Happy Halloween--a retrospective

Thanks to LisaB, I realized how close it was to Halloween and that I didn't have a costume. My favorite option of hers was "Closet Yeti" which I would steal if it would act like fall down here and cool down. It's still 70 degrees. It's almost November. These are the mountains. It should be snowing. They say maybe next week.

So, lo though the weather is interesting, this Halloween may prove to be the least interesting in a decade. Erik has to work and there are no parties insisting that I dress up. So instead of listing potential costumes for this year, I shall list the costumes of years past. I'll begin with 1998 for that was the first year, as it was my first year in grad school as well, that I put effort into my work.

• 1998--Twister (Twister board as toga, spinning device as mortar board.) Party at Craig and Satina's. Car shot with automatic rifle sometime in the middle of the night. Fortunately, I'm not in it and no one got hurt.
• 1999--Costume? This is the one year I can't remember. I blame it on PTSD from the previous party at Craig and Satina's, where it was held again this year, but in their new house. That's what I should have gone as--PTSD.
• 2000--Group project with KJ and co as The Monkey Wrench Gang. Party at Mary Anne's. Halfway through, KJ and I realized we should have gone as The Blair Witch Project. If only we'd brought our video camera.
• 2001--Martha Stewart. I came prepared with edible scary treats marshmallow and licorice spiders, scary dismembered hands made from gloves and popcorn and other Stewarty like crafty-foods. Party at Kate's.
• 2002--Lemon Fresh Scent. Shorts and shirt adorned with lemons--car scent tree hanging from neck. Lemon drops in pockets. Kate again hosts. Kate's porch suffers from too much fun.
• 2003--The Drought--sand glued to dusty clothes, empty water bottles dragging behind like so many ghostly chains from a Christmas Carol. Party at Rebecca L.'s.
• 2004--Binicula. Party at Erik's friend's house. No one gets the bunny ears and vampire teeth.
• 2005--Stuccoe'd O'er with Quadrepeds. Zoe, newly born, goes as one of the quadrapeds (a lamb) other four-legged Beanie Babies pinned to outfit. No one gets the Whitman reference. I send a photo to my dissertation director.
• 2006--The Forest Floor. Again with the safety pins. Amanita muscaria of red felt with white dots and fall leaves stuck to me. Zoe goes as a bear. I carry her to make the sense of floor more (or possibly less) clear).
• 2007--The Michigan Real Estate Market--Cheap and Easy. Blue eye shadow. Glitter. A sign (safety pin) on my bum reading "Price Reduced."
• 2008--The Stock Market? I could get really drunk and go as "Tanked." Otherwise, I'm slightly clueless. Z is going as a Fairy Princess but I could convince her she's a butterfly. My friend at school suggested that then I could go as a cocoon but I worry it would look to much like the tampon a friend of mine of went as. He was pissed when someone squirted ketchup on him. Irrationally so.

Please Let the Election Be Over

And please let it be over in a good way.

I called Indiana today. Last week, at the MoveOn Party, I called Virginia. 4 sheets of names, 14 names per sheet. I only ended up talking to about 10 people. I want to tell MoveOn--people have Caller ID. I wouldn't answer either. (Although Egg did answer the phone yesterday all willy nilly, no caller ID checking and they--of which I am one-- called to see if I'd go to New Mexico. I told them I couldn't do that but that I'd make calls from here.)

Still. I got two volunteers although one was only 16. I wonder if she showed up at the volunteer office.

Today I called 25 women voters in Indiana. It's getting easier. It's funny how much shame I was living with--either from being from the Reddest State or from the bad turnout in the last two elections. But I'm getting prouder. So I made calls without sweating as I dialed. It seems most of the women in Indiana had been contacted before. I talked to about half of the people--which is surprisingly good odds. Most were sick of being called. A few were strong supporters. Most I just tried to convince to vote early. One still hadn't decided. I went over my handily available WashingtonPost.com tax information with her telling her unless she made over $600,000, her taxes weren't going up. She still wouldn't decide. She said she'd read everything she could get her hands on and had watched all the debates and still hadn't decided. I kind of admire that--waiting to get into the booth to commune with whatever is holy to help you decide. She was 82. I said I'd keep my fingers crossed that she'd vote for Obama.

I went to see my Ob/gyn today. She says she's a one cause woman. She'll vote democrat until she dies to keep women's right to choose. She gave me hope too. I reminded her to vote early.

So even though the bad news is that the rangers who protect the gorillas in Virunga have been flushed from their posts by Congo rebels and the habitat for Orangutangs in Indonesia is being destroyed at 1 football field per hour in Indonesia, some of the information I received today was good news.

My blood pressure? Not such good news. I blame it on the election. And the stock market. And Z's cough. And the 17 meetings I have scheduled this week. Maybe they could take my blood pressure when I'm on vacation. Or in a coma. Perhaps next time, I'll take Xanax first.

The Loneliest Number

Both Cold, Cold North and Little Hands tagged me for the meme. I'm the least likely to ever do memes but how can I deny the freezing one or she with tiny hands? Also, I was able to pinch a bunch of their ideas so in order not to tax my one-worded brain.

Where is your cell phone? Taped
Where is your significant other? Computered
Your hair color? Blond
Your mother? Awesome
Your father? (Like the) Dow
Your favorite thing? Butter
Your dream last night? Anniversary
Your dream/goal? Water
The room you’re in? Dining
Your hobby? Dining
Your fear? Bronchitis
Where do you want to be in 6 years? Portland
Where were you last night? Teaching
What you’re not? Revise-y
One of your wish-list items? Obama
Where you grew up? SLC
The last thing you did? Coffeed
What are you wearing? Sweater
Your TV? Dora!
Your pet? CleoBox
Your computer? Always
Your mood? Scratchy
Missing someone? Steve
Your car? Depreciated
Something you’re not wearing? Bikini
Favorite store? Powells
Your summer? Missing
Love someone? Dozens
Your favorite color? Green
When is the last time you laughed? Sarah
Last time you cried? Obama

I tag Mary Anne, Mapmaker, Xena One and Two, Econtrario, What Now and Pretty Hard, Dammit

Productive Productivity

This was a good weekend. Unlike last weekend, which was 50 degrees max and 19 degrees min most of the days, it was 70 and sunny Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Egg, Z and I went to the playground to fly a kite (and some of us went to slide on the slides) went to dinner on Friday (OK. Is it dinner if it’s 4 o’clock? Really, it was a late lunch.) With wine. On the patio on the way to Sedona. I was fighting a cold so we just came home to have a fire and watch TV.

Saturday, feeling mostly healed, Z and Cleo and I went running and then there was much house-cleaning and laundry-doing then a good bit of writing done by me thanks to the editorial suggestions of Egg. Then, we went over to some people’s house—our first visit at the home of someone who lives in this town. They had a 2.5 year old and a 18 month old. Z played with the little girl (yay! A friend for Z!) while we ate guacamole. We also walked up the hill to a block party (other blocks’ parties are even more odd than one’s own block parties) for which I’d made a frittata (thanks to the brilliant suggestion of Little Hands) and hummus. No one ate it because we were so late they’d finished off the savory chapter of the pot luck and had moved onto the dessert portion of the evening. We took both back to the new friends’ house. Perhaps they finished it off after we left? I can only hope. They cooked some chicken wings from Sam’s Club. Z liked them a lot. We came home and ate peaches and yogurt and then went to bed at 9. Productivity plus new friends plus block parties equal exhaustion.

But Sunday was by far the most productive day of the three. Egg took Z to the park again—to play disc golf and to slide and then to the grocery store. My list will look so much more productive in bullets:

• Finished essay about demi-glace.
• Made bread.
• Began to fix essay about Z and butter.
• Took Cleo running.
• Read for Grad Class.
• Showered.
• Made delicious salad of smoked turkey and turnips.
• Went to MoveOn.org party.
• Called MoveOn-like folks in Virginia to get them to volunteer (stressful but not nearly as as calling undecideds).
• Stopped at Ace for Egg to get him some clear silicon caulk to cover the nails on the roof (I had no idea how many kinds of silicon caulk they have. I stared at tubes for 15 minutes until I found the right one).
• Raked and stuffed 5 bags worth of pine needles. They’re everywhere and seem to be a fire hazard. Some of our neighbors seem to rake them up, some don’t. So we’re doing a half-assed job and doing some of them.
• Made guacamole.
• Sat on porch and played letters with Z.
• Moved inside. Egg set up the stereo (our last box! We’ve been listening to the iPod magic player for 2.5 years. We never unpacked it in GR. I think we may stay here for awhile.)
• I found and dusted speakers.
• Danced to music with Z.
• Made tacos.
• Watched Mad Men.
• Read student essays while Egg gave Z a bath.

Went to bed when? That’s right. 9 o’clock. Thank god we’re on Pacific Time and the sun has been down for 3 hours already so it doesn’t seem entirely lame.

Now, I’m ready for another weekend. Instead, I have two presentations this week (one about publishing, another about PhD school), 16 more essays to read and comment on, 3 student meetings, hardcore advising now that students are registering for spring semester and trying to graduate in the spring, plus a dinner party on Friday and, I hope, some submissions going out the door.

Next week will be also busy but soon we go south to visit our friends and then it’s winter break. Well, my birthday, then Thanksgiving and then winter break. November. What a great month. Almost as lovely as October.

The great thing about my mom coming to visit:

She comes to see me almost as much as she comes to see Z.

She plays with Z so I can write (except when she needs help working the remote).

She cleans the spots, like behind the kitchen faucet, behind the toilet, between the washer and dryer, I don't clean and rather than suggesting I clean it myself, just points out tools—such as toothbrushes and Comet, that make such cleaning easier.

She pets the dog even though she doesn't like dogs.

She loves everything Egg and I cook—even if the pork chops were slightly undercooked. She asked Egg for his green chile stew recipe.

She loved the breadmaker and ate every loaf I made—even the very experimental underdone dill loaf.

She bought me a new bread knife to cut said bread.

She loves turkey vultures ("a committee of" is a common collective term we learned) almost as much as I do. She even wanted to put out some hamburger to see if that would bring more but then she decided that would be messing with the system a bit much.

She brought Play-doh and race tracks for the Z.

She knows how to get Play-doh out of a sisal rug (let dry. Use knife).

She's amazed at the number of ravens circling overhead.

She wipes Z's nose, puts Vaseline under that wiped-raw nose, puts Menthalatum on her chest, learns how to use the Albuteral nebulizer, and wakes up when Z coughs and goes to sleep in Z's bed when Z asks.

She brings tissues wherever she goes.

She loves lunch, the Grand Canyon, Walnut Canyon, Slide Rock, and Sedona in that excellent and proper order.

She and her great boyfriend are up for about anything, including hikes with tarantulas and stopping at 3 different grocery stop on a Saturday, plus the 3 additional grocery stop trips they took on their own, restocking our entire kitchen.

She brings her boyfriend and his great vegetables for his great garden.

She's willing to play Cranium.

She and Egg can talk politics and yell at the TV during the debate in great animated good fun (they're on the same side and yet still manage to disagree over the details—in good humor).

She can watch Z do her singing and dance moves for even longer than I can.

She dances and sings.

She likes to learn new songs like Frog Went A Courtin'.

She tells me what her favorite songs were and when.

She sings the songs she sang to me to Z. And then some new ones.

She promises she'll come back soon.

The Temple of My Familiar

There's a street behind my house. Behind that street, there is forest--a Ponderosa-filled, trail-ridden, semi-hilly, sometimes flat, sometimes hilly forest. I like the idea of living on the edge of the wilderness. From the trails I run every other day, I could conceivably run/ride my bike/walk to Walnut Canyon which is a National Monument. The trails only let you near the actual canyon but inside that canyon supposedly live bears and fox and owls and mountain lions. This space is temple-like to me. That it exists right behind me seems like a miracle. And because, like any empty property next to any (every?) house I've lived, the space has been eventually developed, that eventually, this place will have more streets and more houses on it makes it all the more precious.

My mom was here with her boyfriend last week. We had nonstop good fun including going to the upper rim of the Walnut Canyon as well as the upper rim of the Grand Canyon. As well as the pinnacle of Sedona's vortex (can a pinnacle be a vortex?).

We also went on a hike in behind the house. As we rounded the last turn to go back up the hill, what crossed our paths but a gigantic tarantula. The cephalothorax was all black. The opisthosoma was a rusty brown. He didn't like being on the path with us. He could sense our footsteps, my mom thought, and so was already on the move out of the way. He crawled, as quickly as he could without calling too much to himself by scurrying, across the path. I wanted to tell him that we already noticed him and that we too wanted to look cool but that we'd go ahead and wait for him to make it into the crispy grasses.
Then, Erik and Z and I went walking on Sunday far, far back behind our house and there was another. And then on Monday when I was running with Z, there was another.

At the risk of letting my arachnophopbic sister know this story and vow to never come visit me again, I thought that this was a particularly good October story. And although I'm a little sketched out by seeing 3 (three!) in one week, in these dark times I worry less about big spiders trying to eat me and more that I'll end up having to eat them.

Plan Is Working!

I'm trying to end all my sentences with the phrase "in these dark times" and it's working to great effect.
Such as, "We'd better go to the store today. We don't want to run out of milk in these dark times." And, "Z, paint while you can. This may be the end of expensive crayola paints in these dark times." "Extra butter on my English Muffin. You can't fatten up too much in these dark times." This sentence changes it up a bit: "The house can stay messy. In these dark times, the dirt and dust may be the only thing we actually own." "Dear Students, You've asked and I've finally agreed. In these dark times, you don't need to be on time, turn in your papers on time, or participate in workshop. The University may not even be here by the end of the semester."
You get the drift. See how much more fun this is than talk like a pirate day? Talking like a doomsayer comes more naturally to me. And has I hope a cathartic more than a prophetic effect.

Freaking out

IN general, I'm just feeling the panic of a new job, no accessible friends, the constant panting for the emails of acceptance, the sharp personalities of graduate students, and the pressing day-to-day business of trying to eat at home, get out onto the trails or into the mountains during this gorgeous season, hit the farmer's market and try to make my own cheese to go with my new-found ability to make bread.
But the main panic is the Obama. The news today claimed that the level of racism in this country suggests that Obama just can't win. He'd be 6% higher in the polls if he wasn't black. As it is, he's dead even. And that's a poll of people willing to admit that they have "negative thoughts about black people." I imagine people fully planning on voting for Barack going into the voting booth and just not being able to do it.
I hope I'm wrong. I'm trying to force myself to call swing state voters but it makes me very nervous to do that kind thing. But if I don't, and he loses, I'll kick myself for doing nothing except sending a few bucks Obama's way. Because while I can't talk people out of being racist, maybe I can talk them into putting their racism last on their list of priorities. Saving the environment, providing health insurance for the 46 million without, fixing this suddenly socialist economy from further capitalistic greed, finding our way back to some kind of global honor, protecting the Endagered Species Act, letting women choose what happens to their own bodies--these things have to be more important than the judgement of someon'es race, don't they?
God I hate to cold call.

Edited to Add: Called 10 numbers. 6 not homes. 2 refusals to talk to me. 2 all for McCain. I think I'll be done for now.

Robato

I am finishing an essay and thought, hm, I'd better change the names to protect the innocent, etc. So I go through the essay in Word and replace "Tom" with "Rob." Sadly, this essay is about tomatoes. So now, there's a lot of Robatoes that need fixing.

Sarah Palin is

the new George W. Bush.
She scares me. Like Bush, you'd think, she's too crazy (no sex education?) and too evil (did you hear what she said about Obama?) and too dumb (or fake dumb) to win. And you'd be wrong.
McCain is old. Palin's giving him a flat tire standing so close on his heel.
Ack.

Processing

Another good thing/bad thing list?
Sure, why not.
1. The campus is pleasant but I don't know where anything is.
2. The admin staff knows much but seems reluctant to share what they know with me.
3. There was a lot of orientation. None of it orientated me toward where the printer is.
4. I have a new computer. It's not ready yet--still needs to be tagged as "property of."
5. We're starting the new MFA program. We're starting a new summer conference.
6. There's a union with many food choices including sushi. They take only dining cards.
7. The school is located right downtown and I can walk to other fooderies but I haven't gotten paid yet so I may as well be taking a dining card to the downtown restaurants since that would be as effective as my debit card.
8. I am on two committees. I am on two committees.
9. I teach in the late afternoon/evenings. I teach in the late afternoon/evenings.
10. I unpacked all my books, bought with my no money (read AmEx) two plants, and opened my two lovely windows. There's construction out those windows.
11. I taught my first class. I have two more to go and the first week is very hard for me. I hate the syllabus spiel.

In other, less binary news, I love my colleagues. They're pretty mellow, pretty funny and, in the advising center, I advised a student well with my advising coach looking on and I got all accolades. Was even called a whiz kid. I like positive reinforcement. A lot. The chair took some of my ideas to the Dean and he loved them. Yay. Now we're looking for a name for our new program to brand it a little. I'm sure it will be hokey but I love hokey as much as I like anything else (which includes not much so I shouldn't complain either way as to my likings).
In my first class, the laptop cord was broken, only I didn't know that so I kept trying to get my laptop to put up the cool stuff on the screen. I looked like an idiot. Today, I found out the cord was broken. I hope everyone who taught in that room looked like an idiot so I'm not alone in idiocy but this isn't that techy of a department.
The first week has already been brutal and I'm only at the halfway point. Advising, committees, 400 emails, and a general lack of knowing where anything is or how any thing works is draining. An example of the the how-anything-works-lack-of-knowledge: the rooms have codes. I arrive at my first class, and my first grad class ever, carrying 18 Writers Chronicles, two books, one laptop (unusefully), 18 syllabi, a camera and my purse. I arrive. The students are waiting outside. I'm told by the students that I'll need a code. A code? It's 4:30. The English Dept. office closes at 4:30. I run down three flights of stairs. The AA is still there. She looks surprised that I didn't know that I needed the code. She practically shakes her head in disapproval at me as she gives me the code. Perhaps there was yet another orientation I missed? The how-things-work-around-here one? You know, the truly useful one.
But, back to list of good and bad: most faculty offices are in the same building as the classrooms! But the classrooms have codes and I still need 3 more to remember.

If I recall, the first week is always beyond rough. I'm sincerely hoping that next week is less frantic with busywork and more thick with content.

Proofreading

I am proofreading my syllabi. I have been replaced by an alien. Or at least have enough bile-inducing memory of reading typos aloud to the class.
I'm getting a little nervous. The first day of class with no books, no assignments, no papers, just me and a now proofread syllabus drives me a bit mad. I'll bring in some exercise called make a poem from the syllabus. The students will find the word chicken therein. They should be able to do something with that.

I have time to proofread because Z is at school today. From 11:30 to 4:30. I can't quite stand it. I can stand it quite a bit. I just fear I've just dipped her in a vat of germs and 3 to 5 incubation days from now, she'll come down with the dreaded cough. But, in more optimistic and productive news, I've called the city to have them come remove the old stove, talked happily with Deon, the plumber who has installed the new gas line and put the gas line into the new stove (they call them ranges. I don't like it. I love the word stove), and have helped him lift the stove (see, sounds heavier, no?), and sympathized when he realized he had to move the whole down-draft blower mechanism. I drove to campus, going turny-turny (Z thinks I drive too turny-turny and that's what makes her car sick. Today, I didn't have to avoid turning) the whole way there and turned back toward her school to spy on her class if they were outside (which they were not), and found a good carne asada taco down the street. I also just stopped in at the "Farmer's Market" store which is kind of a Mexican green grocer with all kinds of peppers and bulk items. I bought Z gummy bears and Egg cinnamon bears and for me I bought pablanos and Anaheim chiles. They call Anaheims New Mexico Chiles here and they'll roast them for you. A case is $25. If they scrape the skins off them, then I think Egg and I will be convinced it's a deal (an unroasted case cost $20). I also drove over to the Prairie Dog town where I ate my tacos. I heard the noisy dogs but saw nary a one. The wildflowers hide them well.
I still have an hour and a half before Z gets home and, did I mention I've already proofread my syllabi? Now what to do? Oh, the expansiveness of time. I may have to proofread one of my mantel-piece manuscripts (my friend Steve calls his manuscripts mantel pieces in that they, like so many ancestoral portraits, can be placed on the mantel to gaze at adoringly. They're easier to dust than frames).
Orientation tomorrow. All day. I already figured out how to use their HR Portal, what benefits I want, how to enroll in said benefits and how to check my email. What else will I need to know?
Perhaps I'll bring my computer and continue my proofreading extravaganza.

I Am So Dedicated

I have just spent 30 minutes searching for and adding wingdings to my syllabus.

My students, and their aesthetic pleasure, come first.

In the end, actually, I ended up using the tilda. Boring. Perhaps I can make it up to them by finding a stimulating font. And alternating between italics and boldface letters. Oh, how they will pay attention to the details thanks to these machinations. Late papers. What are they? Not accepted! (ha.)

Stress and Distress

I knew the trip to GR would be exhausting. It's a crazy long flight from here. SW to NE via the south. It was great to see a few people. I made two new friends of the guy who now has my job and his partner. I ran by my old house and through the college. I sat outside in the near-perfect temperatures. The air was thick with oxygen and water and bird noises and city sounds. I stayed out until too late with my old students, whom I love. I went to a lovely wedding and made better friends with friends I'd left behind. But. Friday was a loss from the too-much-with-students night. I slept in until 10 almost every day. So whatever hopes of this becoming a writing retreat quickly fled from me.
And flying is killing me. It's the rush to get there and the attempt to rush the plane to make your connection and the freak out if I should have carried on my luggage and the fear of making your almost-brand-new friends wait for you at the airport. And the turbulence and near-death experiences.
I hurt my neck again too. Like the last time I traveled frantically, I think it was to Chicago, I hurt my shoulder carrying too much stuff on it. It's been 5 days now and I can barely move my neck. I'm supposed to be having last fun of the summer with Z but mostly I just say ow. Ow.

But the truest ow is that Little Hands and son are sick. He's been in the hospital for at least three nights now. I'm pretty sure the Hotel California means the Children's Hospital. I'm worried and sad for them. I had bad dreams last night remembering Z's incarceration. I would feel better about things if the doctors ever knew what was going on but with viruses, they seem completely idiotic. IV fluids and a lot of hemming and hawing. You can hem and haw. I'm going home to quarantine myself, I want to say.

I wish I could do more but I can't even offer the IV fluids.

Oh, and school starts. Soon. And my syllabi ? They're MIA. Poor syllabi, lost in the forest of my computer. Perhaps they'll find their way into shape and home soon.

Pasta

If eating locally means not having to drive to the store and eating what's in the fridge, then I've been a champion since moving here. The store is 10 minutes away. This is insane. I used to live two blocks from Smiths, or half a mile from Nature's or a mile from the D&W. I could walk or ride. Not that I always did. But I did once and awhile. And I could drive in like 2-5 minutes. This 10 minute thing might be good for me though. I've been planning meals, stocking way up at the farmer's market, and shopping more thoroughly at the Safeway.
So yesterday, I looked in the fridge and saw that I had whole milk ricotta, a bag of basil, and a bunch of tomatoes. And I'm leaving tomorrow for GR and these things will not be good when I get back (I can rely on Egg to eat the tomatoes but not to use the ricotta. Or probably the basil).
So I googled those ingredients and came up with a fettuccine and fresh tomato dish. But then I saw the fettuccine was supposed to be fresh too. Instead of bailing to the store or making it with regular spaghetti, I remembered I had a pasta maker.
It took an hour but Egg and Z helped pull the sheets and hold the machine down as I cranked the handle. Z had her noodles with peas and butter. We had our ricotta. Z's was better but in both dishes, the pasta was great.
Fun fun fun. I love being hobbled by my hatred of driving to the store!

Addiction

The internet was down at the house from 4 p.m. until 10 a.m. The next morning. I literally started twitching. I suggested going out to dinner not because we had no food in the house or because I didn't want to cook but because I held some hope there would be internet available at the restaurant. I drank my glass of wine at the pizza place a little too quickly to try to cover the withdrawals.
When Middlebrow was here, we talked about how we'd been trying to be on the internet less. While he said he actually was putting pen to paper, I just nodded and applauded myself for not taking the computer on my walks with the dog. I've cut down my usage by about 1%. Usually that 1% is dedicated to playing puzzles with Z.
I think it was the not knowing when Qwest would fix the phone line that drove me the most crazy because it's not like I missed that much. No, even when I'm online, I'm like, where is that thing that used to make me spend so much time looking for it? And then I spend so much time looking for it, which is the thing I think I used to do that seemed so interesting but was probably not that.
We're having more guests this weekend. Perhaps I'll knock off the habit a bit.

Life Is (Was?) a Vacation

tThe nice thing about moving closer to home and close to vacation spots is that people come to visit you. Egg’s mom and step-dad came down for a week. Unpacking and moving furniture sucked the life out of the first few days but by Wednesday, we were in adventure mode. On Wednesday, up the ski lift to the highest peak. The chair lift was so slow— letting on people who do not usually ski takes many a brake-lever and backwards-moving motion. It was no quad so on top of the slow-down per rider, it went trudged up the hill but the views of the peaks and the valleys and the Grand Canyon off in the distance made it worth it. At the top, we learned about a prehistoric yellow-flowered plant whose protected status meant there was no climbing down the mountain. We weren’t planning to hike down anyway because we had the Z, but the thought of the slow-speeded chair lift almost made us want to attempt it. The next day, amazing ruins. The solidness of the Pueblo architecture impressed. The layers of rock and mortar lasting 500 years—most of them without the care (or the misguided re-building, ranger-living-inside-of, re-enactments-on-top-of and kicking the modern natives out of) and help of the National Forest Service. The next day, red rocks and Z climbing high on boulders and vortices and a shared porterhouse with my step-dad-in-law, known more easily as my Rick. Then, Z’s birthday with the mountain biking, Saturday’s Prairie Dog Town Visit and last week’s adventure to Lower Lake Mary (empty), Upper Lake Mary (wide and shallow) and Marshall Lake (odd and sedge-filled with many a noisy but hidden duck).

Whilst Dr. Write and Middlebrow and son visited (starring as the most delightful visitors of all time), we went to the in-town forested park to watch Egg and Middlebrow finish up their game of disc golf. We stopped downtown for a beer and then came home to tacos and more beer and wine. The next day, we drove both of our front-wheel drive cars toward the ski resort, taking a left down a bumpy and muddy Forest Road 245 and another left on Forest Service Road 171 to the damp and dark caves. The lava was hard on the knees and the climb hard on the thighs. The tourists were too many to enjoy the experience entirely but Z and Son did a great job climbing pretty far in. The sheer number of people made the place more claustrophobic than the narrow and the dark parts. I kept imagining having to climb over people to get out. And that would be rude. But necessary. We returned home to more rain, more wine and beer, more great times.

We have one more set of visitors due this weekend but it’s already feeling like the end of vacation times. Egg went to work at a horrible job because nothing great has turned up yet. I have to go back to GR for a student scholarship thing (not so fun) and a wedding (yay!) I am working on syllabi and readings and finishing up summer writing projects. I plan to visit Z’s school this week. Do dry-cleaning. Perhaps someone else can schedule a visit so the summer isn’t really over. I could live in vacation-time all the time. I really like adventures with such fine folks all around this town.

Copying Dr. Write

Who knew Dr. Write and I liked like so much.



We're metaphorists at heart. Or girls from the valley.

A little weird

This Ponderosa-filled town is weird. All towns are weird but this one seems particularly paradoxical. It's in the mountains but it's in the desert so it's hot with both the desert and sun so close but cool with the elevation and the monsoons. It's a small town but it appears to be transportation central--planes, trains and cars galore. It's pretty difficult to travel through because of all the other modes of transportation and other cars in your way. It's full of super rich people because people buy their summer homes here to escape the desert but super poor because there's no real industry except for the University to support those who live here year round. A summertime economy does not a middle-class make. There's a lot of chain stores and some cute boutiques but not so many locally-owned mid-sized shops. There lots of people here with fancy kitchens but no gourmet store. There are a lot of wine and beer shops but no real bakeries or deli's, at least as far as I've discovered. I'm still on the hunt for deliciousness and the farmer's market has been great. Tomatoes already!

The mountains are spectacular--we watch the sunset from the porch every night and the trails behind the house are lined with Indian Paintbrush and Lupine and little yellow flowers and Rabbit Brush and, of course, Ponderosas.

It's really beautiful, a little noisy, and the downtown area is full of cuteness. On Saturday night, we went downtown and ate good sushi. Z ate her edamame with chopsticks!

As long as we have access to some good fish, wine and beer, and fun places to walk, I think we're pretty happy.--except for the part when we actually might need to go back to work. I've already begun constructing lectures in my head. Lectures with the words "discipline" and "what is the point anyway" in them. Perhaps I'll take one more week to work on my own stuff before I start thinking of ways to torture my new students.

Z's Birthday

An open letter to Z, who turns three,
I think I finally get you. It’s mostly the talking but it’s also the way you make hard things—like moving across the country, saying hello and goodbye to so many people—seem easy. You laugh, over the top, at the tiniest joke. Your favorite joke is this: We don’t swim in your toilet, please don’t pee in our pool. And, for potty training purposes, I’ve adapted it to: We don’t sleep in your Pull-ups, please don’t pee in our bed. If you call out mom, and I answer “Bart” in a low voice, you giggle so hard you snort. Yesterday, in the car, you kept asking us where mom and dad were. I answered, “ummm, right here,” making the “right here” interrupt the “ummm” at new and surprising places. Mostly, you make me feel like a comic genius. Finally, someone recognizes my true talent and I thank you for being so perceptive.
You love to be surprised and so you like hide and seek the best although we’re not sure of the rules of your version. You run and hide for about two seconds and then come find us and say boo. If we’re feeling really lazy, we can get you to hide in a box and you jump out every minute or so and we jump as high as we can get our lazy bones to go, in absolute shock. Where were you? In that box? Just like you were a minute ago?
You do so love to count and yet you’ve banished the numbers 3 and 4 to the end of 10. I know this is just stubbornness on your part but when you start school next month, I bet I’ll sound like one of those poor mothers who really needs to get a grip and realize that her kid’s paste-eating is not a sign of future culinary skill. But really, the 3 and the 4, they pissed you off somehow. Perhaps now that you’re three, you’ll begin to forgive the pair.

You have the narrative gene that must have skipped a generation. Every time before nap, I get a rundown of what just happened and a preview of what will take place after the nap: “Brush teeth, go to the potty, change clothes, make coffee, go on a walk, eat breakfast, brush teeth, go to bed.” Then “Wake up (note that all the phrases lilt up in the end like a question. Not a question if that’s what’s going to happen but a question like, you’re getting this down, right?), play puzzle, hide & seek, play monster, make dinner, find Box (Box has been losing himself in the wilds in the day), change clothes, brush teeth, and go to bed.” Sometimes, we think you’re of Italian heritage because many verbs and nouns have an extra “a” to them: “We go-a to the park. We park-a the car. You also ask-a that if we take-a mom’s car, that I not turna so much. It makes me sick”. It does make you sick. You throw up if I turn too many u-turns looking for a parking place.

You got to spend a lot of time with your Maestra and your grandma and grandpa and your aunts. And your cousins. Lately, the narrative litany of activities included, “go to Maestras” or “Go to Lily and Cam’s,” “are Grandma and Grandpa here yet?” and “go to Salt Lake.” The number of activities attended this summer outweighs the sum total of your life up to this point. You went swimming with KJ, and with Cam and Lil, you went through the forest every day, Mice took you on a bus, on a light rail, and on a choo choo train all in one day. You went kayaking twice and swung on a swing either at Little Hands’ or at Grandma’s every single day. You went to Liberty Park and went on the Ferris Wheel and the Merry-Go-Round. Mice and Bart and I took you and Cam and Lil on the alpine slide. You rode your big wheel that Lil lent you. And, you learned how to be a cool cousin to Cam and Lil. You rode in the car to Ponderosa Town. You went to the peaks here and then the pueblos and then to Red Rock wonder. I hope your birthday holds new adventures: a trip to the lake, a bike ride, maybe a movie???

You still eat a lot of kinds of foods. You now like lettuce once in a while. The other day, you ate your taco like a normal person instead of like your mom who still keeps the meat separate from the cheese from the lettuce from the tortilla. Your palate may have already transcended mine. You still like raw onions, pickles, turkey, sausage, broccoli, peas, and red bell peppers but lately, you’ve liked salmon more than anything. At the wine bar, we had to order a second plate of smoked salmon. You loved it, although the capers, not so much. Two days ago, I was shucking corn and you sat on the counter and ate of two of the cobs, raw. And then you ate another cob for dinner. You love cherries, and, thanks to your grandma, eat around the pit. You love blueberries and strawberries and raspberries like all reasonable humans. You pretend to like coffee and then you take a sip and say “gah, what have I put in my mouth.”

You change clothes 4-5 times a day. You also like to tell me what to wear. “Go upstairs, find a dress, change your clothes. Wear a dress.” I usually comply although lately I’ve been saying, “you get to wear what you want; I’ll wear what I want.” This confounds you. Obviously, you have better fashion sense than I should listen to you. Mice bought you a new purple dress to replace your old purple dress which you wear every day. You also wear the dress that Little Hands got you. Every day. You still like purple but pink is even better. You still don’t like your clothes dirty, but sometimes it seems you spill just as an excuse to change your clothes. You have ways of the girl—all your stuffed animals are babies and you’re the mama. You also like to climb on rocks (and furniture) and go on hikes in the forest (both our backyard, Grandma’s backyard, and the real forest just behind our house). You love to swim and are learning to blow out rather than to suck in, albeit not as fast as you would like.

You sing. A lot. Going on a trip and then add in the people above houses to which we’ll go and mom and dad. Or you’ll sing “we’re on a bike ride, going on a bike ride, bike ride, bike ride” if we are, for instance, on a bike ride. You dance too and can do an arabesque, a leap and downward dog using your head instead of your hands. Many talents you have.

There are some cute and yet, what is the euphemism, challenging elements to the Z. You ask why a lot. Like why are there two lights and three over there? Where is there a stair there? Why is that my plate? Where is the chicken? (In your mouth…) When can I see some ducks? You also say “what” a lot even though you’ve heard exactly what I said (methinks you get this from your dad). My favorite thing about you is how nothing gets by—which is why there’s all those why’s and what’s. A pinecone in the road makes you mad. “Put it over there.” An empty Coke cup in the road, “why?” A raven caws, “what’s that.” The refrigerator kicks on, “what’s that.” You remind me that noise is called “thunder” every time the clouds bang together. You tell me how bright it is when the sun is out and that you need your glasses. Which you keep in your purse. Along with your sunscreen and lip stuff.

You also have a mommy-thing lately which, while sweet for me, isn’t very friendly and is a bit wearing. “Can daddy take you to bed?” No, mommy take you. My likes mommy.” My is I around here sometimes. And sometimes “you” is “me.” I can’t wait to teach her about the accusative case and direct objects. However, you do ask “May I have one more gummy bear” with the diction of a blue blood. I will be sad when proper grammar takes over entirely.

She also refuses to sleep in her new princess room. She sleeps with us. Sometimes she sleeps vertically but not every night. But the cuddling. It’s not so bad. And, you’re a bit of a romantic kisser. One arm behind my neck and you pull me to you like so many princes. You pucker nicely. And the random hugging is pretty nice.

So far this morning we found my sunglasses! Yay! And then we went for a bike ride on your trike with Cleo and you pedaled and steered. Simultaneously. And then your dad and I took you mountain biking on the trails behind the house. You went in the bike seat on the back of my bike. You weigh 33 pounds. Ow. My legs.

We’re off to lunch and then maybe to the lake to see those ducks you’re always asking about.

I hope you have a good birthday Z. I can’t wait to see what adventure is next.
Love,
Mom