Summer in this city.

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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’ll buzz you up.”

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Today, the temperatures in Mile High are supposed to reach the high 80s.  This makes me very happy and has me dreaming of our neighborhood pool and a good page-turner.

I am once again at home on an all-day webinar conference call with our east coast office, which means we break for lunch at 10 a.m.  my time.  This makes me feel kind of blah.

Right at our “lunch” break, however, my phone rang.  It was the lobby of my building.

“Hello?”

“Hello, wine-of-the-month here.”

You don’t say!

“I’ll buzz you up…”

I just joked with my counterpart in Chicago that I’m going to pour myself a glass the next time we go on break.

Saludos!

 

A Super Awesome Wedding Gift and Thank-You Etiquitte

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A few days after I got engaged, I called my family to share the great news.

Two minutes later, a KitchenAid mixer was at the door to my apartment, a gift from my aunts and cousins.  I couldn’t stand leaving that gleaming hunk of industrial design at-its-finest in the box until I got married, so I made up a rule.

I can’t use any of the gifts I receive until I write and send a thank-you note.  I think it’s a very good strategy.

Today, I worked from home and was on a seven-hour (yes, seven-hour) conference call/planning session with the east coast office.  That means we broke for lunch at 10 a.m. Mountain Time.  Sweet.

By 11:30 a.m. Mountain Time, I was on my fourth cup of green tea.  It’s very easy when all you have to do is flip a switch.

For my Mile High bridal shower, I was the recipient of a little known kitchen appliance that I absolutely must tout.  I had to write a thank-you immediately.

The Capresso H2O Plus Electric Kettle (259) is amazing.  Plug it in, fill it up with tap water and flip the switch on the handle and in under two minutes (bordering on miracle) you’ll have boiling water.  Let it sit for a sec (or don’t) and pour it in a mug and steep your tea.  Incredible.

The beauty of this little machine is that it’s small, so it doesn’t take up much counter space.  Because of its size, it’s also easy to store.  I’m not sure I’ll be storing it, however, because I’ve been using it nonstop since the brunch I hosted on Sunday.  It’s found its place in my little kitchen.

 

Bermuda. It’s so 2009. Ask my hip boyfriend.

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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.

Why we love our Fiestaware!

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Let me count the ways.

1. It’s cheerful.

2. It’s sturdy.

3. It’s American-made in West Virginia – and has been since 1936.

4. It’s affordable and available nearly everywhere.  It goes on sale all the time at department stores like Macy’s, JCPenney and Kohl’s.  For special  pieces, that are less common – like bud vases and different sized dishes – shop hometown specialty shops.  If you life in Mile High, visit Peppercorn in Boulder on Pearl Street.  You’ll swoon at all the colors and their incredible display.

5. There are so many pieces that will make you smile.

6. It will remind you of simpler times.

I started my collection a few years back, when I decided that I couldn’t wait to be dating or engaged to have nice dishes.  Momma and I talked on the phone and a few days before my birthday a box arrived from Macys.com with four place settings.  I now have settings for 10 and a few other accessories – like a vase and pitcher.

When C and I got engaged, I wondered if he would want a different sort of everyday dishes after we got married.  He said he loved the Fiestaware.  I knew we were made for each other.

You’ll be happy every morning when you reach into your cabinet for a cereal bowl.  It’s like sunshine.

Watch this article from CBS Sunday Morning a few weeks back.  You’ll love the story.

CBS Sunday Morning – “Celebrating Fiesta Dishes”

 

 

Thank Heaven for Little Boys

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When my brother was three years old my mom went out to lunch.  Literally, not figuratively.

It was only that one time, too.  Otherwise, she was home with us always [wink!].

She left us in our dad’s care for the afternoon and he thought it was the perfect sunny day to attach a trailer to his riding lawn mower for some heavy-duty yard work.

And since we were both too small to be trusted out of his sight, he let us ride in the trailer attached to the mower.

And since my brother was the most curious little boy you’d ever meet, he decided to fiddle with the pin holding the trailer to the hitch at the back of the riding mower.  While we were driving up the driveway, he pulled out the pin and the trailer came unhitched from the tractor.

And we tumbled out.

Because little brother was concentrating so hard on pulling that pin out, his tongue was sort of hanging out of his mouth in deep determination and when the pin came loose his sharp little baby teeth bit right through half of it.

Horrified by the sight of all that blood and dear brother’s screaming (which he rarely did), my dad ran to our neighbors to drop me off and took him to the emergency room.

By the time my mother got there – did you know, btw, tongues can be stitched? – my dad was pale as all get-out and my brother was sucking on a freeze pop, sharing stories of his afternoon at the hospital in garbled, swollen tongue talk.

My good friend took her little boy to the emergency room for the first time this week after he jumped off the sofa.  He was acting okay, then he started limping and complaining.

He’s totally fine now and back to his little boy self.

She said she swears he’ll give her heart failure at a very young age.

No cookies for you!

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When I hit my afternoon slump I do not need anything less than 110 calories.  I just need a pick-me-up.

A little sugar.  A little chocolate.  Some caramel or shortbread?  That is all I ask when I insert $1.

Most days of the week, I get what I want.

Not today.

After a gorgeous, hot weekend, Mile High woke up to snow this morning and it’s still snowing now – very lightly.

Cold weather makes my tummy hungry for Keebler Mini Fudge Striped Cookies.

I asked the snack machine politely – no hitting or jabbing my fingers into his buttons.  But gentle, easy movement.  I pressed “C” then “7″ for Keebler Mini Fudge Striped Cookies.

And he gave me “T8,”  a blueberry-flavored Nutri-Grain Bar.

Gross.

Why I don’t go tanning…

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Maybe it’s not the reason you think.

It starts like a lot of my stories.

“This one time, when I was in college…”

I had a roommate who was platinum blonde and tanned and wore shorts so short they made my little brother’s [and my dad's] eyes bug out of his head the day I moved into my freshman dorm.  She had been in Albany over the summer living in the dorms getting a head start on her courses so she already knew the neighborhood and had friends.  I was lonely as all get out and a ball of nerves.  Plus, it was simply sweltering humidity that first week.

“You’re so tan,” she said to me.

Are you for real?  I thought.  I wanted to compare arms to see if she still believed I was tanned next to her.  Instead, I said, “I was lifeguarding on a lake all summer.”

“Oh, so it’s totally natural!  That’s so bad for you.”

And she judged my real tan, and I judged her fake tan and then we had a pony beer together and it all got better and we became good friends.

The semester flew by and and winter break dumped me back at Lima Hall with dear roommie, and she had an idea.

“So. I just bought my spring tanning package at the salon over on Madison Avenue and I’d love for you to come with me.  You’ll be all set for summer!”

I told her I would think about it because there’s something just so…plastic about tanning.

Of course, at that time I was totally up for trying new things [that could potentially be dangerous for my skin and start breaking down my precious collagen.]

We got to the storefront and signed in.  I paid cash for a trial session and the only available room had a booth, not a bed.

“It’s fine,” my roommate said.  ”I like the booth.”

So I got into the room and the desk attendant told me how to turn the booth on.  ”Your ten minutes starts when you flip this switch, then it automatically turns off.”  And she closed the door behind her.

I put on my mini-eye-protection-goggles, got naked and got down to business!  I shut the door to the booth and the blue lights went on and so did some hip-hop music.

It was awesome.

I busted some moves I’d been trying out at The Post, a basement dance club we went to every weekend on Washington Street and twirled around and suddenly — BRWWNNN, zzzzz.

Silence.

Darkness.

“Hello?!” I yelled.  And before waiting for an answer I panicked.  I reached for the door handle and tried to shove it open.  It wouldn’t budge.  ”Oh my god, HELLO?!”

I took as much of a step back as I could in the booth and threw myself against the door again.

Nothing.  ”HELP!”  I screamed and tears started welling up in my eyes.

All of this unfolded in about 30 seconds and then the lights went back on and the music started up.

There was a knock on the room door.  ”Hello there, everything okay?  We just had a little power surge.  No biggie.”  It was the attendant.

“Please get me out of here!” I yelled as I threw myself against the door again and stumbled out into the room.  Wearing only mini-goggles.

“Oh!”  the attendant jumped back.  ”Are you okay?”

I was not even embarrassed.  I was horrified and my heart was beating so fast I thought I may throw up.

“Please tell Laurel I’ll see her at home,” I said as I pulled my panties on in front of the attendant.

“Okay,” she said as she closed the door.

On my two-block walk back to the dorm, I felt flush from the excitement and nerves and panic…and then embarrassment.

Never. Ever. Again.

I’m just not cool enough for tanning.

Out of Sorts: This Week

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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!

 

Cherry Blossoms: District of Columbia

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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