I've spent the last two weeks visiting my mom and dad in Colorado. While there, my mother and I engaged in some high-altitude shopping training. Because, after all, shopping at sea level is for sissies.
It's dangerous shopping in my parents' neck of the woods, a place where adults still wear Crocs and hiking boots are a splendid choice for daytime and evening. I often come home with ankle-length skirts with bells on them, tie-dyed shift dresses, and one time, regrettably, a hemp necklace.
Confession? I love it. I love every crunchy granola bit of it. From the Camelbacks in the airport to the Five-Finger running shoes in the grocery store, it feels like home.
The snow capped mountains framing the prairie grass. Thistles bursting with purple light. The tamales, oh Lord help me, the tamales.
Each morning, the boys and I took my parents' dog on a walk. Owen ran with her, a blur in the bright sunshine. Elated. Free. Prairie Dogs popped in and out of mounds on either side of him. "I love it here, Mom!" he cried.
Me too, Buddy. And I would do almost anything to have you grow up here.
I have to remind myself of the bad things---the snow in May and October, the pathetic excuse of a newspaper, the strip malls, the ugly political advertisements, La Casa Bonita.
But then, I see Owen ascend a climbing wall, clambering up the sides like a spider monkey, beaming with pride. I watch Joel and my father holding hands, sharing a secret smile.
And I blink back the tears, and dream of what may be someday.
When Mom and I went shopping, I bought leopard print ballet flats. So East Coast. A kicky complement to a skirt, or a fun explanation point at the end of a pant leg. The anti-Croc, one could say. (Although if there is a leopard-skin Croc, my mother will find it.)
I bought those shoes to remind me that life is full of whimsy and moments of catch-your-breath beauty. The circle of friends here in Maryland who know my heart like nobody else. The moment when yellow melts to violet as the sun sets on the Chesapeake. My hydrangeas, purple and pink orbs, floating around my doorway, and welcoming me back home.
No matter where I stand, I will bloom. And while doing so, I will be wearing fabulous shoes.
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Travel. Show all posts
Monday, July 18, 2011
Friday, May 14, 2010
I Promise I Will Not Quote John Denver
Okay. Take some beautiful mountains. Add a university. Mix in some dogs. Make that a freakin' boatload of dogs. Throw in some organic local produce and just a splash of legally-sanctioned-medical bong water. What have you got?
My parent's adopted hometown* of Boulder, Colorado. This, my friends, is where I spent this last week.
Thus, Friday Fragments, akaSundays Fridays in My My Parents' City
*In the spirit of total disclosure, my parents don't actually live in Boulder, because they also enjoy eating and basic medical care. It was either a Boulder mortgage or that, but not both.
***
I really feel like I could live in Colorado because I've always been a fan of dressing like I'm hiking all the time. In the airport alone, I saw hiking boots, several ponchos, and enough hemp necklaces to dock a large sailboat.
It doesn't take long to get sucked into this state's grungy web. This is what I looked like on my second day there:
I am in the bathroom of a REI, because that is what you do when you visit my parents. We visit REI and the Boulder Running Company.
No visit is complete without buying totally unnecessary athletic footwear:
These Keene shoes are waterproof, designed for trail walking, water-hiking, and for being a bad-ass. I wore mine to the grocery store this morning.
***
In Colorado there are running paths everywhere. As I ran, I saw adorable prairie dogs scampering on land specifically protected for their scampering needs. I also saw the state-of-the-art recreation center with a swimming pool and a free indoor playground and a climbing wall.
I determined that I desperately wanted to move to Colorado immediately.
Then, God sent me this little reminder:
This is my parents' backyard on Wednesday. Colorado people tell me that the snow doesn't last, and that it melts quickly and blah blah blah.
I'm sorry. Snow in May? Eff that.
***
The reason for this trip, besides visiting my family, was for Paul to run the Colorado Marathon in Ft. Collins.
Here he is, crossing the finish line:
He did well and enjoyed himself, despite the altitude. He already has plans to do a race next summer in Leadville, Colorado. This race is at 13,000 feet. This is insanity, in my book.
One may conclude that my husband is a masochist, but as long as it stays out of the bedroom, it's not my problem.
Here's the obligatory post-race family shot:
Do you notice that Owen has commandeered Paul's medal? He was telling anybody who would listen that he earned it by running really, really fast.
***
Just as I had determined that everybody in Colorado was disgustingly fit, we went to the movies to see Iron Man 2.
We went to an uber-shitty mall which seemed to sell mostly air and dust mites, because there were no actual stores. We saw lots of people looking like normal people, not like fitness models.
I must admit, it felt good to see that people in Colorado eat nachos too.
The movie was all that I had hoped it would be. Uninterrupted time to look at this work of art:
***
The main gift of this trip was time for my boys to see their grandparents. Time for Paul and I to unplug and reconnect. Time to be a family.
In Colorado, plants grow where they can, despite the obstacles, despite the challenges.
Likewise, this time together helped us to grow as a family, despite the distance, or the obligations, or the distractions.
Our roots are still strong.
Thanks to Mrs. 4444 for hosting Friday Fragments and Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City
My parent's adopted hometown* of Boulder, Colorado. This, my friends, is where I spent this last week.
Thus, Friday Fragments, aka
***
I really feel like I could live in Colorado because I've always been a fan of dressing like I'm hiking all the time. In the airport alone, I saw hiking boots, several ponchos, and enough hemp necklaces to dock a large sailboat.
It doesn't take long to get sucked into this state's grungy web. This is what I looked like on my second day there:
I am in the bathroom of a REI, because that is what you do when you visit my parents. We visit REI and the Boulder Running Company.
No visit is complete without buying totally unnecessary athletic footwear:
These Keene shoes are waterproof, designed for trail walking, water-hiking, and for being a bad-ass. I wore mine to the grocery store this morning.
***
In Colorado there are running paths everywhere. As I ran, I saw adorable prairie dogs scampering on land specifically protected for their scampering needs. I also saw the state-of-the-art recreation center with a swimming pool and a free indoor playground and a climbing wall.
I determined that I desperately wanted to move to Colorado immediately.
Then, God sent me this little reminder:
I'm sorry. Snow in May? Eff that.
***
The reason for this trip, besides visiting my family, was for Paul to run the Colorado Marathon in Ft. Collins.
Here he is, crossing the finish line:
He did well and enjoyed himself, despite the altitude. He already has plans to do a race next summer in Leadville, Colorado. This race is at 13,000 feet. This is insanity, in my book.
One may conclude that my husband is a masochist, but as long as it stays out of the bedroom, it's not my problem.
Here's the obligatory post-race family shot:
***
Just as I had determined that everybody in Colorado was disgustingly fit, we went to the movies to see Iron Man 2.
We went to an uber-shitty mall which seemed to sell mostly air and dust mites, because there were no actual stores. We saw lots of people looking like normal people, not like fitness models.
I must admit, it felt good to see that people in Colorado eat nachos too.
The movie was all that I had hoped it would be. Uninterrupted time to look at this work of art:
Yes, I know that I already posted this picture.
***
The main gift of this trip was time for my boys to see their grandparents. Time for Paul and I to unplug and reconnect. Time to be a family.
In Colorado, plants grow where they can, despite the obstacles, despite the challenges.
Likewise, this time together helped us to grow as a family, despite the distance, or the obligations, or the distractions.
Our roots are still strong.
Thanks to Mrs. 4444 for hosting Friday Fragments and Unknown Mami for hosting Sundays in My City
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Poking the Bear
Snapshots of a whirlwind family trip, Day One
Scene: Tour of the U.S. Capital
Characters: Mom, Dad, Brother (henceforth referred to as Tom), Me, Most Uptight Tour Guide of All Time (henceforth referred to as MUTGOAT)
We're standing in a statuary hall. MUTGOAT is guiding our tour group along. "Let's go, people. Let's go!" He flicks his hand impatiently. I moo softly to myself as we are herded to the appropriate standing point.
"This is the hall of statues," MUTGOAT barks. "People complain that there are only men in here but there are three women on this statue right here." He dismissively gestures at a marble bust. "These women helped bring the vote to women. Who are they? Anybody? Anybody! C'mon now? Anybody!"
He is a peculiar mix of the Drill Sargent from Full Metal Jacket and Mr. Hand from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I'm not sure if he's going to say "Aloha," or ask me about my major malfunction.
I strongly suspect he is a former high school history teacher, lean and impatient from years of cracking adolescent skulls. He is angry--very angry---about the pathetic knowledge base of this, his schulmpy, panty-waisted tour group.
Forever a teacher's pet, I squeak, "Stanton?"
"What DID YOU SAY?" he yells, as the crowd parts. I believe somebody even points my direction, perhaps to deflect his wrath.
"Stanton?" I repeat, searching for a rogue asteroid to rescue me from this interregation.
MUTGOAT sighs, "Yes, Stanton. Everybody knows that one," The you assholes is implied, but present nevertheless. "Who are the other two? Anybody? C'mon."
Somebody mumbles, "Cady," and receives an eye roll as a reward. After a terrifying silence he finally says, "Lucretia Mott's the third one. It's kinda like the Three Tenors. People only name one, and it's usually the wrong one. Moving on. Let's GO, people!"
With that fuckyouverymuch, we head off to the Old Senate Chamber. He has us walk in by ourselves. A woman guarding the ancient antiquities says, alarmed, "Where's your guide?"
Tom replies, "He told us to go in ourselves."
The woman clenches her jaw and says, "You are supposed to be with a guide. You must have MUTGOAT." She relaxes her tightened fists and says, "He doesn't like to go into this room because there are too many ghosts in here." Warming to the idea, she adds, "When you see him, ask him why he's afraid of ghosts."
A man standing next to us shudders and states, "I'M not asking him."
My brother just smiles.
As MUTGOAT herds us into yet another hall of statuary he says, "You can ask questions when I'm done talking, but not before." After shaming us for not knowing the year of Marbury vs. Madison, he says, "Any questions?"
Tom says, "Sir, are you afraid of ghosts?"
The crowd gasps. MUTGOAT sneers. The silence feels like an ice pick to the eardrum. He says nothing, contempt oozing over the group like lava.
Tom, undaunted, presses, "The woman in there said you were afraid of ghosts?"
Now it's MUTGOAT's turn to clench his jaw. He tries to think of something clever to say, but finally, all he can do is mumble, "Baaaaaaaaaaah." He swallows a bit, clears his throat and says, "Moving on, people!"
As we continue our tour, I mumble to Tom, "You just had to poke the bear, didn't you."
Tom smiles and says, "Always."
Scene: Tour of the U.S. Capital
Characters: Mom, Dad, Brother (henceforth referred to as Tom), Me, Most Uptight Tour Guide of All Time (henceforth referred to as MUTGOAT)
We're standing in a statuary hall. MUTGOAT is guiding our tour group along. "Let's go, people. Let's go!" He flicks his hand impatiently. I moo softly to myself as we are herded to the appropriate standing point.
"This is the hall of statues," MUTGOAT barks. "People complain that there are only men in here but there are three women on this statue right here." He dismissively gestures at a marble bust. "These women helped bring the vote to women. Who are they? Anybody? Anybody! C'mon now? Anybody!"
He is a peculiar mix of the Drill Sargent from Full Metal Jacket and Mr. Hand from Fast Times at Ridgemont High. I'm not sure if he's going to say "Aloha," or ask me about my major malfunction.
I strongly suspect he is a former high school history teacher, lean and impatient from years of cracking adolescent skulls. He is angry--very angry---about the pathetic knowledge base of this, his schulmpy, panty-waisted tour group.
Forever a teacher's pet, I squeak, "Stanton?"
"What DID YOU SAY?" he yells, as the crowd parts. I believe somebody even points my direction, perhaps to deflect his wrath.
"Stanton?" I repeat, searching for a rogue asteroid to rescue me from this interregation.
MUTGOAT sighs, "Yes, Stanton. Everybody knows that one," The you assholes is implied, but present nevertheless. "Who are the other two? Anybody? C'mon."
Somebody mumbles, "Cady," and receives an eye roll as a reward. After a terrifying silence he finally says, "Lucretia Mott's the third one. It's kinda like the Three Tenors. People only name one, and it's usually the wrong one. Moving on. Let's GO, people!"
With that fuckyouverymuch, we head off to the Old Senate Chamber. He has us walk in by ourselves. A woman guarding the ancient antiquities says, alarmed, "Where's your guide?"
Tom replies, "He told us to go in ourselves."
The woman clenches her jaw and says, "You are supposed to be with a guide. You must have MUTGOAT." She relaxes her tightened fists and says, "He doesn't like to go into this room because there are too many ghosts in here." Warming to the idea, she adds, "When you see him, ask him why he's afraid of ghosts."
A man standing next to us shudders and states, "I'M not asking him."
My brother just smiles.
As MUTGOAT herds us into yet another hall of statuary he says, "You can ask questions when I'm done talking, but not before." After shaming us for not knowing the year of Marbury vs. Madison, he says, "Any questions?"
Tom says, "Sir, are you afraid of ghosts?"
The crowd gasps. MUTGOAT sneers. The silence feels like an ice pick to the eardrum. He says nothing, contempt oozing over the group like lava.
Tom, undaunted, presses, "The woman in there said you were afraid of ghosts?"
Now it's MUTGOAT's turn to clench his jaw. He tries to think of something clever to say, but finally, all he can do is mumble, "Baaaaaaaaaaah." He swallows a bit, clears his throat and says, "Moving on, people!"
As we continue our tour, I mumble to Tom, "You just had to poke the bear, didn't you."
Tom smiles and says, "Always."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Dining With Attila
And....clap on! Courtesy of the nearby Uno's Pizza, we have pirated DSL.
I write this on Halloween, at 8:50 PM. We're in Huntington, West Virginia at a Holiday Inn. Owen is sleeping next door with his grandparents, and Joel is asleep in the TV room section of our suite. Paul is doing his persnickety pre-race ritual, which involves the ritual laying out of the clothing, the preparation of the bagel/banana combo, and the obsessive counting of the goo packets. All of these actions give him a bit of security before he heads out tomorrow morning to line up for the marathon.
Of course, the switch with Daylight Savings Time has thrown him off. We had to check the newspaper, CNN, AND call the front desk to be assured that he would be at the right place at the right time. And still, we're having the alarm clock go off at the appointed time and we're actively considering the back-up wake-up-call.
People that train for months and choose to run 26.2 miles are allowed these minor eccentric quirks.
***
Going out to eat with Joel is a bit of a nightmare. Because we're traveling, we've had a least two meals a day in sit-down restaurants. As soon as we place Joel in the high chair, he immediately starts waving his hand back and forth frantically. This is Joel-sign-language for "All Done." Or, in other words, "Get me out of this high chair immediately! I've got shit to do----tables to upend, toilet rolls to unwind, dirt to eat. Now, WOMAN!"
Ahhhhh. Joel's like the abusive, demanding boss I'vemurdered in my dreams never had.
He quickly escalates from the relatively sedate arm-flailing to the more obnoxious Sam Kinison yelling. He'll yelp. Fiendishly. All attempts to pacify him with milk, crackers, or toys are rebuffed with EXTREME PREJUDICE. He'll toss aside the sippy cup or the soup cracker with a hand swipe and a "Bitch, please!"
So, this is the part of the evening where one of us removes our delightful child to the lobby to play a rollicking game of Climb on the Benches. If the weather is nice, we may go outside and play Pick up the Gravel, or, if we're especially lucky, Eat the Cigarette Butts. We continue this until I am ready to take up smoking myself, and return inside, where, BECAUSE GOD LOVES US, the food will be ready.
Then, we typically shovel in the food in a race against time before Joel begins round two of the madness.
As I write this, I'm reminded of a conversation I had last weekend at my college reunion. A child-free friend asked, "You can still go out to eat and stuff when you have kids, right?"
I think I said something like, "Yeah, if it's something quick like Mexican food or a buffet." I'm a dirty, dirty, liar.
I should have said, "You can enjoy all sorts of delightful restaurants, as long as you eat sub sandwiches from WaWa and Pumpkin Muffies from Panera Bread. And NOTHING ELSE." That probably would have been a more accurate response.
Yet, there are benefits to Joel's ill-tempered dining habits. Last night, we went to a place called Longhorn Steakhouse because it was close to the hotel, and Paul needed to eat a sweet potato (long, boring running reasons.) Joel began his usual hoo-ha, so out we went. We came back inside, and the food still wasn't there, so we returned to the lobby to climb on more benches and smile at the hostess. We returned to our table a second time, and our food was there.
Moments later, the manager came over an apologized for the thirty-minute wait. I didn't really notice the wait, because when you're traveling with a fifteen-month old, all waits seem interminable. We certainly didn't complain or act huffy. Nevertheless, he COMPED our ENTIRE MEAL, including my two 16-oz Yuenglings.
Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet. Our entire dinner was seven dollars, all thanks to our son, Attila the Hun.
***
Tomorrow, we will see Paul run his race. I hope to give a full race report then. Also, don't forget to comment on this post for the possibility of a Starbucks gift card!
I write this on Halloween, at 8:50 PM. We're in Huntington, West Virginia at a Holiday Inn. Owen is sleeping next door with his grandparents, and Joel is asleep in the TV room section of our suite. Paul is doing his persnickety pre-race ritual, which involves the ritual laying out of the clothing, the preparation of the bagel/banana combo, and the obsessive counting of the goo packets. All of these actions give him a bit of security before he heads out tomorrow morning to line up for the marathon.
Of course, the switch with Daylight Savings Time has thrown him off. We had to check the newspaper, CNN, AND call the front desk to be assured that he would be at the right place at the right time. And still, we're having the alarm clock go off at the appointed time and we're actively considering the back-up wake-up-call.
People that train for months and choose to run 26.2 miles are allowed these minor eccentric quirks.
***
Going out to eat with Joel is a bit of a nightmare. Because we're traveling, we've had a least two meals a day in sit-down restaurants. As soon as we place Joel in the high chair, he immediately starts waving his hand back and forth frantically. This is Joel-sign-language for "All Done." Or, in other words, "Get me out of this high chair immediately! I've got shit to do----tables to upend, toilet rolls to unwind, dirt to eat. Now, WOMAN!"
Ahhhhh. Joel's like the abusive, demanding boss I've
He quickly escalates from the relatively sedate arm-flailing to the more obnoxious Sam Kinison yelling. He'll yelp. Fiendishly. All attempts to pacify him with milk, crackers, or toys are rebuffed with EXTREME PREJUDICE. He'll toss aside the sippy cup or the soup cracker with a hand swipe and a "Bitch, please!"
So, this is the part of the evening where one of us removes our delightful child to the lobby to play a rollicking game of Climb on the Benches. If the weather is nice, we may go outside and play Pick up the Gravel, or, if we're especially lucky, Eat the Cigarette Butts. We continue this until I am ready to take up smoking myself, and return inside, where, BECAUSE GOD LOVES US, the food will be ready.
Then, we typically shovel in the food in a race against time before Joel begins round two of the madness.
As I write this, I'm reminded of a conversation I had last weekend at my college reunion. A child-free friend asked, "You can still go out to eat and stuff when you have kids, right?"
I think I said something like, "Yeah, if it's something quick like Mexican food or a buffet." I'm a dirty, dirty, liar.
I should have said, "You can enjoy all sorts of delightful restaurants, as long as you eat sub sandwiches from WaWa and Pumpkin Muffies from Panera Bread. And NOTHING ELSE." That probably would have been a more accurate response.
Yet, there are benefits to Joel's ill-tempered dining habits. Last night, we went to a place called Longhorn Steakhouse because it was close to the hotel, and Paul needed to eat a sweet potato (long, boring running reasons.) Joel began his usual hoo-ha, so out we went. We came back inside, and the food still wasn't there, so we returned to the lobby to climb on more benches and smile at the hostess. We returned to our table a second time, and our food was there.
Moments later, the manager came over an apologized for the thirty-minute wait. I didn't really notice the wait, because when you're traveling with a fifteen-month old, all waits seem interminable. We certainly didn't complain or act huffy. Nevertheless, he COMPED our ENTIRE MEAL, including my two 16-oz Yuenglings.
Sweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet. Our entire dinner was seven dollars, all thanks to our son, Attila the Hun.
***
Tomorrow, we will see Paul run his race. I hope to give a full race report then. Also, don't forget to comment on this post for the possibility of a Starbucks gift card!
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