Small Winter Wonderments

Snow and I are still getting to know one another and we're still in the honeymoon stage. Growing up seaside, it still holds so much wonder for me. Sure, it's cold and somewhat dangerous but mostly I'm awestruck that in a few hours, snow can transform an ordinary cement parking lot into a field of sparkling diamonds.

I've also learned that the tiny snowflakes fit so tightly together they actually forms a blanket. When you make a snowgal, you can even roll it up like carpet - astounding.

Check it out: When I came out to my car a few days ago, a newly formed white comforter had skidded off my truck's roof like it has been slicked with oil. Too cool. It looks like I could have rolled it up like a pool's solar blanket.

I'm also learning that snow here in Colorado is mostly dry. When it gets into my truck, I just brush it off the seat like crumbs and nothing gets wet. Weird. I thought snow was always kinda wet and mushy, no? At least that's what I'd heard.

The shapes it takes are all reminiscent of something else. Like this curl here, which to me evokes being inside a breaking wave. I think surfers call it The Green Room.

Not sure I'll be this fascinated when it comes my time to shovel. Snow and I still have a long way to go....

Thoughts for Heidi

Early tomorrow morning, my good friend, Heidi, will undergo a triple by-pass surgery and it's just one more fight in Heidi's ongoing battle for stable health. Of course, I wish her a successful procedure and a quick recovery.


I've known Heidi for 21 years now and she is always seeking the light in life. In fact, this image was made by a friend of hers who feels strongly - as I do - that Heidi is not truly of this earth but is more like a fairy creature accidentally trapped in this world due to misfiled fairy paperwork, or something.

In any case, we're glad to have her here and I'm sure she'll be up and buzzing around quite soon.

Godspeed, Heidi!

'Precious' ...Is

At last night's opening of the 32nd Denver International Film Festival , the buzziest-film of the moment, Precious, was shown to a sold-out crowd at the Ellie Caulkins Opera House. Best of all, the Colorado-based producers, Sarah Siegel-Magness and her husband Gary Magness, were on hand as well as the film's director, Lee Daniels.

My quick headline is this: Mo'Nique and the film's star, Gabourey 'Gabby' Sidibe, better start picking out some nice dresses and looking into stylish wheelbarrows because they are going to haul away awards next year.

Everything you've heard about the film is true and yes, it's tough to watch. Reid and I were both afraid and came armed with tissues, bracing ourselves for a deep dive into violence and despair.

"But, it will be good for us," he said.

"Got to be done," I said.

Daniels must have picked up on our collective trepidation. Before the film began, he gave a brief introduction, promising that all was not dark. "There are funny parts too!" he insisted. (He's right, there are.) "And we did a lot of laughing while making this, so keep that in mind."

He also confessed difficulties in getting the film made. I'd learned in an earlier interview that it took Daniels eight years to convince the poet, Sapphire, to hand over the rights to her non-fiction story for the film. There were, ahem, other challenges as well."Even if you're got an Oscar on your resume (he produced 'Monster's Ball' in 2001)," he said, his voice cracking, "nobody in Hollywood wanted to hear anything about a movie focusing on a fat, black girl."

In the end, he found his true believers in - where else? - Colorado. Gary and Sarah Magness and their production company, Smokewood Entertainment, invested in Daniels and the film long before Oprah and Tyler Perry showed interest. Daniels said point-blank that the film would not have been made without their support. Cool, eh?

I'm so glad he persisted. The resulting film presents with Clareece "Precious" Jones, an obese, illiterate, sexually-abused teenager. She lives with Mary, her angry, abusive welfare-dependent mother who seems entirely void of love. Mo'Nique, better known as a comedienne brimming with light and love, completely transforms herself into a monster for this role. Truly, it is frightening. In a recent interview, Daniels said "Mo'Nique makes Baby Jane look like Cinderella."

Hats off to Daniels, for pulling riveting performances out of his entire cast and to screenwriter Geoffrey Fisher, who handled Sapphire's poetry with great care. But it's Gabby and Mo'Nique who steal the show. (Mariah Carey is also worth noting. She steps out of her diva-ness to play a dowdy social worker and holy-glitter, comes through with a spot-on performance.)

In the end, Reid and I were not as emotionally drained as we'd expected. Yes, the images and the dialogue were hard to absorb sometimes but for me, it was the indomitable spirit of the character, Precious, that I took home with me, not the nightmare stuff. You can't imagine how much this girl has been through and yet she moves onward and upward. Having character voice-over narration really helped, you felt she was taking you in to her confidence.

In January, the film won both the audience and grand jury prizes at Sundance Film Festival. In September, it won the Toronto International Film Festival's audience award. No other film has garnered all three kudos. 'Precious' opens nationally on November 20 - bring tissues!

Our Veteran

Today we honor the nation's veterans but this post is about one in particular: Walter Millar. Walter is my North Dakota cousin-once-removed, pictured here on the right, from a 2003 shot in our family's museum, talking to my brother, Rob.

A couple of months back, his daughter, Carol, sent out a special request:

"As a WWII marine vet, Dad is going on an honor flight to Washington DC. It sounds like they really treat them special. It's only a couple days in late September. They have asked for letters to be submitted to the organization by Sept. 15 to be given to him during the trip. E-mails are fine. It's up to you, but I know he'd love getting a few unexpected ones."

My mother, who is close with Walter and grew up with him, would write one, of course but as the family's unofficial 'writer', I took on the assignment as well. Even though I was never close with Walter, I always admired his quiet strength. Plus, when he smiled or laughed, his eyes twinkled and I'm a sucker for that.

But when I sat down to write the letter, I felt much more than I had anticipated. An excerpt:

"I don't know much about your time in the Marines but I do know that it has been a big part of who you are for as long as I've known you. I recently found out that you were the first Canadian to join the Marines - is that right? That really says a lot about you and the draw of the Marines.

I feel incredibly proud and honored to know that my family has been represented in service to America. I have traveled to many places around the world and no country even comes close to the life we have here. Thank you so much for everything you did to insure our freedom. Your brave and selfless efforts are deeply appreciated."

While I was in SoCal recently, helping Mom recuperate from heart surgery, she received a long letter from Walter. It was a juicy, handwritten four-pager full of joy, appreciation and moving details from the Honor Flight. Mom read it to me aloud while I made our lunch. (The Freedom Flight organizers had announced "Mail Call!" much to shock and delight of the veterans. Walter was not expecting anything but received 11 letters, including three from grade school students written on 'V-Mail' cards.)

One point, we both burst into tears and I had to put the knife down and grab us both some tissues. Here's the paragraph that got the waterworks going:

"We were in the Air and Space Museum, looking over the B-29 plane that dropped the bomb on Japan to end the war. There was a large number of people besides our vets group listening to a commentator give a talk on the place and it's part in the war.

Part way through his talk, out of the blue, he asked, 'Is Walter P. Millar is here? If so, please step forward.' I was astounded, and if he had not mentioned the 'P', I would have thought it was another Walter Millar.

I moved to the front of the crowd. When he saw me, he said, 'You were a member of the 3rd Marine Division, right?' (Insignia at left.)

I answered, 'Yes, sir.'

'You took part in the landing on Guam, right?'

'Yes, sir.'

'I thank you for your courage and service to your country.'

I did not know what to say. Finally, I said, 'Thank you, sir.' There was applauding from the crowd. There were not too many Marines in the group of vets and apparently, I was the only one from the 3rd Division."

How great is that? Through our warbly tears, Mom and I both felt gratitude that our cousin was being honored. True victory!

Walter's letter went on to describe his battle with red tape so he could, in fact, become the first Canadian to become a Marine. Though he never told his family much about it, Walter had been a bit of a celebrity. It was thanks to North Dakota's Senator Gerald Nye, a progressive Republican and - get this - anti-war activist, who finally made it possible for Walter to reach his destiny and become a Marine.

Walter still has the news clippings from Minneapolis papers covering his historical enlistment and best of all, that precious telegram from Sen. Nye giving him the green light. On my next visit to NoDak, Walter promised to show me everything.

Finally, hats off to the folks behind the Freedom Network. Seriously, they went above and beyond what was expected by the vets. As the vet groups were organized by state regions, Walter relayed this wonderful scenario:

"The so-called Freedom Flight people certainly had everything planned and scheduled to the last detail to make it a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

After we boarded four school buses who should come aboard but the mayor of Grand Forks, a busy doctor who took time to come greet us, thanks us for our service and wish us a safe and enjoyable trip to visit our War Memorial in Washington. (Mayor Michael Brown, an OB-GYN and veteran of the Air Force.)

After a police escort to the airport, we were greeted by two lines of Air Force personnel standing at attention as we passed through. Just as we entered the plane, there was Governor Hoeven of ND to greet us and shake our hands.

We were treated as VIPs the entire trip. It made you feel proud but humbled at the same time."

Semper Fi, Mac!

Freedom for 5 Deutsche Marks

Hearing and reading about the 20-year anniversary of the fall of the Berlin Wall has me feeling old and grateful. Like many American college students, I traveled Europe that following summer, in 1990 - the wonderment and celebrations still fresh. Unfortunately, all my photos from that summer are stashed away in my mother's house - I'll have to reclaim them over Thanksgiving.

The only evidence I have on hand is this worn-out t-shirt that I bought at Checkpoint Charlie. It depicts the form that residents of West Berlin had to fill out to visit GDR or East Germany. (GDR stands for 'German Democratic Republic' - oddly named for a Communist state.)

Though there are numerous stains and the armpits are yellowed, I can't bring myself to let go of this shirt. I remember exploring East Berlin and feeling depressed by the overwhelming amount of grey cement, mostly in the form of staid square buildings. I never appreciated how much color billboards and advertising bring to an urban landscape until then. Picture the opposite of Times Square and you've got a clear idea.

Later that same afternoon, I paid somebody five deutsche marks for a hammer and chisel (love the commie symbolism) to hack away at the Berlin Wall, which had been brought down only seven months prior. The now-famous East-facing graffiti had barely begun and it was still mostly colorless. I scored me a few chunks of that horrible wall but it wasn't a souvenir I was after. I just loved the idea of doing my own little part to tear down that evil boundary.

Somewhere else on that trip, I met two cute German boys on a train. One, a West German named Matthew, was traveling with his cousin (I forget his name) who had grown up in East Berlin. Many families were divided by the Wall so reunions were happening all over the place.

Matthew and I were talking and he, in turn, translated for his cousin, who sat and stared at me, wide-eyed. I was telling the boys about my life in Southern California, my school, my friends, my country ... when I suddenly noticed that the silent boy had tears in his eyes.

"Oh, no!" I said to his cousin, "I made him cry!"

Matthew put his arm around his cousin and explained. "Oh, don't worry. He is doing that so much. Every time we meet somebody new from another country. I think it is overwhelming for him. The freedom is still new."

Then, the teary boy said something in German to Matthew, who laughed and then translated for me. "You are his first California girl to meet, so he cannot believe it." Hey, at least I was blonde at the time.

I'd give anything to know what became of that young, emotional East German. I'm sure he's raising his glass tonight, celebrating his freedom still.

Happy Birthday, Gabe!

Okay, I'm slipping this in the nick of time ... only 26 minutes left of Gabe's birthday ... Ack!

So, here's the deal. I met Gabe when he was a tot and then a kid and then a pre-teen and now a full-fledged Teen with a capital 'T.' He is the son of my very adorable friend, Andrea, a high school pal who is now like family to me. I saw Gabe recently when I was visiting 'Dre at their new spread in Upland, California. I came to check out the new pad, peruse her cool doll projects and squeeze her sweet hubby, Barry. She also has four dogs and two cats - that was a big draw too.

When last I hung out with Gabe, he was all about the GameBoy. I was playing the Nanny role, helping to take care of Gabe and his sister, Samantha, during End of Trail - which is kind of like the Prom for cowboy types. While his mother was off winning cowboy action shooting competitions, I tried my best to entertain them. Samantha and I had lots of fun at the petting zoo but Gabe wanted none of it - just let him alone with the GameBoy. (I started calling him GabeBoy.)

Somewhere in my files, I have a great photo of a bucking bronco and a cowboy flying off the horse. In the lower half of the same frame, Gabe is deeply entrenched in the game, with zero interest in the live action going on mere feet from him. Such focus!

Flash forward several years and he has grown up, moved on and even offers hugs to visiting old ladies like me! What a delight! He even let me photograph him to my heart's content - what a sport!

At left is a photo I took that encapsulates the modern teenage diet: a glass of milk and a duct-taped cell phone. One might call it Breakfast of Champions.

The photo at right is one of my favorites. I'd asked him, "Can you please supply me with a typical teenage look? Something that says, 'I'm-so-embarrassed' or 'you-are-so-lame' or 'why-are-you-taking-my-picture, you dumb ass?'and he immediately obliged. Perfect, no?

Anyway, when I meet people like Gabe, who only just happen to be young, I feel a whole lot better about the future. Gabe is smart, kind, handsome, talented and most importantly, open-hearted. His family is strong, funny and behind him 100% - what more do you need? Maybe a GameBoy? I asked him about it.

"I cannot BELIEVE how much time I wasted on that thing," he said, covering his handsome face. "That was stupid."

Happy Birthday, Gabe! The world is your oyster, my friend.

BlogHer Cross-Post: Post-Rapture Pet Care

This marks my 600th post so I hope I'm not cheating by cross-posting from BlogHer. This thorny topic is a doozy - I got in way over my head. The post is also longer than most so I'm just going to excerpt the first chunk here. Happy Rapture!

It's a Saturday Night Live skit waiting to happen, right? Eternal Earth-Bound Pets: A service that promises to care for your pet after you have ascended to heaven to join The Almighty. Like the company's co-founder, Bart Centre, I laughed at first. Surely, this isn't real? After speaking with Bart, and a few close friends who believe in the Rapture, I stopped laughing and started thinking.

First, let's review: The Rapture, also known as "The End Times", is the basic belief (with varying tribulational differences) that Jesus is coming back and only taking His devout followers back up the Holy Elevator with Him. Evidently, the heathen losers "left behind" will be screwed. (Although it would surely strengthen the job market if 40-50 million Americans suddenly vacated …)

When I began my interview with Bart, he asked upfront, "Are you a believer?" I respond in the negative (to the Rapture, specifically) and we begin to chat. After hanging up, I realized the conversation would have been very different if I had answered in the affirmative.

Bart Centre is a devout atheist and is, in fact, the author of "The Atheist Camel Chronicles: Debate Themes & Arguments for the Non-Believer (and those who think they might be)" which is currently #6 on Amazon for atheist titles. Not bad for a self-published first-time author. "It's been quite an amazing ride," said Bart, who used the pseudonym, Dromedary Hump.

The book published this past June and a month later, his buddy, Brad, sent Bart a news link about a UK woman who promises to care for cats post-Rapture. They both have a good chuckle over it but Bart starts thinking.

One of his book chapters talks about the End Times and that looming Mayan calendar date of 2012. "I realize a lot of Christians are jumping on that boat," said Bart, "and asked myself, ‘What can I do that can help ease the concerns of Christians and make some money?'”

And so, Bart and Brad teamed up to launch Eternal Earth-Bound Pets USA in July. (Brad, a Minnesotan who doesn't want to use his last name, handles the Western US, while Bart oversees the East.) Bart believes it comes down to a Christian asking themselves a few questions: "'Do I believe in the Rapture?', ‘Do I believe my pets won’t go to heaven?’ and ‘Can I trust these atheists?’ If the answer to these three things is ‘yes’, then this will help."

Here's how it works: A prospective customer submits a contract via the site and pays $110, which covers one animal for a 10-year period. (An additional animal in the same household is an additional $15.) Bart and Brad review the contract and determine if they can truly execute the contract within 18-24 hours of the Rapture.

The company has 16 'representatives' located through the US, committed atheists who have actively blasphemed the Holy Spirit (Mark 3:29: “But whoever blasphemes against the Holy Spirit will never be forgiven; he is guilty of an eternal sin.") and therefore, won't be going anywhere on Rapture Day. Bart or Brad will confirm with the reps in the region whether or not they would be able to adopt and care for the animal listed in the new contract. (Both customers and reps remain anonymous; no contact is allowed.)

Let's face it, for many of us heathen types, the concept is ripe for comedy. In fact, the first question on the site's FAQ page asks, "Is this a joke?" Bart confirmed that this usually the initial reaction:

"We’ve gotten about 4,000 emails through the site. The largest percent are atheists who think this is the funniest thing they’ve ever seen and also, they want to be pet rescuers. Then, there are about 10 percent Christians who also think it is funny but don’t believe in Rapture and wish us well. We also get a few Christians who are really, really angry and use some rough language …Then, there is a small percentage, about 1 percent, who take us seriously and confess that this has been on their minds. They explore it with us and see that we are for real. Considering that most Christians don’t trust atheists far as they can throw us, these are people who recognize that we will to exercise our contracts should the Rapture occur."

Still enraptured? Read the rest of my post here.

Postcard from the Past

I've been a scanning fool lately, digitizing so many images of the past for a Xmas gift project. Every now and then, I come across a photo that reignites golden memories ... and this is one.

In the fall of 1997, Michelle, Lisa and I went exploring in Boston and New York. I'd never been to either place so it was one big exotic adventure for me. I've known both women since first grade and so it felt kind of like an extended field trip, only with booze and nightclubs this time. Hard to believe it has been a dozen years since.

This shot was taken from the top of the World Trade Center and the view was unforgettable. Alas, the buildings are gone but the friendships remain.

Rocky Pumpkin High

A couple of days ago, before our first big snowstorm made everything white, my world was primarily orange.

I'd volunteered to help sell pumpkins at the corner of Alameda and Carr in Lakewood. It was part of the Jeffco Partners for Interfaith Action (which means a bunch of churches of various religions) to benefit Habitat for Humanity. It was a sparkly, sunny, chilly Monday and I had a blast.

I joined a team of three manly volunteers from Jefferson Unitarian (I think that's what they said) and they were pretty jolly. At one point I said that the only thing missing from the day was candy corn. Jim, the handsome dude at right (please ignore my finger), then trekked off to get me what I needed. Alas, no candy corn was found so we had to make due with M&M's and Skittles, my favorite!

We were pretty busy all day long and customers tended to come in clumps. It's the same in retail and restaurants ... I'm sure there's a Important Marketing Study going on right now that will explain this eventually.

But the highlight of the day came when Jim leaned over to me and said, "The people that are coming up behind you now - be sure to give them a big discount."

I turned around and saw at least a dozen young adults who live at a group home for the mentally challenged. Led by two sweet blond lady chaperones, one had a walker, a few had helmets and all of them had gigantic smiles. I could actually feel my heart expand just by looking at them.

"PUMPKINS!!!" they exclaimed.

They were not picky. Several chose the first pumpkin they got their hands on and decided it was the most perfect thing they'd ever seen. A few of them told me excitedly about how they'd decorated their house together.

"We put up spiders EVERYWHERE!!!"

"And kitty cats!"

"And scary witches!"

OMG, it was cute squared. Eventually, they all had made their selections (about 13 pumpkins) and I only charged the lady $20. "God bless you," she said, with visible relief. I'm thinking their budget for outings like this must be slim.

I helped carry some pumpkins to their little bus and the fun continued. While the lead ladies loaded up a wheelchair-bound fellow, I helped buckle seat belts and situate new glorious pumpkins on grateful laps. A big, fluffy Huskie dog named Tawny (she lives at the home) sniffed over each child, making sure all were accounted for.

When it was time to leave I said, "Happy Halloween everybody!"

And almost in unison, they replied in high volume: "THANK YOU NICE LADY!!!!"

OMG, my heart just melted and I couldn't stop smiling. Even now, typing this, I am tearing up. I can't believe how much joy I got from being close to these kids for only 20 minutes or so. Such a pure feeling.

I can't shake the feeling that these kids are closer to God than I could ever hope to be.

Getting in the Spirits

While everyone else is battling H1N1, I've contracted some sort of Martha Stewart disease where I feel compelled to cook things from scratch every day. My condition is exacerbated by the oncoming holidays and snowy Sundays with football games on TV.

I just returned from a super fun pumpkin carving party, a tradition held by the hosts, Doug and Edie, for 25 years. Despite the snowy weather, they'd set up the backyard as a complete eating, drinking and pumpkin carving station. Tables covered in newspaper, tarps to keep our heads dry and space heaters to keep us from freezing - oh, it was cozy.

Also, TONS of food, goodies and desserts. Doug is an expert chili man, always a good thing to be in these parts. He had giant pots of spicy green chili, mild green chili, veggie chili and red chili. YUM. I scarfed down a bowl and am now regretting that I did not have seconds.

But I did not arrive empty handed. In fact, despite getting home late (and a tad tipsy) last night from a dinner party in Morrison, I use some of the leftover juice to make Grape Ice Cream. That's right, a new flavor has been brought into this world and I am its mother.

It turned out okay except the next batch will use less sugar and no vanilla - too much getting in the way of that powerful grape-y flavor.

I also spent the afternoon making a batch of over-the-top Halloween cookies. I recently came across a bag of cookie cutters (ghost, bat, pumpkin, cat) in my cupboard and decided to put them to use.

Such fun! Any day you get to play around with food coloring and rainbow sprinkles is a fine, fine day if you ask me. The result was 16 beautiful, perfect cookies (and one disaster cookie I call, 'Insecure Zombie Kitty Applies For A Job') worthy of photographing, suitable for framing and ideal for eating. They were a hit at the party.

And though I was the last person to finish carving, I ultimately completed my version of 'Devil's Advocate.' Behold:

The Green Triangle

Beyond the scope of love, I realized this week why I like to stay in touch with old friends. Because they have witnessed the many versions of You and remain curious about who You are today. (See an earlier version of me at left, on the shores of Lake Malawi.)

This all dawned on me earlier this week after visiting with my old friend, Marie-Josee. (Skype, I love you!) Next week, it will be 15 years since we first met in Kenya. She was a 19-year-old, easily-bored girl who hailed from Montreal and thrived on risky adventure. I was 29 and had become too settled for my own comfort - a nice boyfriend, a great apartment and a swanky job as a food writer. Staring down the barrel of the big 3-0, I set out for the world and all its physical discomforts.

Once in Kenya, I met up with my overland crew and quickly realized I was the sole American. We gathered in a circle at that first campsite, Hell's Gate, alongside Lake Naivashu. Our roughly seasoned leader, Kevin, was giving instructions about Something Important. Unfortunately, his Kiwi accent was so thick, I couldn't understand one word he said. Something like, "Right, then. Grab ya mate, hack a sack and find some deht (dirt). She'll be royt (right)!"

All I could think was, "Uh-oh."

Next thing I know, people started pairing up, grabbing bright green canvas bags and wandering off. I didn't know what was going on. Eventually, I stood alone, save for one young girl who spoke to me in a heavy French accent: "Well, I don't know what he said but whatever it is, it's me and you." And just like that, MJ and I became tent-mates for the next three months.

Now, these were not the fancy REI tents that we all have today. These were very basic canvas tents made in the 60s, purchased from the German army who was probably going to through them out anyway. In real estate terms, they were 'cozy' and 'quaint.'

Sharing such a small space with another person under extreme conditions ... well, you get to know a person. (Not to mention the fact that your tentmate is also your cooking partner.) MJ and I came to lovingly refer to our home as, The Green Triangle. Just like any roomies, we laughed, we argued, we shared secrets and got used to one another's sleep talk. (Marie's was mostly in French, although one night she burst out in English: "My God, it's only a gun!")

The following year, MJ came to visit me at my wee beach apartment in California and we celebrated her 20th birthday. We have since kept in loose touch through letters and, eventually, email. I came close to flying to Montreal one weekend for her going away party a couple of years ago, but the planets did not align.

(MJ & I, with our porters, on the Zaire-Ugandan border, getting ready to track mountain gorillas. From our smiles, I can see that we have no clue how physically demanding it was going to be.)

Seeing her lovely face (see above for her classic 'I-am-bored' look) again and hearing that charming accent, it all came rushing back. Because MJ speaks something like five languages, her English phrasing is pretty hilarious. Some of my favorite excerpts from letters and conversations:

"You know how it is, sometimes life is black and other times it is pink. And other times, it is just nice having a husband with a house in the south of France."

Re: her divorce. "And dat was awful. Like washing machine stuck on spin."

"And den I left. I went to live somewhere hot."

My favorite, which came from out of nowhere: "And do you know what else I like about me?"

MJ is less impetuous now, more focused in her life and goals. She is working on her PhD in cultural linguistic history, or some such thing. She has lived in nearly every country in Europe but now has two rooms in Italy - one in the South and one in the North. "One for study, one for living," - typical MJ logic.

As our visit came to a close, I was unabashed in my affection. "I love you madly," I told her, and she squealed and laughed. She returned the love and we swore to visit again soon. And maybe ... just maybe ... someday... we would travel together again, perhaps with a bigger tent.

Long-Time Supporter Explodes

Sure, I got me a fancy office chair but a girl like me needs all the support she can get. And so, for the past 3+ years, I've put several old friends into action.

As I may have mentioned before, I'm not much of a consumer. Unless it's entertainment, food, booze or travel, I'm unlikely to pay for it. Especially if it has any practical uses.

My former college roomie, Laurianna, once visited me from Albuqurque and commented on my cooking skills. "I see you've learned a few things since college," she said, making me glow inside. "But you are still using the same pans and some of these puppies are dangerous." She held up one or two pans that had deep scrapes in them, the protective 'coating' long gone.

"Girlfriend, you need to buy yourself some new pans," she sternly advised. I nodded in full agreement.

Weeks later, a huge box was delivered to my door. In it, a full set of cooking pans and utensils. It was from Laurianna and the note read: "You need these and I KNOW YOU - you will never make the purchase yourself."

It's a great thing to have a friend that knows you so well and yet, loves you anyway.

ANYHOO, I acquired three pillows in 1997 when my San Francisco roomie, Michelle, moved out. They are not pretty so I'd kept them for practical purposes only. One a drab green, another a dirty maroon and the last a psychotic mix of the two colors.

For my entire Colorado life, the maroon pillow has served has my steady back support at ClizBiz Inc. It has held me up through numerous late-night conference calls with China, given me comfort through long editing sessions and selflessly provided bouncy support during various blogging episodes.

Sometime last week, it gave out. Actually, it exploded. I walked in one day and pillow guts were everywhere. Coarse white stuffing lay down around the chair, pillow seams opened like a murder victim's throat. If only I'd had crime scene tape ... oh, it was awful.

I've decided to keep using it until all the stuffing has exited the pillow, which should be sometime next week. Then I will discard the shell and can safely state: "I wore this pillow OUT.'

Old Style Thinkin'

The sky above Lyons on Sunday night was surreal. It was one of those sunsets that made you hear bluesy angels.

I'd been exploring land and lots with Reid, both pretending we had enough money to build a dream reality. I just want a 3-5 acre mini-spread. Big enough to have a yoga yurt, some chickens, a big-ass garden and dogs ... for starters. When I picture my dream future, I see lots of hard physical work (compared to now, anyway) and a great deal of dirt. I also see a great big smile on my face.

Yes, something is happening to me and I've become drawn into all things homespun. My brother even noticed it when we hung out at mom's recently. He was watching me cook and commented with some confusion, "Hey, what are you, Holly Hobbie?"

Just last week, I cooked up a fine, yellow batch of homemade mustard. Okay, so it was for an article I was writing but still, I was pretty gung-ho about it. The result was mind-blowing and tongue-transfixing. Truly. Me and store-bought mustard are through.


Just last Sunday I found myself listening to the Broncos game while making homemade grape jelly. (Photo above - pure grape juice on sugar.) Unlike a true domestica, I got impatient and ended up using too much water so it's somewhere between jelly and syrup. I call it 'jerup.' It's so damn good, I'm tempted to put it on everything. I'm told that grape-jelly-bacon sandwiches are the best ...

Today, I spent several hours today tearing up the '09 Garden (RIP) and it felt so wonderful to be messing about in the dirt again, even if it was a sad occasion. Meanwhile, I'm saving up my pennies for 'farm school' and with any luck, I'll start to become useful.

Green Grasshopper Goodbyes

About a month ago, I went out on my balcony to fetch the morning paper (so retro of me) and there on the ground was the most beautiful grasshopper ... dying. I managed to pick it up and looked right into that tiny green science fiction face. The mandibles were working but it looked like it had a busted leg and therefore, couldn't get anywhere to fend for itself.

It gave me a great opportunity to study the insect up close and notice how it brilliantly it had mimicked its leafy home, right down to the 'veins.' Mother Nature is so brilliant and always five steps ahead.

I placed it in a seashell and took it out back. Perhaps if I placed it on a big, flat leaf, it could rest up and recover? Wishful thinking. I managed to get it situated on a leaf and close to the moist earth. It went and hid, telling me that at least it was happy to be out of the bright sun. And there it died.

I was surprisingly sad about it. I mean, we'd just met! I said a little prayer and went on with my day, though I couldn't get that wee green face outta my mind.

Next morning, same exact thing. A gorgeous grasshopper was struggling on my welcome mat and near death. Since my mother was facing heart surgery at the time, I had to reject the "omen" word that kept flashing in my brain. I also neglected to post about it here.

Again, I grabbed the same sea shell and scooped up the new guy. "Is this going to be a regular thing?" I asked him. "Because I'm not sure I can be Dr. Snow White Kevorkian to the Insect World." His legs were also broken and he seemed weaker than the other, much closer to the end.

I took him to the same comforting plant out back and placed him on a leaf opposite the previous burial. Who wants to see the corpse of a fallen colleague as you yourself are dying? Nobody.

As I did the day before, I said a little green grasshopper prayer. Like the true dork that I am, I said that I was sorry that they had to leave, glad they stopped by on their final day, honored to meet them, etc. Yes, I am, without question, a Nature Nerd.

The next day, I was hesitant to fetch the paper. Would I be greeted by more brightly colored death? Thankfully, no dying grasshoppers appeared. But I guess the word is out - free no-fuss burials at my place. Anytime.

Home, Sweet (Dry), Home

While scientists proclaim Antarctica to be the driest place on Earth, I would have to insist that, in fact, my left eyeball is the driest location on the planet. True story.

Turns out, I am especially sensitive to altitude difference and moisture levels (or lack thereof) in the air. My skin, eyes, hair, nails, sleep patterns and appetite are all heavily affected by my current geographical location. Perhaps this is the price I pay for studying Nature as a hobby; I've gotten too close to my subject.

After two weeks at sea level - my body sucking in all the oxygen and slurping up all the moisture it can manage - I've returned home to Denver, where there are 18% fewer oxygen molecules and very little moisture. While my heart is happy to be home again in my beautiful adopted state, other parts of my body tend to rebel. The left eyeball, especially.

It is not happy here and does want to face facts. I try to point out that my right eyeball, which has endured numerous surgeries and dramas and therefore has much more of a reason to complain, does not. I also like to mention the clean air, which surely must be kinder to a certain mucous membrane I know. Then, I always point out the bevy of rugged Colorado men running-hiking-skiing-biking everywhere - they are most certainly are easy on the eyes.

No matter. Morning tantrums ensue and it refuses to stay open, even when I have important shit to do. I end up wearing sun glasses at church like a redemptive Jack Nicholson. Many a phone call I conduct with my eyes shut tight like a telephone psychic. Bright sun can feel a like a thousand white hot needles straight in my iris, giving me a special affection for snowy or rainy days. (I don't even want to talk about fluorescent lighting, which is pure sensory evil no matter where I am or how I'm feeling.)

When it is really bad, I have to pull the car over and wait out the excruciating episode. No amount of fish oil tablets (3x a day), doctor-prescribed eye drops (Restasis, 2x a day) or water gulping seems to help. One thing I've noticed, the tantrums rarely last beyond 1 p.m.

Thankfully, being half-blind actually helps my guitar playing. Now, if I could just loose some teeth, find a rickety porch and learn me some blues chords, I'd have a legitimate act.


(Eyeball Image Credit: Larry McFarland.)

Some Morbid Nutritional Advice

From your friendly neighborhood wholegrain bread store.

YMCA

In between my joyful reunions with old friends here in LA, I've been hanging out with some new friends that are, in fact, old-ish.

Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, I set my iPhone alarm for 8:00 a.m. - still painfully early for me these days. I make the 1.2 mile drive - past my alma mater, Lakewood High School - and park at the Lakewood-Weingart YMCA, my new favorite place.

In the pool, I join the volleyball gang, a lively bunch of people who can spike, serve and tease with the best of 'em. Besides the joy of feeling bouyant in the water, I adore the ritual of victory. When a team wins, they gather hands in a circle, float on their backs and kick their feet in the middle while singing Village People: "Y-M-C-A!" The losing team usually just sulks. Then, we play a new game.

Then, I stay for another hour to do Water Aerobics with another set of seniors, some of whom - like Linda and Isabel - knew me as a baby.

I cannot overstate how inspiring it is to be with people who, although mostly decades older than I, are my kindred spirits. They believe as I do, that JOY can and should be a regular emotion, or at least a daily goal, and that exercise helps get you there.


Take the story of Ina, a 94-year-old pipsqueak who, up until 15 months ago, played v-ball regularly with the gang. One morning, Ina spiked the ball, urped out a quiet little "help" and went down. Her teammate, Bill, quickly got her out of the water and onto the pavement. They called 911 but Ina was gone. Heart attack.

Isn't that a fantastic death? I'd certainly rather end my days frolicking with friends than wearing a diaper in nursing home, that's for sure. I asked my new friend, Shirley, who was telling me the story as a witness, if Ina managed to get that final ball over the net.

She thought for a moment and smiled. "Yes. Yes, she did!" Ina won the Final Round, for sure.

(Statue photo shot in Colorado by Goomama.)

Ice Blockage

What is ice blocking you say? To my Colorado peeps, let me explain.

Y'see, in Southern California there are no seasons. (A rainy day here and there does - not count as a season. Also, "earthquake weather" - not a season.) Without snowmen to make and leaves to jump into, how do kids entertain themselves?

Frankly, one can only go to the beach so often and nobody is better at creating fun stuff out of nothing than bored suburban kids. This is how skateboarding down metal handrails and empty swimming pools became an art form. This is also how Ice Blocking was born.

It's very simple:

- Buy giant blocks of ice from supermarket, liquor store or iceman.
- Grab thick beach towels.
- Cruise parks and golf courses for grassy knolls.
- Carry the blocks to the top of the hill.
- Fold a towel and place on an ice block.
- Plant ass on the block.
- Slide down the hill, avoiding trees, and laugh.
- Carry the block back up the hill in the towel.
- Repeat until the cops come and tell you knock it off.

So, when I am in SoCal, I usually get to visit one of my favorite families, The Lawlers. I went to high school with Debbie, the ultimate surfer/skateboarder chick. I knew her husband, Greg, separately - still one of the funniest men I know. When they married, I knew that cool adorable kids would soon follow.

They did and now there are four extremely funny, talented and lovable people that I get to hang out with. That they live less than a mile from my mother's house makes it super easy.

Last time, we all went toiletpapering - another SoCal tradition and, in my day, intended as a compliment to the recipient. This time, it was Ice Blocking, something I haven't done since the mid-80s with Greg and his buddies. (Sadly, Greg was out of town for this adventure - bummer.)

I had such a blast with Debbie, Nate, Tanner, Hannah and Nate's friend, Jack, that my youthful flashbacks were energizing. Jack and I shared one block and ended up ass-over-head in one fabulous burnout. Hannah and I raced our blocks to the bottom and neither of us fell off! This was a personal best for me.

After many icy runs down the hill, I ducked into some dark bushes for a pee break. Walking out, young Hannah ran up to me, breathless and giggling: "IT'S THE FUZZ!!!" Aaaah, Johnny Law had finally arrived, right on time.  Even the gruff cop from the Cerritos Sheriff Department could not dim my mood, in fact, it made me nostalgic. If he hadn't arrived, the evening would not have been complete.

I'm looking forward to the next Lawler (lawless?) adventure pulled from my youth. Perhaps oil pump riding?

Two Great Snouts

I've been catching up with old friends right and left. All those big projects I brought with me? The ones I was going to complete with all my 'free time?' Yeah, I haven't touched 'em.

Instead, I've been visiting friends who have cute dogs. These are the kind of dogs that jump into my lap and make me want to sneak them in my purse, like Sophia here. She lives in Upland with three other dogs, six cats, my friend, Andrea, her husband, Barry, and two awesome teenagers. I kinda fell for her even though she was wearing a sweater.

This here is Rasputin, a cutie pie that hangs out with my friend, Heidi. He is a wonderful character and it's fun watching Heidi make scrunchy pet owner faces that I've never seen her make before.

I can't wait to meet my dog, wherever he or she might be. Sigh.