December is Nice

A grand part of the holiday season is ribbons. And ribbon chasing. The shinier the better, of course, because that way you can see it when it moves. And crinkliness is a huge factor. Ribbons have to make a nice sound when bitten.







Oh, and the postman. Just look at the dedication of this guy, coming to deliver lovely packages and letters to me even in the midst of a snowstorm. My postman is a nice part of December, but I like him all year round (but only when he delivers lovely packages and letters--or boxes of hundreds. When he brings me only K-mart flyers, I hate his guts.)



December has brought lots of pretty snow that I have enjoyed cross-country skiing on. I will soon enjoy downhill skiing on it, too, as long as I don't get attacked by zombies before I can make it too the mountains. You never know when those zombies are going to strike next.

I also like December foods, although I didn't get a birthday cake this year. Between the high altitude baking troubles and the zombies, cakes just don't work out in Wyoming. But....mmmm....Christmas cookies.

I like Bing Crosby. Mmmm....Christmas brains.

Slow Blogging

In the Sunday paper (the New York Times, to be specific (I do think it sounds pretentious to read the NYT in Wyoming, but what passes for news in the local paper is usually some garbage about college football) and, besides, I like doing the Sunday crossword), I learned that I am a 'slow blogger'. This doesn't mean that I am unable to type fast or that my brain capacity is highly limited, but that I tend to reflect upon my words before writing them.

I am so relived to have found yet another label for myself. I must add it immediately to my Facebook and MySpace pages and twitter and tweet it to all my 582 friends.

I thought I was just bored of my blog topics, but it turns out that I am just meditating until the right one comes along. I didn't even know how deep I was.

Another label that I have discovered to describe my behavior is 'flexitarian'. I don't eat meat every day, but I can still muster up some interest in a juicy cheeseburger from time to time. I like tofu and veggies and fish and eggs. I thought I was an omnivore, but I guess that term just wasn't clear enough.

Some people have called me a 'cat person', but since I don't have whiskers, I'm not sure this is entirely accurate. Besides admiring felines, I also like other animals like goats, pandas and marmosets, but I've never been refered to as a 'marmoset person'. I read about this Chinese guy who climbed into a panda enclosure at a research facility to give the panda a hug. The panda bit him numerous times. This illustrates not only that people are stupid in every part of the world, but also that I am a 'panda person'.

I feel refreshed and one with the universe now that I have finished my slow blog.

The Mentioned Me on the Telly!

Okay, well not really on the telly, but I can't resist a Monty Python reference. There's a great "Get Fuzzy" comic full of them in regards to the upcoming election:

I have been on TV before, giving an impromptu interview to a local Oregon news channel on an abundance of cats in need of adoption. The director of the humane society in which I was working refused to go on camera because she wasn't wearing enough make-up. So it fell to me, in grubby scrubs and messy pony-tail, to have my unexpected TV debut. Don't even get me started on that one.

I only did it because I like cats and wanted them to find homes. When I watched the footage, I didn't sound too bad. I mean, I sounded at least as good as any sitting president or female vice presidential candidate. And I didn't mispronounce anything or say "youbetcha, doggone it." The news station even got my name right on the little banner on the bottom of the screen. It's always important for one's name to be correct.

And now I am psyched because I'm mentioned by name in the new Franz Ferdinand single. Not only are they one of my favorite bands, but they are apparently fans of mine, too. http://www.franzferdinand.co.uk/lucid-dreams/index.html

They obviously want to ring me up. Maybe I should start answering the phone.

I just downloaded "Lucid Dreams" from I-Tunes, and it is my favorite new song. (The I-tunes version doesn't have the retro vinyl scratchiness of the website.) Like the Arctic Monkey's "Balaclava", I liked it from the first notes. I usually take a few listens to get into a song, so when I like one immediately it is worth mentioning. So I'm mentioning it.

I also recently bought REM's latest album "Accelerate". In the olden days, back when I was a teenager and my music tastes counted in the world, I really liked their 80s and early 90s music, but they had pretty much lost me after "Monster". I still listen to their old stuff, but I figured they were one of those Rolling Stones kind of bands that just needed to retire.

Their new album received good reviews, so I decided to give them another shot. I'm glad I did, because the whole album is fun and catchy. It's more in the vein of their older stuff, but not repetitive.

So, if anyone cares about my music recommendations, there you go. Always look on the bright side of life. And eat Spam.

A September Blog

I just haven't been interested in blogging lately. I guess I've been waiting for inspiration to strike. Too bad inspiration doesn't come in the form of hail, since, recently, I have been struck with ice from the sky. I've been caught outside in two different hail storms in the last week, but has that helped me come up with blog topics? No, it has just made me thankful for trees to hide under and that the hail stones were tiny. If they had been large enough to bruise, well, that might have been a blog topic, but I think it's clear that the Blogging Muse of Hail is not going to appear to me.

I've not be idle about writing, though. I have exactly 75,511 words in the novel I'm working on, and they're all fabulous. Really top shelf vocabulary. It's a full length manuscript at this point, and a pretty good draft, so now I have to sit down and read it all again from the beginning and figure out what to add and delete. I have looked at it very seriously every day and read Dorothy Sayers instead.

I never was a big fan of mysteries, because they are usually so violent and gloomy and easily solved. But you've got to like Sayer's Lord Peter Wimsey with his monocle and flat in Picadilly and his tendency to quote poetry at random times. And Bunter, in a class with Jeeves himself, is a great character. Bunter the Butler. That's good writing.

Dorothy Sayers does make me feel ignorant at times. She received a classical education at Oxford, so thought nothing of throwing in Latin and French with no translations. Besides that, her vocabulary was even more amazing than my 75,511 words: I keep having to go to the dictionary. I use the OED, because I assume she is writing in Oxford English.

I did dream about tripping over a dead body last night, and his ghost told me to run for it. So maybe it's time to put down the murder mysteries and read my own story again.

But my story is loosely based on my life in tenth and eleventh grades, no less nightmare-inducing.

Maybe I should add a butler.

Savoring Summer

I have been lax on blogging this summer and I don't feel the least big guilty. I have been spending as much time outdoors as possible, in another wonderful summer of hiking and exploring the country. I meander around Laramie, admiring gardens and watching the weather change, and now that I have my new Tom Baker sunglasses, I expect to be able to travel in time any day now, if I can just figure out the trick.


The summer is short in Wyoming, but until I can manipulate the space/time continuum, I'm not wasting a bit of it. I have worn out my knees hiking, learned to identify numerous flowers, read a huge stack of library books and visited lots of family and friends. And it's not over yet! The fireweed never lies.

This pinkish flower that I remember fondly from my time in Alaska, can also be found in areas of high altitude in Wyoming and the Pacific Northwest. The name seems unfitting for such delicate petals, but fields of this flower seen in certain light can look like a smokeless blaze. If you believe that sort of thing.

Fireweed blooms from the bottom up, and as long as unopened buds remain on the top, summer still has some life left. The fireweed in this photo, taken at about 10,000 ft. in the Wyoming Medicine Bow mountains, indicates at least a month or more of summer sun to go. This method has been scientifically proven 30 percent more accurate than that of a groundhog, plus or minus shadow, but researchers admit that the flower has been found not necessarily as cute.

How can anything compare to the cuteness of groundhogs or their mountain cousins like pika and marmot? I love the topography of alpine areas above the treeline, not less because of the likelihood of seeing these cute faces peeking out from their bouldery homes. I know they are probably plague-ridden, hanta virus carrying, lice-filled creatures, but I like them. A hike is always improved by spotting one of these hardy rodents, and they often seem just as curious as me.

I've been trying to see all the variety that the country has to offer, especially in the National Parks and Monuments. A recent incident in Utah stressed the necessity of seeing whatever natural wonders I can whenever opportunities allow. Wall arch, in Arches National Park, collapsed last week due to erosion (so they say..). I saw that arch on a hike only last summer, almost exactly a year ago, and now it is only a memory recorded in these photographs. Good photos, too, I might add, taken by my main man, who took all the pictures on this page.


My summer has also been improved by the acquisition of a new camera. Let me just say upfront, that the camera is a fabulous plum color, and a purple camera is just cool. Besides the purply awesomeness, this little camera slides easily into a pocket--even some of the notoriously poorly designed pockets of women's clothes--and takes amazing pictures at 8 megapixels--can't be bad--even though it was a quite affordable model (Omar Sharif).


My man and I have enjoyed experimenting with settings and lighting to get albums full of artistic and memorable shots. Our adventures are catalogued through photos, which helps me remember all that I have seen, especially given that I have explored a dozen different states in the last three months. Oregon still tops the list, and whatever was I doing in Georgia? Oh, right, eating fruit. Wyoming is not exactly the Garden of Eden. Or whatever Garden full of fruit you prefer.

The kitties also make good photo subjects, although they are peeved if the flash goes off. It's like me with alarm clock buzzers.

I've made some interesting discoveries this summer. Boulder Dushanbe Teahouse has wonderful tea and a killer chickpea kufteh that I enjoyed even though I didn't exactly know what I was ordering (how brave and adventurous!). Idaho Falls, ID and Gillette, WY rank high on my list of creepy cities to avoid at all costs, but the Sun Valley area of Idaho and the Cloud Peak Wilderness of northern Wyoming were pleasant surprises that I would like to return to. I found that Agatha Christie can trick me, but Hemingway is still boring. Fielding, though, is boffo. One last note: Daufuskie Island, South Carolina was curiously lacking Tifton Man or any Daufuskie beans, defying expectations.

Down From The Mountaintop

After more than a year of high altitude living, I have returned to the muggy swamp of the Southeastern U.S for some oxygen and a peek at the ocean.  The oxygen deprivation of living above 7000 feet may have been catching up to me.  I have recently become more clumsy, smacking my shoulders into walls, hitting the back of my hands on counter corners and dropping kitchen utensils and other items that are meant to stay up high onto the floor.

Hiking while accident-prone is hardly a good idea.  Besides the constant threat of attacks by savage beasts, I have to guard against eroding cliff edges, falling trees and freak weather systems.  Above all, I must beware prankster rocks.

When I was a kid, I used to fall down at least once during every hike, sometimes going so far as to roll a little ways down the trail.  Even when I was around twenty or so, I remember slipping awkwardly while crossing an Alaskan creek, ending up with an entirely soaked lower half, which greatly amused the rest of my family.  I blamed everything from poor vision to lack of sleep to a distracting brother, but the end result was simply me on the ground.

I had been recently priding myself on having grown out of this klutzy habit.  I had managed to stay more or less on my feet for many hikes in a row and barely even broke a nail in the wilderness any more.  Until Friday, when a trickster rock decided to deflate my pride. 

This hungry boulder lie in wait in the middle of the path, lunging out at me with its stony fangs as I tried to step over it.  It grabbed the toe of my boot with a vicious fissure and hurled me to the ground.

I lay flat on the ground, pretending to do a push-up, and I've never really been able to do push-ups or chin-ups or any of those ups requiring upper body strength.  I couldn't see a thing, so my first fear, even before that of broken bones or fierce, man-eating rocks, was that I had smashed my glasses.  I pictured myself having to blindly grope my way out of the mountains.  The angry feldspar and quartz would have finished me off in no time.

Further exploration revealed that my glasses were still perched on my face.  I had simply hit the ground so hard, I had created an enormous cloud of dust that coated my entire body, including my glasses, giving me the illusion of blindness.  My hands had taken the brunt of the fall, and both palms were bleeding through the dirt.  I laughed briefly at the thought of holding up my hands to the next hiker that passed and telling him that I had stigmata.  I have the feeling he wouldn't have stopped to chat about trail conditions and the weather.

My left knee was scraped and my upper arms felt sore from the shock.  I was a mere mile or so from a lovely waterfall rushing at full capacity from the melt of the heavy snowpack, so I was soon able to rinse off the dust and blood in the frigid, refreshing water.  My man, at this point, was allowed to laugh at my humorous display of clumsiness.  Watching someone falling down (as long as she is not seriously hurt) is one of the most basic forms of entertainment.  I wish I had seen it.

So, now, I am at sea level, on a tranquil South Carolinian island, hoping that the inundation of oxygen in this thick atmosphere will help my clumsiness and make me temporarily smarter.  I am trying to write a novel, you know.  The humidity has already made my skin feel more healthy and given my hair a little wave.

In the meantime, I will be vigilant for prankster rocks.  I keep a sharp lookout for snakes and alligators.  There's a persistent hummingbird that I'm keeping my eye on.  And I only went into the ocean to my knees.  There are sharks and jellyfish out there.  And boulders lurking under the waves.

Here I Am!

So it's been awhile since I've entered the blogosphere. Yeah, well, sometimes I don't have much to say. Did I tell you about the time I got a wicked bite off a moose? No? Well, maybe some other time. It was a very small moose, anyway. Maybe Doberman-sized.

Well, besides being ultra busy with moosey business, I've had some cookie trouble. Not high-altitude cookie trouble, mind you, since I seem to have figured out most of my Wyoming baking issues (except for pecan pie--I don't know if I will risk that mess again), but computer cookie problems. My blogger and Google accounts wouldn't let me in due to disabled cookies. Handicapped desserts? Crippled Crunchies? With the way the cookie crumbles, I couldn't have blogged even if I wanted to.

But, as it's obvious I still haven't come up with anything to say, maybe that wasn't such a catastrophe.

I did read about a unique web site that made me laugh. http://garfieldminusgarfield.net Some guy took the Garfield comic strip and removed everyone but John, the dorky human. It makes for some really existential comic-tragedy and a strip that is sometimes funnier than the original. I wonder if this could be done for other strips as well, my favorites F Minus and Get Fuzzy are already pretty wacky, so it probably wouldn't work too well for them. Dilbert without Dilbert would probably be just as creepily realistic with office cubicle horrors and Peanuts without Charlie Brown would be just as boring (I mean, really, when are they going to discontinue that old thing, anyway?). Or, erase both Dagwood and Blondie. Please. And take Horrible Hagar, Beetle Bailey and those wretched little Family Circus kids with you.

It's been a busy month. Not only did I not get charged by a grizzly, I also did not win any awards whatsoever. Not even a Tony. I have been diligently waiting for the postman (or woman) to bring me a box of $100s, but that has yet to happen. I failed to patent any inventions, or even invent anything to patent. So you can see why I haven't had time to write a silly little blog.

What else can I say? It snowed today; only for about five minutes, but still. I like snow in the winter, but a snow shower on June 11th is a bit much. Yesterday's weather was perfect, though, with temps in the 70s and sunny with a slight breeze. I've decided to drop everything and go outside on days like that. Or take things outside with me. It's almost like I've erased myself from the workplace in a crappyjobminusaxldebaxar.net kind of way.

Giant Art

I first encountered the art of Claes Oldenburg and Coosje van Bruggen on a high school field trip to the Kroller-Muller museum in the Netherlands. This modern art museum was set in a lovely forest full of paved paths with bicycles scattered about that could be borrowed and left freely about the property. The area contained a memorable sculpture garden with a piece that immediately caught my attention. And how could it not? I had never before come across a giant, bright blue trowel. If I looked at it at the right angle, I could image the torso and serpentine neck of a long faced man. I liked it.






The artistic pair have collaborated on numerous fantastic works: a giant spoon with a cherry on top in Minneapolis, a clothespin in Philadelphia, and even a knife slicing through a Los Angeles building. I recently visited the new Olympic Sculpture Garden along the Seattle waterfront, and was immediately taken with the sight of a giant runaway typewriter eraser. I was amused to find that it had been created by the same duo. Something about their style just appeals to me.

In Denver, I stumbled upon another fun piece. The dustpan is a relatively new addition to the city, placed in front of the impressively angular, shiny Denver Art Museum, and it made me laugh. "The Big Sweep" has apparently garnered its share of dismay from "what an ugly piece of junk" to "what are you trying to say about our city?" but I liked the lightness of the crumpled paper and the way the whisk broom really seems to be sweeping (like the Seattle eraser brush looks like it's blowing in the breeze). The artists said they were inspired by the way the wind meets the mountains in Denver, and I like that explanation.

Also in Denver, at the site of the upcoming Democratic Convention, a giant blue bear peers into the building, probably looking for the remnants of someone's cookout. Or maybe he likes to eat conventioneers. I think these large pieces of art are a fabulous addition to city streets. Denver doesn't have a lot of charm in itself, so city officials have done well to incorporate these fun pieces.

Take this humongous calf, for instance of "Scottish Angus Cow and Calf," by Dan Ostermiller. A person only came up to the top of the calf's legs, and the cow was even bigger! These bovines were tucked to the side of the art complex, near an abandoned old building and some parking lots. I thought the sculptures were charming and quite fitting for a old cowboy town.

Western towns are full of these bronze animal statues. In Wyoming, the ever-present bucking bronco is the predominant motif, but I've also seen bison represented fairly often. They're probably fun to make, with all that fur. And Laramie does have a T. Rex, with a gaping mouth full of razor-sharp teeth that people throw pine cones into. I've conked his noggin on occasion. No harm done.




A newly-installed rearing mustang at the Denver airport has enjoyed its share of controversy. Besides being oddly proportioned and blue, it glares with glowing red eyes. Some people hate it and think it's cursed because it crushed the artist to death when he tried to move it. The red eyes may be a bit demonic, but the sculpture makes the boring approach to the airport a bit more interesting. I haven't heard of the evil stare affecting anyone's flight.

I enjoy the public art that makes a city a little more unique and memorable. Without it, my walk around Denver would have been a yawn-fest. The State Capitol building just wasn't all that exciting, and when you've seen one Cheesecake Factory/Hard Rock Cafe/Barnes and Noble/Taco Bell/[enter numerous other chain here], you've seen them all.

An Aging Brain

It's finally happened. I'm officially old. Not only am I home blogging on a Saturday night, sad enough in itself, but I have joined the ranks of the senile. I've never had a particularly good memory, which, while sometimes causing frustrations to my friends (we went there? really?) at least enables me to enjoy a book or film numerous times since I can't quite recall all the details.

But, despite my short-term memory, I've always thought that certain personal details were impossible to forget. I easily remember the names of my pets and my friends and places I went on vacation. I used to laugh at my mom for recording the names of all my teachers and classes in a childhood scrapbook. After being imprisoned with these people for an entire year, she expected me to forget them? I wish, right? I would like to get rid of most of my memories of Junior High, and most of school for that matter, but they stay right there, giving me my neuroses.

But today, while telling an anecdote about my eight grade Earth Science teacher, I found that I couldn't remember his name. Granted, Coach...Something wasn't a stellar educator or a mentor by any means. I remember playing lots of poker for Jolly Ranchers in his class. I also used his oft-granted "free time" to become top in the year in the card games Spit and Speed, vying for dominance with a loud girl named Rochelle.

Coach What's-His-Name was, like many teachers in rural Texas, a coach first, and a teacher second. I do remember that his dark brown hair was in the process of balding and that he seemed fairly gentle and soft-spoken for a coach. I remember he had once been a weatherman. I seem to recall that we made kites one day as a "science experiment". But his name is still lost in the recesses of my brain case.

I easily remember the names of other Texas coach/teachers I had. Coach Ledbetter designated boisterous students (I was not one) "spastic nimrods". Coach Blinko flashed a smile and called me "Blondie", making me want to punch out his gold tooth. Coach Thompson, pumped up on steroids, advised the class not to get hooked on nasal sprays. Coach Kennedy managed to waste an entire year on Texas History, of which I remember little other than the Alamo. There was also a particularly evil Coach Charles who I purposely re-arranged my schedule to avoid having as a teacher. (I'm not surprised I remember him; wickedness is branded onto the psyche. This guy had made my brother keep running during an asthma attack and given me detention for dropping an envelope with my name on it in the lunch room. No way was I going to submit to an entire year of World History with him. I won in the end, so there.) But the Science guy, who I did have class with for two whole semesters, is still coming up blank.

It doesn't really matter, of course. He hardly played a very important role in my education, and I hadn't thought about him in years. When my synapses finally fire and his name sparks up, I will shrug and go, "Oh yeah." I could even dig out my scrapbook and read in my mom's handwriting, "Eighth grade Earth Science: Coach ***". But it's not worth jostling the other blessedly hidden memories that might erupt from handling that scrapbook. It has pictures of me at age thirteen. Not nice.

So, I will just have to come to terms with my slowly rotting brain. I expect to soon be having conversations in which I talk about that recent movie, you know, the one based on that book--I think the cover was blue--starring that guy who's married to that woman from that show. You know, the one with the dog.

Ultra-caffinated

Fate recently poked me in the shoulder and insisted that I take a pilgrimage. An entire year had gone by without me traveling by plane--a new record for me--and the world was becoming unhinged. I had to restore the cosmic balance and hit the skies before Destiny took better aim and jabbed me in the eye instead.

I decided to venture to the Mecca of Mochas, the Garage of Grunge, the Bastion of Boeing itself: Seattle. My decision and Fate's poking might have been influenced just slightly by my parents, who live just south of that grand city, but it's best not to look too closely at these things. It ruins the magic of the universe.

No journey of atonement is complete without a little suffering, so the powers that be made sure that my trip took me through the lovely Salt Lake City airport, where I got to spend eight hours of penance. Not only was the entire building permeated with a Burger King grease smell, but a TV set to CNN was placed every five steps so there was no escaping the non-stop coverage of the Pope's visit to New York.

I'm sorry I haven't been to church in a very long time, but Purgatory is supposed to come much later.

Ahh, but relief for my pounding headache (grease smell + CNN + boarding announcements + do not leave your baggage unattended/report suspicious behavior/security threat orange/you deserve every bit of this suffering announcements = brain pain) was available. Starbucks, just down the stairs in Terminal E (you can ride the moving sidewalks to the escalator if you're tired), provided a latte full of caffinated goodness.

When I finally arrived at my Pacific Northwestern destination, it only seemed appropriate to give thanks to those makers of strong coffee by procuring an overpriced drink in the first ever Starbucks. My mom and I walked around downtown, passing no fewer than three coffee shops in some blocks. But Tully's was right out. Seattle's Best, while they have an excellent roast named after a cat--Henry's blend, can't be bad--was not on the agenda. Independent cafes weren't on my to-do list. My tour guide said "Original Starbucks", and nothing else would do.


Many other people obviously felt the same way, since the line stretched nearly out the door. Silly, really, that such a ubiquitous product could create a tourist trap, but that particular Starbucks must be one of the most profitable for the company. It had no seats or tables, so was hardly cozy, but it was mobbed. A group of buskers were singing outside, to make the wait more enjoyable. My latte was good, but I drank it in a city park down the street to get out of the way.



Fate, after dumping more punishment in the form of snow, hail, and sleet (in Seattle, in April. There were cherry blossoms and tulips out, but no spring is allowed for this Wyomingite), decided to relent. My journey home was smooth and trouble-free.

But I know better than to stay put for too long.

April Showers Bring May Snowmen

In Wyoming, April showers tend to arrive as snow. For the last few weeks, the mornings have been sunny, and the temperatures have gotten into the balmy forties before the clouds roll in bringing falling temperatures and light dustings of snow.

On my walks, I had started to see buds forming on trees, and green shoots were beginning to peek out of the soil in some front yards. The grass was still an unwholesome yellow-brown, and flower-beds were still covered in last years dead leaves, but I rejoiced at the occasional site of an adventuresome crocus poking out its orange or purple petals. (Crocus!)

For the most part, except for in the deep shadows of buildings I would avoid because of whatever might be lurking in those shadows, the snow had all melted from the ground in town. I had even started to see prairie dogs here and there (the lookouts saw me first, standing up on their hind legs, irresistably cute, those plague-ridden beasties), venturing out into the sunshine. I had put away my snow boots in favor of my long neglected sneakers. I had contemplated putting air in my basketball, as I could now see the courts. I even thought about rearranging my closet to put the skis in the back and bring the camping gear to the front.

As evident from the accompanying pictures, I'm glad I wasn't too hasty.


I woke up this morning to six inches of snow, and more was still coming down. The neighborhoods were filled with people shoveling the sidewalks and good-naturedly complaining about the hassle of the weather. An old lady saw me taking photos and told me she was taking pictures, too, to send to her grandson in Texas who would never believe snow in April. In Laramie, it could and has snowed in every month of the year.

A golden retriever romped in the drifts, while an Australian shepherd puppy broke away from his owner and ran gleefully down the walk. Robins sheltered under shrubberies, and my cats, wisely, stayed in bed.

Springiness

In honor of springtime, I painted a squirrel. I don't exactly know what a squirrel has to do with spring, since the fuzzy rodents seem to be around all the time, but I thought it was fitting nonetheless. Perhaps that advent of spring has simply brightened my outlook enough to convince me to get out my art supplies once again and attempt to add to my portfolio of masterworks.

So, spring. The sun definitely seems closer and warmer, or at least my current hemisphere seems more tilted in its general direction. In short, I seem to get warmer in the sunshine than I did in January. To put it another way, sun spots have re-entered the house and I, along with my cats, enjoy laying in them. To be clear, the sun feels more powerful than in the winter months. To be honest, I almost considered using sun screen the other day. To be fair, I don't think I really would have gotten sunburned. It is spring, after all, not summer.

Spring, while it might herald in the flowers (none yet in Wyoming, but I saw bloomin' for Cynthia in Colorado--why she gets her own shrubbery I'll never know. What's she like?) and the songbirds (I did see a few bazzin' robins and a barmy nuthatch that have returned from the south (Arizona? Mexico?)), also signifies the end of skiing season. I tried cross-country skiing the other day, and the bloody snow in the nearby mountains had melded into a bleedin' sheet of ice. I thought, blimey, I'm lucky I didn't fall down, but it wasn't for lack of opportunity. Downhill skiing is pretty near banjaxed, too, for all the record snowfall on the slopes. Most ski places shut down about this time of year regardless of the amount of snow left to play on, the bamsticks. Blast. I could keep skiing for months.

I skied the other week at Jackson Hole Resort and I shredded the place. I shredded some guy's face, too, but he totally deserved it. I knocked over an entire ski class, half of whom fell into the trees, uprooting a few of them. I felt a little bad about the trees. I totally got some serious air when I jumped out of that helicopter. (I was thankful they were flying that day. The whole time I was riding up the mountain in the gondola, while I was looking at the snow coming down, I could tell that the wind was blowing pretty seriously so I felt sure they wouldn't be flying. I said so, numerous times. I even checked my Blackberry to be sure that the weather I was seeing with my actual eyes matched the weather that the sensors were sensing.) I blasted down those Tetons; the powder was flying, and I skied so hard I pulverized my ski boot.

Seriously, after about four hours of beautiful turns on the super-steep slopes, all of a sudden I was totally having some serious trouble maneuvering. I seriously thought I was just getting tired and suggested a lunch break. My man and I went down to the Mangy Moose, which I seriously had to go to because of the terrific name and my man totally had to go to because they had seriously-fabulous Oregon Deschutes beer on tap. We had a quick burger which we ate totally ravenously because of all the energy we had used up with all the serious shredding. When it came time to buckle up my boots for another run, I totally discovered that the plastic on my right boot was completely shattered. I'm totally serious. The buckles had nothing left to pull together. I had seriously skied so hard and so awesomely that I had totally destroyed everything.

So, while I was bummed about having to replace my ski equipment, I was pretty psyched about replacing my ski equipment. I got to buy a new treat for myself, which I hardly ever do. I'm a big fan of the hand-me-down, because that means I have to work less and get more. It is nice, however, to have some brand new things once in a while. I hit a fabulous Spring ski sale (full of springiness) and got new boots and skis in the latest "so balanced just for women that they practically turn for you" style. They are called "Cool Minx Atomics" which I like the sound of (of which I like the sound, if you prefer).

So, with spring upon us and the ski season nearing a close, I had to try out my new gear. I went to the local ski place, which, after Spring Break wasn't even Wyoming crowded. I shredded that place, too. My new skis were so fast and fabulous that I felt like Lasse Kjus reborn. That's right, I'm a born-again Norwegian. What's more: for the first time ever, I did not fall one single time. In the past, sometimes I fell trying to stop or turn on a particularly steep bit. Sometimes I fell after hitting a chunk of ice or from looking at other people while not noticing that my skis had crossed. Sometimes I couldn't even figure out why I was suddenly on the ground. But not this time. I stayed on my feet for the entire day, like a pro.

Now I have the whole summer to forget all my skills. I have to put my Cool Minxes away for awhile and bring out a whole other set of muscles (with no awesome model name) for my summer activities. I went for a ten mile hike in Boulder this weekend, which included a climb up a peak and a snowy slide/hike down the other side. My knees, thighs AND calves were sore the next day. But I seriously totally shredded that blasted peak.

Brief Encounters with the Somewhat Famous

A thin, bleached-blond, highly-made-up, young woman occasionally comes to work at my place of employment. I haven't had the chance to talk to her about much besides work-related topics, but she has always reminded me of one of those girls in high school who thought they were going to make it on Broadway some day. She constantly emits a big smile, a bigger laugh (with perfect, dazzlingly white teeth, of course), and has a tinge of the phony about her.

This girl barely registered and certainly wasn't worth mentioning until a conversation I had with another coworker (one I'm actually friends with. Yes, I do have some friends.). My friend, who is quite droll, referred to Barbie as "Miss Wyoming". I laughed, seeing that as a perfect nickname for this girl. "No, seriously," she continued. "She's actually Miss Wyoming 2007. [Boss guy] was showing off a picture of her in a swimsuit and saying 'Look who I've got working for me.'"

Blatant creepy sexism aside, I thought this tidbit compelling. It explained her fake but cheerful friendliness, her bubbly attitude and the notion that she always looked as if appearing on stage. I wondered if she had a mantra which she repeated to herself. Something like, "smile smile, Miss Wyoming, smile smile..." Since then, she has not been working in my location, so I haven't had the opportunity to broach the subject. Although I'm not sure how I would. Perhaps something like, "So, have you heard of feminism?" or maybe, "I have to ask: what's your talent?" Given that it's Wyoming, it could be something like goat tying (no joke--what did those poor goat ever do, besides maybe eat some of your clothing) or pig wrestling.

But now I can say I once worked with a Miss Wyoming. For whatever that's worth. Perhaps a conversation opener at a party?

I can also say that I was once in Dan Rather's seat on an airplane. In the mid-'90s, I was sitting in Business Class through no fault of my own (like I've ever had an employer who would spring for that), and he came and hovered in the aisle near me. He had obvious plans to sit there, but I just smiled. No way was I giving up my premium seat. It turns out he had a seat in First Class, but was travelling with an associate (read: peon) who only travelled coach. He had hoped to meet for business talk in the middle--business class--but I had thwarted his plans. That made me feel pretty good, for some reason. I love messing with the privileged class.

Another anecdote I can relate, if we're talking about seeing famous people in unexpected places, comes from a trip to London back in 2000 or thereabouts. My man an I were walking in the expensive Knightsbridge district (near Harrods, although I'm not really sure why we were there. Just moseying through, I suppose) and I passed one girl on the street who looked slightly familiar. Then I passed another who looked exactly the same. The Olsen twins! Dressed in non-identical tan coats, and with a handler, the famous-for-I-don't-know-what-teenagers were right next to me on the British side walk. I have to admit, if they hadn't been nearly identical, I would never have recognized them. But still. The pre-anorexic, straight-to-video Olsen twins weren't a sight you see every day. Especially since I don't live near Hollywood. Or NYC.

Speaking of NYC, Richard Simmons once waved to me in Kennedy Airport. It was quite scary, actually. He's a bit freaky, and in his neon yellow overalls, he didn't look exactly stable. You know how crazy his hair is. He was being followed by an enormous bodyguard, which made me laugh. Who'd want to assault Richard Simmons? An unhappy customer shouting "Your Sweatin' to the Oldies 24 made me look stupid and I still didn't lose weight?"

As for airport stories, one time in DFW (that's Dallas, though why anyone would go there is a mystery), I saw the back and side of Rod Stewart's head. He was in a bar, and they had pulled down the metal grate over the storefront so that he could drink undisturbed. I was only a kid, but I came away with one impression: what an arrogant jerk. And I don't even like his music.

So, it's pretty obvious I don't have any really significant encounters with famous people. That's probably because I don't really like most people anyway, and just because they're famous doesn't mean I want to talk to them. Or ask them to pose for a photo. And I've never understood autographs, either. Who cares? My brother once got Gallegher's autograph on another plane trip, when I was a kid. I sat behind the famous fruit smasher. My mom insisted that he smelled like watermelons, but I think she was imagining things (or trying to be funny). I'm sure my brother did not make a fortune selling that signature on E-bay, so what was the point, really?

Besides, I can't beat my main man's famous people stories. He actually went to the movies with Julia Stiles. Okay, so she was about 13 and not really famous yet and the cousin of one of his friends, but still. She was in his car. And then, not even a year ago, he got taken to dinner by Dennis Lehane, writer of "Mystic River" and "Gone Baby Gone". So it's not quite Ben Affleck, but it's better than my lame stories. Richard Simmons. Come on.

Steve Lazmo and Other Nonsense

Steve Lazmo has requested that I blog about Jengo Fett.
May I just take this moment to point out that Steve Lazmo, who looks a bit like Steve Buscemi, insists on wearing a hamburger for a hat? I would never want to take any advice from this ketchup-covered guy.
I could also mention that Jengo Fett--a character from the horrendous Star Wars "prequels" developed by a money-grubbing George Lucas who couldn't leave well enough alone--is hardly worth my time. I mean, at least Boba (Jengo's son, Boba Fett) had a kickin' rocket pack.
When I lived in Aberdeen (the cool Aberdeen in Scotland, not the lame ones in Maryland or Washington State), I used to walk past a house with a life-sized cut-out of Boba Fett in the window. It was intimidating. He wore full body armor and had a laser gun of some sort, not to mention that rocket-propelled jet pack. But Jengo? He just looks like some random dude. Not cool at all. Why would I want to write about him and his army of clones?
This whole topic makes me look like a geek. It doesn't help that I am currently drinking water out of a glass with Darth Vader on it. And a Stormtrooper. And Grand Moff Tarken. It's probably also a bad sign that my cat, cuddled up next to me, is named Wookie.
I guess I am a geek. But does that mean I can only write about Ewoks?
But what else to write about? I could describe the weather again, because it's been pretty wack. Yesterday, the temperature was in the 50s here in Laramie, which felt strangely mild. When I drove an hour south to Fort Collins, Colorado, the 2000 foot plus drop in elevation changed the temp to 70-something. Girls were wearing tank tops and flip flops and other alliterative clothing items. It was so warm, I had to take my sweater off and put the air conditioning on in the car (which seemed a horrible anti-environmental thing to do).
But last night, it dumped snow again, and it is still snowing now. I went cross-country skiing in the mountains this morning and there had to be a least 8 inches of new snow up there. It was very nice, but confusing. How will I recognize spring when it arrives?
I guess I'll notice when flowers start to bloom and trees to bud. Right now everything is still brown (and white) and sleeping. I wonder if crocuses grow here and will push themselves up through the remaining snow. Daffodils would come next, but the environment here may not be right for them. High-elevation flower troubles, you understand.
I noticed that a nearby house also has a life-sized cut-out of a movie star in the window. It's Ahh-nold as the Terminator. Scary, but just not a cool as Boba Fett.

Souvenirs

Although I enjoy traveling, and would like to do so more often, I rarely bring home souvenirs from my journeys. I don't like a cluttered home, so usually I pass up the trinkets and knicknacks that are sold in tourist shops in favor of spending the money on good meals or other memorable experiences. I don't care to have numerous items labeled with place names, just to prove that I've been there, so I don't have collections of spoons or shot glasses with the names of various cities or countries embossed on them.

Some exceptions exist. If, for example, someone were to offer to purchase a lovely item for me, I might choose a small piece of art or a painting. The item really has to stand out, though, for me to be interested. I have to find it unique enough to warrant looking at every day. I'm a pretty tough critic, unless it's got a monkey on it.

I tend to remember interesting trips and sights by pictures, so I admit to having a shelf full of photo albums detailing my adventures. You don't have to look at them if you don't want to, but they are very nice.

I do like to collect a souvenir or two from places I have lived. Spend a year or two somewhere and you have more time to naturally happen upon something worth buying. I have, for example, some Russian matryoshkas--the iconic, stackable, painted wooden dolls--from my time in Russia. I have a pretty painted mug with a thistle--the national symbol of Scotland--and a cute fluffy sheep magnet from my studies in Aberdeen. I also have a kickin' pair of green high top Doc Martens from downtown Amsterdam.

And now I have Chester, the Wyoming bear. Two words: chainsaw art! You have to be impressed. And a little scared.

Chester greeted me when I came home from work one day. He seemed a natural addition to a Wyoming household.


I also have Eddie Lizard from Florida, scampering up my bedroom wall. He is from the St. Petersburg Saturday market, and finds Wyoming much too cold. I do miss seeing crazy lizards doing impressive push-ups on every sidewalk, and Eddie is a good reminder that every place has its charm.



My souvenirs from Oregon and Virginia are more lasting. Wookie was born feral in Veneta, Oregon. I think he looks happy to be a well-travelled indoor kitty.


Sammy was rescued from a shelter in Arlington, Virginia. She has since taken up sleeping, electronic music, and boxing.

Drive-thru Services

I really dig espresso shacks. Common throughout the west, these little booths can provide a tasty boost (a booth boost!) on a long drive, with the added convenience of not having to leave the car. I quite missed espresso shacks during my time in Florida, especially when I was doing crazy things like driving to Key West on a lark. No, on the east coast you have to find a Starbucks or Dunkin' Donuts if you want a good coffee kick. I'd rather drink soda than rot-gut gas station coffee.

Espresso shacks are usually locally-owned and can provide quite unique coffee flavors. They are generally stashed in easily accessable parts of parking lots, near a main road, with a window on both sides so that the barista can help two customers at once. In Oregon, they were so plentiful that I was even able to satisfy a craving for a latte on a camping trip! In some towns, if you saw one too late to stop, you only had to drive a few more blocks to find another one.

While I've passed a few of these shacks in Laramie, I haven't visited any of them. I prefer to save my cash for when the caffeine is crucial to driving on the open road. More than once I've stopped at "The Humble Bean" in Fort Collins, Colorado, after a long day of hiking with an hour's drive more to go. In Bozeman, Montana, I picked up a needed boost at a crowded shack that offered five espresso shots to the brave of heart. There's a lot of open road in Montana.

Other drive-thru services don't impress me as much. I've used the drive-up window at the bank, but I usually don't need banking services while in my car. I'll admit to partaking of fast-food drive-thrus on occasion, but if I'm desperate enough to eat fast food, I've probably been driving so long I'm also desperate for the loo and have to go inside anyway.

Wyoming and Colorado have one more drive-thru service that I've never encountered before. Drive-thru Liquor Stores. No joke. The first time I saw one I thought I had misread the sign, but they are actually quite widespread. Now, on first reflection this sounds like a bad endorsement of driking and driving. Actually, on second and third reflection, it still does. I know it's cold outside, but if you have to get out of the car to get your groceries (no drive-thru Safeway so far), then you probably ought to be able to walk to get your booze as well.

I have yet to try this newfound drive-thru option. I just find it too weird, and I don't know if I would know what to ask for at such a window. "Do you have a nice red wine, not too expensive, but tasty?" "Ahh, excuse me, what's your microbrew selection?" "I'll have a bottle, no, two, of your best champagne." I suppose the idea is probably more along the lines of grabbing a quick case of Bud before the game/rodeo/stockshow/hunt.

I have enough trouble with drive-up windows anyway. I once scraped my side view mirror pretty badly on an espresso shack ledge in Sisters, Oregon. So I misjudged a little. I also have trouble with tollbooths when you have to get close enough to throw the coins in or push a button. Can you imagine trying to maneuver that sort of thing under the influence? Or even while thinking about alcohol?

And I'm sure the hooch doesn't come with a chocolate-covered coffee bean on top.

No Degrees

The temperature outside currently stands at 0 degrees. While I know this distinction is quite arbitrary--after all, in Celsius it is a frigid but unexciting -18 degrees--the big, round zero still grabs my attention. Zero degrees makes sense in Celsius, since it divides freezing from above freezing. Zero degrees Fahrenheit just seems bloody cold.

When I went to work this morning it was 1 degree (Fahrenheit). I greeted the Texan vet Kris, who wishes more and more every day he was back in his native mild, humid climate, with this info. He said, "I guess that's better than no degrees." He was trying to put a positive spin on it, since he was headed outdoors for a miserably chilly day of cow vaccinating.

No degrees seems like it should describe a bland landscape in which it wouldn't matter if you wore long or short sleeves because the temperature was just so unremarkable. No degrees should be so irrelevant that no one noticed or thought to mention it at all, like in a personalized climate-controlled room or in the setting of a suspenseless novel. No degrees sounds boring, but harmless.

In reality, no degrees is pretty uncomfortable. Any exposed skin becomes sore and red (don't forget your gloves!) and your nose hairs start to crystallize. When the temperature hits zero, the wind chill numbers dive so far into the negative that they just don't matter any more. What is the difference between a wind chill factor of -22 and -32? They both just mean it's time to go inside.

No degrees also gets me thinking of one of my numerous shortcomings, the lack of letters after my name. I am surrounded by DVMs and MDs and CVTs and my own dear man Johnny BAMAMFA that my own little BA seems quite pathetic. But, I guess as in temperatures, one degree is better than none.

I still would rather bundle up for the cold than try to escape the heat. Besides, the last conversation I had with people pining for the warmth of Florida or Texas devolved into a discussion of pests and nasty creatures. Florida: mosquitoes, no-see-ums and palmetto bugs (giant flying cockroaches--don't let the pretty name fool you). Texas: scorpions and fire ants and tarantulas and more (giant) mosquitoes. Wyoming: no bugs for at least six months of the year. Because of things like zero degree temperatures. I may have to wear five layers, but at least all of those layers are bug-free.

Superstar Skiing

Today, while downhill skiing at a local resort, I got brief taste of what it might be like to live the lifestyle of the rich and famous. Well, a bit. I didn't get chauffeured in a stretch limo or have slope-side champagne and caviar. I didn't have a facial to protect my delicate skin from the elements or have access to a mountain chalet with a fire to warm my toes. I wasn't serenaded by live music or escorted around by Lasse Kjus (excellent Norwegian skier and what I shout when I complete a perfect ski move or manage some serious speed. I like to exclaim something in my joy, and "Nibbles!" or "Prong!" isn't suitable in this situation.)

I did have the slopes almost all to myself.



It’s Monday, and the scheduling gods favored me with the day off (never a bad thing on a Monday. Or any day, come to think of it.) The sky, clear and blue on a beautiful, sunny day, seemed to beckon me to the mountains. I never ignore that call (unless I have to be responsible and go to work or something).

Yesterday's dreary grey skies brought six inches of new powder to the nearby resort. Monday kept most people in town. It wasn't even Wyoming crowded, which is what I've been calling the small groups occasionally encountered out and about in this least-populated state. When I went cross-country skiing during a University ski team practice, it was Wyoming Crowded (a dozen people in view and numerous cars in the parking lot). Opening day for the latest Harry Potter movie this summer was Wyoming crowded (one theater, lots of eager fans). I'm sure the rodeos are Wyoming crowded (minus me).

Today, I never once had to stand in a lift line or avoid a downed snowboarder on the slopes. I didn't have to listen to punks yelling at their buddies or children screaming about the cold. I didn’t even get hit in the head by an errant ski pole.

It was fabulous. I skied for hours and had a blast. I even had a chance to ski through fresh powder for the first time. It was like gliding on air. My Atomics (thanks again, Dee) cut through the snow like nuclear missiles without the fallout. I felt like a star.

And on the drive home? Prongs! A very large herd, too. Wyoming crowded.