The other morning, I ordered orange juice with breakfast. When I tasted it, I remarked quizzically, "This OJ tastes funny."
My husband gently reminded me that it didn't have Champagne in it.
Ohhhh, right!
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
Fast, Easy Dinners
Hi everyone,
My household is in desperate need of fast, easy dinners! Help!
My husband and I frequently work late during the week (ugh!), so we have been ordering take-out way too much. (The pad thai from Bangkok Cafe is nothing short of glorious!) Or, even worse, we've been going out to eat frequently, which has it's pluses and minues. Plus the extra pounds and minus the dollars!
So, I've been trying to come up with dinners that have a shot at being cooked. Easy and fast. Sadly, I only have three so far:
Cheers,
Christy
My household is in desperate need of fast, easy dinners! Help!
My husband and I frequently work late during the week (ugh!), so we have been ordering take-out way too much. (The pad thai from Bangkok Cafe is nothing short of glorious!) Or, even worse, we've been going out to eat frequently, which has it's pluses and minues. Plus the extra pounds and minus the dollars!
So, I've been trying to come up with dinners that have a shot at being cooked. Easy and fast. Sadly, I only have three so far:
- Salsa Chicken: In a baking dish, pour your favorite spicy salsa over chicken breasts. Cook at 375 for 25-30 mins. Serve with sauteed veggie and Omaha Steaks potato (baked in oven with chicken).
- Italian Chicken: Create Italian tomato sauce by adding (in small amounts) dried oregano, dried basil, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder and parmesan cheese to tomato sauce. In baking dish, pour the Italian sauce over chicken breasts. Cook at 375 for 25-30 mins. Serve with sauteed veggies.
- Spicy Pork Chops and Grits: Coat well with spices (I used a jalapeno spice mix), boneless pork chops on both sides. Place in a cast iron skillet with a pat of butter on top. Broil for 10 minutes, depending on size. Serve with sauteed greens (I used swiss chard and onion) and grits. I had leftover green chili from eating out so I added it to the grits.
Cheers,
Christy
Sunday, February 05, 2012
I'm Back!!
After a long hiatus, I am back to writing on my blog. My husband bought me a new battery for my laptop so there's no excuse now. (Yep, I have a husband now. We got married in the Fall of 2009 at a park. Wonderful, short ceremony with cans of beer for the thirsty. BBQ and dancing to follow. Just as I had always hoped!)
As always, cooking at altitude requires experimentation. So, I have been trying new recipes and adapting them for the altitude. My red velvet cupcake recipe that is foolproof, even in the high country. My next mission is to finalize it and get it posted! You will really love it.
Right now, my husband and I are prepping to watch the Super Bowl. I'm a Colts fan and he's an Atlanta Falcons fan. So, we have no skin in the game today. I guess I'll go with the Manning boy. Mostly, I'm excited about our pot of chili on the stove. It's a bit of a labor of love but well worth it. I'll post it as soon as I'm done...I'm trying some new things with it!
Sunday, June 07, 2009
High Altitude Biscuit Recipe
After ten different recipes over the course of a year, I finally figured out a great recipe for delicious, moist biscuits. My friends just rave about these! At 5280 ft altitude in Denver, CO, baking is a challenge. Due to less atmospheric pressure, leavening will occur too rapidly, causing breads, biscuits, cakes to rise and then pop long before they are ready to come out of the oven. This recipe works every time!
High Altitude Biscuits
(makes 6-10 depending on size)
2 1/2 c. flour
2 1/4 t. baking powder
3/4 t. salt, if Kosher salt increase to 1t.
1 stick cold salted butter
1 to 1.5 c. cold milk or buttermilk
1/2 lemon, if no buttermilk
Optional: cheese, jalapenos, garlic, onion, anything that you like can be added to the dough.
Preheat oven to 425o
Squeeze the lemon into the cold milk. This is to sour the milk, making it similar to buttermilk. Of course, you can use buttermilk if you choose. I didn't have any so I made my own! Put in the fridge to keep cold.
Mix the flour, baking powder and salt. I use a whisk to get it really mixed.
Using a knife, cut the stick of cold butter into dry ingredients and mix until butter is coarse sand and small peas. I use a potato masher but you can use a pastry cutter or two knives. Don't use your hands; you need to keep the butter cold.
Add the soured cold milk a little at a time until you reach the right consistency. The dough should be very sticky and wet. It will seem too wet but at this altitude the moisture evaporates quickly. Dump out onto a floured surface and knead 5-7 times. Kneading is a strong word, I just fold it on top of itself a few times to add layers (the less the better) using your hands (it's okay to use them now) and adding a little flour if still very sticky. After folding, it shouldn't be sticking to your hands anymore.
Cut into squares, rounds, triangles or whatever you like!
Bake on an ungreased baking sheet for 15 - 25 minutes until golden brown on top. Baking time depends on biscuit size so just keep checking them.
Brush tops with melted butter (optional)
Bon appetit!
Tuesday, January 30, 2007
My cast survived only 7 days!
This story is a couple of years old but still funny! I had broken my ankle in January of 04 snowboarding at Vail. I was in a cast for 8 weeks. It wasn't fun. Here's what I wrote...
I must share with you my first cast/crutches mishap. It had been 16 days since I had broken my ankle and, thus, that long since I had taken a shower. (Don't worry, I was taking baths.) That morning, I had decided that I couldn't take it anymore. I was taking a shower!
With a fierce determination to make it happen, I created a watertight contraption. I wrapped a trash bag around my cast and taped it shut against my leg. I threw on a few rubber bands for good sealant measure. Oh yeah, this is gonna work perfectly! Woohoo!
I was so excited. Oh, yes! A shower! What a great feeling. Ummm, that's weird. I felt something cold run down the back of poor leg, over my ankle and out my toes. Hmmm, that is probably not good. I glanced at my leg and....AAAAGGGHHH! My trash bag was a gigantic water balloon. It was drinking up water faster than my sister can throw back a Guinness. I leapt out of the shower. (Mind you, I couldn't really leap, so it looked more like falling.) I fell out of the shower and, with grace befitting the New York Ballet Company, I managed to clear off my sink counter of all its contents, throw all of my towels into the shower stream, and soak my toilet paper through. My bathroom looked like a tornado had hit it...or, actually, like a hurricane.
Ugh. I dried off and assessed the damage. "Let's see. Every time I step down, water runs out of it. Is that okay? It's definitely soaked through, completely saturated, like a huge plaster sponge.
Oh boy. I better call my doctor."
Have any you tried to move a plaster cast soaked with water? Well, for your information, it weighs about 400 pounds. My doctor yelled through the phone, "Jeezus. Come in! This morning! We have to put a new one on!"
So, with that, I was off to get a new one. I just might have broken the record for shortest amount of time that a cast survived: 7 days. Wish me luck...um, wish me more luck!!
I must share with you my first cast/crutches mishap. It had been 16 days since I had broken my ankle and, thus, that long since I had taken a shower. (Don't worry, I was taking baths.) That morning, I had decided that I couldn't take it anymore. I was taking a shower!
With a fierce determination to make it happen, I created a watertight contraption. I wrapped a trash bag around my cast and taped it shut against my leg. I threw on a few rubber bands for good sealant measure. Oh yeah, this is gonna work perfectly! Woohoo!
I was so excited. Oh, yes! A shower! What a great feeling. Ummm, that's weird. I felt something cold run down the back of poor leg, over my ankle and out my toes. Hmmm, that is probably not good. I glanced at my leg and....AAAAGGGHHH! My trash bag was a gigantic water balloon. It was drinking up water faster than my sister can throw back a Guinness. I leapt out of the shower. (Mind you, I couldn't really leap, so it looked more like falling.) I fell out of the shower and, with grace befitting the New York Ballet Company, I managed to clear off my sink counter of all its contents, throw all of my towels into the shower stream, and soak my toilet paper through. My bathroom looked like a tornado had hit it...or, actually, like a hurricane.
Ugh. I dried off and assessed the damage. "Let's see. Every time I step down, water runs out of it. Is that okay? It's definitely soaked through, completely saturated, like a huge plaster sponge.
Oh boy. I better call my doctor."
Have any you tried to move a plaster cast soaked with water? Well, for your information, it weighs about 400 pounds. My doctor yelled through the phone, "Jeezus. Come in! This morning! We have to put a new one on!"
So, with that, I was off to get a new one. I just might have broken the record for shortest amount of time that a cast survived: 7 days. Wish me luck...um, wish me more luck!!
Saturday, January 06, 2007
Watching the Grass Grow
I am a first-time homeowner. The house came with a large yard that needed desperately to be mowed. It was the first time that I had live grass where burnt straw typically laid. Who knew the day would come when my grass grew tall enough to be mowed?!?! I usually spend the summer walking barefoot across my yard muttering, "Sweet jesus! Ouch. Ohh, the pain. Prickly pain!"
So, my boyfriend, Matt, and I found this sweet, self-propelled, mulch-bagging mower for $50. (Can't beat that!) We load it up, take it to my house and Matt offers to break it in. What should I do while he's mowing the front yard? I guess I'll prune my roses. As I'm out-of-control pruning, roses flying everywhere, Matt pauses.
Matt: "Um, you might not like this mower. You can try it out. If you don't like it, we'll get you a new one."
Me: "A new one? Nooooo, I'll like it. It cuts so nice!"
Matt: "Yes, but...well, you might want to just try it first. It's kind of hard to push."
Me: "I'll be fine. Look at you pushing it! It looks so easy. We're keeping it!"
Matt:" The self-propulsion doesn't seem to be working. This mower is very heavy."
Me: "Naw, I grew up mowing. It'll be no problem at all."
Looking back, I see my undoing clearly.
After offering to mow the back yard, I find myself with hands on the mower. Ready to go. GRROOMMM...started right up. Easy. I push. HuuuuuGGGH! Nothing happens. I push harder and still nothing. I give it everything that I have in me. HAARREEEEE!!!! ...I think I felt movement!!! I look back to see my trail...
Uh oh. Nothing.
(Twenty minutes later in the back yard.) Alright...I can do this. Give it one more push. On three. And a one, anna two, anna goooooo. BRRACCCKKK...HARUMPH! AGGHH! The mower moves...oh, I'd say about an inch. I, on the other hand, come crashing into the mower that is NAILED DOWN to its position in the grass. OH GOD, the PAIN! I look back at my progress and I've cut about 4 or 5 blades of grass. Sweet.
My arms are completely outstreched and I'm basically horizontal to the ground, pushing with all my might. Grunting. Sweating. With that, the bag rips open and the grass clippings blow straight into my face, which is two inches from the bag anyway. Everything sticks to me. It's in my eyes. It's all down my shirt. It's in my hair. I'm startled by something whizzing right by my face. I hear, "Ping!" as it hits the clothesline. One of Sam's dog toys will never be the same. Poor frog. I better open my eyes.
The rest of the chore was just as painful but I finished it. I had successfully mowed my back yard. I also had successfully bought the worst lawnmower this side of the Mississippi.
Well, you live and you learn. Or, in this case, you mow and you sweat.
So, my boyfriend, Matt, and I found this sweet, self-propelled, mulch-bagging mower for $50. (Can't beat that!) We load it up, take it to my house and Matt offers to break it in. What should I do while he's mowing the front yard? I guess I'll prune my roses. As I'm out-of-control pruning, roses flying everywhere, Matt pauses.
Matt: "Um, you might not like this mower. You can try it out. If you don't like it, we'll get you a new one."
Me: "A new one? Nooooo, I'll like it. It cuts so nice!"
Matt: "Yes, but...well, you might want to just try it first. It's kind of hard to push."
Me: "I'll be fine. Look at you pushing it! It looks so easy. We're keeping it!"
Matt:" The self-propulsion doesn't seem to be working. This mower is very heavy."
Me: "Naw, I grew up mowing. It'll be no problem at all."
Looking back, I see my undoing clearly.
After offering to mow the back yard, I find myself with hands on the mower. Ready to go. GRROOMMM...started right up. Easy. I push. HuuuuuGGGH! Nothing happens. I push harder and still nothing. I give it everything that I have in me. HAARREEEEE!!!! ...I think I felt movement!!! I look back to see my trail...
Uh oh. Nothing.
(Twenty minutes later in the back yard.) Alright...I can do this. Give it one more push. On three. And a one, anna two, anna goooooo. BRRACCCKKK...HARUMPH! AGGHH! The mower moves...oh, I'd say about an inch. I, on the other hand, come crashing into the mower that is NAILED DOWN to its position in the grass. OH GOD, the PAIN! I look back at my progress and I've cut about 4 or 5 blades of grass. Sweet.
My arms are completely outstreched and I'm basically horizontal to the ground, pushing with all my might. Grunting. Sweating. With that, the bag rips open and the grass clippings blow straight into my face, which is two inches from the bag anyway. Everything sticks to me. It's in my eyes. It's all down my shirt. It's in my hair. I'm startled by something whizzing right by my face. I hear, "Ping!" as it hits the clothesline. One of Sam's dog toys will never be the same. Poor frog. I better open my eyes.
The rest of the chore was just as painful but I finished it. I had successfully mowed my back yard. I also had successfully bought the worst lawnmower this side of the Mississippi.
Well, you live and you learn. Or, in this case, you mow and you sweat.
Pennies, really?
Is anyone still using pennies? I mean, really. Can't we just cancel the bloody thing already?
It's worth one cent. One cent. I ask, what does one one-hundredth of one dollar buy you? I throw them away. Yep, right into the garbage. I mean, parking meters don't even take them anymore. Vending machines don't waste their time on them. Even gumballs cost 25 of them. Gumballs, people! And it takes 25 of them.
It's all about knowing when to say when. We've had it. We're done with dealing with these little pieces of nothing! I say, tell the mints to stop producing the little wastes of copper! We'll deal no more with the useless!
It's worth one cent. One cent. I ask, what does one one-hundredth of one dollar buy you? I throw them away. Yep, right into the garbage. I mean, parking meters don't even take them anymore. Vending machines don't waste their time on them. Even gumballs cost 25 of them. Gumballs, people! And it takes 25 of them.
It's all about knowing when to say when. We've had it. We're done with dealing with these little pieces of nothing! I say, tell the mints to stop producing the little wastes of copper! We'll deal no more with the useless!
Friday, April 21, 2006
Exhale
I wrote this to my sister when she was feeling down and had a series of unfortunate events.
Dear Sis,
Of course! Yes, talking through things always helps. I think you are spot on when you say to relax a little and enjoy the ride. Try not to worry about the exploding toilet in your apartment. Someday, we will laugh about the circus people we have for a landlady and maintenance man.
Remember, things are always going to happen. Always. Toilets explode. Dogs get left out in the rain. Gardens don't grow. (Dangit!) It hails on your garden the minute you planted your last cucumber plant. Heaters die in the dead of winter. And so do my newly planted cucumbers. Ugh. Sisters fight. Jobs stink. Bosses belittle you. You get a cute, little puppy and that puppy chews all of your best shoes. Good friends get mad at you. Hurricanes destroy your yard the first month that you live in Florida. Your three-legged dog refuses to be housetrained. It snows during your half marathon. Cars run out of gas. Cars run into the backs of other cars. And all that other meaningless stuff...
BUT...in spite of it all...
Life is glorious and hilarious. You do the best you can. You love a lot and have a lot of people that love you. You have a wonderful dog! You are beautiful. You have a wonderful boyfriend! You are healthy. You are healthy. You are healthy. Nobody died. Nobody got sick. Nobody got hurt. You say you're sorry and everyone forgives and forgets. Guess what?...you can get another job. You couldn't get another breast...or heart...or leg. You can move. You can run. You can feel the sunshine. You can eat the wonderful cucumbers should they decide to grow! Life is good. Remember, it's natural to feel at times that everyone wants a piece of you. You will never live up to everyone's expectations. We all struggle and sense that we aren't going to be able to manage it all over an entire lifetime. But we do. Somehow. You will too.
And, most importantly, never forget to look around you and recognize all that you have. Around you. Most importantly, right in front of you. Then, appreciate it and exhale.
Love,
your sis
Dear Sis,
Of course! Yes, talking through things always helps. I think you are spot on when you say to relax a little and enjoy the ride. Try not to worry about the exploding toilet in your apartment. Someday, we will laugh about the circus people we have for a landlady and maintenance man.
Remember, things are always going to happen. Always. Toilets explode. Dogs get left out in the rain. Gardens don't grow. (Dangit!) It hails on your garden the minute you planted your last cucumber plant. Heaters die in the dead of winter. And so do my newly planted cucumbers. Ugh. Sisters fight. Jobs stink. Bosses belittle you. You get a cute, little puppy and that puppy chews all of your best shoes. Good friends get mad at you. Hurricanes destroy your yard the first month that you live in Florida. Your three-legged dog refuses to be housetrained. It snows during your half marathon. Cars run out of gas. Cars run into the backs of other cars. And all that other meaningless stuff...
BUT...in spite of it all...
Life is glorious and hilarious. You do the best you can. You love a lot and have a lot of people that love you. You have a wonderful dog! You are beautiful. You have a wonderful boyfriend! You are healthy. You are healthy. You are healthy. Nobody died. Nobody got sick. Nobody got hurt. You say you're sorry and everyone forgives and forgets. Guess what?...you can get another job. You couldn't get another breast...or heart...or leg. You can move. You can run. You can feel the sunshine. You can eat the wonderful cucumbers should they decide to grow! Life is good. Remember, it's natural to feel at times that everyone wants a piece of you. You will never live up to everyone's expectations. We all struggle and sense that we aren't going to be able to manage it all over an entire lifetime. But we do. Somehow. You will too.
And, most importantly, never forget to look around you and recognize all that you have. Around you. Most importantly, right in front of you. Then, appreciate it and exhale.
Love,
your sis
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
Orange is Not My Color
My sister's roommate, Julie, had agreed to highlight my sister's hair for her at home. It turned out fabulous! So, after some good ol' peer pressure, Julie agreed to do the same for me on Tuesday night. This is great! I'm gonna save so much money. I'm gonna look so good. I wonder what should I spend the extra dough on?!
Knowing that successful highlighting depends upon fast, symmetrical work, I was starting to get nervous. Julie had been working on the front of my head for quite some time.
"Julie?"
"Yes, Christy?"
"Didn't you say that you needed to work quickly? Ummm, well, it seems like it's taking a little longer than it should. I think the front foils have been left on for a quite awhile now."
"True. Okay, I'll work faster. Don't worry! It's gonna look great."
After ten more minutes...
"Julie?"
"Yes, Christy?"
"Shouldn't I start rinsing this out?"
"No, the back needs ten more minutes to set."
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally got the nod. "It's time. Go rinse!"
Woohoo! Whistling a happy tune as I'm shampooing, I'm excited to see my new hair. I'm gonna be gorgeous! Doo da. Doo da. My sister and Julie are anxiously awaiting the results. As I towel off, I call to them that it's time to unveil. Drumroll, please?
With a sweep of the head that would make the Breck commercial girls jealous, I turn to face them. Uh oh. My sister's face goes sheet white! Her mouth gapes open as she flings herself against the wall. Sliding down the wall, she is squeaking something and with a last twitch, she knocks everything off of the toilet. When she finally stops flinging and falling, hysterical laughter bursts forward.
Julie just runs out of the room.
Oh no. This can't be good. I look in the mirror to see stripes of my hair a very bright shade of orangish white with a patch in the front that was the color of my skull. Please note that I have dark brown hair. AAAAAYYYYYEEEEE!!! It looked like someone had shaved off a big square in the front of my head. OH DEAR LOOOOORD! Someone do something. Help!
My salon will help! I run for the phone. Ring ring. Oh gawd, somebody answer the phone. PLEASE! "You have reached us after hours. Please leave a message." I yell into the phone, "I have an emergency! My friend highlighted my hair and it's ooooooorange! CALL ME!" I call my boss, "I won't be coming in to work tomorrow. Don't ask. Just please, don't ask."
Thankfully, my salon was able to fit me in first thing the next morning. Sitting in the chair, I began to wonder if they hadn't shared my desperate, pleading voicemail with the entire staff. There was a slow parade of peopele that the kept walking by to steal a glance and quite obviously stifle laughter. My stylist, Beau, just stood there, shaking his head, saying,
"Sister, this color of orange does not look good on you."
Knowing that successful highlighting depends upon fast, symmetrical work, I was starting to get nervous. Julie had been working on the front of my head for quite some time.
"Julie?"
"Yes, Christy?"
"Didn't you say that you needed to work quickly? Ummm, well, it seems like it's taking a little longer than it should. I think the front foils have been left on for a quite awhile now."
"True. Okay, I'll work faster. Don't worry! It's gonna look great."
After ten more minutes...
"Julie?"
"Yes, Christy?"
"Shouldn't I start rinsing this out?"
"No, the back needs ten more minutes to set."
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally got the nod. "It's time. Go rinse!"
Woohoo! Whistling a happy tune as I'm shampooing, I'm excited to see my new hair. I'm gonna be gorgeous! Doo da. Doo da. My sister and Julie are anxiously awaiting the results. As I towel off, I call to them that it's time to unveil. Drumroll, please?
With a sweep of the head that would make the Breck commercial girls jealous, I turn to face them. Uh oh. My sister's face goes sheet white! Her mouth gapes open as she flings herself against the wall. Sliding down the wall, she is squeaking something and with a last twitch, she knocks everything off of the toilet. When she finally stops flinging and falling, hysterical laughter bursts forward.
Julie just runs out of the room.
Oh no. This can't be good. I look in the mirror to see stripes of my hair a very bright shade of orangish white with a patch in the front that was the color of my skull. Please note that I have dark brown hair. AAAAAYYYYYEEEEE!!! It looked like someone had shaved off a big square in the front of my head. OH DEAR LOOOOORD! Someone do something. Help!
My salon will help! I run for the phone. Ring ring. Oh gawd, somebody answer the phone. PLEASE! "You have reached us after hours. Please leave a message." I yell into the phone, "I have an emergency! My friend highlighted my hair and it's ooooooorange! CALL ME!" I call my boss, "I won't be coming in to work tomorrow. Don't ask. Just please, don't ask."
Thankfully, my salon was able to fit me in first thing the next morning. Sitting in the chair, I began to wonder if they hadn't shared my desperate, pleading voicemail with the entire staff. There was a slow parade of peopele that the kept walking by to steal a glance and quite obviously stifle laughter. My stylist, Beau, just stood there, shaking his head, saying,
"Sister, this color of orange does not look good on you."
Thursday, April 06, 2006
Chivalry is Dead
My friends and I are driving back from a long hike in the Rockies. Four of us girls packed into my junker car, Goldie, cruising down a deserted mountain road. We're rocking out to the radio when...BUDDDUMMPPPP! What was that? Are we dragging something?!
I pull over to check it out. OH NO! Goldie did it again.The curb protector in the front has come unhinged on one side and is being dragged under the car. Oh man. Should I pull it the rest of the way off? No dice. Can we tie it up? No idea. Can I just leave this hunk of junk here to rust? I wish.
As we're standing by the car contemplating our next move, a truck pulls over with three men in it.
Me: "Oh good, it's help. I bet they'll know what to do."
First guy: (Getting out of the truck.) "Hi ladies."
My friend: "Hi. We're having a little car trouble."
Second guy: (Also getting out of the truck) "Oh yeah? Hmm. Hey, do you know where Strawhill Road is?"
Me: (confused as to how this is related to my car trouble) "No."
First guy: "Shoot. Okay, thanks anyway."
With that, the men get back in their truck and drive off!
WHAT? No offer of help? No display of concern? Not even a "need me to call someone?" Nothing. Let me get this straight: four ladies pulled over by the side of the road with complete looks of despair did not generate ONE helping hand?! None of them felt even a pang of chivalry. Suddenly, the state of the world today concerns me. In silence, all four of us watch them speed down the road.
Standing there by the side of the highway, choking on their dust, I realize that the days of chivalry are over. Chivalry is dead.
I pull over to check it out. OH NO! Goldie did it again.The curb protector in the front has come unhinged on one side and is being dragged under the car. Oh man. Should I pull it the rest of the way off? No dice. Can we tie it up? No idea. Can I just leave this hunk of junk here to rust? I wish.
As we're standing by the car contemplating our next move, a truck pulls over with three men in it.
Me: "Oh good, it's help. I bet they'll know what to do."
First guy: (Getting out of the truck.) "Hi ladies."
My friend: "Hi. We're having a little car trouble."
Second guy: (Also getting out of the truck) "Oh yeah? Hmm. Hey, do you know where Strawhill Road is?"
Me: (confused as to how this is related to my car trouble) "No."
First guy: "Shoot. Okay, thanks anyway."
With that, the men get back in their truck and drive off!
WHAT? No offer of help? No display of concern? Not even a "need me to call someone?" Nothing. Let me get this straight: four ladies pulled over by the side of the road with complete looks of despair did not generate ONE helping hand?! None of them felt even a pang of chivalry. Suddenly, the state of the world today concerns me. In silence, all four of us watch them speed down the road.
Standing there by the side of the highway, choking on their dust, I realize that the days of chivalry are over. Chivalry is dead.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
The Big Dipper
Friday night, my friends and I decided to check out a new band at the Skylark. The band, a "50's Stray Cats" type, was rocking the house. We'd had several rounds of cocktails when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
"Would you like to dance?," said a fairly drunk 50-60ish year old man with his hand outstretched. I checked out the dance floor and it was empty. Not a soul. NO ONE was dancing...no one even looked like they might. We would be the only two fools on display. I contemplated what to do, took a huge swig of my cocktail and matter-of-factly said, "What the hell."
That man had some crazy moves! He would call them out as he performed them too. Ugh!! "This is the move that I call 'the walk'!," as he proceeded to walk towards the band. Well, I understand his naming system. Pretty straight forward! "Oh, you're such a good dancer." Yeah, yeah. Is this song ever gonna end??!! I glanced over at my friends and they are hysterically laughing. I don't even look anywhere else for fear that the rest of the bar is doing the same thing!
As the song ended, he leaned in and seductively said, "We'll save the big dip for later...". Ewwwww!!!! Yuck!! The big dip?! I was so grossed out that I couldn't even say anything. I just showed him my move that I call "the walk" and walked right off the dance floor! For the rest of the night, my friends referred to him as "The Big Dipper" and no one would dance with him.
Dance on, Big Dipper. You're gonna be saving that big dip for a very long time!
"Would you like to dance?," said a fairly drunk 50-60ish year old man with his hand outstretched. I checked out the dance floor and it was empty. Not a soul. NO ONE was dancing...no one even looked like they might. We would be the only two fools on display. I contemplated what to do, took a huge swig of my cocktail and matter-of-factly said, "What the hell."
That man had some crazy moves! He would call them out as he performed them too. Ugh!! "This is the move that I call 'the walk'!," as he proceeded to walk towards the band. Well, I understand his naming system. Pretty straight forward! "Oh, you're such a good dancer." Yeah, yeah. Is this song ever gonna end??!! I glanced over at my friends and they are hysterically laughing. I don't even look anywhere else for fear that the rest of the bar is doing the same thing!
As the song ended, he leaned in and seductively said, "We'll save the big dip for later...". Ewwwww!!!! Yuck!! The big dip?! I was so grossed out that I couldn't even say anything. I just showed him my move that I call "the walk" and walked right off the dance floor! For the rest of the night, my friends referred to him as "The Big Dipper" and no one would dance with him.
Dance on, Big Dipper. You're gonna be saving that big dip for a very long time!
Friday, March 24, 2006
Police Officer By Day...
For my 27th birthday, several of my friends were throwing a party for me. Although I knew most of the details, several were being kept a secret. No amount of begging or threatening could make them known. "Tell me! Will there be a cake? Balloons? Kegs?" Nothing! Ugh.
One of the party planners was my friend and coworker, D, who sat in the cube right next to mine. Due to the fact that she sat so close to me, I could easily hear her phone conversations. Days before the party, one particular phone call caught me attention. She was excitedly whispering into the phone, "The police officer can do it." I leaned in to overhear, "Yes, he said that he can come a little early to the party. I know. It's going to be great."
Police Officer?! I usually try to avoid those. Wait a minute. Oh my gawd, have they hired a stripper??!! NOOOOOO. Yuck! Please. NO! I leapt out of my cube and immediately pummeled D with questions. Begging. Pleading. Demanding. She replied with a smug grin, "You'll see."
For the rest of the week, I was beside myself. I proceeded to interrogate everyone that walked across my path. In fact, I was still probing and prodding on the night of the party, up until I heard KNOCK! KNOCK! Gulp! (Door opens.) This big, muscular man enters to say in a gravely voice, "Where's the birthday girl?." Reacting quickly, I immediately explain that, sadly, she's not here right now and, futhermore, I wasn't sure when she was coming back.
Police Officer: (with dismay) "Oh. Okay, well...then where can I set up?"
Me: (Swallowing hard.) "You need to "set up?"
Police Officer: (Looking around.) "Well, yeah. Where should I put all my stuff? I need to set up the lights, speakers and table."
Me: (Feeling queasy.) "WHAT? Woah. Um, woah."
That was all I could squeak out. Table? Lights? Breath, Christy, breathe. I'm about to tell him that he can just keep moving on to the next party when he interrupts me to say...
Police Officer: "I'm the Deejay."
Oh sweet lord! What a sense of relief that washed over me! He is the deejay! Responding to my relieved expression, he explaiend that he is a police officer by day and a deejay by night. D is an old friend of his and so he is deejaying my party as a favor.
The rest of the night was a blast! However, I had shown so much desperation leading up to the event that I received many menancing, taunting phone calls during the party. "Hi. Yeah, this is the stripper and I've having a little trouble finding your house. Will you call me back and give me directions? I need to come over and give you some HOT LOVIN’!" Not funny.
What was funny was that the OFFICIAL Denver PD showed up later to bust the party. They must have had a slow night because there were at least five police cars, lights flashing, that came to kick everyone out. There were so many cop cars and taxis lining Garfield Street, you'd thought we were hosting the Annual Policeman's Ball. Ridiculous!! Of course, we were all outside at 2am chanting, "1, 2, 3, 4,...," as D set the record for keg stands.
One of the party planners was my friend and coworker, D, who sat in the cube right next to mine. Due to the fact that she sat so close to me, I could easily hear her phone conversations. Days before the party, one particular phone call caught me attention. She was excitedly whispering into the phone, "The police officer can do it." I leaned in to overhear, "Yes, he said that he can come a little early to the party. I know. It's going to be great."
Police Officer?! I usually try to avoid those. Wait a minute. Oh my gawd, have they hired a stripper??!! NOOOOOO. Yuck! Please. NO! I leapt out of my cube and immediately pummeled D with questions. Begging. Pleading. Demanding. She replied with a smug grin, "You'll see."
For the rest of the week, I was beside myself. I proceeded to interrogate everyone that walked across my path. In fact, I was still probing and prodding on the night of the party, up until I heard KNOCK! KNOCK! Gulp! (Door opens.) This big, muscular man enters to say in a gravely voice, "Where's the birthday girl?." Reacting quickly, I immediately explain that, sadly, she's not here right now and, futhermore, I wasn't sure when she was coming back.
Police Officer: (with dismay) "Oh. Okay, well...then where can I set up?"
Me: (Swallowing hard.) "You need to "set up?"
Police Officer: (Looking around.) "Well, yeah. Where should I put all my stuff? I need to set up the lights, speakers and table."
Me: (Feeling queasy.) "WHAT? Woah. Um, woah."
That was all I could squeak out. Table? Lights? Breath, Christy, breathe. I'm about to tell him that he can just keep moving on to the next party when he interrupts me to say...
Police Officer: "I'm the Deejay."
Oh sweet lord! What a sense of relief that washed over me! He is the deejay! Responding to my relieved expression, he explaiend that he is a police officer by day and a deejay by night. D is an old friend of his and so he is deejaying my party as a favor.
The rest of the night was a blast! However, I had shown so much desperation leading up to the event that I received many menancing, taunting phone calls during the party. "Hi. Yeah, this is the stripper and I've having a little trouble finding your house. Will you call me back and give me directions? I need to come over and give you some HOT LOVIN’!" Not funny.
What was funny was that the OFFICIAL Denver PD showed up later to bust the party. They must have had a slow night because there were at least five police cars, lights flashing, that came to kick everyone out. There were so many cop cars and taxis lining Garfield Street, you'd thought we were hosting the Annual Policeman's Ball. Ridiculous!! Of course, we were all outside at 2am chanting, "1, 2, 3, 4,...," as D set the record for keg stands.
Thursday, March 16, 2006
The Roger Rabbit
One night at Hemingway's, Bud Light was holding unannounced auditions to be in a local commercial. My friend and I stumbled upon it and, after several cocktails, got up the nerve to go for it. We clearly impressed the judges because, a few days later, we were called to officially audition. I ended up making it to the commercial but it was a bumpy road! Here's what happened to me:
Eight of us are backed up against a wall, standing at attention, in a long line while three men stare at us from behind a table. (It was as close to a "line-up" as I hopefully will ever come!) So, the judges start down the line asking a few boring, mundane questions, like "What is your name? Where are you from?" Boring! The first two girls were "stick-something-sharp-in-my-eye" annoying with their fake laughter and head shaking. The judges tired of them pretty quickly and arrive at me.
After the first two idiots, I'm no longer nervous and feeling quite comfortable. They ask me the routine "What is your name?" and "Where are you from?". When I say that I'm from the Midwest, the room lightens up. The judges are all from the Midwest too! "You're a Hoosier!...what is a Hoosier anyway?" I am about to launch into my "the many definitions of Hoosier" monologue when someone yells, "Hey, how did you get here...as in, what did you do at Hemingway's to get picked?" ...Uh-oh. I can feel alarm bells going off. They didn't ask the other people that question! I calmly reply that I was at Hemingway's Bar when I auditioned for the commercial. That's all. But they were persistent. "No, what did you do to audition?" Agh! Again, using my calmest voice, I quietly whisper, "I did the Roger Rabbit." ....Dead silence.... Oh, this is bad. The Roger Rabbit is a hip hop dance from the 90s that I couldn't do then either. Laughter breaks the silence. I look down the row to the guy at the end who is trying unsuccessfully to muffle his laughter. The middle panel judge blurts, "Well, let's see it! This should be good."
Panic hits me! My ears are buzzing! Oh no! I can't do this dance without a bloodstream full of liquid courage. This is really NOT GOOD! I look down at my cute little skirt and clogs, thinking that this is going to be ugly. I take a deep breath. "Um. Okay, but the skirt will hinder my performance a little." With that, laughter bursts onto the scene and a girl yells, "Hey! Take off your shoes."
It hits me then, that I am taking off my shoes and hiking up my skirt in front of all of these people. Not exactly how I wanted this to go.
As I'm finishing my dance, my eyes go directly to the guy that first laughed he had one hand over his mouth and one hand over his stomach. I couldn't decide if he was laughing or getting sick. Probably both! Ugh. Next, I look at the judges who are laughing a little too hard. One of them makes a sarcastic crack about "so much talent." I gather up my last shred of dignity, put my shoes back on and get back in line.
From that point forward, they asked every person, "What did you do to audition?" and "Can you dance?!!" And everyone danced thanks to me.
Eight of us are backed up against a wall, standing at attention, in a long line while three men stare at us from behind a table. (It was as close to a "line-up" as I hopefully will ever come!) So, the judges start down the line asking a few boring, mundane questions, like "What is your name? Where are you from?" Boring! The first two girls were "stick-something-sharp-in-my-eye" annoying with their fake laughter and head shaking. The judges tired of them pretty quickly and arrive at me.
After the first two idiots, I'm no longer nervous and feeling quite comfortable. They ask me the routine "What is your name?" and "Where are you from?". When I say that I'm from the Midwest, the room lightens up. The judges are all from the Midwest too! "You're a Hoosier!...what is a Hoosier anyway?" I am about to launch into my "the many definitions of Hoosier" monologue when someone yells, "Hey, how did you get here...as in, what did you do at Hemingway's to get picked?" ...Uh-oh. I can feel alarm bells going off. They didn't ask the other people that question! I calmly reply that I was at Hemingway's Bar when I auditioned for the commercial. That's all. But they were persistent. "No, what did you do to audition?" Agh! Again, using my calmest voice, I quietly whisper, "I did the Roger Rabbit." ....Dead silence.... Oh, this is bad. The Roger Rabbit is a hip hop dance from the 90s that I couldn't do then either. Laughter breaks the silence. I look down the row to the guy at the end who is trying unsuccessfully to muffle his laughter. The middle panel judge blurts, "Well, let's see it! This should be good."
Panic hits me! My ears are buzzing! Oh no! I can't do this dance without a bloodstream full of liquid courage. This is really NOT GOOD! I look down at my cute little skirt and clogs, thinking that this is going to be ugly. I take a deep breath. "Um. Okay, but the skirt will hinder my performance a little." With that, laughter bursts onto the scene and a girl yells, "Hey! Take off your shoes."
It hits me then, that I am taking off my shoes and hiking up my skirt in front of all of these people. Not exactly how I wanted this to go.
As I'm finishing my dance, my eyes go directly to the guy that first laughed he had one hand over his mouth and one hand over his stomach. I couldn't decide if he was laughing or getting sick. Probably both! Ugh. Next, I look at the judges who are laughing a little too hard. One of them makes a sarcastic crack about "so much talent." I gather up my last shred of dignity, put my shoes back on and get back in line.
From that point forward, they asked every person, "What did you do to audition?" and "Can you dance?!!" And everyone danced thanks to me.
Friday, February 10, 2006
JP's Memorial Debacle
I heard about JP's suicide when my friend called me at work to deliver the news. It was the kind of news that sucks all the air out of your lungs and you immediately feel dizzy. He was a good college friend and a wonderful, caring person. We studied abroad in Australia together and he would give me pep talks when I started to feel homesick. I wrote this note to our mutual friends about his suicide, trying to make sense of it and my memorial for him...
I can't concentrate on anything else. But I am starting to feel better and get my sense of humor back. So, I thought we could use a few laughs and, of course, AS USUAL, I can accomplish this just by telling real-life Christy stories. I don’t even need to make anything up or tell jokes. No, I can accomplish this just by telling stories of the life that I lead on a daily basis. Remember, girls, as I have always said….
“You laugh, but this is my life. I'm actually LIVING it!”
I was going to have a glorious memorial for him at Red Rocks, complete with wine, photos, the mountains, the sunset and my tears. Perfect and life-affirming. Well, things don’t always go as planned…. So here is my meager attempt to get everyone smiling as I tell you a little story of the “JP Memorial Debacle.”
In a town far, far away, nestled at the base of the mountains, there lives a woman. She is stunningly beautiful, smart, charming, kind, EXTREMELY funny, freckled, etc (you know the rest) and recently missing four wisdom teeth. This woman has led a life of charm with some of the most wonderful people gracing her path; some of these people becoming lifelong friends that brighten her life and make her smile daily. And she to them. Actually, she more to them. She being so incredibly wonderful and all. Okay, okay, yes, I am talking about me….okay, I will just get on with the story.
I had my JP memorial last night. Actually, it was more along the lines of an Irish wake considering I finished half a bottle of Australian Rosemont Merlot and pigged out on Entenmann’s. Anyway, I went home after work, got a bite to eat and gathered the necessary items: photos of JP, your emails, a few inspirational poems, a wine uncorker, a glass and a picture of my dad on the Bench - in case I get pulled over. I proceeded to the bottle shop and picked up a bottle of Australian wine, a nice Merlot, good year. This seemed fitting. I uncorked it in the parking lot, poured myself half a glass and took a big swig. As an after thought, I looked around to make sure no one saw me do this. I decided to leave the bottle in the brown paper bag and contemplated just drinking the wine straight from the bottle to save time and effort. But I gathered myself, knowing that the brown paper bag alone would make me feel like a total whino; I didn’t need to spill it all down the front of me too.
So, I peeled out and headed straight for the mountains. Red Rocks State Park was calling to me, as it is known that you feel a little closer to heaven up there. Closer to heaven equaled closer to JP. I programmed the Yahoo! Map in my head to Red Rocks and threw her into fifth gear. The radio is blasting a melancholy Dave Matthews song - which made me immediately start crying - so I switched to Sarah McClachlan. Deciding that it was too early to open the flood gates, I settled on Genesis. Phil Collins is too cheesy and bad to be upsetting. It was a good decision.
As I neared the overpowering, overwhelming mountains and the deep crimson boulders jetting up from nowhere, my anticipation of the memorial was growing into excitement; to talk to JP, to see the beautiful surroundings, to polish off another glass of the wine, to be able to TURN OFF Genesis. Damn, that wine is good. Damn, I hate Genesis.
I see the exit up ahead and signal to get off (I am such a responsible driver). AAAAGGGGHHHH!! I guess I need to not only signal but CHECK my blind spot. Almost ran that car off the road. Oops. Better put the wine glass DOWN and put my driving glasses ON. (I know, I sound so unbelievably old, "driving glasses?") Okay, I am back on track. I take a left and kick it back into fifth gear. I am cruising, singing “Seu, Seu, Seusido” somewhat against my will, feeling the wind through my hair. OOOHHH, too cold, too cold. I roll up the window and check my rearview mirror. I check it again. And again. I am missing something. Ummm, uh-oh, WHERE THE HELL AM I? I am nowhere near the Red Rocks and am slinking into some little town that has “Karaoke Every Night” at Sue’s Tavern. I chuckle at the thought of our Sue singing karaoke. I believe her favorite song, “I Touch Myself”, would start a drunken brawl in that tavern. I turn around in the 7-11, mull over holding JP’s Memorial here, pour myself more wine and decide that JP deserves more than the 7-11. They are always out of hot dogs and accept forged checks. I know this because some delinquent forged my signature on a check there. 7-11 cashed it.
I roll out. I head back to where I came. HOW CAN I NOT FIND THE RED ROCKS?!! They tower over everything. I drive right past the rocks somehow and wind up on a mountain road next to Buffalo Bill’s grave. Hmmm, this could work but no place to park. Oh wait, there is a scenic view parking area. Perfect! I pull into the parking lot and get out. TOTAL DARKNESS. I can’t see a damn thing. No majestic view. No overwhelming feeling of heaven. No closer to JP. I totally missed the sunset…by almost an hour. I get back in my car and decide his memorial will take place inside of Goldie, with the heat on and without Genesis.
I start to cry, look at his photos, talk to him, read your letters and open the flood gates. WHUMMMMRRRRRRRR! BMMMMMPHHH! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I look up to see a huge, ugly bus, the size of LB’s VW van freshman year, pulled up next to me and waiting for me to get in. The bus had more grit and grime than the hobos that hang out on my bike path. But to the bus’s credit, no belt keeping the hood down as was the case with LB’s jalopy. I had parked in the Metro Bus Parking Lot, the last stop until the next mountain town. Everyone on the bus was looking at me - my whino brown paper bag , tears and all. So, I did what any of you would of done and got the sam hell out of there! I left that bus in a cloud of gravel and snow and decided that I was just going home. Probably where I should have been the entire time.
It was much smoother at home. Everything was laid out. I was getting worked up again and starting to open the gates when the phone rings. I bet its my mom. Oh good! I would love to hear her sweet, kind voice. “Hello?” “Christianine? I am with AT&T and have an off…” I decided that enough was enough. I went out on my balcony, 10th floor, admired the view and told the sky what I wanted to say. I figured that even if JP wasn’t right there, someone would relay the message. They probably have voice mail in heaven nowadays. Then, I finished off the Irish Wake with a little food.
God, I am tired. All that driving. All that wine. All that bad music. Hmm, maybe I should suggest that karaoke tavern to my friends….might be fun.
Well, girls, it worked. I feel a little better today, a little more at peace and have a sense of closure, even if it didn’t go exactly as planned. My perfect, divine memorial in the mountains at sunset turned into a near-death collision, an exploration of some of the mountain civilization, and an all too close encounter with the “never-ever been washed” bus. Not to mention the friendly call from your favorite telecom salesman. But the wine was good. And so are my memories.
Now that I reflect, this memorial was more fitting than the original planned event. Life doesn’t always go the way that you expect. You can plan ‘til eternity and your path will still head on a course that is unknown to everyone, including yourself. To me, this is the excitement and burning passion of living; the quest to see what is around the next corner. Of course, it is not always what you had hoped or planned on. Sometimes, you don’t make it Red Rocks before sunset; sometimes you can’t find it at all; or you disappointingly never, ever in your life end up there. This is life and being alive. The good, the bad, the Genesis. If I had had my perfect wake, I would have never discovered Sue’s Tavern or that you can drink in your car at that bottle shop parking lot or that you MUST check your blind spot. Yes, this was the most fitting memorial for JP. He didn’t see the bus stop, the karaoke, the nasty 7-11; he only saw that he couldn't find Red Rocks.
This is how I will accept what he did and try to understand it. Some people can only see what they are missing, what went wrong. They don’t see that this took them to a new place or showed them new things. JP, I accept it and am trying to understand it. For the rest of us to remember, Red Rocks is not the end all. There are other beautiful places.
I love you all! Hope this made you laugh! And PLEASE, PLEASE always check your blind spot!
I can't concentrate on anything else. But I am starting to feel better and get my sense of humor back. So, I thought we could use a few laughs and, of course, AS USUAL, I can accomplish this just by telling real-life Christy stories. I don’t even need to make anything up or tell jokes. No, I can accomplish this just by telling stories of the life that I lead on a daily basis. Remember, girls, as I have always said….
“You laugh, but this is my life. I'm actually LIVING it!”
I was going to have a glorious memorial for him at Red Rocks, complete with wine, photos, the mountains, the sunset and my tears. Perfect and life-affirming. Well, things don’t always go as planned…. So here is my meager attempt to get everyone smiling as I tell you a little story of the “JP Memorial Debacle.”
In a town far, far away, nestled at the base of the mountains, there lives a woman. She is stunningly beautiful, smart, charming, kind, EXTREMELY funny, freckled, etc (you know the rest) and recently missing four wisdom teeth. This woman has led a life of charm with some of the most wonderful people gracing her path; some of these people becoming lifelong friends that brighten her life and make her smile daily. And she to them. Actually, she more to them. She being so incredibly wonderful and all. Okay, okay, yes, I am talking about me….okay, I will just get on with the story.
I had my JP memorial last night. Actually, it was more along the lines of an Irish wake considering I finished half a bottle of Australian Rosemont Merlot and pigged out on Entenmann’s. Anyway, I went home after work, got a bite to eat and gathered the necessary items: photos of JP, your emails, a few inspirational poems, a wine uncorker, a glass and a picture of my dad on the Bench - in case I get pulled over. I proceeded to the bottle shop and picked up a bottle of Australian wine, a nice Merlot, good year. This seemed fitting. I uncorked it in the parking lot, poured myself half a glass and took a big swig. As an after thought, I looked around to make sure no one saw me do this. I decided to leave the bottle in the brown paper bag and contemplated just drinking the wine straight from the bottle to save time and effort. But I gathered myself, knowing that the brown paper bag alone would make me feel like a total whino; I didn’t need to spill it all down the front of me too.
So, I peeled out and headed straight for the mountains. Red Rocks State Park was calling to me, as it is known that you feel a little closer to heaven up there. Closer to heaven equaled closer to JP. I programmed the Yahoo! Map in my head to Red Rocks and threw her into fifth gear. The radio is blasting a melancholy Dave Matthews song - which made me immediately start crying - so I switched to Sarah McClachlan. Deciding that it was too early to open the flood gates, I settled on Genesis. Phil Collins is too cheesy and bad to be upsetting. It was a good decision.
As I neared the overpowering, overwhelming mountains and the deep crimson boulders jetting up from nowhere, my anticipation of the memorial was growing into excitement; to talk to JP, to see the beautiful surroundings, to polish off another glass of the wine, to be able to TURN OFF Genesis. Damn, that wine is good. Damn, I hate Genesis.
I see the exit up ahead and signal to get off (I am such a responsible driver). AAAAGGGGHHHH!! I guess I need to not only signal but CHECK my blind spot. Almost ran that car off the road. Oops. Better put the wine glass DOWN and put my driving glasses ON. (I know, I sound so unbelievably old, "driving glasses?") Okay, I am back on track. I take a left and kick it back into fifth gear. I am cruising, singing “Seu, Seu, Seusido” somewhat against my will, feeling the wind through my hair. OOOHHH, too cold, too cold. I roll up the window and check my rearview mirror. I check it again. And again. I am missing something. Ummm, uh-oh, WHERE THE HELL AM I? I am nowhere near the Red Rocks and am slinking into some little town that has “Karaoke Every Night” at Sue’s Tavern. I chuckle at the thought of our Sue singing karaoke. I believe her favorite song, “I Touch Myself”, would start a drunken brawl in that tavern. I turn around in the 7-11, mull over holding JP’s Memorial here, pour myself more wine and decide that JP deserves more than the 7-11. They are always out of hot dogs and accept forged checks. I know this because some delinquent forged my signature on a check there. 7-11 cashed it.
I roll out. I head back to where I came. HOW CAN I NOT FIND THE RED ROCKS?!! They tower over everything. I drive right past the rocks somehow and wind up on a mountain road next to Buffalo Bill’s grave. Hmmm, this could work but no place to park. Oh wait, there is a scenic view parking area. Perfect! I pull into the parking lot and get out. TOTAL DARKNESS. I can’t see a damn thing. No majestic view. No overwhelming feeling of heaven. No closer to JP. I totally missed the sunset…by almost an hour. I get back in my car and decide his memorial will take place inside of Goldie, with the heat on and without Genesis.
I start to cry, look at his photos, talk to him, read your letters and open the flood gates. WHUMMMMRRRRRRRR! BMMMMMPHHH! WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I look up to see a huge, ugly bus, the size of LB’s VW van freshman year, pulled up next to me and waiting for me to get in. The bus had more grit and grime than the hobos that hang out on my bike path. But to the bus’s credit, no belt keeping the hood down as was the case with LB’s jalopy. I had parked in the Metro Bus Parking Lot, the last stop until the next mountain town. Everyone on the bus was looking at me - my whino brown paper bag , tears and all. So, I did what any of you would of done and got the sam hell out of there! I left that bus in a cloud of gravel and snow and decided that I was just going home. Probably where I should have been the entire time.
It was much smoother at home. Everything was laid out. I was getting worked up again and starting to open the gates when the phone rings. I bet its my mom. Oh good! I would love to hear her sweet, kind voice. “Hello?” “Christianine? I am with AT&T and have an off…” I decided that enough was enough. I went out on my balcony, 10th floor, admired the view and told the sky what I wanted to say. I figured that even if JP wasn’t right there, someone would relay the message. They probably have voice mail in heaven nowadays. Then, I finished off the Irish Wake with a little food.
God, I am tired. All that driving. All that wine. All that bad music. Hmm, maybe I should suggest that karaoke tavern to my friends….might be fun.
Well, girls, it worked. I feel a little better today, a little more at peace and have a sense of closure, even if it didn’t go exactly as planned. My perfect, divine memorial in the mountains at sunset turned into a near-death collision, an exploration of some of the mountain civilization, and an all too close encounter with the “never-ever been washed” bus. Not to mention the friendly call from your favorite telecom salesman. But the wine was good. And so are my memories.
Now that I reflect, this memorial was more fitting than the original planned event. Life doesn’t always go the way that you expect. You can plan ‘til eternity and your path will still head on a course that is unknown to everyone, including yourself. To me, this is the excitement and burning passion of living; the quest to see what is around the next corner. Of course, it is not always what you had hoped or planned on. Sometimes, you don’t make it Red Rocks before sunset; sometimes you can’t find it at all; or you disappointingly never, ever in your life end up there. This is life and being alive. The good, the bad, the Genesis. If I had had my perfect wake, I would have never discovered Sue’s Tavern or that you can drink in your car at that bottle shop parking lot or that you MUST check your blind spot. Yes, this was the most fitting memorial for JP. He didn’t see the bus stop, the karaoke, the nasty 7-11; he only saw that he couldn't find Red Rocks.
This is how I will accept what he did and try to understand it. Some people can only see what they are missing, what went wrong. They don’t see that this took them to a new place or showed them new things. JP, I accept it and am trying to understand it. For the rest of us to remember, Red Rocks is not the end all. There are other beautiful places.
I love you all! Hope this made you laugh! And PLEASE, PLEASE always check your blind spot!
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Dinner Club
Last night, it was my turn to host Dinner Club. For those that don't know what it is...Dinner Club is 8 of my good girlfriends that get together once a month to eat, talk and mostly drink a lot of wine. It's fun and always good to see everyone.
We all take turns hosting and, when you are the host, you do all the cooking for everyone. This is not an easy task.
Need to clean the house.
Need to go grocery shopping.
Need to have the meal on the table by 8.
Have to cook something fabulous.
Since it is February, I thought that I could use the theme of Mardi Gras. I had shrimp cocktail for an appetizer, jambalaya for dinner, salad, cornbread and an almond pastry in the shape of a King Cake for dessert. However, there were a few snafus...
Ding dong. My first guest is here! Kerstin! As she's taking off her coat, I request her help in defrosting the shrimp cocktail, which was still completely frozen. She clears her throat and says, "I'd love to but I can't touch them. I'm allergic to shellfish." Aagghhh!!! I totally forgot!! I feel terrible and profusely apologize for forgetting. Well, at least it's not in the main course. So, hopefully, it's not a total disaster.
Ding dong. My second guest arrives. Alli! She walks into the kitchen remarking on the savory smells, and stops by the pot of jambalaya. "Um, Christy?" "Yes, Alli, what's up? Need some wine? I need some wine! Someone open the wine! Dammit, we need wine here pronto!" "Um, Christy, is that celery in the jambalaya?" "Yes....why?.....OH NO! I forgot that you are allergic to celery!!" Jeezum Christmas!!! I'm such an idiot!! Once again, I'm profusely apologizing and frantically try to think of what to serve Alli for dinner. I whip up some celery-free imitation of jambalaya that I'm sure was barely edible. I'll equate it to when, as a kid, you wanted McDonald's. Your mom would say, "I'm not buying McDonalds. When we get home, I'll make you a hamburger. It will be just as good." And it was never as good. Who had a mom like that?Anyway, it was kinda like that.
Now I have DOUBLE the amount of jambalaya. Ding dong. The last guests arrive. "Sorry, we're so late. Danielle's car wouldn't start...and well....it wouldn't start...and so we're late." "No worries. Anyone allergic to anything?"
All in all, it was a good dinner club. Not my most successful dinner party but I'm getting better. I'm learning as I go. Lesson one: food allergies are important.
Anyone want some jambalaya? I've got plenty!!
We all take turns hosting and, when you are the host, you do all the cooking for everyone. This is not an easy task.
Need to clean the house.
Need to go grocery shopping.
Need to have the meal on the table by 8.
Have to cook something fabulous.
Since it is February, I thought that I could use the theme of Mardi Gras. I had shrimp cocktail for an appetizer, jambalaya for dinner, salad, cornbread and an almond pastry in the shape of a King Cake for dessert. However, there were a few snafus...
Ding dong. My first guest is here! Kerstin! As she's taking off her coat, I request her help in defrosting the shrimp cocktail, which was still completely frozen. She clears her throat and says, "I'd love to but I can't touch them. I'm allergic to shellfish." Aagghhh!!! I totally forgot!! I feel terrible and profusely apologize for forgetting. Well, at least it's not in the main course. So, hopefully, it's not a total disaster.
Ding dong. My second guest arrives. Alli! She walks into the kitchen remarking on the savory smells, and stops by the pot of jambalaya. "Um, Christy?" "Yes, Alli, what's up? Need some wine? I need some wine! Someone open the wine! Dammit, we need wine here pronto!" "Um, Christy, is that celery in the jambalaya?" "Yes....why?.....OH NO! I forgot that you are allergic to celery!!" Jeezum Christmas!!! I'm such an idiot!! Once again, I'm profusely apologizing and frantically try to think of what to serve Alli for dinner. I whip up some celery-free imitation of jambalaya that I'm sure was barely edible. I'll equate it to when, as a kid, you wanted McDonald's. Your mom would say, "I'm not buying McDonalds. When we get home, I'll make you a hamburger. It will be just as good." And it was never as good. Who had a mom like that?Anyway, it was kinda like that.
Now I have DOUBLE the amount of jambalaya. Ding dong. The last guests arrive. "Sorry, we're so late. Danielle's car wouldn't start...and well....it wouldn't start...and so we're late." "No worries. Anyone allergic to anything?"
All in all, it was a good dinner club. Not my most successful dinner party but I'm getting better. I'm learning as I go. Lesson one: food allergies are important.
Anyone want some jambalaya? I've got plenty!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)