Jesus take the wheel

After they closed the Eisenhower tunnel on I-70 back to Denver, here are some things that, had I known them, would have spurred me to lean in the direction of getting a hotel room in Frisco for the night, rather than power through in a major snowstorm - at night - because I just wanted to get home:

• The alternate Breckenridge-to-Denver-via-Fairplay route is a high-elevation route along the Continental Divide that takes you over two mountain passes via a narrow two-lane road, with many switchbacks and steep grades.

• One of the mountain passes is Hoosier Pass, which rises to 11,542 feet and is one of the highest mountain passes in Colorado. Wikipedia informs me that it is "the highest point on the TransAmerica Trail, a transcontinental bicycle route that stretches from Yorktown, Virginia to Astoria, Oregon." Awesome.

• The other mountain pass is Kenosha Pass, which tops out at 10,000 feet (still very high). Fun fact: it goes near the town of South Park and has been featured in the show a few times!

• The entire route feels like a looooong, extended version of driving over Loveland Pass (albeit at slightly lower elevation), which I would never ever attempt in a snowstorm, at night, because I would be terrified of dying, and rightly so.

But alas, I didn't know any of these things. After living here for almost 9 years, it's kind of pathetic how little I know about Colorado, outside the confines of Denver and it's surrounding areas, plus the part of the mountains where I go to ski in the winter. I really need to broaden my horizons.

So that's how I ended up making my way back to Denver with my brother Sam and his wife Camille and their little dog, Walter, white-knuckling it for hours in the dark over snowy, icy, slippery roads, whose edges were barely visible to me so I couldn't see where I was coming from or where I was going. There were numerous points when I was scared of sliding off the side of the mountain because of the road conditions and steep grade. There were numerous points when the snow and wind were swirling so powerfully that I could not see anything beyond the car, so I simply had to stop in the road and wait for the visibility to improve because it felt like going backwards or forwards would surely end in our deaths.

Mercifully, Sam took over for the last two hours of the drive. He preserved my sanity.

By the time I got home, we had driven that day for over 9 hours in a snowstorm, over a total of five high mountain passes (before the really bad part of the drive, I had already driven over Vail Pass three times - long story, don't ask).  

After dropping Sam and his crew at their hotel, I was so fried and emotionally exhausted and worn out that I climbed into my bed, cried for 30 minutes, went to sleep, and basically didn't get out of bed until I picked them up at their hotel the next night so we could go out for dinner (which was lovely and delicious).  

When I closed my eyes, I had visions of sheets of snow blasted by the wind, illuminated only by the car's headlights. My body and my brain felt weighted down with a tiredness that overwhelmed me. 

I did not take this picture. I found it online. But this is what it looked like.

I was telling Kristin and Lisa about it the next day and Kristin asked how I got through it. The truth is, I don't really know. I just did. 

One thing that I am good at is pushing through pain, be it physical or emotional. I block out as much as I can so I can just focus on getting from one minute to the next. It's how I got through running a marathon with a herniated disc, Zeke's birth, climbing fourteeners, long plane rides with a crying baby when we were both sick. You just keep moving forward because there isn't another option. You can fall apart when you're done, but not before.

Sam and I distracted each other by playing music and harmonizing to songs we love - the Indigo Girls provide a nice challenge, with their vocal lines that swoop and swirl, trading off the melody and harmony. We did Bob Marley with Sam taking the bass line and me harmonizing on top of it. We told stories and tried to make each other laugh. 

Whoever wasn't driving would hold two phones, one with an altimeter and one with a map of our route, so we could call out the parts of the drive we couldn't quite see -- "the road is going to curve gently to the left coming up" "there is a series of switchbacks up ahead" "you've got a straight shot for a little while." 

I don't know what purpose the altimeter served, except to make me realize how crazy it was for us to be out in that weather with the bulk of the drive over 9500 feet. When we finally started to descend near Denver, there was something gratifying about seeing the altitude numbers drop.  Below 6000 feet, I joked, "we're practically at sea level!"

It's taken me a few days to recover from the experience, and I don't know that I'm fully over it. My chest still tightens when I think about it. 

I'm heading back up the mountains to take a ski lesson on Saturday, and the thought of the drive makes me nervous, which is not me at all. Plus the forecast is clear and the roads should be absolutely fine.

In any event, if something bad happens, I will deal with it. But here's hoping it doesn't come to that.

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind, there was something so pleasant about that place

I seem to have a knack for bizarre encounters with folks I meet around town.

This past weekend, one of my childhood friends was in town with her husband, so I thought I'd take them to Vail on Saturday to see a little bit of the mountains, see the view from the top, and get out of the Denver heat.  There are great activities for kids, so it was sure to be fun for everyone.

Before we left, I took the car to get it washed and to fill up with gas.

After the car was cleaned, we stopped to get gas at a 7 Eleven.  I pulled up to the pumps, set the nozzle in the tank, and went inside to buy a case of water to keep in the car.

I picked up a big case of water and went to get in line.

This is where the layout of the store becomes important (see my most excellent diagram, below).

From my vantage point, I saw a guy at the checkout counter, so I stood behind him and slightly to his left. I didn't see anyone else behind him.

As he moved away after finishing his transaction, I saw an African-American woman, who I will call Crazy Lady, walk up behind him as I started to move closer as well.  (The only reason I mention her race is because of what happened next.)  She was shorter than the top of the shelves, so I hadn't seen her until she stepped out from the aisle she had been standing in.

She snapped at me, "the line is back this way."

I hadn't seen her in line behind him, so I responded, "I think I was actually next." I said this matter-of-factly - I was not spoiling for any kind of confrontation.

She said, "oh no, I've been back here.  Haven't I been back here the whole time waiting??"  She said this to the guy who had just finished paying.  He looked back, a little bit confused, and seemed to nod.

I was about to say, "ok, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," but before I could say anything, she started yelling at me.

"Why would you automatically assume I'm lying? Where do you get off calling me a liar?  Huh, Trump?"

What the fuck?  "Trump"?  Is she suggesting that I'm a Trump supporter (and therefore a racist) because I'm white??

"What are you talking about? When did I ever call you a liar? I didn't call you anything!" I said.  I was a confused and a little flustered.

"Oh, you just assume that I'm lying, didn't you Trump?  Yeah, that's right, you heard me."

"I don't know what you're going on about.  I never said you or anyone else is a liar.  I didn't see you standing there, that's all."

"BARACK OBAMA! THAT'S ALL I'M SAYIN'!"

I actually laughed at this.  "You haven't said anything! And just to be clear, I voted for Barack Obama twice!"

Ugh, why am I engaging? I know full well that there's no point in engaging with the crazy.

"I seriously doubt that!" she yelled.

"I don't give a shit what you doubt. What the hell is wrong with you?"

As I said this, I noticed that Zeke had come in (he and Josie had been waiting in the car) and was standing next to me.

"Truth hurts, don't it, Trump?" she spat.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," I sighed.

"Don't you curse in front of your child!!"

This got my hackles up.  "You don't need to worry about my child," I said. "And I didn't curse."

Now another woman decided to butt in.

"You took the name of the lord.  Oh, so you don't believe in God??"

"Well, not really, no," I said.  "And why is any of this your business?"

Crazy Lady said, "you piece of shit parent, talking in front of your child like that, TRUMP!"

Zeke's eyes widened and he scooted a little closer to me.

I finally snapped.  "You know what? You can shut your goddamn mouth, you crazy bitch. Leave my child out of this. Stop talking and take your stupid ass out of here!"

She kept yelling at me, but made her way out the door and into the parking lot. Zeke was eating it all up.

I finished paying for the water and was signing the credit card slip when the cashier laughed and said, "what was up with her?"

"She's a fucking lunatic, that's what's up with her," I said.

The second lady (the one who asked me if I believed in God) said, "don't you say that about her! She's my cousin!"

I rolled my eyes.  "Of course she is."

And I walked out, paid for my gas, buckled the kids back in the car (Josie had stayed out there, oblivious, reading a book), and left.

Zeke, to his credit, was unruffled.

Later, when we were driving, he said, "are you upset, Mama? Did that lady ruin your day?"

"No, she didn't. I don't care enough about her for her to ruin my day."

"What was she yelling about?"

"Honestly, I'm still not sure."

But at least she provided me with some ammunition for the next time I get in an argument with someone.  If I want to make a point without having to actually make a point, all I need to say is, "BARACK OBAMA! THAT'S ALL I'M SAYIN'!"

I've already used it twice.

It's a Saturday night special, got a barrel that's blue and cold...

There's a great line in When Harry Met Sally when Jess and Marie are moving in together and trying to combine their households, deciding what to keep and what to toss.  Jess's fugly wagon wheel coffee table doesn't make the cut, and when he protests, Marie says, "everybody thinks they have good taste and a sense of humor, but they couldn't possibly all have good taste."

We all think we have good taste, that we're the good guys, that we're reasonable, that it's the other guy who's the misinformed idiot.

Sometimes we're right, sometimes we're wrong.

The problem is that we all live in our own personal echo chambers. We have access to more information at our fingertips than ever before in human history, but we also can and do choose what information to receive. Everything we consume is filtered so that our own opinions and impressions are confirmed to us. My Facebook and Twitter feeds, the blogs I read, the news sources I frequent, all reinforce my impressions that Donald Trump is an ill-informed, narcissistic danger to this country, or that abortion should be legal and safe and easily accessible, or that people should be able to love and marry who they want, or that Michigan is far superior to Ohio State in every way. Someone else with different views will obviously receive different information to reinforce their own perspectives.

It takes an effort to be open to the idea that you could know more to either bolster or disprove an opinion you might have. I'm as guilty as anyone of not doing this often enough.

The issue of guns and gun control and America's so-called obsession with guns has obviously been in the news quite a bit lately.  Anyone who knows me knows that my political sensibilities fall on the liberal end of the spectrum, and I don't believe that the second amendment's language, written in 1789 to secure the right to "keep and bear arms" for purposes of allowing a "well-regulated militia" to maintain the security of a free state, should be interpreted to allow any yahoo off the street to be able to get their hands on any weapon for any purpose.  But I also believe in personal freedom and responsibility, and in limited government infringement on how we live our lives, so I don't believe in an outright ban on guns.

Of course, it's the middle ground that is so messy and confounding.  I believe people should be able to own and use guns for hunting and sport and self-defense.  I also believe that it should be very difficult - if not impossible - for civilians to buy machine guns or similar weapons that are designed for warfare and mass killing, rather than for hunting or the reasonable defense of a home.  I believe in background checks and gun registration and waiting periods.

I also want any laws or rules to make sense, have basis in reality, and be designed to actually work. And my sense of how that can be accomplished is limited by the fact that I have virtually no experience or real knowledge about guns.

So I'm trying to learn.

A good friend of mine is big into hunting - he grew up doing it and was exposed to guns from a young age.  He knows about guns, owns many guns, and is a huge proponent of responsible gun ownership, with safety being the foremost consideration.  He is not opposed to reasonable, rational gun control measures.

He and I were spit-balling about something fun to do on the weekend and decided to go shoot guns.  I was excited because I had never really done it.  I spent an hour or so at a riflery range at summer camp when I was 12, but nothing beyond that - I'd never shot or even held a handgun, and am generally ignorant about the different types of guns, how they work, and the ways they're designed to be used.

So we drove out into the forest, up a narrow, boulder-strewn road that was so rough and close to the edge of a cliff that we needed to pull over at a little opening where the road widened so that I could calm my breathing and my heart rate and my nerves.  And then we looked around and saw that we were right by the entrance to an old silver mine, and there was a rotted out little structure that was dinged up from other people using it for target practice, so we decided to stay there.

Old mine opening.

Shoot 'em up shack

Over the course of two hours, I shot seven different kinds of guns - a bolt action rifle (my favorite), a lever action rifle, a semi-automatic .22 pistol, a .22 single action revolver (Old West type of gun), semi-automatic 9 mm pistol, a semi-automatic 45 caliber pistol, and double action 44 Magnum revolver (the Dirty Harry gun, pictured below).  Every one felt and looked different and had slightly different features and characteristics, so it was a non-stop lesson for me.  

Safety was at the forefront of everything, which was good because I was nervous and wanted to be as careful and focused as possible.  I learned to double check the chamber to make sure that it was empty, how to hold the gun, where not to point it, how to hold my finger away from the trigger until I was ready to shoot, how to use the various safety features.  I received a primer on different types of bullets, different caliber weapons, different loading and firing mechanisms, how to aim, how to use a scope, which types of guns would be used in different hunting scenarios.

All afternoon, the conversation kept coming back to gun control and the current debate.  About how every gun I handled, no matter the caliber bullet, no matter the firing mechanism, is an extremely dangerous weapon that can kill or inflict serious damage.  And that the debate as currently framed, focusing on semi-automatic, high magazine capacity assault weapons like the AR-15, which has been used in many of the recent mass shootings, ignores entire categories of guns that are equally effective in their ability to kill many people in a very short period of time, and are also smaller and more portable (begging the question of why they aren't used more in mass shootings).

We talked about background checks and some gun control ideas that I was totally unfamiliar with, like warehousing, and other efforts to keep guns out of the hands of crazy people.  We talked about the idea of requiring liability insurance for gun owners, to cover scenarios like the negligent handling or storage of guns that allows them to get into the hands of children, or be stolen and used in crimes.  It was an informative and respectful discussion.

And the afternoon was seriously fun.  Shooting targets is fun.  Trying to learn a cool new skill is fun. Doing it outside on a gorgeous day and in a gorgeous setting is fun.  And as it turns out, I'm a "crack shot," in my friend's words.

"You've gotta ask yourself one question: 'do I feel lucky?'  Well, do ya, punk?"

It was also eye-opening that we weren't the only ones out there, doing the same thing.  We drove past clearings where other people were shooting, and past trees with old targets stapled to them.  At one point, a dad with three young kids in tow stopped where we were parked.  He was wearing a holster holding a Glock.  I was taken aback at how much it didn't alarm me, in that setting and that context.

Heading back into town, I remarked that I was surprised we didn't go to a shooting range.  I didn't realize that just taking a bunch of guns into the woods to shoot was a thing.  It was my first time, and I didn't know how this stuff worked.

He said, "Nah, I don't like shooting ranges. They're full of crazy fucking gun nuts."

I laughed, realizing that neither of us ever truly left our respective echo chambers.

Turns out not where but who you're with that really matters

After an utterly mediocre date, it was nice to come home to realize that I still had time to catch the end of my street's annual block party.  I reconnected with some friends who I hadn't talked to in ages, and met some new friends, and was reminded that there is nothing like the simple pleasure of just hanging out on a balmy evening on a front porch, drinking a beer and shooting the shit with cool people.

It's a feeling that always makes me intensely happy.  There are few things that fill my soul more than spending time in the physical presence of people who are warm and smart and funny and engaging. When the vibe is right and the conversation flows and we're laughing or sharing interesting stories or offering different perspectives on life, it's a wonderful thing.

It's such an essential part of how I like to interact with people, and the reason that I love reunions so much. To be with people who I love and admire, who I appreciate and accept for all that they are, just as they love and accept me for all that I am - it's the best thing.  So you have the buildup of anticipation waiting for the big event, and then the event itself is this explosion of joy and dancing and  drinking and laughing hysterically and hugging and talking and staying up until all hours, until it's over and the love hangover sets in and you realize that it'll be a long time before you'll again get to experience these people in this way.

And I'm fortunate that, between college and the various overseas schools I went to, there are enough reunions that I never have to go more than a couple or three years between big events.

But what about the time in between?

I have friends all over the country and the world, and because of the magic of social media, I am in regular - often daily - contact with my closest friends from Israel, India, McLean, UVa, law school, Atlanta, etc. My online exercise group has people posting daily from Canada, all over the U.S., the Netherlands, and Switzerland.  (There are also plenty of people who are Facebook "friends" but who I don't keep up with at all, and I don't consider lurking on someone's Facebook wall to be actual friendship, so they don't really count.)

But cultivating and maintaining real life, day-to-day friendships, especially in a place where I don't have family and where I didn't grow up, is harder.  It requires more effort because you have to step away from your phone or the computer and actually try to talk to new people and schedule a time to get off your ass and go do something.

I have definitely done that to a certain extent.  I have my crew of UVA sorority sisters who live here, and we do make an effort to get together, though it's never as often as we'd like.  Same with the small India crew that's here.

I also live in an incredible neighborhood with tree-lined streets and sidewalks and parks and neighbors who hang out and visit on the porch.  The elementary school is down the street, and the kids there are neighborhood kids.  We go to the pool that's 3 blocks from my house and as soon as we walk in my children are in the pool playing with 10 friends that they know from school and I can hang out with the parents.  There's a wonderful sense of community, and among the many great things about having children is the opportunity to meet the parents of their friends. It's a natural ice-breaker.

But there's a difference between knowing someone to say hi to them at drop-off before school starts, or chatting with them when we're both at the pool at the same time, and picking up the phone to call them and say, "hey, I'm kid-less this weekend, do you want to go to dinner?"

That kind of friendship takes work.  You have to actually and deliberately seek someone out and say, "hey, I'd like to hang out with you and be your friend."  Plus it can make you feel vulnerable, because what if they don't really want to hang out with you?  Then you'd feel like an idiot. Nobody wants to be rejected.

So even though whenever I run into parents or neighbors we always say, "we should really get together," it doesn't happen very often because ... well, because it takes effort and time and daily life gets in the way.

The effort is worth it, though.  This past weekend, after running into Kim, the mom of one of Josie's friends, we were talking about getting the girls together during the summer and I said, "and you know, it would be fun to get together to go have a drink or go to a movie."  So we did. We went to dinner the next night and that turned into hanging out on a restaurant patio gabbing until late, talking about life and marriage and raising kids and politics.  It was great.

Later in the weekend, after the aforementioned mediocre date with a guy who didn't pass what Kim termed the "can you imagine this guy naked on top of you" test, she was the one I debriefed with afterwards. And then I went home and went to the block party, where some of the neighbors who like to get together to play music invited me to bring my banjo to join them at some of their regular jam sessions.  A couple of the women and I even jumped in the bouncy castle, after laughing about the fact that the only reason it was safe was because none of us had to pee (you women with children know what I'm talking about).

In a few days I'm heading to Virginia for another college reunion. I have plans to meet up with so many friends, and I know it's going to be a weekend of sensory overload - joy and dancing and drinking and laughing hysterically and hugging and talking and staying up until all hours. I am beyond excited.

But I am also excited about the upcoming summer, forging new friendships and strengthening old ones with the people around me.

You can hear the whistle blow a hundred miles

I've written quite a bit about my sense of what home is, or rather, my difficulty with the concept of home as a particular place.  I tend to feel most at home with certain people, like my India friends, or my UVa friends, or my family, than I do in any given location.

And of course, home is my children.  Who I now only see half of the time.  And having alone time to recharge after single-parenting can be a godsend.  But when I think about the reality of what the custody schedule means - that I will be there to raise them and enjoy their company and bear witness to their development for only half of their lives - it overwhelms me with sadness and regret.  It is one of the few things that can reduce me to a puddle of tears in an instant.  As typing that sentence has now done.

Thank goodness for waterproof mascara.

The custody agreement provides that I will get them for a week every Thanksgiving, and dad will get them for a week every Christmas.  It makes sense - Thanksgiving is the major holiday that my family celebrates every year, whereas we don't get together or do anything for Christmas, it not being our Tribe's gig.

But they are gone right now for nine days, through Christmas.  And I'm by myself, and my friends here all have families and obligations and plans for the holidays, whereas my family and good friends are far away, scattered around the country (and the world).  I do have some family here, but I don't see them often.

I generally don't have a hard time being by myself.  Solitude can be peaceful and wonderful, and there are always things to do around here - I can go skiing, or go for a walk, or go to the art museum, or read.  I really do love Denver, and I have a hard time imagining another place that I would enjoy as much.  And my children and their dad are here, so I couldn't leave if I wanted to.

But right now, it's feeling very lonely, and far from any home I know or understand.

Livin' just enough, just enough for the city

Sometimes I feel like I live in a weird parallel universe in which I'm the only sane one, while craziness swirls around me.

I was walking to work and I passed a cake shop that specializes in wedding cakes.  I've walked by it a hundred times but for some reason, only yesterday did I really notice the side window display.

Do you take this man? Nope! #weddingcakebakerywindowdisplay #wut #dailydenver #walktowork #mulberriescakeshop

A photo posted by Wendy Jacobs (@wendyalisonjacobs) on Sep 16, 2015 at 4:04pm PDT

I kind of love it.  Total incongruity.  Nothing about it makes sense.

Further up the street, in a sketchier part of the block, I passed a 7-Eleven.  There was a woman walking out the door, obviously irate, yelling and swearing at some dude inside.  It seemed like par for the course, and she wasn't yelling at me, so I kept walking, listening over my headphones to Alec Baldwin talk to Edie Falco about her life and career.

On the next corner was a woman with a ripped backpack at her feet.  She was wearing dirty tube socks but no shoes.  As I walked toward her, she made the "talking on the phone" sign, holding her hand to her ear with thumb and pinky finger outstretched, and mouthed to me, "call the police."  

At first I wasn't sure she was talking to me, so I ignored it.  She continued to gesture towards me and mouthed "call 911" while punching imaginary telephone buttons with her finger in the air.

I took my headphones off.

"Call the police.  Call 911," she said,

"Why?" I asked.

"There's a crazy crackhead lady in the 7-Eleven, attacking people, ripping doors off cars, she's going nuts and abusing people."

I didn't want to ask how the lady was ripping the doors off cars while inside the 7-Eleven.  It seemed beside the point.

"Call the police," she said again.

"Ok, listen," I said. "I'll dial 911 and place the call, and you can talk to the dispatcher.  I don't have any information to give them."

I dialed 911 on my phone, activated the call, and handed her the phone.

After a second, she says, "Yeah, hey hon.  It's me.  Mmm-hmm.  Yeah, I'm here on Colfax, near the intersection with Pennsylvania.  There's some crazy lady in the 7-Eleven attacking people."

At this point, I'm utterly confused.  I know that the call was placed to 911, and the woman did not hang up or redial or anything like that.  Does she know the 911 lady?  Are they buddies?

"Yeah, you know it,"  she continued, still talking to the 911 operator.  "Always somethin' around here.  Alright, baby.  Bye."

This is the greatest thing ever, I thought to myself.  It was kind of exhilarating.  How amazing would it be to be able to call 911 and be all, "yeah, boo, how're mom'n'ems, maybe I'll see you later..."

She handed me back my phone.

I started to walk away, and said, "OK, well, good luck."

"I don't need luck," she responded.  "Luck is the devil's work."

Okay, then.

Always somethin' indeed.

The bright lights of Denver are shinin' like diamonds, like ten thousand jewels in the sky

Even thought we ended up here kind of by accident, as the result of a crashing economy and a desperate need to get out of Hawaii before we ended up homeless, I have come to love living in Denver beyond anything I could have anticipated.

I have lived in a lot of places in my life, and I have cherished many of them - India, Israel, Atlanta, Charlottesville.  In my mind, each is imbued with its memories of friends, romances, trips, heartbreaks, song fragments -- it is impossible for me to separate the place from the overall sense of what my life was when I was there.  I would love to go back to India, for example, but India to me is totally wrapped up with the experiences I had while I lived there - being a senior in high school and having the amazing friends that I did, the nights out at the Gunghroo, the trips to Rishikesh and Goa and Bhubaneswar, being an extra in a BBC miniseries with my friends in Allahabad, shopping on Jan Path and Saroji Nagar.  Going back now would feel so different.

But I think as a place unto itself - the combination of location and lifestyle and culture - Denver is my favorite place I've ever lived.  I love my neighborhood, right in the city.  I love how there is so much focus here on getting outside and playing in nature - hiking, biking, skiing, climbing, camping.  The mountains are so extraordinary.  They inspire action and achievement and greatness and happiness -the kind of happiness that comes from effort and exertion.  I love how friendly people tend to be.  I love that it's an amazing place to raise kids.

I've written about how the big hike I did the weekend before Emma died was sort of transformative, and awoke in me this intense desire to be outside and walk.  I've been walking as much as I can, to and from work (though with the end of daylight savings, I probably won't be walking home in the dark very much, though I might occasionally), during lunch, around the neighborhood with the kids, in the various state and federal parks that are an easy drive away.

I read an article recently about the benefits of walking, and the author talked about how walking is one of the most fundamental, essential, and defining activities of human existence.  It's good exercise,  it allows for clearer thinking and problem solving, it improves mood, it's a mode of transportation - when you are walking, you are experiencing life as a human being on so many levels.  That idea really struck me, and I'm realizing how true it is.

I firmly believe that it has been an essential part of my grieving process, both relating to Emma's death and to the end of my marriage.  Particularly during my morning walk to work, it's solitary time to think and reflect, which is so important.  But it's solitary time to think and reflect while I am also out in the world, seeing people, looking up at the sky, noticing beautiful buildings or interesting signs.  I get to be alone in the sense that I can put in my headphones and listen to music and not talk to people if I don't want to, but I'm still out in the world, experiencing it.  I get to process my grief while my muscles are working and my blood is pumping and the crisp air puts roses in my cheeks.  It gives me a sense that life goes on, and is worth living, and that the world is an amazing, beautiful place, and that there is still plenty of joy and love and adventure to be experienced.

When I walk to work, I walk west, toward the mountains.  I start out walking through urban neighborhoods, and then more commercial areas.  So my view is this incredible combination of city life and funky architecture and the hustle and bustle of a weekday morning and the dramatic view of the Rocky Mountains suddenly rising up from the flat of the plains.  Mt. Evans directly ahead, Longs Peak to the north, and on a clear day, Pike's Peak to the south.

Like many of the old intown mansions, this grand dame is getting some much needed TLC.  I liked the way the bare trees formed a veil in front of the house, as if modesty prevents her from showing herself until she feels she's presentable again.

We could use more "thoughtful management" in the world, don't you think?

I love the way the dome on the State Capitol Building looms up over the grit of upper Colfax Avenue.

That white snowy peak in the background is Mt. Evans (one of Colorado's 53 "fourteeners'), which I climbed last summer.

I started taking pictures, and have decided to post them dailywith the hashtags #walktowork and #dailydenver (follow me on Instagram or Facebook, plus I'll post them here).  I'm hoping that they will inspire people to get out and walk, think, look around, be in the world, and live.

Thumbs down

Almost exactly 21 years ago, I was vacationing on the Outer Banks with my family during the summer between my second and third years of law school.  My roommate came out with me, and she had a friend who was working as a hand on a charter fishing boat.  I had never been out deep sea fishing, so she arranged for me to hitch a ride on the boat one day.

Unfortunately, there was a nor'easter that day.  The water was extremely rough and choppy, and the boat did nothing but shoot up a crest and then free-fall 10 feet into a trough, over and over, for the entire 12 hours I was on it.  I started vomiting about an hour and a half in, and pretty much didn't stop for the rest of the day.  It was truly the sickest, most horrible feeling I've ever had in my life - worse than childbirth with Zeke, worse than when I separated my shoulder (both of which hurt like a motherfucker).

And ever since then, I have been extremely susceptible to motion sickness.  Before that trip, I loved roller coasters and didn't have much issue with motion sickness (except that I've never been able to read in a moving car).  After that trip, I feel nauseated every time my plane lands, or if I'm driving over particularly hilly, twisty roads.  Roller coasters are no longer my friend.

This was the backdrop against my decision to take the kids to an amusement park this morning.  But it's more of a county fair-type deal, rather than a Six Flags type deal - the rides are small, and I didn't think it would be a problem.

The first ride was one of those spinning teacup type rides, with the seat both going up and down small hills but also spinning on an axis.  I had to go in order for Josie to be able to go, because she's too short to go on it without an adult.

Some of the spins were OK, and some of them were super severe.  My stomach wasn't thrilled.  But I made it.

The next ride was one of those giant boats that swings back and forth.  Again, I needed to go on in order for Josie to be able to go.  Again, I didn't love it, but I survived.  It was certainly better than the spinning teacup ride.

The next couple of hours were uneventful.  The ferris wheel, bumper boats, little roller coasters, all very innocuous.  There were even little pony rides.  The kids had a blast and were being very cute.  We were having a nice time hanging out.

Ferris wheel selfie.  And yes, that's a sticker of a rose on my chest.  Josie gave it to me and it would have offended her if I had taken it off.

This ride involved flying bananas.  Yeah, I don't know either.

Then the kids wanted to go on the spinning teacup ride again.  I was wary, but I agreed because I didn't want Josie to feel left out.

Now, at the beginning of these rides, the operators instruct everyone on staying seated, keeping your hands in the ride, that sort of thing.  They also tell you that if at any point you feel like you need to stop and get off, all you need to do is stick out your hand with your thumb down.

The ride started and our cup started spinning fast and hard.  I felt my stomach contract and the nausea beginning to build.

"Mama, are you OK?"  Zeke asked, a concerned look on his face.

We started another hard spin.  I shut my eyes tight and tried to breathe.  "I don't feel so great," I said.

"Are you going to throw up?"  His eyes grew very big and worried.

"I don't think so.  I'll be OK.  The ride will be over soon."

Another hard spin.  I felt myself almost trying to curl into the fetal position.  My eyes were squeezed shut, my chin was tucked down, I brought my knees up, and I broke into a cold sweat.  I put my hand over my mouth, just in case.

The kids were freaking out at this point.  "DON'T THROW UP MAMA PUT YOUR THUMB DOWN STICK OUT YOUR THUMB AND PUT IT DOWN MAMA!!!"

Finally the ride ended.  I felt really shaky and weak.  Josie said, "Mama, you need to drink some water right now.  Go drink some water and no more rides for you!"

I nodded and took a drink from my hydration pack.  There's a reason they call her "Mama Jo" at her school.

The kids went on some more rides that they were tall enough to go on without me.  I sat in the shade watching them, drinking water and trying to shake the nausea.

Then they wanted to go on the swinging boat ride again.  I said, "I really can't go on that ride.  I don't think I can do it without getting sick."

Luckily, there were enough people on the ride that there was a stray teenager without someone next to him.  "Do you mind if she sits with you?" I asked, regarding Josie.  "I'm not feeling well."  The kid agreed and was very sweet to her.

They got off and immediately said, "again!"

So I found another adult for Josie to sit with for another ride.

"Again!"

There were no more stray adults, this time.  I looked at the ride, figured I'd be able to make it (there was no spinning, after all), and got on.

I knew after the first swing that I had made a terrible mistake.

Once more, I tried to focus on breathing.  Josie distracted me for a couple of seconds by giggling about the fact that my boobs were bouncing with the movement of the ride (my 4-year-old daughter is actually a 13-year-old boy.  Or a 45-year-old man.  It never changes, amirite, ladies?)  "Mama!  Look at your boobies!  They're bouncing!"

But soon I knew I wasn't going to make it.  I felt the contents of my stomach rising.  I stuck out my thumb and yelled to the poor attendant, "I have to get off."

He stopped the ride as quickly as he could.  I bolted over to the fencing around the ride and threw up over the side, away from where people would be walking or standing.

"Guys, we gotta go home."

Thankfully, J has the kids at his place tonight.  So I'm able to lie on my couch, watching soccer on TV, nibbling on hot dog buns and drinking soda water with lemon to settle my stomach.  I don't have to take care of anyone or entertain anyone.

No more rides for Mama.

Things to do in Denver when you're snowed in

As is typical of a Denver spring, on Saturday it was 70 degrees and lovely, if increasingly overcast in the afternoon.  J was doing some side work, so the kids and I hung out with two friends of theirs, a brother and sister the same (relative) ages as Zeke and Josie.  Zeke and his friend Cole utterly fucking destroyed the upstairs of our house.  I'm talking, holes in the walls, entire linen closets emptied onto the floor, toys and blankets and shoes everywhere.  I keep waiting for Zeke's destructive tendencies, often fueled by an overwhelming case of "what will happen if..." (i.e., what will happen if I stick a fork in Mama's rubber inflatable stability ball? what will happen if I poke this pen into this stuffed bear? what will happen if I peel the picture part off the cardboard backing on these puzzle pieces), to abate.

Meanwhile, Josie and Maddie played with her stuffed animals, colored, and brushed my hair.

Gender stereotyping doesn't occur in a vacuum, y'all.

As is also typical of a Denver spring, the following day it started snowing at 9 in the morning and didn't stop for 24 hours. I would have been perfectly happy to spend a grey, wet, snowy day on the couch watching movies and eating popcorn, but the kids had energy to burn so we took them to the Denver Children's Museum.

They spent most of their time in this room that is kind of like a giant pinball machine.  You put plastic orange balls into contraptions and then guide them with levers and gears through a system of ramps and tunnels, until they are returned to this clear plastic bin that hangs over a carpeted area.  Every 5 minutes or so, an alarm sounds and the balls drop onto the floor for the kids to gather and play with again.

My kids decided to buck the system, bypass the pinball-game-like contraptions, throw the balls overhead into the clear receptacle, and wait for the balls to fall on them.

This strikes me as insanely fun.  I need one of these in my house.

Tree, meet acorn

Even as a kid, I had little tolerance for what I perceived to be people talking down to me, or for wussiness or bullshit.  I used to yell at my Tubby the Tuba record because I thought Tubby was exasperatingly little sissy.

My mother would walk by my bedroom door when I was listening, and hear me yell, "oh, Tubby, you fat little tuba!"

I was hyper-rational, never believing in monsters or Santa or the tooth fairy.  I played along when I was little, but deep down it wouldn't have occurred to me to think they were real.

I get frustrated with Zeke sometimes, because as bold and assertive as he is, he believes in and worries about EVERYTHING.  Any bad thing that he hears about or learns about, he obsesses about all of the various ways that bad thing could impact him (or Katy Perry -- when the terrible flooding hit Colorado in September, after seeking reassurance that our house wouldn't be swept away, his next worry was that Katy Perry's house would be hit.  I assured him that Katy would be OK because she doesn't live in Colorado).  I am the opposite.  I will take reasonable caution in a situation, but I generally don't assume the worst and I don't worry much about awful things happening.

I guess at Zeke's school they were talking about rattlesnakes one day as part of some science discussion, and Zeke grilled me for an hour that night about whether rattlesnakes were going to somehow slip into our house and eat him.

"Honey, there aren't rattlesnakes in Denver.  Rattlesnakes live in the desert, not in Congress Park."*

"But what about other snakes?  What other poisonous snakes are there that are around here."

"J, you wanna take this one?"

And he's all too susceptible to the suggestions of his friend Shaun, who apparently spends his days regaling Zeke with stories of monsters and vampires.

"Mama, can vampires get in our house?"

"No."

"How do you know?"

"Because there's no such thing as vampires."

"But Shaun says there are!"

"Who's smarter, me or Shaun?"

"You?"

"Yep.  And I always will be.  Stop listening to that little punk."

Josie, however, is immune to the nonsense.

"I'm not afraid of monsters or vampires, Mama," she'll say in a superior voice, nose in the air, and basically accusing Zeke, to his face, of being a complete pussy.  "I'm not afraid of anything."  (And she really isn't.)

"Good.  You shouldn't be.  And don't taunt your brother.  Nobody likes a show off."

Last night I was sitting in bed reading Doris Kearns Goodwin's new book about Teddy Roosevelt, William Howard Taft, and the rise of the progressive movement.  The kids were sitting on the sofa in our bedroom, watching The Goodnight Show, a kids show on PBS involving a young woman named Nina and her friend Star, who is a star-shaped puppet.  Together they watch kids' cartoons, play games and get ready for bed. One of the games they play is a matching game.

The matching game drives Josie insane, because the version they play is so simplistic and babyish that basically you'd need to be unconscious not to be able to figure it out.

As I'm reading, I'm interrupted by the dulcet tones of my youngest, berating Nina and Star.

"OF COURSE IT'S THE STUPID GONDOLA, YOU DUMMY!  GONDOLAS GO ON WATER, STUPID!  THIS IS SO DUMB.  STUPID LINA AND STAR!  THE GONDOLA GOES ON THE WATER! JERKS!"

"Josie?"

"Yes, Mama?" she responds, sweetly.

"Is everything OK?  What's going on?"

"Nothing, Mama.  Just watching The Goodnight Show.  Love you, Mama."

"Love you too, sweet pea."

That's my girl.
_______________________________________________
*I have absolutely no basis for saying this.  I have no idea if rattlesnakes can be found anywhere in Denver.  But I'm certainly not going to tell Zeke that, nor am I going to worry about it.

A is for "nipple," and other updates

Even though I don't really use this space as a daily diary -- obviously, given the paucity of posts this year -- I love going back and reading about things that happened last year or the year before or in 2006.  So when I don't post, I feel bad, not because I'm depriving the world of my brilliant musings, but because I'm depriving myself of an important took I use for tripping down memory lane.  And I'm a nostalgic kinda chick.  One of the reasons I love reunions so much (and why they make me so emotional) is that I've known so many wonderful people and experienced so many wonderful experiences and lived in so many wonderful places, and I have an overwhelming desire to remember it all and keep it with me, in my heart and my brain, as much as possible.

It's been a difficult, busy few months.

The good news is, I'm still alive and functioning (mostly).
I managed to shake off the depression that had been hanging around since September.  It sapped my productivity and my motivation -- I haven't been exercising as regularly or eating as well as I should, which has exacerbated feeling down and sluggish.  It's so stupid -- I am so obviously aware of how exercise and healthy eating contribute to my mental health, and yet when I need it the most, I can't make myself do it. Drives me nuts.

On the "what's going on with my brain" front, I had an MRI last week.  It was very noisy, but otherwise unremarkable.  I'm still awaiting the results.

In any event, I am getting back on track.  P90X3 was just released (get amazing results in only 30 minutes a day!) and I'm going to be doing it post-New Year's with a great group of people.  So I can get ripped again just in time for spring break in Nicaragua.  Cannot wait.

The bad news is sad.
J's dad died last week.  He had been sick for years, but took a bad turn when he had a stroke about a month ago.  He was in hospital and his condition was deteriorating.  We were in Virginia visiting my parents for Thanksgiving, checking in with the Aussie relatives the whole time.  When we returned, we received a middle-of-the-night call from J's brother, letting us know that the doctors didn't think there was much time left, and that if anyone needed to come to Australia to say their final goodbyes, it needed to happen ASAP.  So we got on the phone and got a flight departing the following night.  J was able to spend precious last days telling his dad everything he wanted to tell him - how much he loved him, how much he looked up to him.  He also got precious time with his brothers and sister, and they were all able to lean on each other.

Denis died on Tuesday, December 10 (the day after our 8th wedding anniversary).  J said that his dad told him that he was ready to die, and that he looked more peaceful in death than he did in his final days alive.  I know he had been unhappy and uncomfortable for a long time.  I'm glad his suffering is over.

But of course, it's hard for J.  As much as we can acknowledge that it was time, it's still his dad.  Denis was a good man and a loving father.  And in all honestly, he was the only parental figure from J's childhood that ever did right by him -- the others were either useless or downright abusive.  (And if any of J's family is reading this, sorry, but it's true.  Believe me, I'm the one cleaning up the resulting emotional/psychological mess they made.)  So J is grieving, and the kids and I are doing our best to give him TLC.  Life goes on.

In other news, my kids are crazy and hilarious and fun.
Winter is upon us, which means it's ski season.  Zeke started ski camp a couple of weeks ago (it's 3 Saturdays in a row), and he LOVES IT.  The first day they stayed on a tiny little hill with an incline of maybe 2 degrees, going up and down via a magic carpet.  When I picked him up at the end of the day, he insisted on showing me how he was able to jump on his skis.  So we went over to the little beginner area and he skied down the hill, stopped half-way down, jumped in place on his skis, and then came down the rest of the way.

Zeke tears up the slopes.

Last Saturday they learned to use the rope tow to go up a slightly longer run that had some curves and terrain (little jumps) built in.  He mastered that, so I took him on his very first chair lift, to the top of a short green run.  He got off the lift perfectly, pointed his skis downhill, and whooped and hollered as he skied down.  So much fun.

Josie is a sassy little thing, and getting so smart and mischievous.  Whenever we're in the car, Zeke likes to play an alphabet game, where we pick a letter and then say words that start with that letter.  Josie can play, but she mostly likes to crack everyone up by coming up with some random word that starts with a different letter.

Zeke:  Let's do "M."
Me:  OK.  Machine.
J:  Macho!
Zeke: Motorcycle!
Josie: Mama!
Me: Monkey.
Josie: Apple!

And everybody cracks up.

We finally decided that when Josie uses a word that starts with a different letter, then the different letter is now the letter we have to use.

Josie:  Apple!
J:  OK, now we're on "A."
Zeke: Allosaur! (he just watched a documentary about allosaurs)
Me: Aardvark!
Zeke: America!
J: Africa!
Josie: Nipple!

And everybody cracks up.

'Tis the season to get some rest.
I'm tired.  J was gone for almost two weeks, and while my kids are crazy and hilarious and fun, they're also exhausting.  Between the logistics of being the one to do morning drop-off and afternoon pick-up and dinner and bath and play-time and bed and ski camp and laundry and on and on, I could use an extremely long nap.  So the Christmas break comes just in time.  I will be on leave from Monday, the 23rd, through January 1st.  I'll do some baking and we'll open presents from Santa and we'll ski and sled and watch movies and go to museums.  And, I'm hoping, get some sleep.

Orientation

I've traveled quite a bit in countries where people drive on the other side of the road (i.e., the left), including renting cars and going on road trips in Australia.

People here frequently ask me, "was it hard driving on the other side of the road?"  And my answer is always, "the hard part isn't being on the other side of the road. The hard part is being on the other side of the car."

Because so much of driving is having a sense of where your body is and where the car is relative to the road and the other cars on the road. If you're used to being on the left side of the car, then you're used to having the bulk of the car on your right.  It affects how you instinctively position yourself relative to lane lines and road shoulders.

Plus inside the car, everything is in the wrong place.  My mom and I took a trip to Australia 11 years ago when she was stationed in Papua New Guinea, and we drove from Sydney to the Blue Mountains to look at waterfalls and beautiful scenery (it is one of the most gorgeous places on earth -- if you have a chance, go there).  And every single time I went to put on my turn signal by flicking the lever to the left of the steering wheel, I turned on the windshield wipers.  Mom laughed her ass off every time.  Until she did the exact same thing and I laughed my ass off at her.  Good times.

I was reminded of this watching Hurricane Sandy bear down on the East Coast.  I am an East Coaster at heart -- when I orient myself in my mind, I do so from the vantage point of Washington, DC and the surrounding environs.  Which is weird, because I haven't lived in the DC area itself for almost 30 years.  But I went to college in central Virginia, then North Carolina for law school, and then I lived in Atlanta for 13 years.  And it's where most of my friends and family are.  So when I think of storms hitting the East Coast, I think of them coming at me or hitting "above" me, to the north.

But this week, while my friends and family are dealing with the storm in Virginia and  Maryland and New York and coastal New Hampshire, I'm out west in the mountains.  It's sunny and in the high 60s/low 70s in Denver all week.  It feels very strange, not just to not be there, but also to remind myself that the devastation in New Jersey and New York isn't north of me, it's well east.

Stay safe, all of you.  I don't wish I were in harm's way, but if feels weird to be so removed from what you're going through.  Like I'm on the wrong side of the car.

I see trees of green, red roses too

For the past 5 years, we have lived in extraordinarily beautiful places.  Hawaii's natural beauty is so abundant, no matter where you are on the island, that it's almost beyond belief, sometimes.  Colorado is similar.  It's a different kind of beauty - not as lush and sensual, but rather starker and grander and more dramatic - but in-your-face beautiful just the same.

And sometimes I take it for granted.  It's easy to get bogged down in the minutae of paying bills and getting the kids to school and keeping track of everything going on in our lives, and to forget that if I pick up my head and look west, I am faced with some of the most magnificent mountain vistas in the world.

But when the weather is good, if we can't be surfing the North Shore, there isn't much that beats summer in the Rockies.  Within a 100 mile radius of where we live, there are thousands of places to hike and bike and swim and camp.  And now that the kids are old enough to enjoy it, we've decided to really take advantage of what Colorado has to offer this summer.  We're planning camping trips (both by tent and RV) and hiking trips for almost every weekend.

We started yesterday.  There is amazing hiking in the hills behind Boulder, which is 30 minutes from where we live.  J is going to do a 14er at the end of July, and is doing a bunch of hiking to prepare.  Saturday he went out and did a strenuous hike with a friend of his, and came home with a map of different hikes in the area, of all different levels of difficulty.  The kids love being outside, so we decided to go up on Sunday to do a relatively short (a little over a mile) hike with easy terrain, which loops off a larger trail near its summit.

As we drove up into the hills to our trailhead, the kids marveled at the vistas.

Zeke: Mama, it's really beautiful up here.  Me and Josie are psyched!

Josie: Look how high we are! It's really really beautiful! 

The hike itself was gorgeous.  We looked at crickets and pine cones and butterflies and lizards and wildflowers and cacti. 

We climbed rocks. 

We enjoyed the sunshine and the fresh mountain air.

And then we went home, happily tired and already looking forward to the next outing.

Sleepy girl.

Zeke stripped down to his skivvies to cool off. 



In which it is revealed who plays with funny-shaped balls in my family

I know that this post will result in an irate phone call from my father.  "Don't you criticize my grandson!"  In his eyes, neither of my children can ever do any wrong, and both will win the Nobel prize, the Heisman Trophy (even Josie) and at least one Olympic gold medal by the time they're 20.

My response will be that I am not trying to criticize Zeke.  Just pointing out my observations about his strengths and weaknesses.

We went on a date night the other night to watch rugby with some good friends (the wife ended up not being able to go because of a feverish baby, so J and I hung out with the husband).  The US team in town was playing a test match against Canada. I really enjoy watching rugby even though I don't understand it very well.  It's a fierce game played by tough, fit people.

I observed that, at least in the U.S., where rugby tends to be most popular in universities, I love guys that play rugby because they're big strapping strong men who also tend to be smart and well-educated.

"Not in Australia, baby," J corrected me.  "In Oz they're the window-lickers."*

In any case, it was a beautiful evening and we had a great time enjoying a few beers and watching the game even though the U.S. team got their asses handed to them by the Canadian side.

In fact, because the main attraction was kind of a dud of a game, the highlight of the evening came during halftime, when some kids from local youth clubs played against each other for a couple of possessions.

The kids were awesome and the best player on the field was a girl.  She was fast and tough and amazing at reading the field while she ran with the ball.

The friend that we were with, Trey, is the parent of one of Zeke's friends from daycare.  His daughter, Lucy, is about 3 months younger than Zeke (she'll be 4 in January) but is super-tall (she towers over Zeke and looks like she's about 5) and totally athletically fearless.  She loves rugby (her dad plays) and is going to start playing in a youth league this winter.

As we were watching the kids play, particularly the one girl who was really good, Trey was talking about how excited he is for Lucy to start playing.

J kind of shook his head.  "Yep, and Zeke will be on the sidelines, cheering her on while playing with his iPad."

I couldn't really disagree with him.

Not that we think Zeke is a pussy, because we don't.  He's a good athlete, loves jumping around, taught himself to swim at the age of 3 1/2, enjoys ski school and all of that.  But he's kind of cautious and sensitive and cerebral.  I see him as a baseball player more than I see him playing something like football or rugby.**

No, the consensus (at least between J and me) is that the biggest balls in the family belong to Josie.

Because Josie is like J -- totally fearless, amazingly coordinated and athletic, and utterly without regard for her own physical safety.  She will climb on and jump off of anything.  She takes shit from no one and will not hesitate to defend herself when someone gets in her face (I'm sure that some of her toughness comes from being knocked around by Zeke, but I also think it's just part of who she is).

This is particularly alarming in the pool, because she thinks she can swim even though she really can't -- she's a frightening combination of supreme confidence combined with a lack of actual ability.   I can't even take her in the big pool because she gets so mad when I hold on to her.  So I let her bounce around in the 2-foot-deep baby pool, where she puts her head underwater and starts kicking her arms and legs, and then after a few seconds she'll put her feet back down and stand up.  If she's under for more than 5 or 6 seconds, I'll gently tug under her armpit and pull her back up so she can breathe, but other than that I leave her alone.  The other parents always look horrified, but she's fine.  I'm obviously not going to let her drown.

So even though she's a skinny little string-bean, if anyone is going to be kicking ass and taking names on the rugby pitch, it'll be Josie, not Zeke.  Not that I think he'll be pasty-faced virgin living in our basement well into adulthood -- hell, he could have a career as a porn star -- but I don't see him as a rugby player.

Sorry, Dad, but it's true.

___________________________________________
*I had to look up what a window-licker is, but I correctly assumed it wasn't Aussie-speak for someone who went to Harvard.  Turns out it's not a very nice term, but in my experience, Aussies can be a bit harsh in their word choices even though they are some of the friendliest people on the planet.


**On the other hand, Zeke reminds me of another sensitive, cerebral guy - my brother Sam, who is a terrific athlete, including being a really good football and rugby player.  So what do I know?

Telepathy

We live right in town, so we've sacrificed acreage for location, meaning our back yard is teeny.  But it does have a brick patio and a patch of dirt for the kids to play, plus we live within a stone's throw of about five different public parks and one public pool, so we're not hurting for places to run around.

When we first moved into the house, the back yard was a mess.  All overgrown ground cover and stumpy trees and raggedy looking bushes and weeds and vines and rocks.  My big strapping husband, bless him, spent the better part of late April and early May out back with a pick-axe and shovel, clearing away the debris and pulling out the yucky trees and shit until we had a smooth dirt patch that was ready for sod.  Then he went online and found a sod farm out in the middle of nowhere that sells Kentucky bluegrass sod for 25 cents a square foot, so we were able to sod the entire thing for about $80.  He and I did it on a Saturday and it took us about 45 minutes.

So now we have a nice little yard.  We're still working on getting some chairs and maybe a patio table, plus we need to finish the fence on the side where our douchebag neighbor lives (he started building a fence and never finished it), but it's got a big crabapple tree and we've planted some flowers and herbs and a tomato plant and the kids can play out there and it's all very pleasant.


That tree in the lower left corner is no longer there and all the crap on the right has been cleared out.  And I have no idea why J hung a swing 5 feet off the ground, because no way in hell will either of the children use it.

The other night J and I were sitting outside while Josie played and climbed on the slide and splashed in puddles ("hi, water!") (Zeke was inside futzing around with the iPad).  I was inspecting my tomato plant and was pleasantly surprised by the number of tomatoes that are sprouting, given that I have the brownest thumb on the planet and am an absolutely hopeless gardener.

J asked, "what are you going to make with all the tomatoes?"

"I don't know.  I guess I'll figure it out when they're ripe and I'll see what I feel like."

"You should make that soup."

"Oh, right, I know what you're talking about.  What's it called again?"

"Ceviche.  The one with the fish."

"No, you're thinking of the other soup."  The name escaped me.

"No, I'm not.  I'm thinking of ceviche."

"But you don't really make ceviche with tomatoes.  I mean, you can put tomatoes in it, but it's not the primary ingredient, at least not the recipes I've used.  It's citrus and peppers and onions.  You're thinking of the other one.  The cold soup with tomatoes."

"No, I'm definitely thinking of ceviche."

"Gazpacho!   That's it!  I couldn't think of the name.  You're thinking of gazpacho.  Gazpacho is the one that you make with tomatoes and peppers and stuff.  That's what you were thinking of."

"No, I was actually thinking of ceviche.  *You* were thinking of gazpacho."

Hmph.  He was totally thinking of gazpacho.  Which my pretty tomatoes will be perfect for.

Things to do in Denver when you're Jewish

Yesterday morning the weather was kind of crappy and cold, so rather than look to outdoor outings to entertain the kids, we decided to go to the science museum (aka "the dinosaur museum"). It's really close to where we live and we have an annual membership, so it's a good "go to" when we're looking for something to do.  Zeke and Josie love to run around, looking at the dinosaur bones, the wildlife exhibits, the bugs.  It's fun and they learn things (Zeke knows the difference between a diplodocus, a stegosaurus and a pachycephalosaurus, for example).  Plus they have this great kids' center where there are tons of "hands on" projects for the monkeys to play with, dancing, demonstration, puzzles, games, etc.

I hadn't even thought about the fact that it was Easter, other than having my annual trade-off of tasteless Easter jokes with my dad when we called in the morning to say hi.  Not my holiday, yanno?  So we were pleasantly surprised at the lack of crowds - makes it easier to keep track of short people.  And then we started noticing...characteristics.  Like the abundance of men wearing yamulkes.  The kids named "Yael" and "Isaac" and "Abe."  The moms named "Chava" (hard "ch") and Rivka.  A few stray prayer shawl fringes hanging out of shirts.

"J!"  I whispered.

"What's up?"

"I think we're here with all the other Jews in town!"

He chuckled and nodded.  "I was thinking the same thing.  We Jews need to stick together, baby!"

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.

One of the things that I'm really enjoying about living in Denver is the weather.  Yes, it can be a little crazy at times with the what-the-fuck?-there's-a-blizzard-in-April? and the supercrazycold and the 70 degrees one day and 40 and windy the next, but for the most part, it's not bad at all, even in the winter.  While the East Coast has been getting socked over the past few months with wave after wave of snow and blizzards and ice storms and whatever else, it's been OK here. 

And now it's about to get really good. 

Spring is getting ready to spring, so in addition to being able to head west and up to ski on the weekends, we can stay in town and go from park to park to park on the weekends. 

Saturday, J and Zeke went to one park at 10 in the morning and then walked a mile and a half to another park to be met by Josie and me (she had been napping), where we played played played to the point of exhaustion and then all took the bus home together.

Yesterday we skied in the morning and then came home and met my friend Kim out at Confluence Park in downtown Denver.  The kids giggled and ran and Zeke rode his Skuut and they threw rocks and sand in the river and had a blast in the late afternoon sunshine. 

Then home for dinner, bath and a good night's sleep.

All the activity and outside time is putting everyone in a good mood.  Josie's boil is healing and she's comfortable and healthy.  Zeke tells me he loves me every 5 minutes.  J and I are having a good time with our kids.

There's a lot of scary, awful shit going on in the world.  Sometimes it's hard not to get bogged down in the bad news and uncertainty that seems to persist on a global scale.

But life is to be lived, so that's what we try to do.