A time for lights. . . .

This past Sunday Greg and I put all our outside Christmas lights up - it was a beautiful day, in the 60's, and rather than see Greg perish as he put them up in cold ice and snow. . . we put them up on this fabulous day.

He did all the roof lights - we choose big, multi-colored bulbs to line every single eave - and I did the 4 little trees in our yard. He bought roof clips to attach the bulbs to the gutter just perfectly, and rather than using them every foot or so as a normal person would do - he used 1 clip per light so that each bulb would stand up perfectly. (That's the difference between a normal person and a perfectionist)

At the end our house looks like a little rainbow porcupine, and the lights are perfect and precise, by God. Last night we got home from work, changed into our pajamas, and bundled up to see how beautiful our home was lit up. Greg flipped the switch with a relish, and came out to join me in the street.

And it was at the exact moment that he turned around to behold his creation, that creation played a dirty trick. There, on the right hand side of the foremost eave. . . a blue bulb winked out defiantly.

So we got in early to work today so Greg can change the bulb before it gets dark tonight. A perfectionist's job is never done.

And thus ended the tower light fiasco. . .

There you have it, all the letters.

The tower lights now blink meekly in the field behind us, everything seems to be working correctly - lights, bulbs, switches, and once again there is peace in the land.

And the final letter - where all was fixed (Letter 8)

Dear Greg,

Thank you for the heads up concerning the tower lighting. It seems that there are now a couple of flash heads that are significantly brighter than the rest, even at night. These flash heads have new transformers which cause the units to burn a bit brighter, but even so the ones in question are excessively bright. I have a tower crew on site today to test for proper switching of the day and night intensity. They are also going to climb and further investigate the flash heads in question.

Again, I apologize for the inconvenience this is causing. I will update you all when I receive more information. Thank you for your understanding!

Jack

And even though we thought it was fixed. . .it wasn't . . .and Greg wrote another Letter. . . (Letter 7)

Dear Mr. Clear Channel Guy,

My name is Greg, and I am a citizen with frontage to your tower, here in Weld County. I really appreciate you responding so quickly to our concerns with your tower.

I assume that the tower equipment has been replaced by now, and this is why I am writing. In the past, with the old equipment, as well as when you were having crews dim the towers manually, the lighting was bearable and comfortable at night. With the new equipment, that I am assuming has been replaced, the lighting is not as bright as it was when the equipment was malfunctioning, but it is still much brighter than it used to be. Now, I don’t want to be a bother to you and your crews, but is it possible for you to send a crew out at night this week to check and lower the brightness level? It is quite bright now at night, and its penetrating our bedroom blinds again, which can make for difficult sleeping conditions. It is also difficult to be in our backyard again at night, since the flashing lights tend to put spots in our vision. When the lighting is dim, as it was in the past, this was not a concern.

I appreciate your time concerning this, and thank you for your response,

Sincerely,
Greg

To which Clear Channel Replied. . .(Letter 6)

Dear Mr. Mayor,

I regret the tower light malfunction, and the hardship it has caused. I have assigned a station engineer to be on site tonight and tomorrow morning to manually switch our tower lights to night pattern and back. This will continue until repairs are made, probably in the next day or two.

The failure was in a custom dual photocell module. The parts are proprietary to the system and difficult to procure. We are in the midst of replacing our entire tower strobe lighting system with a state of the art Flash Technology System. The new system controller is much more reliable, and will remotely notify us when the pattern doesn't switch. This project will be complete by year's end.

Please refer your future concerns directly to me, and I will make sure they are addressed.

Sincerely,

Jack

Even I got in on the action. . .(Letter #5)

Thursday night we had gone to bed with the lights flashing brightly, and Thursday morning at about 2:30am Greg, (who has been focusing much energy on this whole lights thing) nudges me on the shoulder to wake me up.

"Christa?" he says.

I make a non-commital noise in reply.

"Am I dreaming, or are the lights a bit dimmer?"

And it was at that point that I decided something needed to be done about these lights as me waking up every few hours or so with Greg to judge the latest brightness wouldn't be helpful for my work career.

Or, for that matter, our marriage. So I wrote this letter to Clear Channel Communications after being given the run-around on their phone system as I tried to lodge a complaint:

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am writing to complain about the flashing lights just east of my home in Savannah subdivision in Frederick, Colorado. Since these lights have been changed a little over a week or so ago; their bright, strobe-like lights are keeping my husband and me awake at night as the light penetrates through our blinds and curtains. It is completely ridiculous how bright these lights are at night, and we've been forced to sleep in our guest bedroom on the western side of the house on workday nights to escape the 'disco fever' atmosphere created in our bedroom by this tower.

I would request that you do something about this immediately. I can't imagine that this is zone-compliant considering how close this tower is to residential property. The sooner these lights go back to being normal in the evening, the sooner I can sleep in my bedroom. If this were in your backyard, you'd be pretty inconvenienced as well.

Additionally, I tried to lodge a complaint via telephone, but was given the run-around twice by your automated voice system before being hung-up on. That is also ridiculous. I would suggest you change that system to be more customer-friendly for complaints that need to be lodged about your electronics.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,


Christa

To which Greg, somewhat appeased, replied. . .(Letter #4)

I really appreciate it. Thank you so much for getting back to me.

They are pretty obnoxious. You think Flatirons is bad, I saw it from Surrey Ridge coming into South Denver on Saturday night. I was blown away.

I appreciate you and the town working towards a solution. That’s all I am looking for.

Thank you Mr. Mayor. I appreciate your attention in this matter.
Greg

To which the mayor replied. . .(Letter #3)

Greg,

I am sorry that you have felt that we are not responding appropriately. We have been told that the FCC is the body that should be contacted. I know staff is working on other angles to this problem. I too am bothered by it and observed the towers at Flatirons Mall on Friday night. I agree this is unacceptable and is a community issue as does the staff.

We will continue to look at how I and the town can respond and get help with this. I thank you for your interest and I will be in touch with you once I know more.

Eric E. Doering
Mayor, Frederick, Colorado

Letter #2 to the Mayor of our Town (Oct. 30th)

Greg wrote this after he saw a link on the town website about the towers that stated:

"The bright white strobe-like lights on the southern radio tower (located to the east of Frederick) have been the cause of many citizen complaints in Frederick and the surrounding areas. Town officials have contacted the Weld County Planning Department and several area communications companies regarding the problem, and all complaints should be directed to Clear Channel Communications, which owns the tower. The Town of Frederick is not responsible for the towers and has no control over their operation."

Which apparently, Greg didn't like. Thus this letter, to our mayor:

Subject: Flashing South Tower East of Town / Concerned Citizen of Savannah Subdivision - Please Help Us -
Hello Mayor Doering,

I am writing you today with great concern regarding the flashing towers east of town. I myself, being a resident of the Savannah Subdivision, east of CR15 and North of Hwy52, am fully impacted by these lights. Not only is this a huge intrusive nuisance to my home, homes of my neighbors, and my ability to sleep, It is now becoming a safety issue in our neighborhood as Halloween approaches, as you lose all nighttime vision when driving eastbound through the subdivision. I fear that if these lights are not detuned quickly, that a child will be struck, as this is a neighborhood full of children.

The note on the website that the town of Frederick is shrugging off the responsibility of these towers to the FCC is completely inappropriate, since our town and its citizens are DIRECTLY and NEGATIVELY impacted by these towers. Regardless of where the towers lie in regard to town limits, the town should be concerned with the well-being, and safety of all of its citizens. Please get involved with this issue, and use any and all influence that the town has in order to get this remedied quickly. There are many residents in Savannah that are counting on you.

I appreciate your time. Thank you

Greg

Letter #1 to ClearChannel Communications (Oct. 30th)

Clear Channel Tower at 6800 WCR 17 near the Intersection of WCR16 in Weld County Colorado - EXTREMELY BRIGHT LIGHTS - Safety Hazard & Nuisance


Good morning,

I am writing today to complain about the new lighting configuration that began Sunday, Oct 22, 2006. The south tower at this site, Clear Channel Communications, has been changed, and is now EXTREMELY bright day and night. This tower has become more than a nuisance, and is now a safety hazard. It is now difficult to drive eastbound on many different EB routes, including Colorado Highway 52, Main Street, Frederick, Colorado (5th Street), and many smaller residential roads. The tower lights are so bright that you lose visibility as your eyes cannot adequately adjust for nighttime driving. Safety for children in the area as well as wildlife and pedestrians is now a concern, especially with the onset of the holidays (Halloween). These lights need to be returned to their previous brightness ASAP before somebody gets hit.

For the neighborhoods that surround these towers, life has also become difficult. Sleeping with bright lights flashing all night is extremely difficult. It is painful to be outside in the evenings, as the brightness of these flashing white lights is extreme and dramatic. Please take action as soon as you can to remedy this situation, and have this tower repaired.

Please feel free to contact me regarding this issue. It is of the utmost importance to me, since I am directly impacted in a negative manner regarding this tower.


Greg

Explanation of Tower letters to be posted...

Recently, one of the large radio towers in the field behind our house had its light bulbs changed and its system updated. This would have been fine except the new bulbs are about 1,000 times brighter than the previous bulbs and they were cranked up all the way day and night.

It's hard to exaggerate how bright this made our neighborhood. Visualize lightning striking in the black of night every second or so and I suppose that's the closest picture I can paint you. It was aggravating, and though it bothered me. . .it nearly drove my husband insane.

What follows is the series of letters written from Greg to various officials as he tries desperately to get this fixed. . . and get some sleep. Because they are comical on their own, I'll post them, one at a time with little to no introduction.

Enjoy!

The Wobble of Death

Over a couple weeks in August, my brothers were able to come out and visit. One from North Carolina, one from Minnesota. The 4 (including my husband) of us are pretty close, and whenever the guys can come out - it's always a good time.

We went shopping at the mall one day. . . and about 2 hours before this photo was taken, Jeff (the one on the left) bought a longboard. It's something his friends are into. Basically a long, surfboard-shaped board that is similiar to a skateboard, but apparently different. And since Jeff enjoys tooling around on these things, he bought one on our shopping trip, along with a helmet.

About 1 hour before this photo was taken. . . Jeff didn't have that massive bandage on his arm.

We went from the mall to our parents house for dinner - around 50 minutes away. Jeff spent much of that time telling us all sorts of interesting facts about this style of boarding, along with things to watch out for. One of these things was 'The Wobble of Death' which he described as when the speed of the board gets to be so great that it starts to wobble first a little, and then with increasing frequency until the rider literally gets 'bucked off' his board.

So as we neared my parents house, we stopped at the the top of the sloping hilly road that they live on. . . and (as he was eager to try his new board out) let Jeff out to ride down on his own. We would follow behind just to make sure he was OK and to fend off any cars that may try to pass him, and we'd meet him at the house about a quarter mile down the hill.

So off Jeff went - new helmet, new board. His long locks waving in the wind. 5mph. . . 10mph. . . 15mph. . . 20mph! I was starting to get nervous at the speed; when John, Greg and I all noticed a bit of a . . . .Wobble.

Uh Oh.

Just as Jeff had - apparently prophetically - described; this slight wobble increased in momentum until it did, indeed look as if Jeff was riding some sort of crazed horse. His arms went out attempting to keep his balance, and then. . .like it was in slow motion. . . we watched him fly off the board, take two drunken high-speed steps (please remember his body was still going 20mph even if his legs weren't) and then fall and barrell roll down the street as his longboard shot off into the forest. Greg slammed on the brakes, we all ran out of the car to where Jeff was lying bloodied with torn jeans, shirt, and a scratched helmet. We were horrified.

Jeff had temporarily lost the ability to breathe and had also lost quite a bit of skin on the pavement. But though he was bloody and bruised, it didn't warrant a hospital visit, and so we gently helped him up and into the back of the car so he could catch his breath for a minute before we headed down the hill to scare my mother to death.

Jeff sat there gasping for air, and groaning in misery - and as he did my other brother John patted him reassuringly on the shoulder. "Yeah Jeff," he said contemplatively; "we see what you mean about that Wobble of Death."

Hello we're back . . .and we're taking calls. . . .

Greetings all 5 people who read my post on a daily basis. Or, not so daily, as of late. Again, many apologies for the lapse - but I'm ready to hop back on the horse again so to speak, and here we go:

So. What story to regale you with since last we read? What tale of hilarity; vacation, work, or marriage-related should I tell this day? Let's start with vacation. Which Greg and I took the last week of August.

Off we scampered to a sacred site where my family and I have been camping for the last 22 years. It's in Colorado, and it's amazingly beautiful. A nice rustic campsite by a river, plenty of wood for fires, and due to the stark lack of any sort of civilization . . .very free of those pesky class A, B, C or whatever motorhomes that are the size of small Soviet countries, crowded with all sorts of prissy folk.

Greg and I were able to borrow his parent's pop-up camper which isn't even close to the same thing. (So stop thinking that)

My parents joined us 3 days into it, and as they just sold the 1974 Vaquero camping trailer that we've had since I was 6. . . .they were tent camping it for the first time in many, many moons. Which was interesting because they brought a huge blow-up bed, an outdoor kitchen, a small outhouse-shaped tent that was for showers, carpet for the inside of their 3 bedroom tent, as well as their 2 dogs and cat, Simba.

Yes, I typed that correctly - there was carpet . . .and (entirely unrelated). . .their cat.

It was like when they showed up - so did bits and pieces of a house.

But, we had a great time. We had all kinds of crazy food which we ate with gusto, and for those of you who know Greg, also know that this relates very closely to his version of heaven.

Until the 5th night. I vaguely remember through a sleepy haze that I heard rustling through the cabinets. Perhaps the faint hint of paper rustling, and the pitter-patter of tiny paws.

I didn't think much of it until the next morning when I found that a mouse had taken a wee bite out of nearly every kind of food we had brought. Greg went ballistic. It is a very deep form of violation for him to have his food ruined by any sort of creature, let alone a tiny mouse who didn't even bother to finish his first feast before starting on another.

We went back and forth on solutions to the matter - during the day the mouse was gone, and Greg wanted to capitalize on that to move all perishable food into the truck, lamenting all the while at our massive oversight in not stocking the camper with mousetraps. There was no convincing him otherwise, and as he was doing that I was trying to think of a way to solve this issue so I could have a functioning kitchen back. Then, Simba (the cat) showed up from his foraging in the forest, and he gave me an idea. . . .

I let Greg empty out the trailer (with the spirit of a man who knows that all his Skippy Peanut Butter Bars will be gone forever if he doesn't act NOW) and when it was done I carefully sprinkled some Lucky Charms near what I believed to be the mouse entrance was. We opened all the cupboards, and waited for night to fall.

When it was dark, we took Simba, and stuck him in the trailer while Greg, my parents and I all sat around the campfire making s'mores. In truth, I thought it would take until the middle of the night or something before a first kill could be made, and we occasionally looked in to see how the cat was doing.

He was perched, oh-so-quietly on top of the seat cushion, looking down into the baited cabinet. Ears pricked, head cocked, and very, very, still. He knew what was up and was taking his job very seriously.

In the middle of a s'mores conversation, there was a big THUMP, and a brief rustling, and then silence. The fire ring was silent as we looked at each other in disbelief, and I finally said what we all were thinking:

"Do you really think he's caught one already?"

There was only one way to find out. We all trudged over to the camper, and upon opening the door, there was Simba waiting for us, sitting in the entryway with a dead mouse clamped firmly between his jaws.

We disposed of the poor creature, and then sent Simba back in to kill any other 'poor creatures' who may be trying to eat our food.

I did feel bad, but that was the only mouse apparently, because Simba caught no other ones that night despite my bait.

Perhaps those lucky charms aren't so 'Magically Delicious'.

At least for field mice.

Unexplained Absence...

Fans, Friends, and Loyal Readers;

I apologize for not writing anything lately - I assure you it's not for any depleted interest or lack of subject materials, but something much more. . . insiduous.

A very busy month.

Between one brother coming out for 2 weeks, another for 1 week and a week of vacation as well as a round of birthdays, I'm swamped. But. Things have begun to calm down and I hope to post as early as sometime this week. My head's all backed up and have a good many things to tell. :)

Until then, Bonne nuit!

Of Marble and Gunshots

This past weekend, to celebrate our anniversary, Greg and I stayed at a B&B in central Colorado. Perhaps more B than a B&B, for it was a bit rustic, and the owner didn’t feel like cooking breakfast on morning #2 (though to his credit, he did say we could cook our own breakfast with his groceries). Whatever; small towns can often translate into new definitions of things you thought you knew.

It was a much-needed break to get away and have nothing to do for 2 whole days. We read, tried out the canoe (an amusing tale for a later blog), hiked, ate junk food, and slept. At one point, we entertained the idea of heading up and checking out the marble quarry which makes the town, Marble, so famous.

So the morning that we did get breakfast, the owner joined us and upon hearing our interest in the quarry trip, decided to regale us with stories of the craziness of this small town. He’s lived there for almost 20 years, has served on and off as a town-councilman and mayor pro-term, and knows quite a bit about town politics.

So he tells us about the crazy people who own the land through which 20 feet of the trail to the marble quarry passes through (got that?). The trail cannot divert through this old mining claim as there is a cliff to the left and right of it, and seeing an opportunity to make money and establish some dominant hierarchy within the town. . . they’ve decided to charge people $5 per person to walk this 20 feet of ‘their’ trail.

At this point in the tale, our host got a weird gleam in his eye and proceeded to tell us that we shouldn’t pay the fee if we were to go. I agreed that it was ridiculous, but shouldn’t the town government be taking care of this? Don’t they need a permit or something?

I was wrong; such is the corruptness of this town that people are powerless to stop these money-hungry folk. And so, our host suggested, we should instead put green paper into the slot that asks for money with a snippy little note on it saying something to the point of “Good luck with your venture” or something to that point.

I was starting to feel like a pawn in this whole game, and suggested that Greg and I saunter through without paying and without the sassy green paper.

No, the host didn’t like that idea.

Why not? Says I, clearly naive to the ways of Marble.

Well, a couple tried that a few years ago (which tells you how long this ridiculous feud has been going on) and the owner, frustrated that people in town were telling tourists not to pay, fired a warning shot over their heads with his rifle. They, of course, took the man to court, and his whole defense was that clearly this wasn’t an issue, since it was just a warning shot and not actually aimed to harm them.

Greg and I glanced at each other over our French toast, eyebrows raised. Our host then excused himself to go clean up, cheerily gave us a bit of green paper (because they’ll probably think it’s a $10!) and then left us.

We decided not to hit up the marble quarry that day, or the next.

Clearly, everyone here is crazy; both sides of the argument. Additionally, anyone who thinks that warning shots are normal behavior doesn’t need $10 of my money and I’m surely not going to provoke him with a bit of green paper.

:)

The Beginning of Wedded Bliss

I've been thinking a bit about my husband Greg. Regarding this blog, he really is my muse, so to speak, and he has kept me entertained for 6 years now. 3 of those we were dating, 3 of those we were married, and tomorrow is our anniversary.

So, in the spirit of celebrating our anniversary, I thought I'd regale you with a Greg story that happened 3 years and 1 day ago today. . . or, perhaps to clarify, 2 days before the wedding.

We were married in a small mountain town called Ouray, on the Western side of the Rockies here in Colorado. I grew up over there, and as we both loved it we decided to make the 5 hour trek and meet all our friends and family for the Grand Celebration. It was a medium-sized wedding, about 100 people showed up for it, and in the couple days before we were to be married, we hung out with everyone, going to some hotsprings, visiting camp and cabin sites, shopping, eating, touring old mines, and. . . Most important to this story, taking a 4-wheel drive trip.

My dad, Greg and I all knew the route well, I've been doing it since I was 2. It winds up and over a mountain pass, and then drops you off in Telluride so you can then take a regular road back to Ridgeway and finally, back to Ouray - where we started. The ride was great, we all took pictures, checked out old mines and ghost towns, took more pictures, and then headed down the backside of the mountain into Telluride. Brad, Greg's best friend was riding in the backseat, and the three of us were in the middle of a conversation almost into Telluride when there was a horrendous THUMP from the hood of Greg's Explorer followed by an earpiercing shriek of metal on metal for 10 long seconds before the sound finally died with the engine. There was brief silence followed by a torrent of cursing from Greg.

Apparently this had been a problem that Greg was going to fix, but didn't think needed immediate attention like apparently it had. And so our getaway/honeymoon/driving car was completely disabled. . . on the side of a mountain. . . .5 hours away from where we lived. . . .2 hours from our wedding site. . . a day and a half before the wedding.

Greg and Brad (they both are mechanics, Greg just doesn't do it as a profession anymore) hopped out and immediately went about trying to figure out a way to fix the problem. Something about how a ball bearing welded itself onto the engine. . . Not really fixable for running the motor, but we could coast and be towed alright. And that's what we did. We coasted into Telluride, and my dad towed us over the pass and then let us go once we were to the top. It's just miles and miles of downhill, and I joined Greg for a 30 minute equivalent of 'Mr. Toad's Wild Ride' as we careened into Ridgeway with no power steering or brakes.

The Explorer's prognosis was no good. It would take at least a week to fix. Which was too bad since we were going to be on our honeymoon in now, 1 day. My mom called a friend back in Denver who hadn't yet arrived for the wedding and begged him and his dad to bring her car over so we could use it. They said ok, but that they'd be a little late. The wedding preparations were done, we had one more fun evening with our friends and prepared to get married the next day.

As I prepared throughout the day with hair, makeup, dressing, flowers, and whatnot, I was wondering where our car was. Hours ticked by and still it didn't show up. Greg was wondering as well and sweating it out. What were we going to do tomorrow if it didn't show? We didn't want to spend half the day with our parents trying to find a car rental in some other town!

The day passed by quickly and soon I went to the church for pictures and then hid upstairs as Greg showed up for his pictures . . .And still no car. I sent my bridesmaids out on car-watching duty periodically to see if it had showed yet, and nope - no car. As I was walking down the aisle, through the open door I saw my mom's car screech around the corner and do a 4 wheel skid into the parking lot. . .And I smiled.

I arrived at the end of the aisle, and after being given away by my father, walked up the stairs towards the altar with my soon-to-be-husband, and looked up at him and winked.

"The car's here" I whispered, and we both smiled as we took our vows.

Of Burritos and Flying

We were in California for a long weekend this past week. It was a trip to celebrate the wedding of Greg's best friend, Brad. All in all it was a nice, uneventful weekend, until of course, it was time to leave.

Allan, another friend of ours, dropped us off at the airport for our departing flight 2 hours ahead of time, and Dan, another friendly guy we know, called to see if we were hungry for lunch. He works for United, we were flying out of American, and he could come eat with us and hang out until we left. It was a splendid idea, and we were both hungry. So off he went to grab some burritos, and we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Until it was 30 minutes before boarding. Greg got up to go see if he could call/find Dan and see what the ETA for him was. Greg wandered off and I stayed with the luggage (God FORBID you leave it alone for more than .05 seconds, who knows what the terrorists may do to it!) and read my book.

I tend to dissappear into books, so I didn't really notice how much time had passed until they started boarding. I looked up and didn't see Greg, I stood up and still didn't see him (at 6'7" he's easy to spot in a crowd) This was a small, regional terminal seperate from the main airport, so it's not like there was a huge crowd that he could have dissappeared into. At this point, over 1/2 of the people were boarded, and I was baffled. "Where did he go?!" If we missed this flight, this was the last one to LA to get back to CO, so it was mildy crucial we be on it.

Scanning the crowd again, I looked outside past security in the main lobby, and there he was. Standing in security. With 5 minutes before our plane took of.

I raised my hands in sign-language question. He raised his and had a burrito in each.

Apparently Dan couldn't get through security without a ticket, terrorist burritos and all that, so Greg had to go out and get them. In coming BACK through security, the two people in front of him were triple searched, and he couldn't get through.

"This is the final boarding call for flight 1497, would passengers OurLastNameHere, party of two, please come to the gate?"

Greg got through security at this point, and came tearing over to get his bags. He threw me a burrito, and we boarded. I never saw Dan, and we ate on the plane. They were excellent burritos. :)

And that, my friends, is how we nearly missed our flight for food.

Of Showers & Breakfast

The other morning I was making breakfast as the two of us prepared for another work day. Greg was upstairs showering, and it seemed like it was going to be yet another ho-hum day, when a tremendous clatter sounded from the upstairs bathroom. Mildly curious, I paused in the middle of egg-scrambling listened for a minute, but then went back to what I was doing. When you’re married, I think you do get used to the occasional bump and crash as men aren’t the most graceful of creatures.

But. . .it was not to be a quiet morning. 5 minutes later, the water turned off, and Greg stomped to the top of the stairs. Dripping wet and wrapped loosely in a towel he held up two bottles and then demanded in a voice much-too-commanding for 4:30am:

“Do you use Dove Moisturizing Shampoo or Icy Pineapple Cleansing Shampoo?”

Well, I use both of course, (because sometimes you feel like an icy pineapple) but feeling that wasn’t the best of answers, I replied “Dove Moisturizing”.

He stomped back into the bathroom only to quickly return with two new items.

“Do you use Deep Mango Facial Scrub or Dead Sea Facial Scrub?”

Again, the answer here was both, because deep cleaning and dead sea are entirely different granular sizes, but again, I chose one. “Deep Mango.”

He ‘hmmphed’, and disappeared into the bathroom to return two new items.

“Do you use Energizing Citrus Body Wash or Cooling Cucumber soap?”

I sighed, I was growing weary of this game. Clearly in the morning I wanted to be energized, but in the evening, if I wanted to take a shower, cooling cucumber is soothing after a hot day outside. What man wouldn’t understand that?! But I’m getting wiser as I grow a bit older and bit my tongue. “Energizing Citrus.”

Apparently, he had gone to grab his razor while showering, and all sorts of fruity sudsy bottles fell upon one foot. Thus, the purging. But, lucky for me I know he just placed the rejects under the sink, and I will begin slowly bringing them back into the shower as the energetic, cooling, tingling, soothing, or pore cleansing spirit moves me.

The Tour

I'm not a big sports fan by ANY stretch of the imagination. Even when I played sports I had a slightly bewildered look on my face, never fully understanding the rules and surprised when the goal/hoop/bases changed to the other side and we were going the other direction. I was that kid who occasionally scored for the other team.

But every year I get a bit excited for there is one sport that I will watch faithfully for a month. The Tour de France. And that started today!!!!!

Unfortunately it did not start well.

My hopes have already been dashed for a big win for Jan Ullrich this year. A huge drug scandal went down, and a number of racers were pulled out, including three of the big boys, Giro d'Italia champion Ivan Basso, 1997 Tour winner Jan Ullrich (my favorite now that Lance is gone) and Spaniard Francisco Mancebo were pulled out by their teams after being implicated in an investigation into a doping scandal in Spain. They've not been found guilty yet, but can't ride regardless.

*sigh*

And I'd really like to think that they'll be found innocent. Seems a bit political to be doing a drug bust so close to the actual race, and pulling out the most favored and seasoned contendors for the yellow jersy.

So Lance, it's probably a good thing you didn't ride this year. Either you would have A) been implicated as well and tarnished your reputation regardless of the outcome or B) had no competition whatsoever and won in a ho-hum 8th race.

Other than that, happy first day of the Tour!!!! Much excitement now to see who will be the next big champion after Lance, and even if you don't like the cycling it's worth watching for the scenery!

How I saved a whole Mexican Village

This past Monday, Greg and I were in Colorado. However, someone in Mexico with my debit card number spent a little over $1,600 of our money in some sort of shopping spree.

We saw the first charge Sunday morning. It was only $187 at that point, and we called the banks 24/7 hotline which was, inexplicably, not working. So we kept trying throughout the day, and it wasn’t until Monday morning that we were able to cancel the card number. By that time, the damage had been done.

Things are sorted out now, a day off of work to fill out police reports, bank papers and the like and our money is being returned. Not from the person of course, they got away with it, but from our bank. Thankfully we were covered for this type of problem.

So I would like to rationalize this: My co-worker, Joe, and I were discussing this.

“You know,” I said, “I would really like to think that this was some person who desperately needed the money.”

“Yah,” Said Joe “Someone with 8 or so very sick kids who were dying and badly needed medical care he couldn’t afford, so he used your card.”

“Right,” Says I. “except I think it was some restaurant that this person used my card at.”

“So maybe they were some hungry sick kids.”

“A $346 food bill in Mexico points to either some serious food consumption, or a ritzy restaurant.” I pointed out. “Also, there were some clothing stores with a couple hundred dollar charges to each of them.”

Joe digested this for a second; “I got it! The whole village was hungry, their clothes were threadbare, and no one knew what to do. No one had the money to afford clothes or food, and people were going to die. This person, with your card number in hand, knew what he had to do. He had to take the whole village out to a few big dinners, then, he had to buy them all clothes. Now, a village is safe thanks to your money.”

I think I like this explanation over the rational alternative. It is rather heroic and has a purpose. “How I saved a whole Mexican Village” seemed an appropriate title, and it does end happily. Since we got back our money, and a village was clothed and fed, no one was really hurt – right?

Laughter is the best medicine

So on my way home last Friday I was riding the shuttlebus to my main bus home. It had been a long day - I was tired and grumpy. I noticed a couple across the aisle laughing to each other. . . .they'd stop, look secretively at me, then they'd start laughing again. I was sure that on top of my tired day . . .I was now being laughed at. My Ipod was playing in my ears, but I had no music I really felt like listening to, so I turned it off (with the buds still in my ears so no one would make the potentially fatal mistake of talking to me).

Then I noticed a strange noise from behind me. I turned and there were two larger women, sitting at the back of the bus, breathless from laughter. They were silent for a few seconds, and then one of them snorted with a non-too-successful attempt at holding back more laughter, and the other one shrieked with delight before they started laughing again. They giggled, they sighed, they were silent for a few seconds, and then they'd squeal and start hysterically laughing again. It was absolutely ridiculous, two grown women probably in their 50's, laughing like they were 4. A smile started to creep across my face, and I glanced back at the couple who previously I thought were laughing at me. The girl pointed with a 'you see?!' sort of motion at me. And I got it. They were laughing at the women behind me.

I'm not sure what the women were laughing about. Every minute or so one would try to catch her breath to say something. . . but whatever she was trying to say became unintelligible as the other started giggling, snorting, the sentence ended in some high-pitched noise, and they'd both start laughing again.

For almost 10 blocks we went like this, and I saw every new person who got on the bus got through the same line of thought that I did. First "why is everyone laughing at me?" and then "Oh! Those women are ridiculous" as they started to smile too.

Pretty soon I was giggling with the couple across from me, and a few other strangers started laughing as well. The two women thought this was even funnier. . . and, if possible, laughed even harder, with less control. I thought they would be the first known cases to die from laughter. . .there was no oxygen going to those dear brains.

By the end of the ride, we were all infected with what these two women had.

Joy.

I had to think that it had been a while since I had laughed that hard and how ironic it was that two complete strangers without really saying a word to me, were able to lift my spirits so high.

Of Girls and Horses

My best friend Christi came to visit yesterday. While she only lives about 40 minutes away, we don't see each other as often as we may like, and it's always a treat when I'm able to visit with her at any time.

We've known each other since she was 7 and I was 8. We went through elementary school and junior high together. We each had a horse, and we lived our summers out horseback riding through green pastures and dark forests. Her horse was a dark bay named Dallas, mine was a palomino named Ruler, and both of those horses had infinite patience with us two little girls who didn't know too much about anything. . . especially horseback riding.

You want to know why I still believe that magic exists in this practical, scientific world of ours? It's because I saw it all around me growing up. I don't think that our childhood could have really been more perfect. We caught frogs, climbed trees, chased snakes, put peacock feathers in our horses manes and rode them like we were on parade, splashed in the river, rescued baby birds, and laid back on tree-benches while our horses grazed in knee-deep grass to talk about everything. It would be a mistake to say that it was only the two of us . . . in reality it was the four of us, for our horses were equal companions on our Great Adventures.

This lasted for years, and ended abruptly when her father accepted a position on the other side of the state, and my father took us to live in India for some time. Within a short few months everything we'd ever known was gone. Our families had sold or packed everything, and we both had to sell our beloved horses. I don't remember who was the first to go, but I think it was Ruler. She and I gave him a final bath on that hot summer day (herbal essence shampoo and conditioner of course) took a few final pictures of him, and wept behind her house as we heard him screaming his goodbye out of the horsetrailer that took him. Dallas was next, and the ritual was the same.

The foundations of our lives shook violently, and within a month we were both gone from our childhood homes. I was on the other side of the world, and she was learning a new life in a new town.

Ruler died within a few months of him being sold. I don't think he wanted to go on. Dallas fared better for some years, but we've lost touch with the family who bought him and are pretty sure that by now he's gone too.

The river of life moves on, and there are some things that no matter how cherished and loved, simply can't continue with you.

It's amazing how bonded you become to someone who shares those kind of memories. While over time we've definitely lived our own lives, there is a part of us that is deeply connected to each other. Now, here we are, both adults, and both still good friends. Christi told me yesterday that she's picking up and moving to the east coast this fall, and while that makes me sad, at the same time I'm not overly worried about it. Life has contrived to take me thousands and thousands of miles away from her, and I ended up a mere 30 miles away some years later.

I have no doubt that the same thing will happen again in time, for I don't believe our adventures are yet over.

Some like it HOT

So this afternoon Greg and I were driving home from work. We were in my fabulous '96 Ford Escort, which is our daily driver (40 mpg and it would be your daily driver too!), and were noticing that the AC wasn't working as well as it should have. Well, really I was noticing. I don't love it anything above about 70 degrees, so I was cookin'. We had a few errands to run, and while we were at Home Depot I bought Greg a chili dog, and was going to drive us home while he ate it.

Except the AC really wasn't acting right. My car loves me, my car knows me, I've been with my car for 6 years now, and she knows that she can run just TERRIBLY. . .as long as my AC is working well. And we've never had problems until today. So I knew right away when the 3 minute 'cool down' time was up and she was still blowing hot air that something was wrong. And then she shuddered in a positively ghastly way. The temperature gauge soared to 'H' in about 10 seconds. I dove into the nearest parking lot, and Greg (who was a mechanic before he went back to school) did a quick diagnostic.

Underneath the engine all sorts of things were bubbling. He determined that my coolant fan had stopped working, and that we needed to wait for the car to cool off before we could do anything, but we could probably limp home as long as we didn't use the AC.

So we grabbed dinner at the nearest restaraunt, and came back out to start her up again, sans AC. What Greg had failed to mention is that in order to keep cool air blowing over the engine, we needed to FLOOR the heater on the freeway. It's 98 degrees today. I did NOT want to floor the heater.

But, I'm not the mechanic and therefore lose all veto power in the car department. So off we went down the freeway, heater blasting, with the windows down. It was probably close to about 120 degrees or so. Maybe more; definitely FELT like more.

As we reached home, which is a considerable distance from the city, Mr. Positive hollered at me over all the rushing air; "Hey, I think it's a degree or two cooler up here!!!!"

So optimistic.

And here's where the two of us really have different life views when it comes to heat. Because you see, when I'm boiling at 120 degrees, 1 or 2 wee degrees isn't going to really cheer me up.

:)

Magical Macaroni

Today, I've been more than a little grumpy.

Maybe it was the weekend with relatives, maybe it's because I've been a little under the weather the past few days, maybe it's the fact that Greg was out golfing and having fun today while I did laundry. . . whatever. Either way, I'm not quite as cheery as I like to think I normally am. So when Greg called to kindly let me know he was on his way home I more or less bit his head off. I have that marvelous talent to completely gut someone with harsh words in one minute or less, and I absolutely hate it when I do it. Especially to Greg. So. . .after stewing about it for a bit, I called him back to apologize, then wallowed around the house in my misery for another 45 minutes.

Sweet Greg, he called me to let me know he was at the store and asked if I needed anything. I didn't even need to think about it for a nano-second.

Kraft Macaroni and Cheese please!

For no matter how good of a cook I have become in our past 3 years of marriage, Greg is the only one who can make this mac and cheese the way that I love it, all buttery and fattening. I can't figure it out no many how many times I do it, it's always a bit too milky, or a bit too dry. And it does always cheer me up pretty quick. If chocolate cake is an IV drip of sheer pleasure, then mac and cheese is like taking aspirin. Not quite as immediate perhaps, but still pretty darn effective after a few minutes.

Which reminds me of a time about 2 years ago that Greg had made me some mac and cheese when I was down and out with the flu. He was preparing it in the kitchen and he was really excited for me to try this particular batch. (At this point in time we were buying these little blue boxes by the ton at Sam's Club - and I'd gone through almost all of them that hellish week.) He put the bowl in my hands, and I started eating, noticing that he had added

a pinch of
no, a bit of,
heavens; a LOT of

PEPPER!

I was on fire. I gasped, I sneezed, I pawed at my tongue, I drank more water than was good for me and finally got around to asking what happened. Apparently he was experimenting a bit with the pepper when the top of the jar fell off and the whole lot of it fell into the pot. Rather than dump it all out and start over, he thought he'd just stir it all in and see how it tasted.

Not very good in this humble writer's opinion.

But we always laugh over that story whenever we do have mac and cheese these days, and I swear I can still taste a hint of pepper each time I go to eat it.

Farmers Markets and Blue Tooth

I was reading a friends blog about things that have gone by the wayside. It was clever and got me to thinking about an incident 3 Saturdays ago when Greg and I were at a Farmers Market.

I had finally convinced him that this was a good idea, that Boulder wasn't such a bad place, there were just some people with open minds who lived there and they probably weren't mind-readers and wouldn't roast him in a fire if they ever found out that he is, in fact, quite conservative. He was reluctant, a bit nervous, but up for the challenge, and off we went at 7:30 to see what we could see.

It was great, I felt right at home. Lovely signs that said cool things like 'organic', 'fresh', 'Hydroponic', and the like. There was jewelry from Tibet, paintings from a local artist, and everyone was really nice. I had finally found some people I could relate to.

I was browsing the jewelry, when Greg received a phone call from his friend. Now, we have recently purchased new phones and have those very trendy little Bluetooth headsets that attach to your ear via wireless. Mine is (naturally) pink, and Greg's is grey. The downside is that my hair often covers up my headset, and people think I'm talking to myself. Greg was wearing a baseball cap this day, and apparently was dealing with the same problem. This was Boulder. People have the money for these kinds of things, but like to refrain from using them in public, as it's not really the 'down to earth' image they like to project. He was getting some weird stares, some snotty stares, and some 'wow, I can totally relate with him' kind of stares. I kept my distance. I liked talking with everyone and pretending to be a hippie myself, and Greg was seriously ruining that image.

Finally in the middle of a conversation with a guitarist, I glanced over to see a middle-aged man with long dreadlocks, and ratty clothes start to approach Greg; who, true to nature chatted obliviously on and on. I noticed that this man, too, was talking to himself. . . minus the headset and phone of course. He slowly approached, muttering and whatnot, and finally came to stand beside Greg. They were both looking at across the lawn talking to invisible friends, until Mr. Dreadlocks decided to link the conversations all together. He nudged Greg and spoke a bit louder, something completely incomprehensible.

Greg stooped. He stared. And then, with the grace that only someone who is NOT from Boulder can do, he brandished his first finger and pointed in a very aristocratic way at his ear. Which then revealed to the man that Greg, at least, was talking to someone real and had no time for another conversation.

Mr Dreadlocks didn't seem to mind and shuffled off. I on the other hand was appalled by Greg's behavior. Greg was miffed that he had been interrupted and then scolded!

We went home shortly thereafter.

And thus ended our adventures into the wide world of Farmers Markets. Greg is of the mind that a Safeway produce section is much quieter and more stable environment to shop at anyways. Besides, people don't interrupt you when you're talking to yourself there.

Red Ants

This evening I’m sitting on my back porch, watching my cats roll in the dirt and the grass sway gently in the wind. I’m sitting here and wondering how such a scene could go so . . .wrong.

I pride myself on my love of all life, of respecting the earth and everything that lives on it (with the possible exception of spiders) and yet here, on my first bit of ground that is officially mine; I have already sinned. I have waged a bloody war and lost bitterly.

“What is this war?” You ask.

“Red Ants.” I sadly reply.

Those little creatures have brought me to this wretched state. We have a BIG nest of them in the back corner of our yard. The same place where I intend to have some sort of glorious garden; clearly the ants had to go as we couldn’t coexist peacefully as I dug in the dirt. . . so much for respect of nature.

The hitch here is that I’m pretty adamant about pesticides, herbicides, suicides, whatever. None of that in my back yard please, I have cats.

So I read online that with about 3 gallons of boiling water, you could eradicate an anthill once and for all. Sounded great, perhaps not entirely sensible when thinking about the boiling and transportation of 3 gallons of water – but I was not concerned about such things. This website is not about sensibility, it’s about magic. But, even so, this idea was neither of those two things.

So off I went, and Greg (my game-for-anything husband) decided to help. Took forever to boil the water, and it was probably a maximum of 2 gallons, not 3. (who has pots that big when there are only 2 of you?!) Out the back door we CAREFULLY went, a pot in each hand. About halfway out there I discovered that my right wrist is significantly weaker than my left, and had to leave 1 pot in the middle of the backyard lest I eradicate my foot along with the ants. We poured the searing water slowly down the hole, and the results were devastating. The good news is I don’t think they hardly felt a thing, but heavens, it was effective. For good measure Greg took a shovel and dug up the dirt a bit and we poured more water down. Aside from a handful of ants that weren’t at the pile when the massacre happened. . .there was no movement. Feeling slightly guilty I headed back inside.

The next morning I went out to check the hill. They managed to dig a tunnel in the night and miraculously find survivors. I admired them, it was impressive, I boiled more water and poured it down the new hole. Still they surface. I’ve turned into a ruthless, cunning murderer – much like those serial killers I read about in crazy novels. It bothers me a bit, all those poor ants, but I have no time to dwell on it. I have more water to put on the stove. . .their numbers are quite large today. . . .

River

Greg and I were talking the other day about time. He was upset about how long it was taking us to get moved into our house completely, he was concerned about money, he was frustrated that the house wasn’t very clean at the moment. We sat on the floor of our living room (still need couches!) and stared at each other for a while, I was thinking, and he was too. Finally he asked me why I wasn’t as bothered by all this as much as he was, why I wasn’t taking life as seriously.

That was a question I didn’t have an immediate answer to. Why wouldn’t I be as upset as him that so many things were going wrong, were going right, that life was moving so swiftly now that we could hardly keep up. . . and after a bit of thought, I realized that it’s a deep-seated life’s philosophy that I have, that I’ve never really examined before.

Life is a river, and time is the current. There are times that the current pulls you along swiftly, and times that you meander with all the speed of a summer’s day. There are bends and turns, some unexpected, some expected. Some moments time can’t pull you away fast enough, others are so precious, so dear that we want to hang on to them, and they’re gone in an instant. I have all those in my life’s river, I’m sure you do too. The funny thing is that everything we have here is so. . . .impermanent, so trivial. It’s difficult to take things seriously when you know they’ll be gone in a month, a year, 10 years. . . the river moves on and takes you with it, ultimately leaving your possessions and youth behind. So what is there that you should take seriously? What should you invest your emotional energy in with all the life and death passion that you look at the monthly finances with?

Your spiritual journey. Take care of your body, soul, and spirit. Without those all in place and functioning correctly, you’ve lost your best ally in this adventure. Without those in place you won't have the strength to really take care of your next charge;

Relationships.

It seems to me that people can get so caught up in the little things, and place so much stress on them that they lose perspective. The spouse/partner/friend that years previously you couldn’t even breathe without becomes a side priority, and something else takes center stage. That relationship that took you so long to cultivate and mature starts to wither for lack of attention. . . and that new thing you’re focusing on isn’t even that important compared to the bigger picture.

Greg and I had to sit down and realize (not for the first time, probably not for the last time) that a house, furniture, jobs or material possessions can all come and go, but it’s our relationship that will stand the test of time if we continue to nurture it. I found that so profound that I had to share it, regardless of how obvious it may seem. I think this world encourages us to focus on things that don’t matter, and I hope that this gets you to thinking about the things that do. Don’t let the current rip you away from what you hold dear simply for lack of attention.

A Lark Ascending

I was listening to the David Crowder Band CD I have on my Ipod the other day, and the very last song (which I had never made it to before) resounded with me in a powerful way.

And I’m trying to make you sing
From inside where you believe
Like it’s something that you need
Like it means everything
And I’m trying to make you feel
That this is all for real, that life is happening
That it means everything
....I’m just trying to make you sing

I think as I grow, and look at where life has taken me and where I have willingly gone. . . this song defines much of who I feel I've become, and it also makes me think of the people who have been my lark; carrying me above my problems with their love of life and everything in it.
The song is titled "A Lark Ascending" and I love the poem that inspired it.

He rises and begins to round,

He drops the silver chain of sound,

Of many links without a break,

In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake.

For singing till his heaven fills,

‘Tis love of earth that he instils,

And ever winging up and up,

Our valley is his golden cup

And he the wine which overflows

to lift us with him as he goes.

Till lost on his aerial rings

In light, and then the fancy sings.

~ George Meredith

Bus Rides to Work

I ride the bus from home to the bus station, and then from the bus station down the 16th Street Mall downtown to my work. 2 different busses, 2 very different rides.

The first bus I take is approximately 25 minutes long. I start north of the City, and everyone I ride with are commuters like me. Dressed in the work attire of drab grays, blacks, browns, whites and blue, we load in about 5:30, and sit quietly. Really it's too early for intelligent conversation, but I'm not sure we'd talk to each other either way. We are a somber, quiet group. Reading our books, listening to our headphones, or perhaps vacantly staring out the window. I often feel a bit of poetic martyrdom sitting there, like we're all shuffling towards some long-decided fate, all dressed alike, all going to similar jobs. . . All pretty miserable about it.

Some mornings.

Other mornings on that bus I feel like I'm part of something great. That I've been assimilated into some sort of Corporate Borg unit, and I'm doing my part to really make some sort of difference, if not in the world, then at least in my small sphere of influence as I bring home a happy paycheck every other Friday.

Regardless of how I'm feeling that particular morning (martyr or Borg) I disembark on the Northern part of downtown, and hop on a shuttle to ride 10 minutes down the street. On this bus, a few of the commuters have joined me, and it's now approaching 6:00. The homeless people are waking up and heading towards various (and I admit, unknown) destinations, the janitors are out cleaning the streets from last nights activities and hop on and off at different stops. The cleaning ladies for the nearby hotels are just starting their morning shifts, and hop on the bus in groups. All laughing and talking excitedly, arms around each other with smiling faces; I find that I can't help but smile with them, even though I can't understand a word they're saying.

Some mornings there's a guy who's a bit mad that hops on the shuttle with me. He always ducks down behind the windows after the door shuts, muttering to himself, keeping a watchful eye out for some unseen enemy. When he's not completely paranoid (which is rare), he'll start poking fun of the other passengers, usually women. First, he begins with the compliment "that skirt looks very nice". . .it's difficult to know what kind of response to give him, for I've seen the range of "thanks" to stony silence, and they all produce the same result. He angrily mutters to himself, then takes back the compliment, then waits for the poor female to disembark, and which point he starts to yell at them "you better hurry!!!" perhaps for the lack of something more intimidating coming to his mind.

Either way he's about 5 feet tall, not too much of a threat, and treated with general good humor.

There are a ton more characters to list for the shuttle; the Ladies Man who loves nothing more than a good conversation first thing in the morning (a different lady EVERY morning. Don't pretend to know him, he forgets you pretty quick); the Security Guard who suspiciously eyes everyone on the bus, probably taking his duty a bit too seriously; the Jogger who must not jog very much because he's always riding the bus; the Homeless Businessman - a character who intrigues me, he is always dressed in slacks and a button-down shirt with loafers. . .you'd never guess he was homeless except for the grocery cart with all his baggage in it (and nice, name-brand baggage too, if a bit worn) .

I could go on and on. The shorter shuttle ride is always a TON more interesting than the long commuter ride, and that's when I think to myself how boring the world would be if everyone chose the same life-path.

Who are you?

Lately I have been thinking about what defines me.

So many people define themselves by their job, their lifestyle, their status. . .And I'm no longer a student, a vegetarian, an apartment-dweller, a tree hugger, a part-time employee, a volunteer. . .These are all things which defined me strongly for the past few years, and within a matter of months were all stripped away. Now, life has taken a complete turn.

I'm a full-time software QA engineer, I'm a homeowner, I'm still a wife, I'm still a tree-hugger but can no longer really term myself as an environmentalist because I work in the petroleum industry, and I'm really, really busy. . . .but. . .who am I? What part of me remains the same regardless of how my situation changes?

For that matter who are you?

What part of your life/personality defines you so strongly that when people talk about you they say, 'Oh, you know Yournamehere, she's/he's a ______'.

Think about it and fill in the blank when you leave a comment. I'll start:

'I'm a free spirit who brings beauty and life to those around me. '

Very Fun

Well, I was looking over some other blog spots, and found a link to this video.

Being a HUGE Star Trek TNG fan, I thought that I would post this clever video for the watching pleasure of my blog readers (all 4 of you!)

You can see it
here.

The Great Moth Slayer

With our new house, our sassy little cat, Cider, has found a whole new occupation. Zesty and full of life, I now can say for certain that apartment living didn't suit her one bit, but our house does seem to present her with many opportunities to keep boredom at bay.

Here in the early summers of Colorado, Miller Moths come out in DROVES to eat things, beat themselves senselessly against lights, and swarm through your house leaving strange red droppings in their wake. In our apartment on the 3rd floor, they weren't an issue. Here around our house, they congregate in alarming numbers. At first my husband and I were concerned about them....we had about 5 good sized moths flying through the house, smacking against our head when they weren't flailing madly against the ceiling.

And then Cider saw them.

All of the sudden, gravity seemed to release it's hold on my small cat. She lept, she twisted, she was incredibly clumsy for the first few nights, and not altogether successful. But as the weeks have passed she has turned into a ruthless killer. No moths can dwell in our house for more than a few minutes before she spots them, and her focus is rather impressive. Lamps, couches, artwork and the occasional wall can't hinder Cider as she pursues her prey. She's become so effective that I'll take her out to the front porch light with me, and in less than a minute she'll have one firmly grasped in her paws after yet another astonishing leap.

So in the end, as of this writing the moth season hasn't been that bad for us; a great source of happiness for Cider, and fabulous entertainment for us. I think we'll all be sad when it's over.

Except for maybe, the moths themselves.

A New House

Well, perhaps I can start with the blogging again. There's certainly plenty to write about. A new job, a new home, a new life in general and though the transition has been jarring (everything happening within a 2 week period - even closing on the house!) It's amazing to be here where we are.

The new house is on .25 acres, and so far my favorite thing has been my backyard. It's a huge field, with really big power lines spanning the space. Now, the power lines may not be the most beautiful things to look at, but they are protecting the view as the land is now a dedicated utility easement. In the end I would prefer to look at them than another gaudy subdivision (like the one I live in now!)

I've found it to be an unexpected experience to love the Eastern CO plains as much as I do. More of a mountain girl, I've found the wind rushing through the firs and aspens and a surging mountain stream sounds that I associate with comfort and peace. However camping trips are few and far between, and I often have felt disconnected with nature in general working in a concrete jungle downtown. The house has surprised me by bringing that same peace back into my life. The sounds of grass blowing in the wind, meadowlarks trilling from sun up to sun down, the hissing of blowing sand against my fence... I sit out on my back deck for hours and just soak it all in. Where I used to commune with nature on short walks and infrequent camping trips before, I can now come home every evening and tap into that same energy.

Now, my commute to work is about 45 minutes long. . .I arrive at 5:45 in the morning and leave around 2:30 to miss the bulk of traffic; and in the end, I wouldn't change a thing. It's peaceful, it's quiet, and it's magic in a too-sensible concrete world.

Mount F***ing Herman

I was breathing hard.

We'd been scaling the boulder-field for what seemed like hours, slipping and grappling our way to the top. Already we'd hiked around 2 miles at the base of the mountain, and now, even though this hike was only three-quarters what we did down there, I felt like dying. My hip hurt, I was sweaty, and the lack of oxygen was screwing with my brain, making my say intelligent things like; "What?! 1/10th of a mile?!! It was 3/10ths of a mile 10 minutes ago!!!! I thought we were supposed to be getting closer to this thing!

Yes indeed, my reputation as a geographer was getting shakier every minute I spent gasping at the dry alpine air. And for what?! What would make me do such a stunt on an other-wise beautiful Sunday?

For a geocache. For those of you who are out of the loop a geocache is like a treasure-hunt, with a GPS. You plug in the coordinates of the cache, (usually a small ammo-box) and go find it. Miles turn to feet, and soon you must get out of your car to find the elusive, often buried, sometimes stashed amongst rocks, cache. You sign the log book, take out a small trinket such as an eraser, magnet, or PEZ dispenser and replace the trinket with one of your own. (for more info www.geocaching.com)

That's what I, and six other people were after that day. Already we had 3 caches under our belts and we would pursue 6 others before the day was done, but this was by far the toughest.

We made it to the top, where a cold wind greeted us. This was Mount Herman, it was the nearest mountain to the town below, and overlooked the whole valley floor. Although no easy feat to hike to the top, it was also an accessible mountain by car, you could drive the dirt road easily in a car, though the hike itself left much to be desired in the 'easy' category. The cache itself was a small green bucket full of all kinds of treasure. We signed the logbook, left a cell-phone charm and took a toy jeep; and then turned around and headed back down. There was a storm rolling in and we got what we came for.

Later on, after dinner and on our 8th cache of the day, my husband wanted us to traverse a field at a brisk run to beat the other group to find the cache. His friend and I gaped at him, weary and incredulous that he would even ask us to think about anything other than a slow meandering walk at this time of day (and I may add, a margarita down).

Greg was serious.

So were we.

Finally his friend staggered over on shaky legs and dramatically pointed his finger in his face. "You listen to me," he rasped. "I just climbed up Mount F***ING Herman today," now he stabbed his finger towards the tall mass of rock looming on the mountain range, "and there will be NO RUNNING!"

I couldn't have said it better myself. A toast to Mount F***ing Herman and a damn fine day.

Lack of things to do

So now that the school semester is over and I'm officially graduated, I've found something interesting going on; I'm going nuts for the lack of activities. Having had a packed schedule now for 5 years or more, I find that to have time to do all sorts of things like scrapbook, and go hiking, and take fitness classes, etc. . . I now have no desire to do any of them. I was a much more efficient person when I was busy than I am now! I think my poor husband is hoping I'll find a career soon, for he is now my 'activities coordinator', and subjected to my crazy ideas that keep me entertained.

Luckily my reading hasn't suffered, I am mowing through books like crazy, but my blogging hasn't quite taken off like I expected. Perhaps I'll make this my own 'homework' assignment. To keep up with blogging and continueing to chronicle my life. Lacking in activities though it is. :)