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.