Allah Ma'ak, Haiffaa

This is the story of a great woman. I prefer my stories with happy endings, and I'll warn you right now, this is not one of those stories; it is, however, a story with a happy middle, and sometimes, that's all we can cling to.

Sometimes we forget just how big the world is. We start to believe that our triumph is more magnificent or that our loss is greater; our joy is the most radiant or our sorrow is the deepest. And that's when life slaps us upside our silly little heads with the reality that we know nothing of triumph, loss, joy, or sadness at all compared to someone else's story. And the end of this story is this: Haiffaa Ali is dead.

Haiffaa Ali was born into a wealthy Iraqi family. Her father was an important person in the government, and his salary let them live not just comfortably, but opulently even. Her only money problems were "deciding what to spend it on"...a luxury few Americans, let alone Iraqis, enjoy. She married Majeed, an important man with more power and money, and her status grew. She believed her joy was complete.

When Saddam Hussein's role as Iraq's leader was threatened by US intervention, the powerful dictator became increasingly distrustful of everyone around him, drawing lines in the sand and imagining enemies where before he saw friends. He blacklisted numerous powerful people, one of which was Majeed. Haiffaa's husband was forced to flee from Iraq to Syria, leaving Haiffaa and their children in the care of her father. But Haiffaa's now-elderly father was soon added to Saddam's blacklist, and one night soldiers tore into their home and savagely murdered him in his bed while Haiffaa watched, helpless. Her sorrow was so deep...

Knowing that it was no longer an 'if' but a 'when', regarding an attack on her own life, Haiffaa packed up her children and went in search of her husband. Reunited in Syria, they were told the refugee camp was too full, and the options were back to Iraq or onward to America. With a heavy heart, she prepared to move to the land of disrespectful cowboys who probably wanted her and her family dead too. Arriving in Denver, she was placed in Hidden Brook apartments, a Hope Communities property, and given six months to get her family back on its feet. With not a dollar to her name, no marketable skills, children too young to work, and a now-disabled husband, it was a time of desperation for Haiffaa. A dedicated employee of Hope Communities, Jessie, befriended her and helped her sign up for English classes, as well as connected her with a group of refugee women who make and sell jewelry. Slowly, Haiffaa and her family adjusted to life in America, and the day that she sold her first necklace, for eight dollars, brought her to tears. Never in her life had she done something truly on her own, and her pride--left with the rest of her life in Baghdad--had found its way across ten thousand miles back to her gentle heart.

This tiny woman with thick graying hair and a colorful scarf on her head came into my life with a smile and a cup of tea. Seated in her living room, her stilted speech was somehow...melodic, and her words were wise and honest. She practiced her speech for us, preparing for her NPR interview, and she was at once highly intelligent yet gentle and modest. She fully understood the magnificence of her triumph, but refused to accept any credit for it.

Each year, Jessie went to Haiffaa's girls-only birthday party. Girls-only meant that Haiffaa could remove her head scarf--letting her hair down both literally and figuratively. Haiffaa had clearly assimilated into American life, and loved to tell other refugees of her revelation that the American government is not the American people. She was thrilled with her new independence, and even took a vacation to Germany to visit her son. Having finally rebuilt her life, not to its old glory, but to a new kind of glory, Haiffaa decided to make peace with her past. It was time to go back to Iraq and visit her father's grave.

Haiffaa crossed the border into Baghdad on October 20, 2009. She spent 5 days experiencing a city, once home, that now felt so foreign. She prayed reverently at her father's grave and breathed deeply, exhaling all the hurt and betrayal and grief of her past. And on October 25, 2009, she made her way back to the travel agency to arrange for her next-day departure.

On Sunday, October 25, 2009, two blasts erupted in downtown Baghdad--the worst bombing in over two years. As the death toll hit 155, Iraqis took to the streets to mourn. Somewhere in the chaos and smoldering ruins, lay the remnants of a colorful head scarf...

How Do You Like Them Apples?

Oh, Fall in Colorado... School's back in session, the leaves are changing, the weather swings wildly from 84 to 34 degrees, and love is in bloom. Yeah, that last one is normally a spring thing, but it's not only the weather that's backwards here.

Fall is a season of change, and reflection, and blog posts about Topics (with a capital T!) like Truth and Reality. I've been working on this really great analogy about how people are like apples. We have a skin that's pliable and resilient and stays intact even when the fruit is bruised, but how easy it is for a sharp poke to penetrate our tough exteriors and damage us deeply. And how there's so much good substance to all of us--how if we just go past the skin we find the delicious fruit of personality and depth of character and a real beauty on the inside, so to speak. But we also all have these faults that we hide on the inside. Seeds of our own destruction that we work to overcome and to keep from ruining our taste. Then I snapped out of it and realized that philosophy was better left to the expert bloggers.

Instead, I'll stick with what I do best, which is exaggeration and sarcasm.

What's not an exaggeration though, is that our two apple trees have produced 2683579300134764058245 apples this season. This has given our neighbors a reason to talk to us, which they have been eager to do since we moved in. We are, after all, the source of a significant number of rumors.

"I heard they're polygamists...but the kind where she has two husbands!"

"They're never home! That's gotta be a sign of deviancy."

"Maybe that other guy is their kid, and he has some weird condition that makes him look older. Didn't they make a movie about a guy like that?"

"What if they're drug dealers with a meth lab? That one guy is always in the garage."

"Did you know they all have different last names? I know because I checked their mailbox. Do you think they might (gasp) not be married??"

I've been accosted by different neighbors on my way out of my house in the morning no less than three times so that they could ask my last name. Then they catch "that one guy" while he's in the yard and ask his last name, and then say, in mock confusion, "Oh, Bob honey, did we get his wife's last name wrong? I could swear it was something else!" So now the secret is out--we are (gasp) not married. Bring on the social pariah-ism. Fortunately, no one asks about "the other guy", 'cause with many of our neighbors being longtime AARP members, they just might not be able to live with the concept of roommates. Besides, with the new additions to the "family" arriving in January, we have a feeling they have a lot more confusion ahead of them.

So, anyway, the apples. We haven't been able to actually pick many ourselves because they're so high up, and the cripple is, well, crippled. He did get a new splint (pics at the bottom of the post), so that's been helping with the mobility, but still, no apple-picking for him. Instead, we've been telling eager neighbors that they can pick as many as they want--just leave half of whatever they take for us. This was a brilliant idea initially, but now we have 92384127 pounds of apples in the garage, in the kitchen, in buckets in the yard (steal them--please!), and strewn about the backyard...with lots more on the trees still. Our grateful neighbors have given us apple cake, homemade sweet dill pickles, homegrown tomatoes, and a promise of apple cider when it's complete. What a haul! So I've made a lot of applesauce, and we've got plans for many other apple-based items, but I'm thinking maybe we need to be that house that gives out apples at halloween? That'll teach those damn kids that play in our yard without permission. Did I mention that our house is the neighborhood bus stop? And that I have to back out of the garage, at a time of the morning that often finds me driving with my eyes closed, and avoid the children that think the world is a pedestrian crosswalk. At least they will pick my apples for me.

In other apple-related news, the third wheel of our happy little tricycle seems to have found himself a young lady to help us graduate to big kid bikes. (Yeaahhh, analogies.) We met her the other day when we toured the corn maze--and by toured, I mean gimpy pushed our pace from a fast walk to a gentle Olympic sprint to better our time, all the while chastizing kids for taking shortcuts. I tried to take some photos, but photos taken at a 6-minute-mile pace just aren't the same. Anyway, we met the new lady in our lives, and then she even coordinated a dinner-making, board-game-playing evening at our house this week. And we played Apples to Apples! The theme lives on...

Let Them Eat Cake

Sometimes work is like high school. Cliques, gossip, unnecessary drama, people getting their feelings hurt, etc. And sometimes it's like middle school.

Example: Jane is getting married. Sue, Joe, and Sally decide to ask Mary to get a cake from the awesome bakery near her house for a wedding shower. Suddenly it' s announced that Karen is the new Social Director for the office (yes, we have a Social Director), and she will be planning the shower. Rather than go to Karen and tell her they've asked Mary to get a cake, they assume that will hurt Karen's feelings and step on her party-planning toes. And instead, they sulk about how they want a cake instead of the new plan of cheese and champagne. They ask Mary to get a cake anyway, but feeling like she's been put in the middle, she refuses. Commence back room bickerings. And hurt feelings. Then Karen gets wind of the drama and says cake costs too much, which just confirms Sue, Joe, and Sally's feelings of frustration. Conclusion: I volunteer to make a goddamn cake.

So because I'm an eternal overachiever, I decided to go all out. And thanks to www.smittenkitchen.com, I got the recipes and instructions I would need to make (da-da-dah):

Vanilla Buttermilk Cake with Mango Curd Filling and Swiss Buttercream Frosting

It contains a whopping 2lbs of butter (in the 6.5lb cake!), and about 11 eggs. Step One was making the cake itself, which was far messier than my previous cake making attempts, primarily because it was not out of a box. Also, because it expanded more than expected, and made a huge mess in the oven.

Step Two was the curd--a bright yellow, gooey, deliciousness intended for the layer filling. Mango, sugar, lime juice, and some fancy cheese-clothing and over-boiling-water-whisking. Mmm...tasty.

After this step I somehow managed to have seasonal allergies at a whole new level that left me in the fetal position on the bathroom floor, unable to breathe or swallow, with Jackson curled up next to me, ready to eat me once I finally died. Fortunately the broken boy came to my rescue (talk about the blind leading the blind) just in time, and several medication remedies later, with no success, we resorted to feeding me siracha sauce to open my airways. And oddly enough, it worked. But I digress.

Of course, the best part (Step Three) is the frosting, which is sweet, but not too sweet, and melt in your mouth fabulous. Just like the author of Smitten Kitchen warned me, it looked like a disgusting bowl of, of, well, I don't know. I can't think of a good analogy and I'm tired of sitting here and trying to think of one. But it didn't look like frosting. And then, in one magical spin of the whisk, it suddenly became the thick, creamy, buttery, spreadable, amazingness I was hoping to discover. Let the frosting and filling begin!

After crumb-coating/dirty-frosting (the correct term depends on which cake decorating show you're watching), I had my canvas. Unfortunately, the decorating turned out to be the much more difficult part. After many failed attempts at colored flowers and polka dots and lines and other not-so-complicated-sounding decorations, I stormed out of the kitchen frustrated and ready to leave the cake white. Then, inspiration hit when I saw the dark chocolate raspberry hershey kisses. I jumped into action, melting the chocolate and spraying designs of it across pam-sprayed wax paper. Into the freezer they went, hardening into beautiful chocolate-y strokes that I then tucked into the base ring of frosting. Good enough! Now refrigerate a few hours to set. Then, serve.

Disabled Dating for Dummies

For the one of my two readers who doesn't know about my honey's boo boo, let me summarize the events of the last couple weeks. Corey broke his wrist (and his finger it turns out, but that went undiagnosed until today) while biking in Canada, going 30ft off a 25ft jump. He also converted the elbow of his unbroken arm into ground hamburger meat. With stitches and bandages on both arms, he has been an invalid for the past three weeks and I've gotten to practice my long-expired Camp Sparky first aid certification on him. Although I was hoping to just post a picture of the shower routine to capture why I approve of laughing at the disabled, the little tiny shred of mercy I have left in my body won't allow me to sink that low. However, it won't keep me from telling tales, because the world needs to know just how hilarious handicapped people are. And so, without further ado, dear readers, it is time for some invaluable advice on how to date a differently-abled person (as those of us who are sensitive to their plight refer to the handi-tards).

Let's take some questions from those of you dating handicapped people:

Q: What are some fun things for handicapped people to do since they can't ride their bikes down steep hills any more?

A: Well, if you google "fun things for handicapped people", like me, you learn that a better question is "Why are disabled people so mean?" (I'm serious...google it). They are mean because they cannot do the things they used to be able to do, even though those things are sometimes of questionable sanity, and you already thought they were mentally handicapped for doing them in the first place. Because they can no longer do these things, you will need to find other ways to occupy them, since sitting in bed and watching tv all day won't occupy them quite the way it would if they were choosing to do it instead of being forced to do it. I have a few suggestions:

1. Stick a dog treat in their back pocket and get the dog to follow them around all day. This will keep their mind sharp; they will constantly be wondering if the dog is following them because it senses their weakness and wants to thin them from the herd. Keeping the mind sharp is essential to a quick recovery, and being followed is surprisingly occupying. Make sure you plant the "thinning the weak from the herd" idea in their head early on to make this more effective.
   
2. Make all their meals things like sushi or steak--tough to eat with limited mobility. This will ensure that meals last approximately 4.5 hours, and they won't need to find other things to do.
3. Introduce them to facebook quizzes.
4. Tell their mother you think they are getting depressed. The hourly phone call check-ins will make them beg for the peace and quiet of laying in bed and watching tv.
5. Rearrange all their arm-propping bed pillows. Trust me--it will take ages for them to get them back to just perfect.

Q: What is the most embarrassing thing I will have to deal with as a caretaker?

A: This is a trick question. Just when you think you've hit the top, you find new levels of pride-reducing activities to participate in. For example, "I think there's still soap in my butt crack" will no longer be a foreign phrase. You might also get to hear, "Smell how bad my cast smells," and yes, it does smell that bad. Holding up the bottom edge of a t-shirt that has toothpaste and spit dribbled all the way down the front after a failed toothbrushing venture to ensure that it doesn't hit the floor before you can skillfully maneuver the shirt off? Check. Using medical tape and rubberbands to alter deer-gutting gloves so they can be used as cast covers in the shower? Check. Learning intimate details about the constipating side effects of Percoset? Check. And trust me, I've saved the better ones for you to discover on your own.

Q: What skills do I need to have if I'm going to be spending time with a disabled person?

A: Occupational therapist. EMT. Masseuse. Psychiatrist. Chauffeur. Chef. Maid. Butler. Personal Assistant. Esthetician (Have you ever cut someone's fingernails before? So not easy.). Babysitter. Entertainer. Sugar Momma/Daddy. But don't worry--if you don't have these skills already, you will be well-qualified very quickly. You will also have gained a very strong stomach if you didn't have one before, because flesh that has been converted to hamburger helper is not attractive. Especially not hamburger helper that has a drinking straw sticking out of it so that your burst bursa sac can drain, and a collection of Frankenstein stitches that connect random chunks of noodle and beef that didn't used to be next to each other. Abs of steel? Psh. I've got a gag reflex of steel now. And that's next level.

Q: How do I woo a handi-tard (or a no-handi-tard as we refer to my honey)?

A: The disabled are as desperate for love as Brett Favre is for douche-baggery, so you don't have to try very hard. One good way is through food. For example, my no-handi-tard craves pudding and Arby's all day, every day, when injured, and so providing either of those things wins major brownie points. Another good way is to treat them like a scratching post. Since they cannot scratch themselves, they will appreciate a good clawing. Lastly, keep all the toilet seats in the house lifted. It's a small thing, but it won't go unnoticed. And soon, you will be the proud owner of your very own invalid.

Q: It's not working out with my broken beau. Is there a good way to make a clean break (pun intended) and escape the relationship?

A: Cash For Clunkers ends on Monday, so act fast and trade up.

Quintuple the Pleasure, Quintuple the Fun

Time for another fun-filled Sarah list!

Things I am happy about:

1. Visitors!!

In June, I had visitors 22/30 days. I did so many loads of sheets! In fact, we even had overlapping groups of visitors that prompted me to consider creating an availability calendar so people could schedule themselves, like at a hotel. But that would just lead to me creating marketing materials and soon things would spiral out of control. Anyway, here are some visitor photos (Chris from AZ in Clear Creek, wine casks that the beer La Folie is aged in, and Matt asleep in my passenger seat):

2. New Hair!!

I found a new hairstylist. He looks like Brett Farve, kinda. Definitely in his build, anyway. And he likes to whisper about which female stylists he'd like to take shopping at Victoria's Secret. And tell stories about the women he checks out when he's cutting guys' hair. Trying too hard to seem straight? Perhaps. Hilarious? Yes. And I get a decent haircut, to boot.

3. Flowers!!

My live-in gardner has our yard looking top notch. The bees love him. Me too, coincidentally :)

4. Surviving Storms!!

Colorado has some bizarre weather, I tell ya what. On Monday, July 20, the sky grew dark and gray, as it often does in the evenings, and we prepared for the normal rain and thunder/lightning. Except that there was nothing normal about the storm. From the sounds outside, I was pretty sure the fireplace was collapsing into itself, the roof shingles were flying off, and the Four Horseman would soon be at our door. But we survived. The next morning I realized that the same could not be said for our neighbors...

5. My Adrienne!!

Yes, that's right, she's mine. And she came to Colorado!! I was so happy, I almost wet myself. Then, the pot was sweetened, because Scott came too! I would call him My Scott as well, but that might get confusing what with My (other) Scott and all. THEN, it really got fun when the reason they came to Colorado was for a family reunion, and I got to be adopted for the weekend. Woohoo! Party in Estes! While there, I scaled vertical cliffs, crossed dangerous log bridges, and battled through fierce foosball matches. It was quite an adventure.

All in a (Mapes) Week's Work

Some people slow down when they get older. Some people's minds slow, some people's metabolisms slow, and some people's need for excitement and adrenaline rushes diminishes. Some people are not my parents.

Let me recount the last week of my parents' lives for you.

Day 1: Dad talks to neighbors, learns that they are going to move. Dad tells Mom. Mom walks next door and buys neighbors' house.

Day 2: Dad takes reps for the main meal replacement product used at Alaska Premier Health hiking. Reps joke about how they should open a new clinic in Oregon/Washington/California/etc. Dad jokes back that Hawaii would be a way more acceptable option. Mom decides to open a clinic in Hawaii.

Day 3: Mom offers Lindy job at said clinic in Hawaii. Mom posts jobs at said clinic and receives tons of resumes. Mom finds perfect building for said clinic.

Day 4: Mom flies a HI doctor to AK to see if they will oversee HI clinic. Dad decides they need another source of income with all this spending.

Day 5: Dad lists Mom & Dad's house on Craigslist. 30 minutes later, Dad meets with Canadian Consulate at Mom & Dad's house. Canadian Consulate agrees to rent their house for 2 years. Mom & Dad make plans to move to newly purchased neighbor's house in August.

Day 6: Lindy quits her job and gives away everything she owns except her dog and her car (which will be donated if it can't be sold in 24hrs).

Day 7: Lindy leaves for AZ tomorrow, and then home to AK until she has an office and a home in HI. Dad flies to AZ to buy an RV and then the two of them will drive back to AK.

Still with me? Or did I lose you somewhere along the way? It's okay, don't feel bad. I've had to repeat it over and over in my head to keep it straight. That's all for today...my synapses are still misfiring trying to comprehend it all.

Vacation & Victory

Well, now its been too long and I don't remember all the awesome Austin quotes I was going to share. The best was definitely the taxi driver who asked us what big city Denver was near because she hadn't heard of it, but there were a bunch of others and now I don't remember them. Oh well. At least I uploaded photos:



In other news, I jet-setted to the East Coast last weekend and got to see both Adrienne & Scott (woo!) and the extended Mapes Family (uh...woo?). My time in NYC was brief but exciting--everything from box-blocking traffic tickets to secret restaurants accessed by phone booth. I posted a few photos:



My time in Camden, NJ was mostly spent cheering myself hoarse and making fun of my mom for her propensity to need to go to the bathroom when she's excited/anxious. Casey led her team to a decisive victory, and she collected a second gold watch and another couple trophies. We also spent time with Dad's side of the family, none of whom I've seen since I was 14. Her arms are massive...prepare yourself or you might be scared when you see them:

Ctrl + Shift + You're an Idiot

June 1st is going to be a big day for the Colorado Rural Health Center employees. That will be the day that I open their eyes to the big, scary world of technology. And I'm pretty sure it will be a big day for me too. Either spectacularly good (they'll fully embrace my tips and become more self-reliant and productive) or spectacularly bad (there are far more ways for this to go wrong, so I won't bother listing them).

I sent out a survey to them all yesterday. Ten questions to gauge their understanding of basic computer operation. I included questions such as:

If I said to you, “Add the folder called ‘Events’ to your Quick Launch toolbar,” would you:

1. Add the folder called “Events” to your Quick Launch toolbar, but only if I say please
2. Say, “I didn’t know I could add things to my Quick Launch toolbar."
3. Say, “I didn’t know I had a Quick Launch toolbar.”

Another survey question was:

I do the following (select all that apply):

1. Hit “enter” when my sentence reaches the edge of the page and then continue my sentence on the next line
2. Use the space bar repeatedly to create an indent in a paragraph or for a bulleted list
3. Open up the Calculator tool or find an actual calculator when I have a math problem to do
4. Never empty my desktop recycle bin
5. Save multiple versions of the same files in different folders

I never expected that I would learn so much from my survey! Here are the top ten things I learned from this exercise (in no particular order):

1. Our secretary answered the question "When I think about how comfortable I am with technology, I would say that I am:" with the answer "Tech-savvy enough to not need this training". She is the only one who showed this sort of confidence. That being said, she is also the one that asked me today how to turn on the digital camera. And what WiFi was.
2. On the other side of the coin, we have Rich. He's our unofficial 2nd in charge IT guru--1st being me...scary, I know. Before I was there, he ran the show. He: has never heard of a Quick Launch toolbar, has never heard of Find > Replace, has never heard of Paste Special, and uses zero keyboard shortcuts.
3. The most popular write-in question is "How do I do that stupid thing in Excel that makes everything add up?"
4. No one wants to fess up to being that person that hits enter at the end of the line...but I know someone's doing it because I keep seeing documents that have little green wiggly lines under the first word of each line as grammar check tries to convince me to capitalize them.
5. Sheri, AKA, the useless one with the bad attitude, thinks she's a pro, but also thinks she's modest. In order to show off that she knows lots and lots about technology while still staying modest and checking the "I'm competent but no expert" box, she requested that I explain If-Then formulas in Excel. Except she called them "What-If" formulas. First, if you don't know what they're called, you're not ready for them. Second, there is no way in heck the group is ready for that. Baby steps, people.
6. I should've broadened my scope of information to-be-covered. I should've included things like, the correct phrase is "Me neither", not "Mean either", as written by Sara in her email response.
7. I need to develop some common sense training. AKA, if you cannot print, your first thought should not be, "The IT guy didn't reconnect my computer to the printer" and instead should be, "I wonder if the printer has any paper in it?"
8. No one that makes more than $50k a year will answer an optional survey. Their time is too important for such things.
9. When we took a personality test a couple months ago, Shelly did not like her results so she just changed them. She said it was the fault of the test because the questions were not precise enough and she needed more information to answer them. When I got her survey back, each multiple choice question had a paragraph of text associated with listing all the conditions upon which she would choose which answer, as well as follow up questions she had for me. I'm sure her teachers loved her.
   
10. I have no earthly idea how I'm going to cram all the information I need to impart upon them into 15-20 min.

Stay tuned for the aftermath of this natural disaster.

Also, coming soon: My list of quotes from Austin. Here's a teaser: "Happy F***ing Mother's Day, Barry Bonds!" --the incoherent homeless man shouting about how the world is a beautiful place and we should all love each other.

Into White Air

It was a dark and stormy...day. And really, it was more white than it was dark. Completely white, in fact--total whiteout conditions. And there I was, trapped in my traction-less tin can, contemplating whether I was desperate enough for a bathroom to dig out that oil funnel and empty soda bottle. The wind howled outside, the slits of glass that I could still see out of were slowly narrowing as frost encased the windows, and the windshield wipers had long ago stopped functioning, preserved in ice. The radio hissed and popped with static and I began to dig desperately for my cellphone, praying I still had signal.

Ring...ring...ring... "Oh please answer," I thought to myself, silently begging a voice to appear on the other end of the line.

"Hey." Oh thank God! I pumped my fist in the air.

"Google-traffic.com-mapquest, save me! Russell, I'm stuck on I-70 and have been for hours. I need a new route home ASAP!"

I reflected on how ridiculous the panic in my voice must sound. No, I'm not stuck on some remote farm road in the middle of BFE Colorado, this is downtown Denver for crying out loud. Yet nonetheless, there I was, stuck in the parking lot we call our major East-West highway, 50mph winds rattling the doors on my Camry with no accessible exits, no movement whatsoever, and certainly no bathrooms in sight. What's a girl to do?

The Big One had finally hit Denver, after the mildest winter on record. Starved for moisture, the soil was thrilled that the meteorologists were calling for feet of snow in the metro area. I, on the other hand, had a big event planned for Friday with work--one that we had spent months preparing for--and hearing that the blizzard was going to hit Thursday morning was far from good news. The roads were dry and fast on the way in that morning, but shortly after I arrived I saw the first flakes touch down. Listening to the internet broadcast of the local radio, I heard callers announce the arrival of the storm first in Boulder, then Longmont, then Arvada, knowing it was a matter of minutes until the full force of the weather beat against us in Aurora.

When Elke called to say she had hit a guardrail on the way in, we knew the office was going to be a ghost town that day. The few of us that had made it in--the event team and a couple other stragglers--stared out the window with a growing dread about what lay ahead on our trip home. Then the agonizing decision to postpone the event had to be made, and all productivity stopped as we fielded unending calls from participants wanting refunds. Cancellation emails had to be sent, speakers' flights had to be pushed back, every registrant had to be called, and that poor man driving up from Texas that had turned his cellphone off for the drive? Well, we apologized profusely to him in a voicemail that he will hopefully get before several hundred mile markers whiz by.

The calls got more frantic as we worked our way down the list, and every couple minutes a text or call would arrive from Corey, telling me about a new road closure and how if I didn't leave soon, I might as well camp out under my desk. He had stocked the refrigerator and the wood pile, and was closing the storm doors and booting up the DVD player. I begged for a reprieve from finishing the call list, but I was refused; I wouldn't even be allowed to make them from my vehicle while on bluetooth. So I dialed even more frantically, speaking faster and skipping half of the script that had been written for us to read from.

I slammed down the receiver of my last call and swooped up my coats (yes, coats plural), scarf, and gloves in one smooth motion, shutting off the lights in my office and bolting for the front door. Other employees called their admonishments to "Drive safe!" and "Call when you make it home!" as I sprinted past their doors. I popped my hood up over my head, cinched the elastic tight around my face, and lunged forward out the revolving door. The wind hit me so hard I almost fell back and took a second trip around, but regaining my balance, I forged on stomping my way through the drifts to reach my car. It took my full archaeological skill set to unbury it from the dune of white that enveloped it, but soon I was on my way.

From the first acceleration I felt my car lurch sideways, caught in the ice hiding under the layers of snow. I prayed no one was coming and rolled down the decline and onto the main road, knowing I would never be able to stop if they were. I cursed myself for not filling up with gas on the way in, and grimaced at the little orange fuel light that taunted me. If only it had occured to me to use the gas station restroom while I was there. But how long could the drive really take, right?

Dodging sliding vehicles left and right, I made my way to the highway, unnerved by the fact that no one else was in the 500ft double turn lane with me, when usually it's backed up. Merging onto I-225 North, I fought my way towards I-70, patiently counting the minutes as they slowly ticked past. I knew it would be slow. It's okay. At least it's a steady 25mph. Wait--why are we stopping? No! No, you may not merge in front of me Mr. RTD bus! No! You neither Mr. UPS semi! Arrgh! But the other lane wasn't moving either. In fact, we hadn't moved for several minutes now, and there were no exits for another 2 miles--a mile until the I-70 junction, and then a mile until the first exit off that. Why oh why didn't I use the restroom?

The highway was littered with abandoned vehicles. Some on the shoulders, some simply left in the lane they had stopped in. A few still had passengers on cellphones, looking dejected and hopeless. As we sat there, drivers began to step outside, trying in vain to de-ice their windshield wipers before giving up and re-entering their idling vehicles. Traffic would crawl forward 6-8 inches at a time, every few minutes, and after more than an hour of frustration and a growing need to find a restroom, the RTD bus moved out of my line of sight and I could see the problem. Well, the first problem anyway.

The I-225N to I-70E junction is a two-lane bridge that goes up and over I-70, curving West, before settling down and merging in. On this lovely March day, four semi-trucks had SIMULTANEOUSLY wrecked with four passenger vehicles. I repeat, SIMULTANEOUSLY. I sunk lower in my seat and closed my eyes, summoning my inner Buddhist to meditate the need for a bathroom away. That's when I dug furiously for my cellphone, requesting my free On-Star assistance from the mapping center of CBRE in Tempe. Sadly the news wasn't good.

"Wow. Google shows 70 in red, or worse, dashed red, the whole way to your house. Call in the chopper for an airlift."

Ugh. Time for the funnel? No! I can do this! All I need is a distraction...yes...a distraction. What better distraction than photography? Good thing I always carry a camera. Time to document my epic struggle against the elements.

I'm sure the cops putting out the flares thought it was a good distraction too, despite the face they made at me when they saw me taking their pictures. But see the chaos ahead? Semis jackknifed everywhere! Oh, the madness!

I finally inched past the FedExAltima (it was now one vehicle), slipped by the van t-boned into the King Soopers truck, and gave my best look of pity to the drivers of the Bronco and the what was left of the Ford Taurus as they surveyed the damage to their vehicles. Safely on my way West, I breathed a sigh of relief. Wait...are those brake lights? Again?

And wasn't this supposed to be a three-lane road? Oh--the left lane is now an ice soup. It had already been 2.5 hours and I was beginning to think that sleeping under my desk would've actually been pretty luxurious compared to this. I could've flown to Phoenix in the time it was taking me to commute home, and my endurance was fading. The constant battle was wearing me down and I could feel my pulse weaken as I lost interest in going on...even in photography.

But no! My parents didn't raise a quitter--"Work hard, be proud," my dad always said, and I could not surrender now! Not when I had fought so hard! The authorities closed I-70 completely--would I let that stop me? No! I sat through 4 lights at 38th & Kipling before my turn arrived, but would I let that stop me? No! Snow doesn't scare me--I'm from Alaska gosh darn it, and if I have to pee in a funnel to survive until the very end then I will! But not yet. First, let me take a photo of the cars all getting snowed under and laugh at the man on the sidewalk that got soaked when the plow lumbered by him.

And after fielding calls from worried co-workers, fighting on past the closed McDonald's that was supposed to be my salvation from hunger, and lurching up 25th Place and spinning into the driveway, I was HOME! I had taken on the very nastiest of Mother Nature's bad moods and shown her I wasn't afraid. Jackson leapt through the snow, more thrilled about it than I, and after a sprint down the hall to the bathroom I was in soon in pajamas and wrapped up on the couch with a fire crackling before me.

The next morning dawned bright and clear and the only remnants of the vicious storm were the sparkling crystal flakes mounded gently upon the earth. The sun erased the cold and the roads steamed with evaporating snow. Corey shoveled in a t-shirt, and the neighborhood was filled with sounds of children sledding in their yards and water gurgling down gutters. I had been given the day off of work, although from the look of things, it was an unnecessary precaution. March comes in like a lion and out like a lamb, they say; bring on April!

p.s. I plan to sell the rights to my epic journey for big bucks someday, so don't steal my story or I will sue you.

NSFW: Executor of the Estate

First, a few definitions...

Garage/Yard Sale: almost always hosted and attended by middle- to lower-class families, either socioeconomically-speaking or level-of-refinement-speaking, these fun events are a chance to offload all the junk around your house to early-rising-on-the-weekend strangers who will haggle with you over 50 cents-worth of McDonald's Kid's Meals toys and smirk haughtily at your collection of beer-themed bar mirrors that your significant other is forcing you to sell, causing you to tell her that yes, that bike works perfectly, secretly knowing that the instant she climbs on it the devil bike will suck her pantleg into its chain and then the handlebars will wrench to the left uncontrollably and she will crash, hopefully into a a cactus.

Estate Sale: a chance to dig through all the earthly belongings of some dead person whose vulture-like family has already claimed everything good.

Which do I prefer? Well, they both have their merits, but typically I'm more of a garage sale fan, if for no other reason than their garages don't smell like death. Usually. However, as we waited to take possession of our new house, we visited a lot of estate sales, hoping to score some furniture. With the exception of one desk that was very nice and very cheap (but required disassembly and a long trip up a winding hall and and stair...not to mention we didn't need a desk), most everything was as old as the person who had just died, and thus not of interest. Then one day we hit the motherload. Not in terms of things we would like to buy, but in terms of THE MOST AWESOMELY CREEPY ESTATE SALE EVER. Yes, dear readers, the few pictures I covertly snapped do not begin to describe the awkward hilarity we were faced with from the instant we stepped inside...

But first, let me set the stage. We pull up and see a street lined with cars--people flooding in and out. It's an older home, but in a nice neighborhood, and decently maintained. We walk up the steps and through the door, and see a kindly 80+ year old woman manning a checkout desk. Then we look directly behind her and see a large cardboard box with a bright yellow sign on it:


Yes, you read that right. It says, "Porno $5.00 each". Muffling our adolescent giggles our eyes darted around the room looking for something, anything else, to distract us...and we saw these:

They're like a Bob & Cha Cha mug if it came from Fascinations! And, as Corey loves to point out, you can drink out of the nipple--it has a little hole in it. Even more awesome is that they are sitting next to figurines of praying children... Desperate to escape from the room o' porn being staffed by the grandmotherly type, I raced down the hall and ducked into what turned out to be a bathroom:

The embarrassment quickly became a sqwicky unease as I looked around and saw that they were literally selling EVERYTHING, including his prescription medication (25 cents a bottle!) and miscellaneous small utensils both ancient and somewhere between barely and not-at-all functioning (displayed on a card table half in and half out of the bathtub, for your...convenience?). Not clear was whether or not the mirror hung in the shower with a bandaid (resourceful? tacky? you decide...) was for sale, because I think it was the only unmarked item in the house.

At this point, it became much harder to take photos without being seen by the swarms of people who somehow all found out about this sale. Thus, there are few other photos. We also saw canned food from 1976 (for a half-assed bomb shelter), several firefighter's suits (Corey wanted one for Halloween 2009 but that would mean wearing something that came out of this house, and that certainly wasn't going to happen), a large gun rack (obviously!), the tiniest shower I have ever seen (inside an unfinished part of the basement that had no door, but since you wouldn't be able to lift your hands over your head to shampoo in that tiny thing anyway, probably not much worry of someone entering that room during your 12-second shower), an orange velvet sofa, and lots of playboy calendars.

Upon exiting the house we all shuddered involuntarily, as if our bodies were trying to shake off the stale air of the late, lonely, old man's house. We supressed our mirth as best we could until we made it into the car, and then all our pent-up laughter burst out as we watched a woman roll up her car window, suffocating her yippy dog, whose head had been stuck out of it. Just then, someone rolled up in a truck with a trailer and strode into the house, obviously ready to take home some large "treasure" he had found inside. I'm hoping it was the orange velvet couch and the entire box o' porn...

Dating for Dysfunctional Dummies

The judge told us that the two most important things an American can do are 1) vote and 2) serve on a jury. Apparently it wasn't a very convincing thing to say, because at least 50% of the 65 of us in that room came up with wildly outrageous excuses to get dismissed. I wasn't feeling up to perjury that morning so I didn't invoke exotic illnesses and suspicious past experiences to get myself disqualified, and thus six hours later I was sitting in juror seat #2.

Over the course of the next two days, as I heard more testimony, I was disheartened to learn that there are still soooooo many people out there in need of my dating advice. Therefore, I feel compelled to write this special column, just for people like the Smith-Johnson-Miller-Brown (names have been changed to protect the not-at-all innocent) family.

If my previous columns were chapters in Dating 101, this column would be more like See Spot Run for learning-diasbled kindergartners. If you're trying to determine whether you are in need of this advice or not, here is a short quiz to help you:

1. Are your children all half-siblings because you change partners, on average, as often as you get an oil change for your car?
2. Have any of your 14-year-old children moved out of the house to live with their of-legal-age boyfriends and you did not mind?
3. Does your significant other sell crack?
4. When you suspect your spouse of cheating, do you ask your children to spy on him or her?
5. Is lying to the police about your significant other a hobby of yours?

If you answered yes to any one of these, you probably aren't often described as "lucky in love"; two or more, and you're a Maury episode ("You are NOT the father") waiting to happen. If you answered yes to three or more of these questions, you are relationship-handicapped and I officially revoke your procreation license until you have successfully completed my Dating for Dummies rehabilitation course.

The course itself is much too long and intensive for a blog post, but here are a few questions for you to ponder (I'll keep the number of answer options to only two...this is the remedial class, after all) while you work on filling out your full course registration forms:

Question One: What are characteristics of the "perfect" husband?

a. Loves you unconditionally, is great with your children (even if fathered by other men), is a good provider, has a great sense of humor, is devastatingly handsome, and makes you infinitely happy
b. Sells crack, molests your children, cheats on you, and has complete control over every aspect of your life

Question Two: If you think your significant other has done something wrong, the best way to get him to tell you about is...

a. Wait for a good time and broach the subject non-confrontationally, asking that he/she tell you his/her side of the story
b. Get him/her to take tequila shots with you, smoke crack with you, and have sex with you, then trick him/her into confessing

Question Three: What is the most important part of a successful relationship?

a. Trust
b. Keeping track of your lies so that your significant other never catches you in one.

All the "b"-Students in the crowd should now end whatever relationships they are in and go back to school. My school that is. Class is now in session.

Contractual Obligations

I asked Mom yesterday how long it took Dad to propose to her. Her answer of "six months...I think" surprised me. Not because that is not very long to date. And not because she couldn't really remember. It surprised me because it meant that at some point in his life, he was actually able to make a decision THAT FAST.

This topic came up because the last couple months of house hunting have resulted in aneurysm-causing, medication-requiring, nausea-inducing stress that have led to my contemplation of a 12-story, parachute-less jump. My beloved father has had feet as cold as Dick Cheney's heart, and one step forward, seven steps back is not a good way to promote decisive action. So, to summarize, I never want to house hunt again.

That all being said, WE ARE NOW UNDER CONTRACT!!! Yes, pending Monday's inspection results, we will have a house to move into very soon. Well, February 23rd to be exact, but it'll take me that long to pack anyway. So now, without further ado, pictures of the (fingers-crossed) new abode:

14095 W 25th Place
Golden, CO 80401