Here's Looking Up Your Old Address

From 2000-2006 we lived in Nederland, Colorado, where we enjoyed a simple mountain lifestyle 20 minutes and 3,000 vertical feet from Boulder. Our house was small, our driveway was steep, our dogs were off-leash, and everyone was more or less happy. What I wonder now, three years after having left, is this: How did it escape my attention (until now) that the same town that keeps a frozen dead guy in a Tuff Shed (and throws a festival of the same name every year) is also the same town with a neighborhood of questionable street names? (Must be middle age kicking in.) See pictured here a map of some of my favorites, including the famed Hummer Drive.

Where the Magic Happens
The Cold Springs neighborhood, just off the Peak to Peak Highway, is where you'll find the neighborhood that, all of a sudden, sounds to me like one big double entendre. Take, for example Rocky Knob Lane, Wolftongue Road. By the time you get to Shady Hollow, Big Jack Ct, and Cougar Run (where all the hot older ladies live), even Thunder Ridge starts to sound dirty. It's like the only thing missing is Beaver Road (which is not that far away, but then again, Beaver never is).

You Can't Make This Stuff Up
I miss a lot of things about Nederland. The people, the charm, the scenery. And now I have one more thing to miss about the place: Giving directions. If we were ever to move back there, I'd insist on buying a place in the Cold Springs area, like it or not. Because if I did, in all seriousness, I might end up having to tell someone to meet me at the corner of Last Chance and Hummer. Sadly, it looks as if both quickly come to a dead end.

How to Give Parenting Advice in the Most Annoying Way Possible

1. Make sure that the person you're advising wants no part of your insight. Your input should come out of nowhere, without provocation, and at the most inconvenient time. If you can muster a condescending tone, use it as much as possible.
2. When "offering" your coaching, make sure it stems from information that is either clinically unsubstantiated, or was popular in the 1950s.
3. As a next step, begin with the assumption that children are hell-bent on deliberately making their parents' lives miserable, instead of just trying to get some need met, especially when the child is under the age of 1. Try phrases like, "He loves to push your buttons."
4. Next, make some sort of character judgment on the child for his/her behavior. Say things directly to the child, such as, "You're manipulative," and "you're going to grow up spoiled." Use other terms involving the words "monster," "brat," and "pig-headed" for good measure.
5. Lastly, whatever you do, use the word "control" several times in your counsel. This control should be exerted for no other purpose than its own sake. Make sure that the parent you're advising knows that it's better to forgo relationships that are based on love and understanding than to lose control of the child at any given moment. Dismiss the greater lessons the child could otherwise learn about choice, responsibility, and working things out together with others instead of doing as told in every situation. When the parent says the only control she plans on using in the situation is the Janet Jackson album, look confused and a little put out.
   

To recap: Be annoying, be brusque, and if possible, take matters into your own hands while the parent isn't looking. After all, you're the expert.

Is it Me, or is it Windy In Here?

The Winds of Change takes what looks like a much-needed break in the Turks and Caicos Islands, Caribbean

How do you feel about change? Considering Barack Obama's success in the last presidential election, most folks seem like they're a-OK with it. But me? (All political leanings aside) not so much.

I say this, not because of any particular feeling I can put my finger on, but because of the symptoms. The crankiness, the mood swings. My most embarrassing confession is that I'm a sleep-eater when I'm troubled, so let's just say that I've been coming downstairs in the morning to some compelling evidence that either the Keebler Elves love fluffer nutter sandwiches as much as I do, or I'm subconsciously concerned that my dentist doesn't have enough work.

And maybe, just maybe, it's because I'm turning 40 on Monday, the 13th of all dates, and I have no idea how to be a grown-up. I guess something like that'll keep you up nights, stuffing down a box of Paul Newman's Own Champion Chip Cookies and then going back to bed with chocolate morsels carving a tunnel between your teeth.

For my birthday, I've decided I want a membership to the local Y. And dental insurance. Lots of dental insurance.

Twitterverse Curse

Before I begin, I'm going to acknowledge that it's one thing to blog about a dream I had--sure, that's gross enough. It's another to blog about a tweet I wrote while I was dreaming, but that's exactly what I'm about to do. Biz Stone, honey, congratulations. You win.

I've been catching a lot of messages in the media and in more personal communications about why Twitter is--or isn't--the hot new thing. And I guess last night, while I was trying in vain to turn off my brain before going to sleep, I remembered a very unfortunate glimpse I caught of Barbara Walters entering another of her curmudgeonly rants on The View about how she despises the very idea of a medium in which just anyone is encouraged to say just anything. As I lay in bed, I decided there was only one thing that could annoy me more than The View or Barbara Walters. And that's Barbara Walters on Twitter.

Taking what comfort I could from knowing that Barbara Walters will never Twitter, I fell asleep, only to dream that I was a Hollywood movie lackey charged with the task of writing the tag line and some promotional copy for the upcoming thriller, The Curse of the Lesbian Vampire Killers. Deciding to try out some of my first drafts on the Twitterverse, I opened a browser and typed:

"The Curse says there will be blood. About every 28 days. "

The dream didn't last long enough for me to realize the results of my little focus group, and I don't know if this says anything about the validity of social media or not, but I do know one thing: If anyone ever asks me if I Twitter, I can free my tongue from my cheek when I reply, "Twitter? Oh, I do that in my sleep."

Domestic Activism

I admit it: as my life changes, the things, the causes, I'm most passionate about change along with it. I used to think of myself as an activist; now I'm lucky to consider myself at all. I think that's OK, so long as I don't become so bland that I forget that it's not all about the dishes, the laundry, the house, the big aspirations yet unmet. So long as I don't forget that life is messy, and sometimes that's when it's best.

For those of you who find yourselves with messes you're worried about, for those of you who feel like you're out of juice; for those of you whose cups are runnething over, I salute you.

Sometimes a Picture's Worth Only Three Words

For those times when you want to say something without actually having to say it, today's original graphic kind of says it all.

Happy President's Day, everybody.

Three Wishes

Two of my kitchen drawers are completely empty; I purge the closets every season. We've only got one dog right now. And also I'm a hoarder.

Peek at the picture: (unless you're with PETA). It's my wishbone collection, started back before the equally gruesome days of Alex's new vegan diet. I keep it on the windowsill over the sink so that, while I'm doing dishes, I can see how many wishes I've got coming to me, how many good things I have left.

My wishes aren't the only things saved and coddled in the safe harbor of my kitchen. I have two generous spa certificates in my possession, gifts I received from the person who knows how much I hate spending money on anything "luxe," as the kids say. I plan to spend one on my annual summer pedicure, an event so auspicious that it's like celebrating the new year. I once explained to a friend that the timing of the expenditure is carefully planned. Deliberate. "When the outside half my big toe is red, and the inside half is plain old natural nail, I know it's January."

"Let me get this straight," she said. "You use your toenails as a calendar?"
"It's not a bug, it's a feature," I told her.

The other spa certificate isn't so easily spent. Chances are good that I will agonize over its redemption, and when Alex encouarges me to cash it in for a massage or a facial, I will likely look at him like he's suggested I sell one of my kidneys on the black market. "Use it?" I'll ask with my arms crossed. "If I use it, I won't have it anymore."

I commit this same kind of flawed logic to other things too, specifically shampoos and bath products, including the fancy little soaps and lotions I've taken from fancy resorts. "What? They're travel-sized," I say, stuffing them into the Ziplock bag that's bulging with last year's stash. I now have sufficient materials to coat the Burning Man playa with enough lotion to create the world's biggest slip 'n slide. (I can't wait for the email that tells me it's already been done.)

But when I consider that the Dead Sea is dead primarily because there's no outlet for the incoming water other than evaporation, I look down at my toes and wonder if I'm doing myself any favors. When I consider that Ernest Holmes was onto something with his writings on the Law of Circulation, I think I feel a resolution of sorts coming on, not that I'm into resolutions or anything.

Maybe I can just say, "No more hoarding," in 2009, or any other year. I will use my things up, knowing that it's an act of gratitude, maybe even a kind of prayer, when doing so. I will faithfully use myself up, too, knowing that being too careful, too tight-fisted with one's self is the battle cry of the fearful. Whether the law of conservation of matter holds up in a laboratory or not, I will work my own experiment and let go of all my wishes, knowing that the only shortage--and the only source--of real wishes exists only in my imagination. Not on my windowsill.

I will resist the urge to engage in any more emotional constipation and let the cosmic equivalent to gravity do its work. I will exercise my gratitude and my own potential by letting loose the hounds. For my own good, I will sacrifice in order to receive. Personal growth hurts; it's going to be difficult, but I'm up to it.

I'll be at the spa.