Beekeeper

Today at work a man approached me and asked if we had any copies of the Anarchist's Cookbook.

Is it a real cookbook? I asked.

No, he said. Or maybe any copies of The Book of Revenge?

Now here's the thing. Customers bring all manner of things through the queue, and I do not bat an eye. I pride myself on not batting an eye. I don't care if they're buying nudie mags, or books about sex with robots (true story), or the biographies of Glenn Beck or my arch nemesis Tim Tebow. I don't believe in censorship, and I don't believe it's my business what people choose to look at or read. I'm just happy they're buying it and not sneaking it into the men's restroom (often true story).

So when this gentlemen asked for these materials, I said, without any inflection: Is it about anarchy?

Because I was starting to get a feeling, but I honestly wasn't sure. Are we talking about bombs, or baking? Sometimes you just don't know.

This is when a co-worker chimed in and helped me. She told the aspiring Anarchist that we hadn't seen those books in in awhile. He thanked us and left, and a few minutes, while working with another customer, I replayed the conversation in my head and began to laugh hysterically.

"Is it a real cookbook?" I had asked him. What the hell was I thinking? What would they teach in the Anarchist's Cookbook? How to bake cookies without measuring precise cups of flour--because you know, down with the rules, and all that? Tips for using barbecue grills illegally? All the things a young anarchist needs to know about roasting a chicken without government interference? Don't measure out the vanilla extract, it might say. Just go ahead and pour in as much as you feel. Freedom from state! IS IT A REAL COOKBOOK, I asked him??


We have these customers, at Borders. One old farmer in a worn hat. It took me awhile to realize that he wasn't coming in for books on woodworking or metallurgy. He was coming in to have a chat. Once I wised up, I made a point of small talk. How's the table coming. How you handling the heat? You seen our new stuff on ship-in-a-bottle-building? He'd go away for an hour. Then he'd return.

We'd chat again.

I never asked if he had a wife. I don't think he did.

I worry about him, and the others like him. Widowers or old bachelors with no one at home. Borders is the only gig in town. Where are these folks going to go? Will someone remember to set aside the magazines on Will and Kate for the old ladies? The Linda Lael Miller McKettrick series that are supposed to be sent back? Will the people at the other stores know the difference between the need for a book, and the need for human connection?

Will the old men do their crosswords alone?

*********

I learned today that Mercury is in retrograde and really, that explains it all. Don't worry, my mom taught me how astrology is the devil's work, but here's the deal: You know how attached I am to my Gemini sign (married a Gemini. BFF is a Gemini. I always get along with Geminis, and you know we're the Twins, right?) and if you were a fly on our wall these last few weeks you'd have witnessed the effects of Mercury getting all down with its retro self for sure. Things are topsy-turvy. I spoke harshly to Mr. V THROUGH THE INTERNETS which I've never done before. We can blame the heat too, ok? Let's blame that. I know this much is true: I've been working out, I've been taking my B vitamins, I've been eating healthy and avoiding sweets and my stress levels are still through the roof.

Add to that the fact that my computer froze up twice today and we've got ourselves a case of Old School Mercury. No doubts about it.

Here is what I want: to keep bees. I can't think of a better thing on any level. Metaphorically, spiritually, environmentally. The honey bees are dying. If you start to cry apocalypse I will hold on to reason for awhile but eventually I will give in and fret. I don't want the honey bees to die. I don't want the world to end, because I'm a big fan of this place and call me crazy, but the apocalypse doesn't sound like a kickin' good time. There's a high chance of pestilence, and a low chance of Dean Winchester.

I like the community of the lives of bees. The female leadership. The precise, miraculous proportions of the hive, both in structure and population. It is mystical to me. How do the bees know? Bees do what they were made to do without asking why. Their yield is both beautiful and sweet. I think I could learn from the bees.

I would like to keep bees to help the earth. Because bees in the ancient world linked this world to the next. I would like to keep bees as a meditation for my soul. To learn to take something I've been afraid of in my life, and coax it sweet.

Did you know you have to talk to your bees? Neil Gaiman knows. Beekeepers say that if you don't tell the bees the news, they'll leave. They'll want to be informed of births or deaths. They want to know if you've fallen in love. There were earthquakes all over today and I can't help thinking that someone ought to alert the bees.

There are so many things we still don't know.

****

"I dreamt--marvelous error!--that I had a beehive here inside my heart. And the golden bees were making white combs and sweet honey from my old failures."-Antonio Machado.

I don't know. I think that says it all.

Things That End in August

Yesterday they said it would hit one hundred degrees.

Today I wake to clouds and thank the stars. I've got a nasty cold and the end of summer weighing me down. In the living room the goblins fight until they put on Michael Jackson videos and go slack-jawed and silent. I'm reminded of my young self, watching Kids Incorporated. I think how I still watch Kids Incorporated, only now it's called The Glee Project.

I've been waiting for Colorado peaches, but they haven't come.

The neighborhood kids walk up the block to school in the mornings. We've got until next Wednesday. I'm awake to see them because I'm headed to work at Borders. I jumped back on the sinking ship, thinking how Ayla wants an American Girl Doll for Christmas.

I tell myself this isn't going backwards.

It's noon. I hear it's Friday. Octoyeah is going down on twitter, otherwise I wouldn't know. I have spent the last week shopping for back-to-school shoes and jeans and fretting over finances. Indy is starting Kindergarten. I'm not worried the way I worried over Ayla, because by now we've been there and done that. But Indy is my baby. My last one. And her starting Kindergarten only means that I don't have babies anymore.

Ayla's Fairy Godmother sent her an ipod with Harajuku girl headphones. The word for how Ayla felt upon receiving the gift: honored.

She knows I'm a big girl, Ayla said with a tried-on solemnity. I'm going to call her and tell her how I feel like a big girl.

It took a Fairy Godmother to honor something Ayla felt within herself. Her mommy, my job is to keep her young. But I also want to honor her, when she shows me who she feels she is.

You are a big girl, Little Bird. In full bloom.



So it goes.

Austerity Now

On Saturday I made that pizza and it was so good that I made it again for Sunday lunch, and just now for Monday linner.

I left off the chicken and the bacon because I'd intended to go pescetarian again anyway, but then we went to the Boulder County Fair and I had a moment. I was starving and didn't want anything fried or on a stick, so I ordered a pulled pork sandwich. Then I followed the girls around the corner and there were the happy piggies, panting in their pens.

I had them in my mouth.

It was really weird. I felt bad and backed away from the jolly fellows. We meandered through the livestock pens, where I witnessed one farm girl sobbing and clutching her sold-off goat, and where all the chickens and turkeys and roosters were in individual pens, in a room with a few big fans in it.

And I didn't like seeing them in those cages.

And I thought about how much worse things are for the animals I actually consume.

We've been making delicious Roovy Smoovies nearly every day, as our purple-stained carpet would happily bear witness too. The girls christened them so, I don't know if they heard it, or misheard something, or just made it up. My brother-in-law Z once told me that I know smoovies aren't healthy, don't I? And now I would like to latently tell him to suck it. We make our Roovy Smoovies with lots of frozen berries and bananas, fat free organic yogurt, almond butter, wheat germ, and flax seed. You know what? Sometimes I add a scoop of Nutella and I declare that dandy. My point is that now I'm going to start tossing in handfuls of kale and spinach. You know, for protein. I hear you don't taste them in there, and I can afford that now because remember?

Pescetarian.




I also made Frozen Cherry Mojitos over the weekend. In fact, I made them twice. I didn't have any rum so I made them with some 1800 Tequila. Because I'm down like that. I ask you: is this the kind of action taken by a person who always has to follow the rulcipes? No. I can cut loose. Get jiggy, and all that. You know what other rule I scoffed? The mint rule.No mint, no rum, no problem! We are not bound by tradition here.

I left out the mint because the store was out.

It would have been better with the mint.

The mojitos were delicious, and also an appropriate send-off for my uncontrollable drinking. Just kidding, I've never imbibed uncontrollably, but I do have a confession to make.

I feel bad because all this time, I've been misleading you. I've been letting you believe that wine and I are always off together, having a good time. Relaxing and feeling all happy and cool and stuff. But that isn't true. The truth is, wine and I aren't having that much fun. Wine and I are exhausted. I have half a glass and I'm useless for three hours. And beer? You know how I'm always telling you about me and beer, and all our wonderful adventures, the tandem bike rides and the ice skating in the park? Also not true. When beer and I get together, I just feel bloated. Hard liquor? We actually feel kind of sea-sick together.

We aren't having any fun.

Don't get me wrong. I still intend to get ludicrously drunk at weddings and scream at everyone to do the Beyonce, come on, I said do the Beyonce, damnit! I just think alcohol and I are taking our relationship down a notch. We're going from married and together every night to one night stands. We'll meet up at parties and fun community outings, enjoy each other for an hour, and that's going to be about it.

So that's what I did this weekend. Shaved off some unnecessaries. It always feels good to do that, and anyway, who knows what might pop up in their place? Perhaps a butterscotch hued pair of leather. . . boots. . .that I can. . . wear to the. . . county fair, to see the. . .cows.

Shoot.


Post Script: In case you were wondering: the only thing free about the "free" Boulder County fair were the view of the carnies and the scent of manure.

Post Post Script: I learned that fancy word for fish eater from my cousin. She's got smarts and a sweet job in sustainability. When we were kids and I was buying Sour Punch Straws, she was saving her pennies. I think she might be my hero.

Post Post Script: I hardly ever actually get drunk. It just occurred to me that I assume you all can see my tongue in my cheek. But maybe you can't.

Over and out.

Things People Say About God

One of the great perks of my life is that I spend a lot of time sitting at Starbucks.

People come to Starbucks to talk to their girlfriends while their kids run around--hey, I've done it too--or to type forcefully on their laptops, or sometimes to sit with a mystery novel.

The old men come to sit and read the newspapers, and the friendlier baristas, the ones from Colombia and Venezuela and Brazil, stop to chat with them.

The old ladies come to do the crosswords or to stare out the window together and pepper the long silences with afterthought comments on the weather, or their children, or the deteriorating health of their friends.

Teenagers come to be really loud and self-conscious and buy Venti frappucino's with their parent's money. (Hey. I did it too.)

And then, some people come to Starbucks to talk about God.

My first creative writing class in college was taught by a poet named Cactus May.

He's the one that taught me to do this.

So if you don't like it, you can blame him.



This conversation was held between a man and a woman, both in their late twenties. I can't write as fast as they talk. I can't make out every word. I don't fill in any blanks.


Man: You just get it in you, because if it's not in you, there's nothing to enlighten. . .. .I'm ready to move forward and I'm graciously trying to help you get on to the same page. . . . if something hurts your ego, what does that mean? And what does God do with that?

(The woman replies, I can't hear her)

Man: We'll check in, just see how they're doing, ok it's going well thus far. . . what you have to do is you have to clear yourself. . . waiting on God frees you from having to do anything. .. . just start to listen. That's what listening used to mean. . . . new season. Sitting down cleaning all that desire empty I'm going to be used for your service. . . his goal. . . . empty out of you that's how much God wants to fill you up you have to give him that. The cup he had to drink was death. . . . Would going back to school make you more righteous?. . . We can go to Wal-mart and look for some skin product for this guy. .. . we all have plans for our lives but is he coming into this what is god doing. .. . exactly. . . attempting to get back on that page but together. . . ministry. . . headed towards getting a house and we're gonna get comfortable. Honey it's on Christ. . . laid down his. . . all I'm doing is because this stuff comes but it has to come in God's. . .seek ye first the kingdom of god so I don't even wanna think about a house. I don't wanna think about kids all I wanna think about is god's will for our lives when you seek it on your own it gets crazy so you gotta be willing to put down all that stuff thank you for the treats honey god told us to give you that gift card.

Then they got up, and left.

Presumably for Wal-mart.

Certain Slant

Central Park in October 2008


Yesterday I came both home and within two inches of smacking my husband's noggin with a cast iron skillet in the same exact moment.

Our house faces east and is full of the sun. It's two billion degrees outside, exactly. The flies keep getting in and I'd spent the night before being harassed by a nasty black rickety cricket. Then I walk in the house and what is the man doing? He's boiling potatoes. On the stove. In the house. The sun is shining, the blinds are melting, and the man is boiling potatoes. It gets worse.

He's boiling the potatoes in order to mash them.

And on the counter is a jar of gravy.

Excuse me while I run to the bathroom and puke. Why don't we just eat a really greasy quesadilla, put on a Fair Isle, and go to the county fair to ride the Spyder at one in the afternoon? I explain to him that this is how his actions make me feel. What's the point? We've had this conversation a hundred times. We'd have it again this afternoon when I got back from the movies and could smell it the second I stepped out of the car.

Beef stew.

Don't be too hard on him. It's not his fault that he's a Californian. When we were newlyweds, I told him gently at first, and then with ever-increasing consternation, that Russian Pork Chops and baked acorn squash are not things we make in July. Stuffed peppers are an autumn food and chili is only for months with an r--and even then, we're getting liberal. We don't buy blueberries in January, and we don't break out the dutch oven until well after Labor Day.

The issue we have here comes down to seasons. I go on insisting that foods are seasonal, Mr. V goes on priding himself on "not being a slave to the rules". I calmly tell him that they are not rules, just firm preferences colliding with common sense. You'd think he'd get less of a kick rebelling against those, but no.

Some things are just in our nature.

***

In May, I had a hag's toothache that summer would be a quiet season for me. A behind the scenes sort of time. I declared myself on blogging hiatus only to post almost every day that week. But then my posts tapered off. My tides receded. I needed to be inward, and so I have. I've been busy. I've gotten a lot done. For whatever reason, my spirit asked me for a bit of solitude and I gave it that.

Call me crazy, but the light felt different today. The clouds broke open in the late afternoon, the after-storm breeze was chilled. The light hit the trees at a certain slant and I heard the promise of fall.

Things come and go. My husband is out of his damn mind.

I believe in staying true to the seasons.


"hag's toothache" means a nagging feeling or a gnawing intuition, and I made it up just now.

Fiddlesticks You, July July!

(audio only)



Suck it July!

It's bleeding hot and all I can think about is Christmas.

I blame you, July. You bring the pinnacle of summer too soon and it's all downhill from there. And you know it.

You make me sick and listless with your temperatures, leaving me vulnerable for anxiety attacks over how I'm going to manage Christmas. I know you get the bitter irony in this, July.

And I know you're laughing at me.

Your mosquitoes are nothing short of torture.

I haven't been outside since June, July, and you know what?

You make me dream. Of other places. Places where it's not in the nineties for seven weeks straight. You and February make an extremely strong case for coastal lives.

See, now I'm worried about winter again.

And I blame you, July.

For everything.

I blame you for the fact that it's noon and I've not showered or dressed.

I blame you for all those nights when I put my kids to bed at ten pm, cleaned until eleven, showered sometime just before one.

For making me go bad on the promise I made in May to never complain about the heat again.

For the heat sickness I got at the pool and for every penny spent on Frappucinos. (You know I can't survive you without them, you bastard.)

But you're done! You're finished! You're through!

So you know what?

Suck it, July!

Roughing It And Other Things First World People Do For Fun

I really love Starbucks Via and the pleasant suggestions they print on the sides. For instance, just now I opened my coffee cupboard and there on the Via carton it said "For your hotel stay." That made me think happily of the trip we're going to take to California--where, come to think of it, we won't actually be staying in a hotel--and I saw myself, in a tasteful yet economical hotel room, waking up next to my husband and puttering, happy and relaxed, to the, um, hot pot or stove which I'm sure, now, they will have, skipping the hotel coffee, and fixing up a Via.

I am a marketers dream. I am open to all manner of suggestion of pleasant times. You don't even have to try. All you have to do is write in a book what a character is eating and I will crave it. Reading "The Crimson Petal and the White", I craved tea and cinnamon scones. "Snow Flower and the Secret Fan" had me eating potstickers and green tea ice cream for weeks. I don't remember a thing about the Narnia books, which I didn't love, except that in one of them they ate sausages as fat as your fingers (I quote loosely) and drank frothy hot chocolate. The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo posed a bit of a problem, as the characters were prone to eating things like sandwiches of egg and sardine, or tomato and cheese and raw garlic, but I solved that by making tuna melts, always with coffee on the side, just like Mikael Blomkvist.

So on Sunday night when Noah said, "Let's go camping", I thought two things. One, yay Via, and two, yay Campfire Marshmallows. Campfire Marshmallows are what all the ladies on the Mormon blogs are packing for their families. One marshmallow is about four times the size of one measly Jet Puff. Seriously, these marshmallows make Jet Puffs look like guppy chow. I'd bought a pack in advance and had it sitting in my cupboard, driving my girls crazy with longing in happy anticipation of our camping trip.

We forgot the marshmallows.

I would like to blame the fact that I was a little carsick, but instead I'll tell the truth which is that, as Mr. V put it, "S'mores are the whole reason mommy goes camping". Which isn't entirely true, I also go camping to sip coffee in the woods in the (late) morning. It improves my self-image; allows me to view myself as 'outdoorsy' and 'contemplative', as woodsy and and earthy but low-maintenance, sitting there quietly with a hot mug and beatific smile and ignoring Mr. V's curses as he struggles with the fire and the bacon and the fact that we didn't bring any garbage bags and the kids have soiled all seven of their spare outfits.

I go camping solely to eat the s'mores, and that is my only excuse for the fact that I, a thirty-year-old mother of two, started to cry when I realized we'd forgotten the Marshmallow's From the Land That Time Forgot.

Mr. V set up camp while I told my kids to look sad and pathetic and dragged them across the campsite to bum marshmallows from some fellow campers. I am enormously brave in certain situations, mostly when I am drunk, but also when my access to s'mores and/or sugar and alcohol is threatened. The ladies kindly gave me twelve of their inferior Jet-Puffs and refused to let me pay them. Later I would suspect these self-same ladies of conspiring with a nearby retired couple to murder us in our sleep. But that wouldn't come until much later, when the sun went down and the fires went out and I found myself awake in the deep deep dark, and look we thought we had seen a bear and even though it only turned out to be a stupid bear-cow, forcing Ayla to turn to art therapy to sketch out her frustration at being gipped out of the sight of a real bear, I had bears on the brain and the kindly ladies had walked around the site and then STOPPED to TALK with the RETIRED COUPLE WITH AN AGING YELLOW LABRADOR which can only mean that they intended to murder us with axes in our sleep and make off with our Hershey Bars and Via.

Tent camping is one of those things only first-world people do for fun, along with slaving in the hot sun to pick our own berries, making our own cheese and yogurt, canning preserves, and wearing high heels. Everywhere else in the world they call these activities what they are, which is "hard work" and "things I would never, ever do if I didn't have to".

This is why I think I might be what you'd call "over" tent-camping. This and the fact that I can liken the experience only to pine-scented torture. Like the Viet Kong decided to mop the floors before laying into me with the bamboo shoots. We didn't have cots, or air mattresses, or even thick blankets, and so I spent the night cold and in pain that reached about five or six on the pain scale, I'm not ashamed to say I could have used nothing more than a Valium-Ambien cocktail, kept up by visions of my own death by Golden Age pass members and really, I don't see why I'd want to do that again.

But I will. I'll do it again, because it's fun for the kids. Because there's nothing kids enjoy more than repeating "we're bored!" and "noooow can I have a marshmallow??" while Mom and Dad sweat it over the rain clouds, and the Amazonian volume of mosquitoes, and the bear-cows, and the tent, and the rain fly, and the axe murderers, and the forgotten hammer and trash bags and the eighth outfit they didn't know they were going to need because they had underestimated how difficult it is to make a number two in the woods when you're four-years-old. I'll do it again in spite of, or maybe because of, the bear-cow; for the time-honoring of the tradition, complaining the whole way about the ride, complaining about how long it's taking to pack in and pack out while mom and dad slave like suckers, complaining about the smoke that blows always in your eyes, and the marshmallow you burnt to a crisp before losing in the fire, while Mom and Dad shuffle exhausted from the picnic table to the fire to the car, like Zombies without a will to keep on un-living, wondering why they do it, why they bother. Because for five minutes the clouds break and you can see millions of stars. Because, in spite of all this, you drive, ripe and weary and wondering if it's too early for a hip replacement, back into the hot and shiny city, balking at the noise, squinting at the glare, you remember the cool of the river and the quiet in the trees, and you wish you could do it all again.

What Could Be Better Than This?

Ayla rides the firetruck

I was feeling really brave on Friday night and took the girls to Longmont's Downtown Artwalk.

There really are no words for how proud I was of myself or how absolutely smug I was about it. I guess there is a tragic phenomena out there of dads who won't take care of their own damn kids by their lonesome for more than thirty minutes. Their wives go months without a coffee date or a good long six hour internet browsing sesh. Truly, no one should be deprived of these things. No woman should be forced to go more than a week without relaxing into a good old fashioned "Jensen Ackles" google image search. I judge these men harshly even though I shouldn't because I am one of them. In our house, it's the mister who takes the kids on all the outings--to Elitch's, to the pool, to see Tangled or Rio or whatever, and down to the Fidelity Fiduciary to visit Mr. Banks. (Feed the birds, baby.)

So on Friday night, when Mr. V had to go to work, I nearly called it off in favor of my go-to parenting strategy, which is called "Mommies need wine and children need Rugrats or whatever the hell else they click on on Netflix and no that isn't for kids,honey, most of manga is animated porn."

But I didn't.

And boy, was I glad I didn't, once I got there. We headed for gelato first because in this house we have our priorities straight. I handed Ayla the camera and told her to take pictures of whatever she liked. She was thrilled. She snapped some pictures of the gelato that were rather good, and also a picture of me eating the gelato which will never see the light of day. The camera adds a second head growing out of your belly, right?


picture by Ayla


picture by Ayla

There was a booth for god knows what, a chiropractor or mad scientist, or something, and they had a model of bones out on display. Predictably, Ayla wanted to see the bones. The mad scientists were tickled by the skinny mini photog all enamored of anatomy, and delightedly--and then bemusedly--and then with forced and terse politeness--held the model up while Ayla took twenty minutes to set up her shot.

I couldn't take any pictures of Ayla taking the pictures, but I wish I could have because she looked so great. A skinny-shouldered, long-legged six year old with dirt under her nails and smudged across her pale cheek. On her back is the blue backpack she insisted bringing, slung around her neck is the red canvas Trader Joe's bag that I swore ten times I wouldn't carry for her and ended up carrying the rest of the night. Later I would find in it: a long length of twine, a ziploc baggy full of bottlecaps, a pair of scissors, a Mead notebook and one of my pens, a model horse, a woven bracelet, a stuffed teddy bear, a bag of chips, and a framed picture of her cousin Eisley.She is slight and maybe awkward but has forgotten herself in her fierce concentration. Her green eyes are focused, she cocks one stork leg, she carries her tension around her mouth like her mother.





She's amazing.

After the bones booth we hit the art booths for the kids, and Ayla entered a state of bliss. She lost herself stamping and inking, pasting and painting. Indy played along for a while but we were only about one booth in when she started demanding balloon animals. Other kids had been spotted with them. Ayla had gone nearly ecstatic and could not be lured away from creating, even from the booth where they gave the kids a bunch of mark-down dollar store stickers and told them to put them on paper and call it a book mark. Ayla shredded the stickers and played with patterns.

Indy began to yell, "Now can get get my STUPIT balloon!" (That's how she pronounces it.)

"Ayla wants to see the art galleries."

"I want to get a STUPIT balloon!"

"Hey, Indy, let's take a ride on the firetruck!"

"I SAID, I want my STUPIT--ok."




We rode a firetruck. We waited in line for forty minutes for a balloon that I was calling a lot worse than "stupid" in my head. Indy asked for a flower. Ayla requested the alien. It had a funny alien face and came with a clear balloon for a space helmet. The girls were joyous. Giddy. "Are you glad we got your stupit balloon?" I asked Indy.

"Mom," she scolded. "It's not stupit!"


Not five minutes later, Ayla, who will by then be in the state known as 'bouncing off the walls' and not listening to me, will brush the alien's space helmet against the brick exterior of the library, pop the helmet, and burst into bitter tears. In her grief, she will excoriate both the day and the balloon as 'the dumbest ever'. She will ask the age old questions: why, why now, why her balloon and not Indy's. She will feel the terrible regret of 'if only'.


But for those four minutes, after art and gelato, after firetrucks and balloon aliens, before the bursting--man, was I one smug mother.

And don't worry, Ayla recovered. We put on Narnia and she climbed across the couch to reach me. She kissed me on the lips. "That was really fun," she said quietly.

"Funner than watching me browse the internet?"

"No."



Ayla makes her alien face


Indy makes her alien face. Just kidding, Indy.

Around These Parts

This was outside my window an hour ago. I love the prairie. Here is one of the worst pictures anyone ever took of it.



This is across the street from where the girls take karate. If I can't see lots of sky, I start to panic. My people were pioneers, homesteaders and rough riders, and maybe this stuff runs in the blood.

The girls staged a rebellion against karate today and I let them quit. Ayla quit without bothering to see if she's earned her yellow-belt. (She had. She didn't care). Indy hung in long enough to earn the yellow belt and quit immediately afterwards. It was fun for a week, showing off karate-chops at the park, and then I suspect they tired of all the posturing.

We have dreamy personalities around these parts. Ayla told me she wants to do theater instead. "Like practice to do a show," she said. "Like onstage. Like Michael Jackson."




I can't say I was surprised. Then I nearly fainted over dead when I saw the price of any kind of theater camp for kids.

For her birthday, she wants a cake that is a brain. With zombies dancing around it.

She is awesome.

After my flunkies failed out of the karate summer camp that's designed to have a 0% fail rate, we went to Dairy Queen. What else are you gonna do?



Are they not the luckiest children on earth? Here they are at 31 flavors the day before.



We fail at some things, here. Cleanliness, godliness, dojo-ness.

We do not fail at ice cream.

Four Breweries and a Wedding

So, we partied down.

There were three visits to breweries, three visits to brew pubs, don't get me wrong I'm not complaining but I'm starting to think my digestive system is not the biggest fan of beer.


O'Dells is a lovely place to start your brew tour. If you're into that kind of thing. Then head to FunkWerks and try the Maori King. All their beers are delicious but I love the tropical fruit hints in the Maori. If I had to reccommend just one O'Dells, I'd go with the Glider Cider. Brewed with champagne yeast, this baby is light on your tongue, just the right mix of sweet and tart, and goes down way too easy.

Then, stop drinking. Just stop. Your stomach will thank you.

If you can't stop, you're not an alcoholic you're just German and Czech. Make your ancestors proud and continue on to Coop's for the Sigda's Chili beer. Never had a chili beer like it. If, by this point, you find your drinking spirit is willing but your flesh is weak and bloated, ask them to mix you up the Bloody Mary with a touch of stout. You won't regret that either. Look, I swear we do things other than eat and drink when we see our family. We also talk about eating and drinking.

Order the garden salad with smoked salmon if you want to give your body any fighting chance of maintaining it's normal functions. If not, or if this is your first day of revelry and you're still feeling strong, go with the Ring of Fire burger (jalapeno, blue cheese, Frank's, oh my) or the fish n' chips, which Coop's does just right.


I swear my six-year-old is not drinking a beer.

Swing down to Oskar Blues in Longmont. Hit up the Tasty Weasel and order whatever's on tap. There's a good chance it was brewed by Mr. V. There's a better chance it's delicious. What am I saying?? This is why I don't write food/beer/travel blogs.


Next, round the corner to Oskar Blues Homemade Liquids and Solids. These guys have tons of delicious microbrews on tap and do not disappoint. My favorite's were the Widmer Pitch Black IPA, which was caramely and roasty, and OB's Workingman's Stout. Order the fried pickles, which are spicy with a light batter, and the Silo Burger, which is sooo delicious you won't care that you just consumed three kinds of meat. Then be smart like me and let your brother-in-law buy you a cocktail. Get the one with cinnamon and star anise floating on top. Easy as pie. Tastes like it, too.

After we spent two and a half days tasting every fermented beverage northern Colorado has to offer, there was a wedding. Indy and Ayla were tapped to play flower girls. It was touch and go for awhile there, with Miss Indiana Sophie crossing her arms and tucking in her chin and refusing to move. In the end she made it down the aisle just fine. She opted out of the flowers and bore the rings instead. Look, somebody had to. I'm not going to make a Frodo joke. That's because I lost my moxie sometime after switching from beer to cheap, sweet champagne.

I can't say much more about the weekend because I am a dry tap, here. My sweet libations hath all been spilt, my pleasing personality ran for the hills, and I've entered my week of cranky during which I hope to see no one and have sworn to ingest nothing but coffee with soy milk, salmon, and kale. At some point a bird pooped on my head and at another, a group of amazing women danced around me while I shimmied with a bottle of champagne.

Yep. That happened.

The last thing I would like to say is that I loves all five of my sisters and these chicks are welcome to my house any time.

Let's just do wine from now on.

There's going to be a lot of pictures now.


Noah, his Dede, and Ayla at the rehearsal dinner and let me just say, the lesson I learned this weekend is that if you're not at a restaurant that has specialty cocktails, ones they've developed and mix special, just stick with the red wine.


Susie, Sophie, Mercy. Hotness.


Flora, Fauna, Merriwether, flower chicks.







Kojo, Nyenna, Lady Ci, Ayla, Brother Trey in suspenders, and Titus, the only man who asked me to slow dance








The gorgeousness of Lucy and Nyenna.


The gorgeousness of my sisters Mercy and Lucy.


Susie almost drops the wine.


My sister Lucy and her sister Kiah. We're the new nuclear, baby.


My dad, my amazing niece La Violetta, and my mama.


Don't you guys think I am fascinating???


Moi with moi belle whatever is french for sister, Heather.








PS: Next time you're in Ft. Collins, get yourself to the Little Bird Bakeshop in Old Town Square. A latte so delicious it's ruined Starbucks for me, and the best croissant I've had since I departed Paris one sad day, ten years past. I went twice. It was grand.