It was a long, hot weekend in Mile High and those folks who are normally holed up in their quiet pockets were outside, roaming the city and causing a ruckus.

Friday night Chris and I went up to Westminster to water his grandmother’s lawn, which was quickly becoming straw in the harsh sun.

We spent most of Saturday at the Westword Music Showcase in the Golden Triangle.  Sunday, we ran errands in the morning and went out at Lala’s for Sunday Supper to celebrate our brother-in-law’s birthday.  Normally, we’d spend a Sunday summer evening in City Park with our friends and neighbors.  City Park Jazz is one of the things I love most about living in our neighborhood. In fact, it’s one of the greatest gifts the city of Denver gives — a free jazz concert every Sunday evening from June to September at the City Park pavilion.  We love to bring bread, brie and salami and lots of wine and enjoy on a picnic blanket.  Sometimes we meet friends, other times, it’s just us.  And it’s always a lovely time.

Sunday changed all that.  A fight erupted at the concert and a local Denver police office was shot in the head and killed.

City Park Jazz: Police Office Shot and Killed

I can’t tell you how much this breaks my heart.  Not only do I feel sad for the police officer and her family – she was a single mother, but I also feel sad for the many people this concert benefits each week.  City Park has some rough edges, yes, but it’s a beautiful place that the city attempts to keep clean and safe.  Now, it’s changed and scarred and shadowed.

And we’re not going for a while, even though it now with the stepping up of police patrols and security, it may become the safest place to be on Sunday night.  It’s not a place I want to be right now.

City Park Jazz Summer 2011

I’ve been notified by my dear C that, ahem, Bermuda is totes OUT for ladies under 100 years of age.  He didn’t say it just like that, but you catch my drift.

I was wearing some of the island’s signature shorts last summer in front of him and he gave me this puzzled look.

“Why do you wear those?  They make your long legs look short.”

A complement wrapped in a criticism.  I liked where it was going.

“I don’t know.  I got them at Peter Harris a few summers ago when I went home to the lake and forgot shorts.”  I looked at my legs in the mirror.  They did look a little stubby, but you know, the power of suggestion is well…powerful.  “What about with heels?”

Still a no-go.

Fast forward nine months.

An email notification from Old Navy gave me plans for an evening after work.  I would shop their $5, $10, $15 Spring Sale.

I saw some Bermuda shorts and thought I could be persuaded and that maybe they were super cute after all.  I Google Chat-ed the link over to my coworker, K.

Me: Look at this great sale!  C hates Bermuda shorts.  But I like them.

K: He should hate them!  Bermuda is too old for you.

Me: Haha!  I think they’re cute!

K: I feel like seeing a cute love movie tonight…

Conversation about Bermudas with K?  Over.  And advice taken.

I went to Old Navy that evening and bought three pair of their 3-1/2″ shorts, all on sale.  Happy summer, C!  You win.

And as an added bonus for being so fashion-forward…

The Bermuda shorts from Peter Harris were dropped at the Goodwill on Broadway and Archer last weekend.

Bye-bye, Bermuda.

Haywire.

That is the best word I can come up with to describe my week at work – which translated into my weeknights at home.

I’ve been running around.  In and out of meetings, putting together reports and emailing like a madwoman.  Scraping by on restless sleep.

Wednesday, I was so zonked after opening the door to my apartment and landing on my bed I could not be pried from my exhaustion.  Not the threat of a run around the park without me from C.  Not the promise of fresh air and fleeting sunshine.  I stayed in, sat on the sofa and ate the rest of the butter cream frosting I made on Sunday.  It was delicious.  Then I fell asleep watching Wife Swap at 6:25 p.m.

Yesterday morning, though, I got up in plenty of time.  I had picked out an outfit for work the night before complete with unders, stockings and boots.  I had all my accouterments ready next to the door.

Then, I couldn’t find my make-up bag.  Anywhere.

I looked in the dining room and in the kitchen and at my vanity.  I looked in bags and under beds.  To be fair, the apartment is less than 1,000 square feet, so it’s really nearly impossible to lose anything as big as a make-up case in it.  Note: nearly impossible, but still…possible.

I thought perhaps it was in my car.  So elevator to the basement garage and to my car.  No make-up bag.

Then, I called my coworker to see if it was at my desk.  Because, of course, while I was searching, seconds were ticking away on the clock and I was late to work before I even put my key in the ignition.  My coworker said she didn’t see it.

I had no choice.  I had to stop at Wal-Mart.  I seriously hate Wal-Mart (especially the one I stopped at) and visit only if it’s the one place to get something in particular I can’t find anywhere else (for a while they had Fox’s U-bet Chocolate Syrup–the only other place I knew to get it was Brooklyn).  Because of the time constraints and the fact that it’s a 24-hour store, I had to stop in.

FIFTY DOLLARS.  Yes, fifty dollars later, I walked out with a plastic bag full of cosmetics. Because, of course, once you have the blush you need a brush and once you have a brush you need some mascara.

Devastating.

 Even though at first I was prepared, my day didn’t go any better than Wednesday, or the day before that or Monday.

Meetings and project issues and blah, blah, blah and then…

I saw my very good friend/coworker, C1, walked away from my desk as I was walking toward it.

My day became brighter with his darling kitschy gift which gave me day dreams of Scarlett and Rhett and Tara.

Today, I am mobile from the dining room table and last night, found my make-up case on the desk in the guest room.  Whoops.

I’m away from Mile High this weekend in the mountains and am really looking forward to a hot tub and some girl time with M.  Weather clearing!

A co-worker of mine is in D.C. this week and sent some photos snapped on his BlackBerry to me at the office.

Cherry. Blossoms. Everywhere.  Pangs of want.

The photos threw me into a reverie and I went into my Kodak Gallery account to reminisce.

I couldn’t help but email some of those photos to C of me at the peak of the blossoms two years ago, a few months before I met him.

Even crazier, when these photos were snapped, C was living in D.C. at 13th and P.  I could have smacked right into him on the mall or on the Metro or in Federal Triangle or else that entire week…but I didn’t.  I would, however, meet him a mere two months later on a street corner in a totally different city.

I can still smell the honey of the blossoms and just loved how people were out and gobbling up ever last second of gloriousness along the Tidal Basin.

You still have time to join the party for the National Cherry Blossom Festival – it’s the centennial!  I love the story behind all 3,000 beautiful trees, a gift to the American people from Tokyo, Japan.

Tidal Basin, March 2010

Tidal Basin, March 2010