isolated myself; I assumed people wouldn’t accept me so I didn’t give them a chance. I still do that, but now that I live in a bigger town, it’s not so out loud and obvious. Hiding in Salt Lake doesn’t mean cowering in my room, hoping that no one will drive by and see the light on and knock on the door. It means spending time in a different part of town, going to a different café for my americanos, being alone but in the middle of things. It’s still fucked up, but it’s easier to pretend otherwise.
One of my friends mentioned maybe being ready to leave Carbondale. She’s been in that town for years and the whole community would suffer her loss. When asked where she’d go, she named a tiny town in an even more remote location. Just the thought of moving to a town that small had me hyperventilating. It was then that I realized that I love living in a city (technically, I guess, I live in the suburbs, but it’s really, really close to downtown, despite what my husband will tell you). I love that I can choose to see people or not, that I can go for days being totally unknown and anonymous. It makes for better people watching and observing, which I need like I need water and air.
But at what cost? Because all that observing is actually starting to hurt me, I think. A few nights ago, sitting with Brad at the base of a climb I’m working on, I started crying because I felt like everyone I knew would have just climbed the route and moved on, while I was freaking out about it. I was comparing myself to these imagined others whom I’d built up to be larger than life, infallible, far more capable than I. And the truth is, I don’t know that for sure. It’s just something I’ve trained myself to believe, even though I know, somewhere in me, that it’s not true.
After climbing, Brad and I played Boggle with his parents. I stared at the letters as the white Hasbro sand fell through the plastic hourglass, feeling certain that I’d identified every word in the grid.
“Canoe,” announced my mother-in-law, pointing at each letter.
What? Canoe? I’d listed can, cane and one, but I hadn’t seen canoe.
“Batter,” she went on, and though I’d seen bat, tab, brat and bra, I’d missed batter.
The night went on in that vein. The sand ran out and I’d drop my pen, confident that, this time, I’d identified every word. And then Brad and his folks would list word after word that I’d completely overlooked.
Even though I’m wildly competitive when it comes to word games, the night didn’t frustrate me; I just thought it was interesting. How could four people, looking at the exact same letters, see such different words?
And then it hit me like a canoe to the head:
We see what we can.
When I lived in Carbondale, I saw myself as an excluded, awkward oaf, because that’s what I thought I needed to do to protect myself from potential shunning. My friends don't get that, though, and still ask me when I'm going to move back. To them it's Caledonia. To me it's a nightmare. At the base of the climb the other night, I thought about the people I know who say, "Oh, yeah, that's a great route," because they see it as it is, rather than what I've built it up to be.
I’ll never go back to Carbondale – it was just too hard a time for me. I’ll climb that route, though. As soon as I realize that other people have to work at things, too. As soon as I can see that I’m not the only one who struggles from time to time.
I think my Caledonia is a place where I am able to accept my shortcomings so entirely that it won’t knock me over me if other people point them out. Because, as my mom always said, I am pretty hard on myself, and most people – most people – never notice the faults I spend so much time trying to hide.
I didn’t realize, until this weekend, how much I’ve forgotten about Carbondale. It was a lonely place for me; I felt terribly awkward most of the time. Sitting in that condo in Vail, listening to the gossip and stories about the people and places in that town caused blocked-out memories to flood at a staggering rate. As my friends, one by one, washed their faces and brushed their teeth and went to bed, I grew increasingly uneasy, agitated. All of a sudden it was 3 am and I was astonishingly awake, entrenched in memories I’d worked hard to bury.
Looking back, I see that I made it harder than it really was. I isolated myself; I assumed people wouldn’t accept me so I didn’t give them a chance. I still do that, but now that I live in a bigger town, it’s not so out loud and obvious. Hiding in Salt Lake doesn’t mean cowering in my room, hoping that no one will drive by and see the light on and knock on the door. It means spending time in a different part of town, going to a different café for my americanos, being alone but in the middle of things. It’s still fucked up, but it’s easier to pretend otherwise.
One of my friends mentioned maybe being ready to leave Carbondale. She’s been in that town for years and the whole community would suffer her loss. When asked where she’d go, she named a tiny town in an even more remote location. Just the thought of moving to a town that small had me hyperventilating. It was then that I realized that I love living in a city (technically, I guess, I live in the suburbs, but it’s really, really close to downtown, despite what my husband will tell you). I love that I can choose to see people or not, that I can go for days being totally unknown and anonymous. It makes for better people watching and observing, which I need like I need water and air.
But at what cost? Because all that observing is actually starting to hurt me, I think. A few nights ago, sitting with Brad at the base of a climb I’m working on, I started crying because I felt like everyone I knew would have just climbed the route and moved on, while I was freaking out about it. I was comparing myself to these imagined others whom I’d built up to be larger than life, infallible, far more capable than I. And the truth is, I don’t know that for sure. It’s just something I’ve trained myself to believe, even though I know, somewhere in me, that it’s not true.
After climbing, Brad and I played Boggle with his parents. I stared at the letters as the white Hasbro sand fell through the plastic hourglass, feeling certain that I’d identified every word in the grid.
“Canoe,” announced my mother-in-law, pointing at each letter.
What? Canoe? I’d listed can, cane and one, but I hadn’t seen canoe.
“Batter,” she went on, and though I’d seen bat, tab, brat and bra, I’d missed batter.
The night went on in that vein. The sand ran out and I’d drop my pen, confident that, this time, I’d identified every word. And then Brad and his folks would list word after word that I’d completely overlooked.
Even though I’m wildly competitive when it comes to word games, the night didn’t frustrate me; I just thought it was interesting. How could four people, looking at the exact same letters, see such different words?
And then it hit me like a canoe to the head:
We see what we can.
When I lived in Carbondale, I saw myself as an excluded, awkward oaf, because that’s what I thought I needed to do to protect myself from potential shunning. My friends don't get that, though, and still ask me when I'm going to move back. To them it's Caledonia. To me it's a nightmare. At the base of the climb the other night, I thought about the people I know who say, "Oh, yeah, that's a great route," because they see it as it is, rather than what I've built it up to be.
I’ll never go back to Carbondale – it was just too hard a time for me. I’ll climb that route, though. As soon as I realize that other people have to work at things, too. As soon as I can see that I’m not the only one who struggles from time to time.
I think my Caledonia is a place where I am able to accept my shortcomings so entirely that it won’t knock me over me if other people point them out. Because, as my mom always said, I am pretty hard on myself, and most people – most people – never notice the faults I spend so much time trying to hide.
6.24.2008
Sew Hot Right Now
I've been inspired by Cindy and Lisagh and all the other craft-capable ladies in blogland, so I dusted off my sewing machine and have been unfolding and re-folding fabric and unrolling and re-rolling ribbon and looking around helplessly wondering, "where do I start?"
So I'm asking you: where do you go for pattern inspiration? I've looked on the world wide web, and there are some sites that seem pretty helpful, but where do you go for patterns, inspiration, ideas, etc.?
So I'm asking you: where do you go for pattern inspiration? I've looked on the world wide web, and there are some sites that seem pretty helpful, but where do you go for patterns, inspiration, ideas, etc.?
6.21.2008
Especially the Mango...
According to delightfully silly yet neatly-coiffed pundit Stephen Colbert, fruit is un-American. I couldn't agree more.
The patriotic tendencies of fruit came under fire when it was revealed that it had recently replaced cookies as the number one snack in America (for kiddos under 6).
As part of his diatribe on fruit and its lack of patriotism, Stephen singled out Cookie Monster for contributing to the cookie’s decline in popularity. Check it out:
There are three famous men whom I admire: Mark Doty, David Sedaris and Stephen Colbert. Oh, well, and Billy Collins makes four. Because Stephen went head to furry blue head Cookie Monster and refused to buy into the newly passed fruit-agenda, he’s currently on top of my list.
The patriotic tendencies of fruit came under fire when it was revealed that it had recently replaced cookies as the number one snack in America (for kiddos under 6).
As part of his diatribe on fruit and its lack of patriotism, Stephen singled out Cookie Monster for contributing to the cookie’s decline in popularity. Check it out:
There are three famous men whom I admire: Mark Doty, David Sedaris and Stephen Colbert. Oh, well, and Billy Collins makes four. Because Stephen went head to furry blue head Cookie Monster and refused to buy into the newly passed fruit-agenda, he’s currently on top of my list.
6.12.2008
Thursday's Thirteen*
13 Things I Love Today:
1. This picture. Oh, how I love that picture.
2. Attus Apparel. I like this shirt best.
3. Saying "the" before an illness or disease (even though there's nothing funny about illness or
disease), as in, "the gout." It always makes me laugh.
4. Jack Donaghy, because he says things like, "Your hair is your headsuit" and, "Never go with a hippie to a second location."
5. The swimming I get to do with my dogs every single day. Big Cottonwood Creek flows into a reservoir near my house, so every evening after work, the boys and I head over there to chase tennis balls, frisbees, rocks, sticks and, once, an unfortunate duck. (Nothing bad happened to Mister Duck. Arnie just swam around behind him for the better part of 20 minutes. The duck was pissed; he kept looking at Arnie and saying, "QUACK!" And Arnie would just look back to shore like he was saying to me, like, "What is this guy so upset about?") And my favorite part, after swimming, while the boys dry on the patio, their fur goes all punk rock.
Arnie Ramone:
And Red Viscous:
6. My new pilates instructor, who looks exactly like Amy Sedaris. Except less sprinkley.
7. My recently purchased vintage Lilly one-shouldered dress. I can't wait to wear it next week.
8. This book. The most beautiful thing ever ever, and we all have the lovely Erin to thank for telling us about it.
9. How I can go to Barnes & Noble and root through all their magazines for all the titles and contact information I need without anyone bothering me.
10. The ruby throated hummingbird at our feeder right now.
11. This site, which informed me that said hummingbird is probably not a ruby throated. Maybe a bumblebee hummingbird?
12. My Shasta Daisies, which are finally starting to bloom. They make me think of Mount Shasta and the Lemurians, who are probably just looking for pot.
13. It's definitely quilt weather tonight.
*The original name of this post was Thursday's Thirty, but that was too intimidating.
1. This picture. Oh, how I love that picture.
2. Attus Apparel. I like this shirt best.
3. Saying "the" before an illness or disease (even though there's nothing funny about illness or
disease), as in, "the gout." It always makes me laugh.
4. Jack Donaghy, because he says things like, "Your hair is your headsuit" and, "Never go with a hippie to a second location."
5. The swimming I get to do with my dogs every single day. Big Cottonwood Creek flows into a reservoir near my house, so every evening after work, the boys and I head over there to chase tennis balls, frisbees, rocks, sticks and, once, an unfortunate duck. (Nothing bad happened to Mister Duck. Arnie just swam around behind him for the better part of 20 minutes. The duck was pissed; he kept looking at Arnie and saying, "QUACK!" And Arnie would just look back to shore like he was saying to me, like, "What is this guy so upset about?") And my favorite part, after swimming, while the boys dry on the patio, their fur goes all punk rock.
Arnie Ramone:
And Red Viscous:
6. My new pilates instructor, who looks exactly like Amy Sedaris. Except less sprinkley.
7. My recently purchased vintage Lilly one-shouldered dress. I can't wait to wear it next week.8. This book. The most beautiful thing ever ever, and we all have the lovely Erin to thank for telling us about it.
9. How I can go to Barnes & Noble and root through all their magazines for all the titles and contact information I need without anyone bothering me.
10. The ruby throated hummingbird at our feeder right now.
11. This site, which informed me that said hummingbird is probably not a ruby throated. Maybe a bumblebee hummingbird?
12. My Shasta Daisies, which are finally starting to bloom. They make me think of Mount Shasta and the Lemurians, who are probably just looking for pot.
13. It's definitely quilt weather tonight.
*The original name of this post was Thursday's Thirty, but that was too intimidating.
6.11.2008
New blog over there on the left....
Hey, readers,
I'd like to call your attention to the new blog over there on the left: Chicks With Kicks. It's a group running blog stared by a couple of my old friends from Boulder. They kindly invited me to contribute, so occasionally, when I'm friends with Running and not letting Running rule my life, I'll jot some thoughts on that site.
The other contributors, Erin and Jess, are two of the kindest women I've ever had the pleasure to know, and I can't tell you how happy I am to be back in touch with them.
Those of you who are into working out will probably love this new blog, as it offers hilarious tales of sports bra woes, getting back on the horse after a hiatus, short shorts and more.
Thanks.
I'd like to call your attention to the new blog over there on the left: Chicks With Kicks. It's a group running blog stared by a couple of my old friends from Boulder. They kindly invited me to contribute, so occasionally, when I'm friends with Running and not letting Running rule my life, I'll jot some thoughts on that site.
The other contributors, Erin and Jess, are two of the kindest women I've ever had the pleasure to know, and I can't tell you how happy I am to be back in touch with them.
Those of you who are into working out will probably love this new blog, as it offers hilarious tales of sports bra woes, getting back on the horse after a hiatus, short shorts and more.
Thanks.
6.09.2008
Meme me....
I was tagged by the darling Jen over at Use Real Butter. I'm delighted, because I just love to talk about myself (at least I'm being honest), just like Helen Walsh, my favorite heroine of my favorite British chick lit (by this lady, who looks a little like my mom).
Anyway, onto the meme.
Anyway, onto the meme.
1) What were you doing ten years ago?
I was at Penn State, studying English and Women Studies and, when I wasn't in class, learning to rock climb at the Bellefonte Quarry.
2) What are five non-work things on my to-do list for today?
Family cuddle on the bed with Red and Arnie and Brad (this happens everyday).
Help Brad get out the door and on the road.
Hike up to Tick Fever and figure out the gear and crux.
Go to Nia.
Cal my parents (this happens almost everday).
3) What snacks do you enjoy?
Graham crackers
Trader Joe's flatbread crackers
bananas
chocolate chip cookies
cherry pomegranate Nectar bars
4) What would you do if you were a billionaire?
Give lots away to my loved ones
Put lots into smart investments
Get a phd in modern poetics
Travel with Brad and the boys and our families and friends for the rest of our lives
Write
5) Where have you lived?
Delmont, Pennsylvania
Stockholm, Sweden
State College, Pennsylvania
Boulder, Colorado
Carbondale, Colorado
(and now, Salt Lake City, Utah)
6) What jobs have you had?
Retail employee (at Old Navy, Exkursion and Neptunes)
Event coordinator at the Access Fund
Account manager at Backbone Media
Copywriter at Richter7 and Riester
PR and Marketing specialist for MVM
And I am tagging…
Kate
Kerry
Erin
Cindy
Have a great night!
6.08.2008
The Kind of Friends You'd Go Out in Your PJs For.
This post could just as easily be titled, "The Kind of Friends You'd Whack a Man Over the Head with a Bouquet For." You see, I just went to see the "Sex and the City" movie, which I loved, I loved, I loved. It has me thinking about my girlfriends, my relationship and my style. Three of my favorite topics.
On that note, here are my three favorite parts of the movie (I'll try to be vague, so as not to ruin any plot surprises for those of you who haven't seen it):
1. When Carrie goes out, in her PJs, on New Year's Eve...
2. The Fashion Show in Carrie's closet...
3. When Charlotte bops Big with the bouquet.
It was really, really good; you should see it.
What I like about Sex and the City is that it accurately depicts the very best - and hardest - parts of female friendships. It offers realness - its dialogue and friendships - while allowing for some fantasy - its clothes, clubs, and city glam.
Anyway, Brad woke up with a swollen, hot, fluidy kneecap, and after a trip to the doc to get it drained and request a prescription, we decided to take a sick day. We watched a movie ("In God's Hands," Ed. It was on tv, and we thought of you and your lost dvd the whole time. Because, really, who the hell would steal it? I mean, it's just not that good, man!) and snuggled on the couch. It was a delightful and sleepy day, punctuated by a trip to the lake for a swim with the dogs and a trip to the full-priced movie theater (rare for us - we're fans of the dollar theater in our 'hood) to see Sex and the City.
I was all sappy and happy, thinking about my dear girlfriends today. In less than a week, we'll all convene in Vail to celebrate the pending arrival of Davis Baby 1, Megan and Ward's little bundle of joy. I can't wait to see my girls, to catch up with Megan on the drive from Boulder to Vail (it's actually faster for me to fly to Denver and drive to Vail than it is to drive from Salt Lake to Vail, and with the gas prices, well, yeah, I'd rather fly), to hike and laugh and eat and drink and talk about the "impending ball of flesh," as Mavis calls it. (And Mavis is better with kids than anyone I know. Seriously, she's like crack to babies; they love her.)
And the "Girls With Child" Weekend will be even more fun thanks to the delightful treats I received from Kerry, my summer swap partner. Kerry strikes me as an incredibly capable and "on it" woman, and her big box of presents did nothing to dissuade that notion. Everything seemed very tailored and chosen according to my likes, and it was presented beautifully.
Thank you, Kerry, you very kind and thoughtful blog-friend!
The package, overflowing with goodies:
The letter "S," a "little black book of smoothies. Mmmm....
The letter "U," umbrellas for summer drinks....
The letter "M," a madras tissue holder from the Preppy Petunia. Well done, Kerry; way to support other bloggers!
The other letter"M," margarita rim salt and spices....again, mmmmm.....
The letter "E," monogrammed note cards (with little cocktails on them) from the English Tea Paperie, owned and operated from another blogger. Well done, Kerry!
And last but not least, the letter "R," representing, in this case, Sophie Kinsella's newest book, Remember Me. I'm on the list for this book at my local library and at last count, I was number, oh, 537 in line. So, Kerry, thank you for giving me the chance to read this book in this decade...
Kerry, you're the best.
I'm delighted.
Thank you, and happy summer.
On that note, here are my three favorite parts of the movie (I'll try to be vague, so as not to ruin any plot surprises for those of you who haven't seen it):
1. When Carrie goes out, in her PJs, on New Year's Eve...
2. The Fashion Show in Carrie's closet...
3. When Charlotte bops Big with the bouquet.
It was really, really good; you should see it.
What I like about Sex and the City is that it accurately depicts the very best - and hardest - parts of female friendships. It offers realness - its dialogue and friendships - while allowing for some fantasy - its clothes, clubs, and city glam.
Anyway, Brad woke up with a swollen, hot, fluidy kneecap, and after a trip to the doc to get it drained and request a prescription, we decided to take a sick day. We watched a movie ("In God's Hands," Ed. It was on tv, and we thought of you and your lost dvd the whole time. Because, really, who the hell would steal it? I mean, it's just not that good, man!) and snuggled on the couch. It was a delightful and sleepy day, punctuated by a trip to the lake for a swim with the dogs and a trip to the full-priced movie theater (rare for us - we're fans of the dollar theater in our 'hood) to see Sex and the City.
I was all sappy and happy, thinking about my dear girlfriends today. In less than a week, we'll all convene in Vail to celebrate the pending arrival of Davis Baby 1, Megan and Ward's little bundle of joy. I can't wait to see my girls, to catch up with Megan on the drive from Boulder to Vail (it's actually faster for me to fly to Denver and drive to Vail than it is to drive from Salt Lake to Vail, and with the gas prices, well, yeah, I'd rather fly), to hike and laugh and eat and drink and talk about the "impending ball of flesh," as Mavis calls it. (And Mavis is better with kids than anyone I know. Seriously, she's like crack to babies; they love her.)
And the "Girls With Child" Weekend will be even more fun thanks to the delightful treats I received from Kerry, my summer swap partner. Kerry strikes me as an incredibly capable and "on it" woman, and her big box of presents did nothing to dissuade that notion. Everything seemed very tailored and chosen according to my likes, and it was presented beautifully.
Thank you, Kerry, you very kind and thoughtful blog-friend!
The package, overflowing with goodies:
The letter "S," a "little black book of smoothies. Mmmm....
The letter "U," umbrellas for summer drinks....
The letter "M," a madras tissue holder from the Preppy Petunia. Well done, Kerry; way to support other bloggers!
The other letter"M," margarita rim salt and spices....again, mmmmm.....
The letter "E," monogrammed note cards (with little cocktails on them) from the English Tea Paperie, owned and operated from another blogger. Well done, Kerry!
And last but not least, the letter "R," representing, in this case, Sophie Kinsella's newest book, Remember Me. I'm on the list for this book at my local library and at last count, I was number, oh, 537 in line. So, Kerry, thank you for giving me the chance to read this book in this decade...
Kerry, you're the best.I'm delighted.
Thank you, and happy summer.
Enough.
I apologize for how poorly written the last post was. I wrote "Arnie Love Bob" while battling the onset of a head cold that morphed from "just a scratchy throat" to "good god I think I have pneumonia" in approximately 20 minutes. Between the violent coughing fits and the cold meds that made me feel like I was underwater, I wasn't writing at my best.
Sure, I could rewrite it, gussy it up, make it mo betta, but I'm not going to. Sorry. I'm having enough trouble writing this post, which I've started five times and deleted four. I'm still kind of sick, and I haven't had much time to write in the past week.
I mentioned in the last post that we went to Steamboat for the race last weekend. As we rolled into town, we were temporarily mesmerized by the successive stream of uber-fit people that only Colorado mountain towns can produce. I'm serious - they would be the state's biggest export, except they never leave.
On Sunday morning, at the start of the marathon, I swayed nervously and counted Nike Tempo Track Shorts (I think every woman in the race was wearing them - including me). I was thinking that I should have bought new running shoes - mine were totally kicked. I was thinking that I should have trained more, that I might throw up. Normal stuff.
Except...it wasn't.
There was a time when I wouldn't have been nervous, when I wouldn't have doubted my training or my ability to dominate the race. There was a time when I set the pace for everything from neighborhood 5ks to half-marathons, but the trade-off was balance, and I guess I'm not willing to - or can't - forgo that anymore.
So, when I registered for the marathon, I wasn't thinking about goals or accomplishments or fitness - I'm already plenty fit. I was thinking about skinny, and about how skinny eclipsed pretty or nice or athletic or funny or kind. Skinny was the trump card, as it were, and if you played it, your other flaws were ignored.
And it was that that's how I found myself - once again unprepared - waiting for the gun at the Steamboat Marathon. Actually, I wouldn't say I was "unprepared." I put my time in this time; I did my long runs and almost always met my weekly mileage goals.
But it really wasn't good for me. It hurt. It was boring. It took up too much of my time. I didn't really want to be doing it, I just wanted to be the kind of person who would want to be doing it.
From 1997-1999, at 2:00 pm on Tuesdays, I went to my therapist's office and talked about that kind of person. When I first started going, I was anorexic. I'd sip what was likely my fourth diet root beer of the day and congratulate myself on weighing less than 98 pounds, while my therapist asked me questions like, "How skinny is too skinny?"
And in the early days, when I was running 100 miles a week on less than 1000 calories a day, I'd glare at the granny smith apples she kept in a basket on her desk and think, "There's no such thing." And last Sunday, standing, terrified, at the starting line, I realized that I still feel that way.
So when the gun fired, I started running, knowing even then that I wasn't there for the right reasons, and knowing that I'd never get through the whole thing (back to that "balance" issue). By the second mile marker I felt tired, and by mile five I was nearly in tears. It wasn't that I was physically spent, I just didn't have the mental fortitude to finish the thing. I made myself a deal: Run half of it, then you can stop. At 13.1 miles, you can stop running, crawl into the van and go home. And most importantly, you never have to do this again.
So that's happened.
And for the most part, I don't feel bad about it. I can say - with certainty - that I listened to my body and did what felt right. I knew I'd have some regrets, but honestly, I don't have many.
Really, I just don't care all that much.
I'm tired of feeling guilty for not running enough. I'm tired of feeling bad about myself for not being fast enough. I'm tired of comparing myself to other people; I'm tired of not measuring up.
It's been one week since I've laced up my running shoes, and I feel absolutely awesome. Yesterday, I climbed a route that I've been working on for over 5 months. Then I got on a project and did all the moves (not linked, but still...it didn't feel impossible).
I think I'll give running a rest for a while. Last week I went to several Nia, Zumba and pilates classes at my local rec center. I feel great, and I can't get over it. I didn't run a single step, and despite what I've been telling myself for years, I don't think I gained any weight (I actually feel leaner). I don't know that for sure, though, because there's no way in hell I can ever own a scale.
And even now, almost a decade after those Tuesday afternoon sessions, I still hate granny smith apples.
Sure, I could rewrite it, gussy it up, make it mo betta, but I'm not going to. Sorry. I'm having enough trouble writing this post, which I've started five times and deleted four. I'm still kind of sick, and I haven't had much time to write in the past week.
I mentioned in the last post that we went to Steamboat for the race last weekend. As we rolled into town, we were temporarily mesmerized by the successive stream of uber-fit people that only Colorado mountain towns can produce. I'm serious - they would be the state's biggest export, except they never leave.
On Sunday morning, at the start of the marathon, I swayed nervously and counted Nike Tempo Track Shorts (I think every woman in the race was wearing them - including me). I was thinking that I should have bought new running shoes - mine were totally kicked. I was thinking that I should have trained more, that I might throw up. Normal stuff.
Except...it wasn't.
There was a time when I wouldn't have been nervous, when I wouldn't have doubted my training or my ability to dominate the race. There was a time when I set the pace for everything from neighborhood 5ks to half-marathons, but the trade-off was balance, and I guess I'm not willing to - or can't - forgo that anymore.
So, when I registered for the marathon, I wasn't thinking about goals or accomplishments or fitness - I'm already plenty fit. I was thinking about skinny, and about how skinny eclipsed pretty or nice or athletic or funny or kind. Skinny was the trump card, as it were, and if you played it, your other flaws were ignored.
And it was that that's how I found myself - once again unprepared - waiting for the gun at the Steamboat Marathon. Actually, I wouldn't say I was "unprepared." I put my time in this time; I did my long runs and almost always met my weekly mileage goals.
But it really wasn't good for me. It hurt. It was boring. It took up too much of my time. I didn't really want to be doing it, I just wanted to be the kind of person who would want to be doing it.
From 1997-1999, at 2:00 pm on Tuesdays, I went to my therapist's office and talked about that kind of person. When I first started going, I was anorexic. I'd sip what was likely my fourth diet root beer of the day and congratulate myself on weighing less than 98 pounds, while my therapist asked me questions like, "How skinny is too skinny?"
And in the early days, when I was running 100 miles a week on less than 1000 calories a day, I'd glare at the granny smith apples she kept in a basket on her desk and think, "There's no such thing." And last Sunday, standing, terrified, at the starting line, I realized that I still feel that way.
So when the gun fired, I started running, knowing even then that I wasn't there for the right reasons, and knowing that I'd never get through the whole thing (back to that "balance" issue). By the second mile marker I felt tired, and by mile five I was nearly in tears. It wasn't that I was physically spent, I just didn't have the mental fortitude to finish the thing. I made myself a deal: Run half of it, then you can stop. At 13.1 miles, you can stop running, crawl into the van and go home. And most importantly, you never have to do this again.
So that's happened.
And for the most part, I don't feel bad about it. I can say - with certainty - that I listened to my body and did what felt right. I knew I'd have some regrets, but honestly, I don't have many.
Really, I just don't care all that much.
I'm tired of feeling guilty for not running enough. I'm tired of feeling bad about myself for not being fast enough. I'm tired of comparing myself to other people; I'm tired of not measuring up.
It's been one week since I've laced up my running shoes, and I feel absolutely awesome. Yesterday, I climbed a route that I've been working on for over 5 months. Then I got on a project and did all the moves (not linked, but still...it didn't feel impossible).
I think I'll give running a rest for a while. Last week I went to several Nia, Zumba and pilates classes at my local rec center. I feel great, and I can't get over it. I didn't run a single step, and despite what I've been telling myself for years, I don't think I gained any weight (I actually feel leaner). I don't know that for sure, though, because there's no way in hell I can ever own a scale.
And even now, almost a decade after those Tuesday afternoon sessions, I still hate granny smith apples.
6.04.2008
Arnie Love Bob.
I owe you a post about the marathon-that-wasn't (more on that in a bit), but in the meantime, I have to tell you that Arnie has fallen in love. With Bob the Cat.
When we went to Steamboat this weekend, we stayed with our good friends, Bill and Lisa. Of Big Agnes and Honey Stinger fame. In addition to their three wonderful black labs, Bill and Lisa have two cats, Hot Cakes and Bob. Bob has kitty cancer, so he's losing his fur and has painful-looking wounds on his little kitty face. I like to think that Arnie knew that, because while he ignored the dogs and other cat, he sat next to Bob for the better part of an hour. He didn't try to touch Bob, or talk to (bark at) him. He just sat there, caring. And not making eye contact. Not even once.
While this was going on, Brad, Bill, Lisa, the three labs, the other cat and I were all inside at the kitchen window, watching as this "compassion-through-proximity" unfolded on the porch.
Bob didn't appear to mind. In fact, he mostly ignored Arnie, preferring to stare into the middle distance and lick his paws. And for his part, Arnie didn't seem to expect anything from Bob. Arnie was content to position his snoot three inches from Bob's face and just be. A modern day Siddhartha, he is.
But even Siddhartha got antsy (some may dispute this, and to them I say: even the Buddha gets numb-butt from sitting too long), and after 45 minutes of nearness, Arnie decided to pet Bob. That's when we intervened.
Undeterred, Arnie continued to assert his nearness. Bob really didn't seem bothered.
I was a little nervous at this point, when Bob crawled onto a low shelf, and Arnie, unable to fit, just stuck his head in. Still, Bob didn't swipe at Arnie or even appear to notice his presence. Eventually, I picked Bob up, because I didn't want him to be nervous by the big yellow guy in his face, and also (mostly) because I wanted to TOTE THE KITTY!
When we went to Steamboat this weekend, we stayed with our good friends, Bill and Lisa. Of Big Agnes and Honey Stinger fame. In addition to their three wonderful black labs, Bill and Lisa have two cats, Hot Cakes and Bob. Bob has kitty cancer, so he's losing his fur and has painful-looking wounds on his little kitty face. I like to think that Arnie knew that, because while he ignored the dogs and other cat, he sat next to Bob for the better part of an hour. He didn't try to touch Bob, or talk to (bark at) him. He just sat there, caring. And not making eye contact. Not even once.
While this was going on, Brad, Bill, Lisa, the three labs, the other cat and I were all inside at the kitchen window, watching as this "compassion-through-proximity" unfolded on the porch.
Bob didn't appear to mind. In fact, he mostly ignored Arnie, preferring to stare into the middle distance and lick his paws. And for his part, Arnie didn't seem to expect anything from Bob. Arnie was content to position his snoot three inches from Bob's face and just be. A modern day Siddhartha, he is.
But even Siddhartha got antsy (some may dispute this, and to them I say: even the Buddha gets numb-butt from sitting too long), and after 45 minutes of nearness, Arnie decided to pet Bob. That's when we intervened.
Undeterred, Arnie continued to assert his nearness. Bob really didn't seem bothered.
I was a little nervous at this point, when Bob crawled onto a low shelf, and Arnie, unable to fit, just stuck his head in. Still, Bob didn't swipe at Arnie or even appear to notice his presence. Eventually, I picked Bob up, because I didn't want him to be nervous by the big yellow guy in his face, and also (mostly) because I wanted to TOTE THE KITTY!
5.30.2008
It's like the Grand Ole Opry, but with fewer rhinestones and yellow ribbon car decals...
Many years ago, my family and I drove to Memphis to visit my mom's siblings and their families. Of the many memories of that trip, including forgetting my cousin, Reynolds, at some old family friend's house and splashing through the Mud Island Riverwalk when the water was so hot it burned our feet, the one that most stands out is that of my mild-mannered and always-agreeable brother going batshit crazy at the sight of one too many "Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty LIVE at the Grand Ole Opry" billboards. I still don't know what it was that so offended him. Was it the hallucination-inducing costumes? The attempt to pass their noise off as music? The bastardization of the Appalachian sound? Or just the fact that in 100 miles, we'd seen 120 Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty billboards? Either way, it left an impression, and to this day, I associate the Grand Ole Opry (henceforth to be known as GOOP) with the one and only fit I ever saw my brother pitch. Not a good association.
The other night, while looking for the guitar chords for Dougie MacLean's Caledonia, I stumbled across a number of covers of the song. It's very popular; Dougie himself even admits that it's become "a wee bit of an anthem." That said, imagine my surprise when I found a cover of that lovely ballad by the Celtic equivalent of GOOP.
See for yourself.
Who are these curiously coiffed men who dress like my mom and whose choreography involves such difficult moves as standing still and walking from one side of the stage to the other?
And why are they so strangely compelling?
I never listened to the New Kids on the Block or to the Backstreet Boys or to the Hansons (though, if the Hanson brothers from the movie Slapshot had a band, I'd probably listen to it). No, I've never liked the boybands, but I can't help being charmed by these Celts. A little. Don't get me wrong; plenty about them is absurd. I mean, one of them is, like, nine. And the guy who winks? Come on, winking? And what about the big scary bald guy? What the hell is he doing there? It's like they're playing a real life game of "one of these things is not like the other..."
But again, why do I care so much?
I'm holding you accountable: if ever you hear me singing something by 98 degrees, take away my iTunes privileges.
The other night, while looking for the guitar chords for Dougie MacLean's Caledonia, I stumbled across a number of covers of the song. It's very popular; Dougie himself even admits that it's become "a wee bit of an anthem." That said, imagine my surprise when I found a cover of that lovely ballad by the Celtic equivalent of GOOP.
See for yourself.
Who are these curiously coiffed men who dress like my mom and whose choreography involves such difficult moves as standing still and walking from one side of the stage to the other?
And why are they so strangely compelling?
I never listened to the New Kids on the Block or to the Backstreet Boys or to the Hansons (though, if the Hanson brothers from the movie Slapshot had a band, I'd probably listen to it). No, I've never liked the boybands, but I can't help being charmed by these Celts. A little. Don't get me wrong; plenty about them is absurd. I mean, one of them is, like, nine. And the guy who winks? Come on, winking? And what about the big scary bald guy? What the hell is he doing there? It's like they're playing a real life game of "one of these things is not like the other..."
But again, why do I care so much?
I'm holding you accountable: if ever you hear me singing something by 98 degrees, take away my iTunes privileges.
Last weekend, this weekend, then off we go....
Last weekend we biked the White Rim trail - something different for us, as we'd normally just drive the White Rim to get to climbing areas, not pedal along with no climbing gear in sight. Here are some images from that journey:
It was fun, but now I'm ready to go climbing. Not this weekend, though, as I made the mistake of signing up for a marathon a couple months ago, and on Sunday I'll have to test my mettle on the roads around Steamboat Springs. I know I'll be excited once I'm there, but right now I'm not all that psyched; I'm nervous and I'd rather be heading to Maple Canyon or Donner Summit or Yosemite. Live and (sometimes) learn, I guess.
But after this weekend, it's climbing season. Well, actually, it's just time to hit the road and travel. I took this new job because it allows me to work from anywhere, to be in Bishop or Tuoloumne and still do my work and be as connected as I am at my kitchen table in Utah; it's time to take advantage of that benefit.
Before that happens, though, I need to remember that, in climbing and in life, when one thing goes wrong, it's not cause to throw in the towel and quit. It just means I have to put my head down and try harder. Things go wrong, and, in the moment, it sucks. But expanding my scope and looking at the situation with a bigger perspective usually helps, usually makes that moment seem smaller, less important, just one among many.
This weekend, on the White Rim, I my quads burned as I pedaled along on a trail that Brad said was, "all downhill." Fighting to stay upright through deep sand, pedaling so hard my heartrate was probably in the two-hundreds, I begged to differ; it did not feel "all downhill."
But that was just one small section of the whole trail. That specific place in time involved a climb, but stepping back a bit and looking at a broader stretch of trail revealed that, truly, the route did lose elevation. A slightly bigger perspective yielded a descent. Had I considered only that one moment in time, only that section that saw me sweating and breathing hard, I would have disagreed with Brad. But I took a step back, looked at the tail as a whole, and the thing didn't seem so bad. Lesson learned (for now).
It was fun, but now I'm ready to go climbing. Not this weekend, though, as I made the mistake of signing up for a marathon a couple months ago, and on Sunday I'll have to test my mettle on the roads around Steamboat Springs. I know I'll be excited once I'm there, but right now I'm not all that psyched; I'm nervous and I'd rather be heading to Maple Canyon or Donner Summit or Yosemite. Live and (sometimes) learn, I guess.
But after this weekend, it's climbing season. Well, actually, it's just time to hit the road and travel. I took this new job because it allows me to work from anywhere, to be in Bishop or Tuoloumne and still do my work and be as connected as I am at my kitchen table in Utah; it's time to take advantage of that benefit.
Before that happens, though, I need to remember that, in climbing and in life, when one thing goes wrong, it's not cause to throw in the towel and quit. It just means I have to put my head down and try harder. Things go wrong, and, in the moment, it sucks. But expanding my scope and looking at the situation with a bigger perspective usually helps, usually makes that moment seem smaller, less important, just one among many.
This weekend, on the White Rim, I my quads burned as I pedaled along on a trail that Brad said was, "all downhill." Fighting to stay upright through deep sand, pedaling so hard my heartrate was probably in the two-hundreds, I begged to differ; it did not feel "all downhill."
But that was just one small section of the whole trail. That specific place in time involved a climb, but stepping back a bit and looking at a broader stretch of trail revealed that, truly, the route did lose elevation. A slightly bigger perspective yielded a descent. Had I considered only that one moment in time, only that section that saw me sweating and breathing hard, I would have disagreed with Brad. But I took a step back, looked at the tail as a whole, and the thing didn't seem so bad. Lesson learned (for now).
5.28.2008
You Say Mossimo, I Say Missoni
I've always loved Missoni. Part of that has to do with its being an Italian company; I feel a kinship with my pisons. It's the same reason I love drinking espresso from my Bialetti and climbing in Scarpas. I imagine that my climbing shoes were hand-crafted by a little white-haired man named Gianni, though, in fact they were probably slapped together by a starving nine year old named Soo Lin.
Anyway, I love Missoni, with its colorful fabrics and signature halter dresses; it is at once trendy and timeless, classy and bohemian. Some people have a totem animal (hippies), I have a totem designer. And it's Mossimo.
So imagine my surprise when during a routine visit to SuperTarget, I stumbled upon this little number:
With its metallic, chevron-striped, knit fabric, it was damn near a dead ringer for a Missoni bikini (which retails for, roughly, $400). But it was in Target. And it was CHEAP. For a minute I held onto it and looked greedily around, not wanting anyone else to see this treasure, to capitalize on my good luck, to wear this same suit and look better in it than I.
I scurried into the dressing room to try it on, momentarily forgetting about the Method hand soap, dish soap and stove cleaner that I needed in favor of yet another swimsuit that I didn't.
(Incidentally, I picked up Method's Eucalyptus Mint "Lil' Bowl Blue," aka toilet bowl cleaner, today as well, and I can't say enough good things about it. It smells nice, it work well and it's non-toxic....important for those of us who own dogs who may or may not drink from the commode.)
I might go to the pool today. What? It's a work day? Ok, I'll take my computer and work from there. What? That's obnoxious? Too bad.
Anyway, I love Missoni, with its colorful fabrics and signature halter dresses; it is at once trendy and timeless, classy and bohemian. Some people have a totem animal (hippies), I have a totem designer. And it's Mossimo.
So imagine my surprise when during a routine visit to SuperTarget, I stumbled upon this little number:
With its metallic, chevron-striped, knit fabric, it was damn near a dead ringer for a Missoni bikini (which retails for, roughly, $400). But it was in Target. And it was CHEAP. For a minute I held onto it and looked greedily around, not wanting anyone else to see this treasure, to capitalize on my good luck, to wear this same suit and look better in it than I.
I scurried into the dressing room to try it on, momentarily forgetting about the Method hand soap, dish soap and stove cleaner that I needed in favor of yet another swimsuit that I didn't.
(Incidentally, I picked up Method's Eucalyptus Mint "Lil' Bowl Blue," aka toilet bowl cleaner, today as well, and I can't say enough good things about it. It smells nice, it work well and it's non-toxic....important for those of us who own dogs who may or may not drink from the commode.)
I might go to the pool today. What? It's a work day? Ok, I'll take my computer and work from there. What? That's obnoxious? Too bad.
5.23.2008
Dactylic Hexameter
My favorite form.
Following Arnie on
Trails lined with Cottonwoods,
Mornings are welcome now
Waking feels effortless.
Arnie bolts after an
Animal. Maybe he’ll
Catch it; it could be that
This is his glory day.
Following Arnie on
Trails lined with Cottonwoods,
Mornings are welcome now
Waking feels effortless.
Arnie bolts after an
Animal. Maybe he’ll
Catch it; it could be that
This is his glory day.
5.19.2008
Sad Weekend
This was not a good weekend. Brad and I were both indecisive and restless. I slept less than three hours both nights, and because the dogs follow me everywhere, they were up, too. (That’s probably why Arnie was so very sleepy all day…) We were both angry and edgy, and here’s why:
Our neighbor, Beau, died in a bizarre accident – he was in Ferguson Canyon (just above our house) and fell from a rope swing into a shallow section of the creek. He was 23.
Beau was remarkably kind. He was a young tough, a UFC-aficionado and a scrapper, but none of that fire came out when I talked to him. To me, he was nothing but respectful and helpful and look-me-in-the-eye honest. More than once he saw me raking leaves or shoveling snow and came over to help, unasked. The one time I did ask for his assistance, during the great hot-tub move of 2008, he walked over without hesitation, even calling one of his friends to help, too.
I’m tremendously sad for him, for his mother, Kathy – with whom he was very close – and his strong network of friends. They spent most of the weekend at his house, sorting through his snowboard stuff and camping gear and cds and video games. Occasional laughter floated over the fence that divides our properties, laughs punctuated by long periods of silences; I can’t imagine the pain those moments held and will continue to hold. I can't imagine how, following the funeral today, Kathy walked into their home alone.
In January, I was shoveling the driveway after an afternoon squall, and I called hello to Kathy, who was doing the same. She'd just come back from one of her two jobs (I could tell because she was still in uniform), but she was smiling. "Beau's interlodged in Snowbird," she said. "I'm so happy he got up there before the snow came."
A couple weeks ago, Beau bought a new 4-wheeler, and as he proudly showed it to Brad and talked about horsepower and engines and wrenching, I watched his face; it was all open-hearted excitement. No arrogance, just happiness. I remember thinking, “I hope he’s safe on that thing; I hope he wears a helmet….”
It doesn’t matter now, which reminds me that it’s never what you think it’s going to be, that it comes in a flash, that it’s imperative to breathe deeply and be present as much as you can.
We’ve gotten over our anger and edginess. We’re quiet, though; we’re a little wounded, a little sore from grief. We’re thinking not of our own mortality, but of losing each other, losing the people we love – our families, our friends.
RIP Beau.
Our neighbor, Beau, died in a bizarre accident – he was in Ferguson Canyon (just above our house) and fell from a rope swing into a shallow section of the creek. He was 23.
Beau was remarkably kind. He was a young tough, a UFC-aficionado and a scrapper, but none of that fire came out when I talked to him. To me, he was nothing but respectful and helpful and look-me-in-the-eye honest. More than once he saw me raking leaves or shoveling snow and came over to help, unasked. The one time I did ask for his assistance, during the great hot-tub move of 2008, he walked over without hesitation, even calling one of his friends to help, too.
I’m tremendously sad for him, for his mother, Kathy – with whom he was very close – and his strong network of friends. They spent most of the weekend at his house, sorting through his snowboard stuff and camping gear and cds and video games. Occasional laughter floated over the fence that divides our properties, laughs punctuated by long periods of silences; I can’t imagine the pain those moments held and will continue to hold. I can't imagine how, following the funeral today, Kathy walked into their home alone.
In January, I was shoveling the driveway after an afternoon squall, and I called hello to Kathy, who was doing the same. She'd just come back from one of her two jobs (I could tell because she was still in uniform), but she was smiling. "Beau's interlodged in Snowbird," she said. "I'm so happy he got up there before the snow came."
A couple weeks ago, Beau bought a new 4-wheeler, and as he proudly showed it to Brad and talked about horsepower and engines and wrenching, I watched his face; it was all open-hearted excitement. No arrogance, just happiness. I remember thinking, “I hope he’s safe on that thing; I hope he wears a helmet….”
It doesn’t matter now, which reminds me that it’s never what you think it’s going to be, that it comes in a flash, that it’s imperative to breathe deeply and be present as much as you can.
We’ve gotten over our anger and edginess. We’re quiet, though; we’re a little wounded, a little sore from grief. We’re thinking not of our own mortality, but of losing each other, losing the people we love – our families, our friends.
RIP Beau.
Summer Swap Survey
Alex's Summer Swap is coming up soon, and I'm delighted to have been paired with Kerry. To prepare for the swap and get to know our partners better, Alex put together this survey (very thoughtful, Ms. Alex!):
About moi:
2. Favorite preppy accessories?
Scarves, pearls, oxfords
3. Any hobbies?
Climbing, running, wine, cooking, yoga, pilates, imagining moves to other countries
4. Enjoy crafting, if so anything in particular?
Knitting....very lumpy and uneven scarves
About moi:
1. Favorite preppy designers?
J. Crew, Lilly
J. Crew, Lilly
2. Favorite preppy accessories?
Scarves, pearls, oxfords
3. Any hobbies?
Climbing, running, wine, cooking, yoga, pilates, imagining moves to other countries
4. Enjoy crafting, if so anything in particular?
Knitting....very lumpy and uneven scarves
5. Favorite books/magazines?
The New Yorker, Poets & Writers, Yoga Journal, Chick Lit
6. Any other favorite things?
6. Any other favorite things?
My doggies, my honey, my family, my friends
7. Collect anything?
7. Collect anything?
Apparently dog hair, but not officially.
8. Any kids/pets?
8. Any kids/pets?
Arnie and Red. Technically pets, but treated like children...
9. Any allergies?
9. Any allergies?
Video games, rednecks, Nascar...
10. Favorite thing to do in the Summer?
10. Favorite thing to do in the Summer?
Wear dresses, run in the early morning when it's still cool, drink cocktails on the patio.
11. What most makes you think of Summer?
11. What most makes you think of Summer?
Gin & tonics (or would it be gins & tonic?)
12. Favorite treat/drink?
12. Favorite treat/drink?
Oh, well, G&Ts, margs, limeade & vodka....oh dear...
13. Anything else your partner should know about you?
Nope!
13. Anything else your partner should know about you?
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