Our Blizzard Pics....

Though we may have little to remind us of it now (puddles and the sound of dripping), we did have that blizzard on Thursday and I finally got around to the pictures we took. From the patio door, here is the poor apartment maintenance man with a back-hoe. Is that a back-how? I don't know. One of those iconic yellow dirt-movers, whose miniatures little boys play with in sandboxes the world over.

Having been stuck inside all day (watching vapid daytime television after doing what I could to "work from home"), I decided that beer was in order. So I piled on a few layers and walked down the street to the local grocery, which has a liquor store next door. Yes, I really am that much of a lush, I suppose. To my chagrin, they were closed due to the storm, though the grocery store was hopping. The grocery store, however, only sells 3.2% beer a.k.a. beer-colored water. And, they sells it for the same price as their full-strength parents. I hate Colorado's blue laws.

The point? Oh yes. I took a picture on the way home. No, no. Not this picture:

That is what the view is like on non-blizzard days. That's the foothills and our city's famous landmark, our protective patriarch, Pikes Peak. And this was that landmark on Thursday, even after the flakes had stopped falling.

Now you see him. Now you don't. Great magic trick. And kudos to the magical weathermen as well for calling this storm right. I guess I might have to give you a bit more trust in the future. Maybe.

Snowed In!

It's the first blizzard of the year folks and, as per usual, I didn't quite believe those forecasters. Seems to be a Colorado tradition really, this attitude of doubt about the abilities of our weatherpeople. Not that we think they aren't trying but--hey, admit it--it is hard as hell to predict the weather in a state where we are known for saying, "If you don't like the weather, wait five minutes."

Yep. Yesterday afternoon and evening were warm and beautiful with a powder blue sky. And this morning, visibility is so bad and the snow so thick in the air that you would think the sky ended only ten feet above your head--warning, low clearance. Plus, it is a heavy and wet snow, which means tree branches are breaking all over town. Poor little trees. And the big ones too.

We had a meeting at work yesterday about emergency procedure. Phone trees were handed out and essential versus non-essential staff designations applied to our foreheads. The roads were salted. Alarms clocks all over town were set early. This kind of preparation usually means to me that nothing will happen. If we prepare, naturally, it will all blow over. And this is the attitude you hear from most folks in these parts--the opposite of the weatherman is usually true. Colorado myth, Colorado urban legend. Yet here I am, working from home and advised by all city authorities to avoid travelling if at all possible. Bring on the cocoa!

I'm not the only one who is a bit surprised. This doubt, this mistrust is our heritage and a local tradition, as pervasive as the winter wind which we doubted would come. It’s a widely held yet unspoken superstition wherein we loudly doubt the experts but cross our fingers under the table. Deep down, we all know it’s just talk and we don't feel bad when the weatherpeople are proven right. Hey, good for them. They have to win one now and again. We know that it’s just talk we toss at the clouds, in retaliation for all they pelt at us.

After all, we have few options to deal with the weather other than words. Perhaps you can keep gloves in your car or download a Doppler radar for your computer’s desktop. Dress in layers, of course. And if you are like most of us, you can—and will—take the weather report with a grain of salt, not forgetting to spread it plentifully on the streets as well. Just in case.

Thanks to The Gazette for the beautiful pictures. You can see all the images from their great, staff photogs here.

Here Comes the Bride....

My good friend Jen got married this Saturday. Me? Well, me... I got rather drunk. But that was my job as wedding guest, especially a wedding guest with access to an open bar. But Jen and Steve are incredibly fun and quirky individuals and so the whole evening was fun and quirky as well, with or without the booze. For instance:

• Jen wore a lovely red dress with simple embroidery. Ditched the white but kept the train.
• The wedding party walked down the aisle to the Johnny Cash song, "I walk the line."
• In addition to the exchanging of the rings, there was another exchange--of the snacks. They fed each other a Cheez-It each because, as they said, "All we need is each other and lots of snacks."
• No rice. No bubbles. Halloween noisemakers.
• Halloween candy on the tables to munch on.
• Chocolate and banana cake. (The banana was surprisingly tasty.)
• Sex toys as wedding presents. (Shhh. Dont' tell.)

I am very happy that we got a hotel room, with a free shuttle that picked us up. And very happy that I wasn't the druinkest one in that shuttle--two rather snooty girls got the prize on that one. I just fell asleep.

Trick or Treat?

So I made the famous Kitty Litter cake for a Halloween party on Friday:

Isn't it gross and, of course, quite delicious? Just imagine the flavor. On second hand, don't. Take my word for it--it's quite good.

Also got to see one of The Boyfriend's co-workers Halloween home movies. It was made some time in the early 1980s and was corny as hell but oh so hilarious. Filmed on Beta, the credits added with a Commodore 64 computer. Will let you know when we get it up on You Tube.

Slip and Slide....

I have gone to Yoga three times this week, although I must admit that it hasn't been purely out of dedication and drive. Me? No, no. Instead, it was all about the free week I get for being a newcomer to the studio. I fucking love that week. I have honestly thought about going around to every yoga studio in town--it probably would last me a month of so, longer in a larger town. Problem with that cheapskate notion is that you (well, at least I) tend to get attached to the place where I shove by ass in the air, drip sweat onto the floor and let my shirt fall down over my sports bar when I am upside down in headstand.

And yes, I think I am getting attached. My legs are noodles and my head pounds a bit from too much fresh blood but I like it. It's different from my Iyengar studio or the Yogalates series I took. This is a power yoga/hot yoga studio called Corepower. Yup, you heard right--hot yoga. That's a very challenging series of poses in a room heated to 105 degrees for 1.5 hours.

And, hee hee, I haven't had the guts to try that one yet. Instead, I've taken the Core/Power Yoga, which is still in a room that is about 85 degrees. In fact, they have a little sliding door between the room and the reception area, an airtight door just like out to your patio or something but, instead of letting the fresh air in, you keep the humid and the heat. At the end of the class, the floor in front of my mat is shiny with circular drips of my own sweat. My yoga mat, which is supposed to be sticky, needs to have a towel over it or it becomes a slip-n-slide. At the end of the class, I need a gallon of water and the room smells like an intensely sweaty sock worn by an athletic teenage boy.

Well, okay, it kind of smells like that at the beginning too but not as strongly.

But, sigh, I like it. In fact, I am now able to do Crow's pose for the first time ever. See diagram one. Yay me.

Slow as Molasses....

I have been a halting blogger of late and, somehow, I feel quite guilty about it. I know I shouldn't. After all, this forum is only for me and I have always maintained that I don't care whether or not I had an audience. So what if no one will look because I haven't been writing. I haven't been writing, so what do I care if some anonymous someone does or does not look? Right? Right.

Much of it is the changes that have come with our new life here in Colorado Springs. I've landed an awesome job at the local newspaper, with the official title of "writer" (though much that I do is calendars and lists... oh well). Plus, it is only part-time which I both love and fear. Love--> because I should have the bit o' time I have always been bitching about to write my own work. Fear--> because I never had any money when working full-time and I would hate to be a sponge on The Boyfriend. Despite the modicum of fear, I am excited everyday to go to work at the paper and I am determined to begin working on my 1/3 started "novel," and believe me that term is loosely used. A few dozen pages does not a novel make.

On top of the job, I have been trying to meet people in the Springs. I have travelled up to Denver to see friends and family several times (which usually entails drinking where my buds are involved, which also saps my will to blog). I started a new writer's group here in the city and I am incredibly excited about that. Thanks to an ad I placed on Craig's List, four of us met downtown last night to plan this little experiment and I think they were as excited as I was. Last but not least (at least not with how I feel this morning), I have been doing my Yoga again. Because I cannot simply take a beginner, focus on the breathing and stretch kind of class--I have been doing this for more than five or six years now, on and off, and even if I haven't been in a year, I have to jump back in--and so my triceps and ass are on fire. Some one please tie my shoes for me! Please? I promise to be lean and toned someday but today I need help with my shoes.

All is well. All is more than well. The Boyfriend has cast and continues to cast his magic spell over my life and my self-confidence, which of course are mutually reinforcing. Happiness--> the anti-blog-drug. (What is it about pathos that makes us want to speak up, huh?) Regardless of happiness, I will attempt to write more often. As always, however, the book review site remains up to date for I shall never, never, under of pain of death stop reading. TBF knows by now that if I disappear for more than 10 minutes, that I must have found my book somewhere and forgotten myself.

Other things that have fallen by the wayside:

• Call my cousin, who returned from honeymoon a month ago and who I have not yet spoken to. *blush*
• Call friend in Boulder, who I want to see now that I am in the state.
• Buy wedding present for this weekend's upcoming nuptuals.
  
• Pick up miso, more black beans, and fresh bread... oh and the Hemmingway that's on hold at the library.

I'm an Auntie!

And she is a beautiful girl!

Race for the Cure...

This Sunday, The Boyfriend and I did the Race for the Cure in Denver with my mom (who had been cancer free for more than 3 years and was walking her 4th race), my sister (who is ready to pop with that still asexual "Bean" in her tummy) and friends.

Denver has been, and was again, the largest race in the country. Last year, I walked the race in Phoenix and, though still edifying and enjoyable, that was a much more sedate experience. However, there are always the Pro-Lifers protesting at the Race in Denver, plastering grotesquely detailed pictures on vans and waving signs. This year the signs told us that abortion caused higher rates of breast cancer. Personally, I think they just want to preach to a large crowd without having to gather it themselves, which they usually can't. I don't think they get it--women are there to support one another and each other's breasts--to be each other's loving and warm bras, so to speak. Leave the politics out of it whenever possible. Preaching to the wrong crowd, I say.

This year, with the walk to and from parking, the 5k was easily an 8k but--hey--we had fun and I raised more than $200 for breast cancer research. Yay me! Okay, that made giving sound selfish so, yay Susan G. Komen! You really have to hand it to the Susan G. Komen Foundation and breast cancer activists everywhere for their amazing accomplishments in education and fundraising. A decade ago, 15 years ago, there was no unconscious link between the color pink and breast health.

Yesterday, I saw women with pink parsols, pink fishnet tights, pink pom-poms, sprayed pink hair, pink temporary tattoos/face paint and hundreds of pink boas (mine included). Pink has become an institution in this country, plastered not only on the hair and bodies of Racers for the Cure but on yogurt, kitchen utensils, socks, underwear, cured meats, vitamins, make-up, etc, etc, etc.

I am not lamenting this over-exposure of breat cancer awareness, though I agree we have to be aware of where our dollars are going. Commercialization is inevitable and, in this case, desireable because the message is out there--bigger, wider, more powerful. It may get a little kitchy, yes, but there are a higher percentage of survivors than ever before and, though it still effects so many women, they are in less danger of losing their lives. I'll buy some yogurt and mascara for that!

Now what about those boys? What color is for prostate awareness? Where are their races, fundraisers and temporary tattoos, huh? If I was aware of any efforts on that front, I would be more than happy to support the prostate as men have stepped up to support the breast (to be their jock strap as they are our bras)

I will give prostate cancer this, though. Their advertisements are getting very witty:

Happy Birthday to Me!

Today, Gnomey G turns exactly 27 years of age (but not until 7:30 p.m. my mother had just informed me, just to be accurate about it). To celebrate, let me share with you all the one gift I have received so far from my lovely sister:


No, no. It's not a condemnation of my lifestyle or a personal assault. It's a journal. Fantabulously great, isn't it.

Birthdays, birthdays, birthdays. It seems I have been swimming in a sea of birthdays the last few weeks. With all the birthday mania that has been abounding of late, perhaps it is time to take stock of things, to muse about age and maturation, to ponder the thoughts that always accompany this annual occasion which brings us one step closer to death and one step closer to wisdom.


Aging is not 'lost youth' but a new stage of opportunity and strength.
-Betty Friedan (1921-2006)





Blessed be the young for they shall inherit the national debt.
-Herbert Hoover (1874-1964)







The longer I live, the more beautiful life becomes.
-Frank Lloyd Wright (1869-1959)







Our children's children will hear a good story.
-Richard Adams, Watership Down (1920-)





He had decided to live forever or die in the attempt.
-Joseph Heller, Catch-22 (1923-1999)





As we grow old... the beauty steals inward.
-Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

...and of course no collection of quote would be complete without the thoughts of the ubiquitous and ever-witty Oscar Wilde:

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.
-Oscar Wilde (1854-1900)

Happy October 3rd!

Stories of the Past / of the Post...

More postcards! Yay! My sister came down for lunch on Sunday and treated us to a delicious (but deathly slow) lunch at Ned's in Manitou Springs. I had the homemade turkey sausage with jalepenos and my lips burned for a good half hour. Still, my stomach (which needed filling after a night on the town with Moll) was happy. Picked up a few retro--but new--cards at Ned's counter next to the purses made of Kool-Aid packages and the Last Supper lunch boxes.






My whole soul tingled with pleasure after lunch when sis and I drug The Boyfriend to a couple of the cutesy-wootsie, artsy-fartsie shops in the area, where I picked up a few new, but old postcards to add to my collection. (You can see other posts regarding my cards here and here and here.)


Unlike the cute but new-fab cards above, the rest I bought were all antique. Therefore, they have a lot more color, history and personality. Take for instance this one:

By Hickory! I do believe you're right! The "night and day" bank and 24-hour restaurant in the background truly make this town the "big city." The reverse side:


This reads, "At Exclusion Spring near Kansas City. Every body busy drinking, feeling fine. Joane." The postmark is May 23, 1914. I'm thinking someone had a hangover on May 24th.

Speaking of which, I got a great (sadly unsent) card that I guess is supposed to be carried by a drunkard during his night on the town. It is most likely an ad for this "Bucket of Blood Saloon" in Virginia City, Nevada:

The small print at the bottom says, "My name is ______. Residence ________. (Keep this out of the papers and tell my sife it was stomach trouble)" I think I could have used something like this on Saturday night!

On an entirely different note is this somber card, sent from Fort Dodge, Iowa on Feb 24, 1910:

Hmmm. Quite pious, yes? And also very grudging about that duty thing--like it has a "do i have to?" tone to it. The interior supports this notion.

It reads (punctuation added):

"Well how is your cold? By this time I hope it is better. I haven't heard from Iwen (?) since so I guess he isn't coming so I won't come home this week but will try to come next week. I am all through with my exams but have not my grades yet. Biddy"

It looks like Biddy was at school, away from her folks and--hey--good for her considering it was 1910 and all. As for Iwen (?), is he a brother, cousin, a beau? I prefer to think the latter. It's the romantic in me. The handsome boy was also at school and couldn't get back to their hometown of Laurens and so she decided not to come as well. Then again, her mama had a cold and she still didn't come. Maybe she was off drinking too. Seems to be a theme around here. Hmm.

I love these cards. They are similar to e-mail, really. Not formal or long like a traditional letter, nor as attentive to detail or spelling. You just send them off for quick messages and such. (No phones, after all.) But unlike email, they are more than just words. The images too are meaningful. They can be fitting, telling, ironic, funny, disrespectful, tongue-in-cheek, pious... Will naturally catch you all up on the next occasion I collect a few...