Feeling good, feeling fine, oh, baby, let the music play

It's only early December, so it feels a tad early to start with all the year-end retrospectives, but everyone loves a good list. My favorite list is Spotify's end of year compilation of top songs and artists. Music is such a powerful part of memory, bringing back thoughts and visual images and emotions - I look forward to and save each year's list because they are time capsules. 

I love a good time capsule. 

I find it hilarious that my top song of the entire year was Van Halen's Dance the Night Away. But it's definitely a sorry not sorry thing, because I love that song. From the opening cowbell to the hooky-as-hell guitar riff to David Lee Roth's scream-y high notes to the "let's cut loose and enjoy life" vibe, it's completely captivating. It also makes me smile because of the reason it's at the top of the list. 

Last January, I had my first date with Greg. We went out for a lovely dinner. Two days later we went out again, this time to play pool at my favorite bar in Denver, a dive-y place on Colfax called PS Lounge. Every woman gets a rose when she walks in, every person gets a shot of Alabama Slammer when they sit down, and it has a seriously amazing jukebox. 

Playing pool at PS Lounge in January

I think Pete (the owner) has monkeyed with the settings, because a dollar that is only supposed to buy 4 songs actually buys, like, 11. So Greg and I took turns picking songs and ended up with a great list, when I turned into a Spotify playlist called "Pete's Jukebox." The first song I picked was Dance the Night Away, and Greg said, "oh my god, I love that song." 

Now whenever we go to PS Lounge, we pick out songs together and the next day I add them to the playlist. I listen to it often, and it makes me smile. It also includes Cheap Trick's Surrender, Hall & Oates' Rich Girl, and Bobby Darin's I'm Beginning To See The Light, and the Police's Invisible Sun, which are all high on the year-end list as well. 

In October, Christin and I climbed Mt. Sherman wearing our Dead & Co. concert shirts (naturally), and then a few weeks later went to two Dead & Company shows when they were touring here. The first show was at Red Rocks, on the night of the full moon. It was cold but beautiful and the band sounded amazing. I had actually gotten rid of my ticket for the second show at Fiddler's Green because I was like, do I really need to go to two Dead shows in a week? But 15 seconds into John Mayer opening the show by singing Bertha, the answer was clearly "yes," and I immediately pulled out my phone and repurchased the ticket to the Fiddler's show, which ended up being even better than the Red Rocks show.

Something was very funny at the Red Rocks show

The shows were fantastic for a number of reasons, on top of the music. I always love hanging out with Christin, and she and I danced and sang along and laughed our asses off. We bought more shirts and giggled about how perfect it was to be scarfing down pizza while enjoying a bit of a contact high while listening to the Dead - like being back in college! We were highly amused when, at the Fiddler's show, the guy in front of us was super drunk and sat down on the grass in front of me, and proceeded to lean back into my lap, proclaiming how comfortable I was to sit on. We enjoyed grabbing a bite after the show at Perkins, this super sketchy IHOP-wannabe type of restaurant - our meal of choice was pie and tater tots, and it was as delicious as it sounds.

For about a month surrounding these shows, I listened almost exclusively to Deal & Company. Which is why it's the top artist on my 2021 playlist. 

Late in the summer Zeke got really into skateboarding. Like, really really into skateboarding. He now takes his board with him everywhere and practices tricks all the time. "Mom, watch this ..." followed by a skateboarding trick is a recurring thing in my life. That got me interested in watching Lords of Dogtown, about the birth of the skateboarding scene in southern California in the 1970s. There's a scene in the movie when Three Dog Night's Shambala was playing, and then I heard the song somewhere else, realized it was turning into an enjoyable ear-worm, and now it's number 12 on the year-end list. 

Zeke skateboards near my parents' house in Virginia during our Thanksgiving break

Rain on Me, by Lady Gaga (with Ariana Grande) was played in a Peloton class I took. I "liked" it from the bike's touchscreen, which puts it on a Spotify playlist, and then I added it to an exercise playlist. It's super catchy. Sometimes I'll play that playlist and Josie and I will dance around and be silly.

I listen to these songs and they make me feel good. Which makes me feel good about the past year. There were things about the year that were extraordinarily awful and difficult. But there were also things that were really great, and that make me hopeful for the future. 

I will say good-night as I listen to Aretha Franklin's cover of Bridge Over Troubled Water, which in my humble opinion is the best recording of the song ever. A couple of months ago I was playing it in the car when I was driving around with Zeke, and he said, "Jesus!" 

"What?" I said.

"Her voice. It's incredible."

I told him he should add it to one of his Spotify playlists. 

A conversation

Saturday afternoon. The family is sitting on the sofa watching football. Susan and Wendy are folding laundry.

Me: What should we do for dinner tomorrow night? We could order in or cook something.

Mom: We could do one of those things.

Me: Yes, we could. Why don't we cook something easy?

Mom: It's supposed to be chilly tomorrow. Maybe a stew?

Me: That could be good. I've got salad stuff. We could have salad to go with it.

Mom: Barry, you like stew, don't you?

Dad (incapable of not being a smart-aleck): Who's Stu?

Me (looking to the heavens and starting to chuckle): Good lord, it's fucking relentless.

Dad (also laughing): Which Stu?

Me (pulling a random last name out of my brain): Jones.

Dad: I like Stu Jones! He's a good guy!

Me: Maybe he likes stew.

Mom: Or something with chicken thighs? The New York Times cooking app has those sheet pan recipes where you cook everything on one pan. (Reading through recipe names) Chicken thighs stuffed with chard ... sheet-pan chicken with squash and dates.

Dad: That manages to combine two ingredients I hate. 

Me: Ew.

Dad: Susan, didn't we serve with Stu Jones somewhere? El Salvador, maybe?

Mom: Yes, that's sounds right. 

Me (confused): Wait, who are we talking about?

Dad: Stu Jones! We worked with him in an embassy somewhere. 

Me: He's a real person? I was just making that up.

Dad: No, he really exists!

Mom: Yeah, we know him.

Me: So random.

Mom: How about sheet-pan chicken with potatoes, scallions and capers?

Me: Ooh, that sounds yummy.

Mom: Let's do that. We can go grocery shopping in the morning. 

Me: Maybe we could add some vegetables to the pan to roast along with the other stuff? Maybe some broccoli or brussel sprouts?

Dad (making a face): Broccoli?

Me: What's wrong with broccoli?

Mom: We can see what looks good at the store.  Barry, does the chicken thigh recipe sound OK?

Dad: I thought we were having stew?

Me: I'm done.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, beautiful boy

 My darling Zeke,

This past Sunday was your 14th birthday. You were with your dad, but you and I had planned to go shopping for a new skateboard. You have recently gotten very into skateboarding - taking your board with you everywhere, constantly practicing your ollies, putting holes in my delicate lathe-and-plaster walls by accidently crashing the board into them. It's been fun seeing you develop this new interest, and in typical Zeke fashion, you practice tirelessly because you want to get good at it. But you were riding a crappy board that had been cobbled together from a couple of other crappy boards, so for your birthday I promised you a shiny new one. 

We ended up not going because a couple of your good friends came over and you wanted to hang out with them. Which was absolutely fine. I'm happy that you have some close friends that you spend time with. It's as it should be. 

Instead, we went on Monday after I got out of court. You picked out an awesome board with all the accoutrements and I ended up spending far more than I thought I would have to on a skateboard, but I was happy to do it. 

This has been crazy year. It started off with you and Josie still doing school remotely, which absolutely sucked. You were miserable and bored and depressed. Sometimes you took it out on me - I guess that's par for the course for parents of teenagers. 

You were unhappy, you weren't getting enough exercise, and you were unhappy with your life and with yourself. You didn't like how you looked and worried that you were fat (you weren't). I told you that you were obviously getting ready for a growth spurt, and whatever minimal COVID- and isolation-related fluff you were carrying would disappear in no time.

And man, did it ever. 

Over the past five months, you have transformed into a different person. You have grown a few inches and totally leaned out. Your face has lost any semblance of baby fat and you look like you're three or four years older than you are. You're growing your hair out and it looks amazing. You're beautiful. 

But even more importantly, you're wonderful. 

I don't know what happened, but at some point in the late spring a switch flipped and you emerged from your funk. Maybe it was just a maturity growth spurt to go along with your physical growth spurt. Maybe it was the bike camp adventure you went on in June - two weeks biking and camping the length of Vermont with a bunch of other kids your age. Maybe it was finishing school and getting vaccinated and feeling like there was some respite from the strictures of COVID life.

Whatever it was, since then you have been consistently delightful. You're sweet and kind and affectionate. You're helpful most of the time. You might not always do what I ask, but you're never a dick about it. You're fun to be around. You have nice friends, many of whom are always at my house eating all of my food. You're enjoying being back in school. 

Of course, life is not without its bumps.

This year also brought a significant problem that the family is dealing with. Suffice it to say that it threw you for a big loop and was starting to send you down an emotional tailspin. I was unable and unwilling to watch you spiral when things were just starting to feel good and stable for you after years of dealing with some traumatic shit, both COVID-related and otherwise. So I stepped in and did my best to fix the problem, and things have calmed down again.

It sure scared me, though. I love you so much, and I have spent so much time over the past few years trying to help you navigate the trauma you experienced from the divorce, from the abuse you suffered from your first stepmom (not the current one), from the difficulties you and Dad were having, from the pandemic. 

My mama-bear instincts kicked in and I was hell-bent on protecting you. 

I realized that's part of what will always make our relationship special. Of course I love your sister to pieces, but she doesn't need me the way you do. She's always been more resilient than you are, and she relates to Dad more than you are able to. 

So I am your safe person. And you are the one I will always rush to care for and protect, no matter what. To say that I love you doesn't begin to describe how utterly you occupy my heart. 

Love love love, 

Mom

The mountains are calling and I must go

 A friend of mine recently turned me on to Ken Burns's documentary series about the national parks (it's great). The first episode talks a lot about John Muir (whose quote is the title of this post), and how he viewed the wildness of nature not so much as evidence of god, but rather as an actual church through which the divine is manifested. I'm not a religious person, but I really relate to that idea - that my spiritual connection with the world feels the strongest when I'm out in nature.

Maybe that's why after Emma died, my instinct was to spread her ashes from the top of a tall mountain. Rather than attend Rosh haShana services, I chose that day to celebrate her by climbing a mountain - in my blog post about it, I said it would "certainly be a more meaningful, spiritual experience than sitting in a synagogue with strangers." 

It's what compels me to keep going back every year.  

Technically, the yahrtzeit ritual involves the lighting of a candle on the anniversary of a person's death. But lighting candles is child's play. Anyone can do it. The greater commitment is to honor someone through a difficult but life-affirming act - doing something hard, something that is sometimes uncomfortable, that requires you to dig deep within yourself. And doing it out in nature gives it that spiritual element - that connection with the divine, whatever that may be.

That's what yesterday felt like. 

It was a spectacularly beautiful day. Clear air (a welcome respite from the wildfire haze), with the kind of blue sky that you only see in Colorado in the fall. We arrived at the trailhead in the dark and started walking, and after about thirty minutes the sun started to come up. The light peeking up over the mountains was magical.

Parts of the walk were not easy. It's not a long climb in terms of distance - only 2.5 miles - but in that short space is 2100 vertical feet of elevation.. There were sections that were insanely steep without many switchbacks to level out the effort. We moved through those sections slowly but deliberately, less concerned with our pace than with simply enjoying the hike and our conversation. 

But then there were sections that were flatter, or that involved some bouldering or walking along an extremely narrow ridgeline. It kept things interesting. 

Yikes.

The views at the top were amazing. 

Leadville off in the distance

We reached the summit at about 9:30, having made pretty good time even with a number of stops to eat or pee or rest. After drinking my Arnold Palmer (I always carry a bottle to drink at the top), I sat on the edge of the ridge to perform my ritual of reading the names and saying the Kaddish. I had 78 names on my list, including Leonard Cohen, who was added at Greg's request. 

I had forgotten to print out the Kaddish but I had cell signal at the summit, so I pulled it up on my phone. 

Christin surreptitiously snapped a picture. 

We sat and talked about Emma for a while. Christin asked me what she was like, and I talked about how she was funny and sweet and kind. How she faced her recovery after her accident with such strength and determination. How much we all loved her. As always, it made me cry. 

But then I dried my eyes and marveled at the view and the gorgeous weather and at how great we both felt. We talked about how we are happiest and most connected to life when we are outside and moving our bodies, and how lucky we are to live where we live.

The walk down was mellow and fun. We chatted with fellow climbers, petted some dogs, said hi to some little kids. 

Driving back to town for our post-hike meal of nachos and beer, the fall colors that we couldn't admire during our nighttime drive to the trailhead were in full view. We kept slowing down or stopping to take pictures. 

Mother Nature shows off.

The world is such a beautiful place. I wish Emma could have lived to continue to experience it. 

But I'm doing what little I can to honor her by experiencing it for her. 

Go shorty, it's your birthday

 My dearest darling Josephine,

This morning I woke up and found that you had crawled into bed with me during the night. I snuggled up close to you and brushed your hair away from your face and started to sing, "happy birthday to youuu..."

Without opening your eyes, you smiled and put your hand on my cheek. 

"Happy birthday, twelve-year-old girl! Do you want to hear the story of the day your were born?"

You nodded, so I told you about getting to the hospital super early and how lovely and peaceful your birth was. Then we got up and picked up Starbucks for the car pool group and drove to school with the other girls, playing birthday songs (everything from the Beatles to 50 Cent) and gossiping about teachers in your school. 

Today is a good day. 

This year has been hit or miss. 

Being 11 was not easy for you. COVID school sucked so much - you were miserable. You felt stupid and overwhelmed and like you couldn't focus on anything. 

Plus ... you were 11. Being an eleven-year-old girl is awful. Your body is changing, your hormones are flooding, you're going through developmental changes that basically render you clinically insane. 

Let's just say that your hair-trigger temper was even more hair-trigger-y than normal. 

But you're still my sweet, funny girl. It's like living with an improv comedian who is always on stage. Crazy voices, sassiness, riffing different scenarios. You always make me laugh.

This school year is off to a much better start. You have good friends, you like your classes, and you're getting good grades. You're much happier.

You've become very interested in fashion and in what you wear. You and your grandmother recently had a virtual shopping trip together and you picked out a bunch of new pieces. Mimi was concerned about the quality and fit of some of the things, but you made good choices. 

You're so cute. 

But note the shoes. Which are mine. Which I did not give you permission to take. 

This is a thing you do and it drives me absolutely insane. I will walk into your room, which is never not a disgusting mess, and see my black suede high heeled boots. 

"Why do you have my boots?"

"They're stripper boots. They're awesome. I like wearing them."

"They're not stripper boots. The heels aren't even that high. And they don't have lucite platforms."

You take my shoes, my shirts, my photographs, my sweatshirts, my makeup. It drives me insane. 

As you know, there are two things that truly send me into orbit. The first is when people grab things out of my hands. The other is when I put something away in the same place every time, but can't find it because some little turkey - i.e., you - has taken it without asking.  

But this is a teenage mother-daughter thing I will have to deal with, and I will. We have may battles and many joys yet to come. 

I can't wait. 

I love you to the moon and back.

Love love love,

Mom

There's no crying on the Wall

 It was the night before that the anxiety started to hit me. 

And it was totally unexpected. I was the one who had heard about the via ferrata up the East Wall at Arapahoe Basin and jumped at the chance. I had read up on it, made sure I had all the gear, and was more and more excited as the day approached.

We made a weekend of it up in Dillon. On Saturday, we strolled down by the marina. We went for a beautiful hike near Breckenridge. We went to the amphitheater to see Galactic, a great band from New Orleans.

But later, as we were getting ready to turn in for the night, I felt a knot in my stomach that felt less like excitement and more like fear.

It didn't let up the next morning. We got dressed, got breakfast, and headed to A-Basin, and my palms felt sweaty and my stomach and chest were tight. 

As we walked from the car to the check-in area, I grabbed Greg's hand like I was holding on for dear life.

By the time we were introduced to our guide, I was getting choked up.

"I'm very, very nervous," I told him. 

He was very reassuring. "It's totally safe," he said. "You're clipped in to the line the entire time and we're with you every step of the way."

Intellectually, I knew what he was saying was true, but my body and my brain were not having it. I went outside to sit by myself and calm down. 

Greg came out a minute later and sat down next to me. He looked at me quizzically, with a slight smile on his face.

"What's going on with you?"

"I don't know!" I sniffed. I wasn't crying hard, but tears were leaking out of my eyes.

"Are you afraid?"

"Honestly, no," I said. "I don't know why I'm reacting this way. I know that I will have no trouble physically. I am not remotely afraid of heights. I know it will be fun and that I will love it."

"So what's the problem?"

"I don't know. Fear of the unknown, I guess? I've never done anything like this so I don't know what to expect - I don't have a sense of what it will be like. I'll be fine. It will pass. Give me a minute."

He nodded, patted me on the knee, and went back inside. I took a couple of deep breaths, calmed down, and stopped crying. I went back in where everyone was getting ready, putting on their harnesses and helmets.

By the time we got on the chair lift to head up to the start of the climb, I was happy and excited. No trace of fear. I was ready.

As anticipated, the climb was a blast. It was more exposed than I anticipated, but it felt amazing to climb higher and higher up the rock. The other folks in our group were fun and the views were amazing.

The big bummer was that there were were reports of lightening in the region, so we had to turn back at the half-way point. They graciously gave us the option for a credit or a do-over (they didn't have to do either one under their policy, so we were stunned when they did). Without hesitation, we opted for the do-over.

Before our second try a couple of weeks ago, Greg said, "no tears allowed this time."

I laughed and said, "got it."

And once again, we rocked it, making it all the way to the summit. 

Greg likes taking pictures of my butt

In the home stretch on the way to the summit

Laughing at the summit.

I'm convinced that part of the reason we had such a perfect day, weather-wise, is because this time I remembered to wear my A-Basin East Wall Grateful Dead shirt (last time it was my Dead & Co. concert shirt - it's the little things). 

And because the older I get, the more I realize that Colorado is the perfect place for me to live. Adventures abound, which is just how I like it.

Seven years

It has been seven years since that awful, awful day, when Emma was killed and an emotional nuclear bomb blew up our family. I still vividly remember everything about getting that phone call - the shock  and devastation are burned into my brain. Thinking about the ensuing months when we were all sad and wrung out and gritting our teeth, just trying to get through it, still gives me a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Time does make it easier - the grief is not as raw, not as close to the surface. But it settles in and just becomes a part of you. It affects your attitudes, the way you interact with the world, how you look at your life. 

Though I am loathe to ever acknowledge anything about her death as a "positive," I do think that going through that grief has made me stronger. Kinder. More patient. A greater sense of perspective. 

I thought it would make me more fearful as a parent - that I would want to cover my kids in bubble wrap so that nothing would ever happen to them. Actually, the opposite is true. I want them to take chances and have adventures and experience everything. 

But I remind them of what it would do to me and their father and everyone else if they died. 

When we were at the beach, Zeke was swimming in the pool and a lightening storm was rolling in. I told him to get out of the pool, and he was resistant.

"Mom, it'll be fine. Nothing's going to happen. The odds of anything bad happening are so low."

"That may be true," I responded, "but it's not a big deal to get out of the pool for 20 minutes while you wait for a storm to pass. You know that I am not a fearful person and that I generally play the odds when it comes to risk assessment, but if something awful were to happen, I couldn't deal with the fact that it was 100% preventable. This family cannot handle another dead child."

When I said those words, he understood me. He nodded quietly, got out of the pool, and gave me a hug. 

Josh called me the other day just to talk. The time leading up to the anniversary is anxiety producing for everyone, but for him most of all (obviously). We talked about life, which is pretty good for both of us. We talked about our children, who are beautiful and wonderful and thriving. We talked about what everyone experienced in the aftermath of Emma's death and then Lori's death, and how it shaped them. 

I still can't fathom how he found the strength to keep going - not just keep going, but to really live. To experience happiness and love and satisfaction in the trajectory of his life. 

A couple of weeks ago the kids and I went to a local lake to have an end of summer beach day. I was sitting in the chair under the canopy and looked at Josie, who was eating garbage-y snacks and being sassy and joking around. She is funny and sweet and gorgeous - tan, taller than I am, beautiful long legs. 

I was immediately hit with the thought of, "what if I were to lose her, the way Josh lost Emma?" My chest tightened and I inhaled sharply as tears filled my eyes. It's incomprehensible. 

But I don't let that kind of thinking consume me. I can't. It's bad for me and it's bad for them. They need to feel free to go out into the world without being afraid. 

 She would be 24 now.  A fully formed adult. What would she be like? What would she be doing? 

In two weeks, we'll do the yahrtzeit climb, honoring her and so many others. I love the ritual that it has become. 

Tomorrow I am climbing the via ferrata along the east wall of Arapahoe Basin (again). Greg and I climbed it last month, and it was amazing. Seriously so much fun. But we had had to turn back half-way because of storms in the area. They gave us rainchecks, so we're doing it again tomorrow. 

I will say the Kaddish at the summit, for her and also for everyone lost on 9/11. There's something wonderful and moving about being on top of the world and sending blessings out into the universe. 

But today, I will mourn and weep and miss her. 

I'd bet it all on a good run of bad luck

It had been awhile since I'd had a good travel mishap, so I guess I was due. I just didn't realize yesterday that it was going to be a two day affair.

Yesterday I flew out of Denver to head to D.C. for our annual trip to the Outer Banks. I slept for the first part of the trip and then started watching some episodes of The Last Kingdom that I had downloaded onto my phone. I was totally engrossed and completely oblivious to what was going on around me.

At around the time we were supposed to land, we landed. I took my phone off of airplane mode and texted my mom.

"Just landed."

"Where?"

I found this response extremely confusing. I looked out the window and realized we were not at Dulles Airport. 

I took my headphones out of my ears and turned to the lady sitting next to me.

"Do you know what's going on?" I asked.

"Yeah, we were diverted to Louisville because of weather in D.C. They're on a total ground-stop. Nothing is taking off or landing there."

Oh. 

I felt like a moron, but also recognized that it was kind of funny.

"Are we going to be getting off the plane?"

"No, they're refueling and then we're going to wait until we get the go-ahead to take off and head to D.C."

We waited for a while. People were standing up to stretch their legs, chatting with their neighbors. Everyone was pretty chill. The flight attendants handed out snacks and drinks. 

The pilot came on the intercom and announced that the ground-stop had been extended another hour. Everyone was bummed but there was nothing to do but wait. So we waited some more.

After about 20 minutes, he came back on the intercom and announced that the ground-stop had been lifted early. Time to go!

We finally arrived in D.C. two hours later than we were supposed to. I was reunited with my children, whom I hadn't seen in four weeks. They astounded me both with how beautiful they are and with how tall they are getting. I gave my parents big hugs and kisses. I helped my mom finish packing the cars. We watched an extraordinary basketball game and then went to bed, preparing to head out early in the morning to beat the bad traffic. 

I went to sleep late and woke up early - about 3:45 a.m. Denver time. I drove with the kids in my dad's car and my mom and dad drove in her car. For three and a half hours, the drive was uneventful. Down I-95 past the sites of famous Civil War battles - Manassas, Fredericksburg, Spotsylvania. Stopping as we always do for breakfast at the McDonald's at mile marker 118. Through Newport News and Norfolk and Chesapeake, past the battleships and aircraft carriers. 

The kids slept and bickered and played Connect 4.

Then, about 15 miles from the North Carolina border, Zeke tried to adjust his seatbelt and got stuck.

He was in the front seat with me and had wrapped it around himself to move the shoulder strap so that he could sleep more comfortably. He unclicked the belt at the bottom but discovered that it was twisted around his body and he couldn't get it loose - the mechanism that catches the strap at the top (like in the event of a crash) was stuck and we couldn't get it to release. Every time we tried, it got tighter and tighter around his waist. He was in pain and freaking out. 

We came up to a section of road that had a wide flat median - I pulled over and ran around to his side of the car to try to help him, but nothing worked. He was getting more and more upset and I felt helpless to figure out a way to get him loose.

There was a police officer and a guy from the Virginia DOT nearby - they saw us and came over to try to help. We pulled and twisted. We even removed some of the covering to the section of the door where the belt mechanism was housed, trying to find a bolt or a button or something that would release it, but there was nothing. In the meantime, Zeke was in terrible pain and discomfort.

Finally, the police officer took out his pocket knife. 

"Say the word and I'll cut the belt."

"Go ahead and do it," I replied. "I don't see that we have any other option."

So he cut the belt and Zeke was free. 

The officer also summoned the emergency rescue folks, because apparently that's the protocol.

Zeke thanked him profusely and said he was OK, but the officer insisted that we stay so that the paramedics could check Zeke out to make sure he was fine.

Within five minutes, there was a big fire truck, an ambulance, and another police rescue vehicle pulled up around us. The paramedics ushered Zeke into the ambulance and checked his vital signs while the police rescue guys took down our information. 

It seemed like overkill, but apparently that's their process. 

"Well, this is a new one for me!" the police officer said.

"Tell me about it," I said.

Finally, we were given the OK to leave. The police officer even directed traffic away from us so that we could pull out into the road without any difficulty. 

A couple of hours later, we were at the house. We unpacked and headed to the beach for a bit before some bad weather rolled in.

Josie rides her skim-board before the storm.

All is well. It's raining and thundering outside but comfortable inside. Everything's fine.

But man, it's been a hell of a weekend. 

You know it's hard out here for a shrimp

 I am not a tall person. I think that is something on which anyone who has met me can agree.

In most areas of my life, it's not a big deal. It's not like I have to shop in the children's section or anything like that. 

In some ways, it's a plus.

I'm never taller than the guys I date, even if I'm wearing big-girl heels. One of them is a solid foot taller than I am. He is very useful for things like reaching items on high shelves or putting skis and bikes up on the car's roof rack. My shoulders are at the perfect height for him to drape an arm around me - I think he does it as much to have a comfortable place to rest his arm as to show affection.

Airplane seats are no problem. All of those enticements to pay extra for an economy plus seat in order to have more leg room elicit a shrug. My legs are short. They don't need extra room. 

Same with sitting in the back seat of a car. Push your front seat as far back as you want. 

I tend to fit in tight spaces. I can buy petite-sized pants that are the right length. I'm low to the ground, so my balance and stability tend to be good. 

On the other hand, crowds are terrifying because I'm squished and can't see anything. Overhead bins can be dangerous affairs. When I'm in a group photo, I'm so much shorter than other people it looks like I'm standing in a hole. Even my fellow shorties are taller than I am. 

I recently had a three-year-old look me up and down and say, "you know, you're really short!"

Oh yeah? So are you, pipsqueak.

This past weekend I stopped by the kids' dad's house to pick up some clothes that I'm going to bring them when we go to the beach next week. I pulled up in my usual spot behind his house. I went in, got the clothes, we chatted a bit, and I left.

We were still chatting as I got into the car. I started the engine and pulled out and immediately heard an awful crunching sound. 

Oh, fuck, I thought.

I got out and saw that I had driven into a large pile of yard refuse, including a tree stump that had been left out for garbage pickup. My lower front bumper was dented a little bit, but luckily the car was otherwise fine and drivable. 

And the frustrating part is that it wasn't like I hadn't been looking or paying attention. It was that I had been looking and paying attention, but I'm so damned short that even with my seat raised as high as it will go, I couldn't see it. 

"Dude, that sucks," he said,

"Yeah," I sighed.

Story of my life.

Beating jet lag in the Land of Fire and Ice

Back in April, Iceland said, "hey, world, if you're vaccinated, come hang with us." 

Because most other countries were heading in the opposite direction, lots of people with a hankering to do some end-of-the-pandemic travel said, "sold!"

In late April or early May, I made the decision to go in late June. I know of at least five friends who were either there or were going within three weeks of the time I was there. 

The requirements related to COVID were pretty unobtrusive. Show up with a vaccination card, take a rapid test after landing, and "quarantine" at your lodging while you await your results, which they send you via text within about four hours. 

Our flight landed at 6 a.m. Check-in time at our hotel in Reykjavik was at 2 p.m. So we decided to "quarantine" outside by hiking to see an erupting volcano, which just happened to be about a 30 minute drive from the airport. 

Technically not the type of quarantine the authorities had in mind, but we figured it was worth a shot. 

My only concern about the plan was that after an overnight flight during which it was unlikely that anyone would sleep much, we would be totally gassed. But that's why coffee was invented. 

On the way to the trailhead, we stopped at a gas station for coffee. The cups I saw sitting out were small, so I asked the guy behind the counter for the largest size coffee he had. He scoffed, "we have only one size. This isn't America." 

Duly chastened, I ordered two. 

We weren't entirely sure what the hike would entail because the lava flow had covered up some of the trails that people had been using to get the best vantage points. The estimates we heard were about 5-6 miles round-trip, which would have us finishing just in time to check into the hotel. 

It was rainy and chilly, but we were prepared. I had my rain jacket and rain pants and hat and gloves and waterproof hiking boots. We parked our little Suzuki Jimmy in the extraordinarily muddy parking lot, managed not to get the car stuck in the mud within 45 minutes of picking it up, and set off. 

What followed was one of the cooler experiences of my life. 

First was the lava field, still smoking and smoldering and glowing orange. It was extraordinary and surreal and beautiful. I was also struck by the fact that there was no crowd control - we could get as close to the lava as we wanted. No barriers, no warnings, no waivers to sign.

I didn't have a good sense of where we were relative to the crater, so I wasn't clear on whether we would be able to see more than what we had seen. Our initial foray up the ridge gave us views of the size of the lava flow, but not the crater itself. 

We saw some people who had hiked a couple of miles on to a high point on the ridge.

"Is it worth it to keep climbing?" I asked.

"Oh, yes, most definitely," they responded. 

So we kept going. The hike was not super difficult, but not easy either - a relatively significant gain in elevation and a path with no switchbacks to ease the ascent. Being at sea level after coming from Denver helped. 

Eventually we came to the point that was supposed to offer the best vantage point. And holy shit, was it worth it. 

You know that thing where you're seeing something incredible and you keep taking pictures of the same thing over and over, as if each time you're going to catch something you didn't catch before? By the time we finished the climb, I had close to 50 photos and video shots of the lava bubbling in the crater. And when I'm looking back at my pictures, I look at each one multiple times because it's just that amazing.

All along the hike, I kept marveling at how great I felt. I expected to feel exhausted after traveling and not really sleeping, but the more we walked, the more invigorated and awake I felt. I figured I would start to crash when we got back in the car, especially if we decided to go to the Blue Lagoon (a huge pool of milky blue geothermal seawater) before heading to the hotel. 

We ended up going to go the Blue Lagoon because why the hell not. We were chilled and physically tired after the climb, and it's a major attraction even though you're paying an exorbitant amount of money to lounge in a hot pool created by nature. They make it feel fancy by throwing in some goodies like alcohol and mud masks, which are essentially the silica goop that settles at the bottom of  the lagoon. It's a racket, but I didn't care. 

It was fabulous, which surprised me because I generally do not like sitting around in hot water. I don't like long baths or sitting in hot tubs or visiting hot springs. But between the sun coming out and the post-hike glow and the alcohol, we had a great time. We lounged around in the pool for 2 1/2 hours.

You would think that an overnight flight followed by a hard hike followed by hours of drinking alcohol while sitting in hot water would have brought on fatigue. But I felt totally awake. It was very confusing.

My travelling companion was not so fortunate. He fell asleep lying down on the floor of the lagoon (at a point where it is extremely shallow), and when we were driving to the hotel in Reykjavik, I made him pull over and let me drive because he was about to fall asleep at the wheel. 

We checked in and he went to bed. But I was still very much awake. So I went for a walk to see the Hallgrimskirkja and get something to eat. 

The church with a statue of Leif Erikson in front of it. The Erikson statue was a gift from the United States to the people of Iceland in 1930 to commemorate the 1000th anniversary of the Althing, Iceland's first parliament. Kinda cool. Also, these pictures were taken at 8:00 p.m. 

I finally went back to the hotel at around 9:00. I went to bed, thinking that the jet lag would hit me the next day, as it generally does on day two of a big time difference. 

Nope.

Over the course of the trip, I never once felt tired before bedtime. We stayed up later and later, to the point that when we got to Akureyri, we were hanging out at a bar well past midnight. 

And eventually I realized that it was because it never got dark. We were there the week of the summer soltice. During the night, the sun would dip a little lower in the sky, but it was always light out. My body was like, fuck it, if the sun doesn't need to go to bed, neither do I. 

To wit: 

The Jökulsarlon (glacier lagoon) at 9:15 p.m.

Akureyri at midnight:

Grundarfjorður (where you can see the famous mountain from Game of Thrones) at 8 p.m.:

So in the end, the answer was simple. 

The way to beat jet lag in the Land of Fire and Ice?

Go to the Land of Fire and Ice. And make sure you do it in June.