Steamboat, snow and a yearning for SUN

On any given day you'll likely find me sequestered in my home.  No, there's no POTUS here!  My self imposed exile stems from the picture on your left.  The Steamboat Barn, an advertisers wet dream, draws many a tourist, and truth be told, locals alike, to snap a photo of this legendary icon to the Yampa Valley.  The sequestering comes not from the Barn, but rather the white stuff in the back ground, better recognized as SNOW.

It's a nice enough barn, and I am even willing to concede that during certain alpenglow sunsets, I find myself in awe of the beauty and all that Mother Nature's provides us, free of charge.  Well, almost free.  Nothing is really FREE anymore.

The winter blues have rendered me in a funk of SAD.  Indeed - I am sad.  Sad over the way our country is headed. Sad that the POTUS was re-elected.  Even more sad with where the moral compass is pointing.  But SAD, seasonal depression/disorder permeates my body from just about mid-September, with the deliverance of the first season's snows,  all the way through to May, after snow melts and MUD season begins to torment me.

Little doggies' footprints followed by my dearest husband's shoe prints, parade upon my wood floors.  Mud season brings MUD.  Rain, even more snow.  By the time the mountain closes for the season, I'm on the first plane to all points west and warmer.  Moab, Utah, a mere 6 hr drive:  5 if you drive really fast, breaks into the 80s by May.  Flights to Southern California can be had for a song if you hunt, seek and destroy Travelocity right about now.

In April, even the Grand Canyon, can afford a weary, wintered soul a reprieve and rejuvenation of their soul. This particular Grand Canyon trip, in 2011, was euphoric.  Not only did weather cooperate, but I was with such divine friends, that I almost never left.

This winter, in all its glory, and with 7 weeks or so of ski season still to be had, I've found the "smoking deals" and anxiously await 3 weeks in Port Hueneme with my second family, at the beach cottage.  Oh, how I dream of a day when I can persuade my ever loving spouse to be enticed to return to the west coast, if even for a week.

Melancholy is no way to go through life.  To lament over a lost love, or impending doom, or walking dead zombies - well okay, all those warrant an ounce or 16 ounces of sadness.  But, when relief in the form of a beach and sand is just mere months away, I can wage a silent and victorious war against the snow.

With visits to the LEFT coast, I can slip myself an ativan to endure the liberals, or perhaps they can enjoy one or three in order to endure me, and we're all on the same magical Big Lebowski White  Russian wave length.  I can venture to Andria's Seafood located at the Ventura Harbor.  I can nosh on thick and creamy New England Clam Chowder. Once I even felt a Tommy Burger was part of the trip, but alas, my stomach has other plans for me.  Can you say, "Rolaids"?

I visit my adopted nephew of sorts,  Sean.  My god-daughter Amanda and I walk her dog at the beach.  My friend Julie and I stroll her small beach side mean streets, at night, in our bathrobes - her a glass of wine, me a glass of non-alcohol anything.  We act like silly school girls.  We talk about all things nonsensical.  It's magic.  I visit my son Michael's grave at San Fernando Mission Cemetery.  I spend time with my lifelong friend Kris.  We argue, not with each other, but with every other insane, homicidal driver on I5.  We discuss Washington, D.C.

Most importantly, the west coast relief project provides me time with my son, Bryan.  A professional chef, my son cooks for me; or supervises me during my feeble attempts at Bananas Foster.  This Mother's Day, you will find me on a boat, with my son, on California's waters, fishing! Yes, fishing.  With my recent back injury, I can barely lift 10 pounds, but the chance of me hooking a great white shark or even a wayward  500lb guppy are slim.  However, any time spent with my son is like a drop of sunshine in my heart.

I've been absent from my blog for almost 2 weeks now.  I've had plenty of topics to rant about -  Charles Dorner, the ex-LAPD officer who turned terrorist, and murdered 5 people before becoming a piece of kindling in a Big Bear cabin.  I've endured hearing the FLOTUS announce an Academy Award winner.  I suppose next year, FLOTUS AND POTUS will simply declare themselves winner of every nomination.  And sadly, I awoke one morning to have my husband announce to me, before my morning coffee, that Pope Benedict XVI was to resign his post as Holy Father tomorrow, February 28, 2013.  But that, in and of itself, will be a topic for another day.

I had another round of facet joint injections in my spine, with 50-50 relief, and news of more to come.  I've had coffee dates with more of my special friends in the last few months, then I've had in years.  They fill me with hope and sincere well wishes.  I'm blessed for that.

My fervent hope and wildest dream is for a 1x a week blog entry (keep the moans to a dull roar) so I can relieve myself of all that moves me...almost like a much needed bowel movement.  Until then, I gaze outside my living room window, and wonder how many others are enjoying the full moon.

How did you get that BRUISE?

Life, post DVTs (aka blood clots) is an adventure.  Recently, my body has become somewhat of a dart board of black and blue marks.  I'm not even sure where these nasty looking bruises come from.  There is no rhyme nor reason as to their pattern.  And what is even more perplexing, if not even bizarrely entertaining, is that I can go to sleep and wake up the next morning, wondering where the latest round has appeared from.

I love dogs.  They are an extension of my soul and spirit.  My confirmation name, St. Francis of Assisi is appropriate.  When I was younger, I was the kid my parents dreamed or had nightmares about - the one that brought home some sort of animal, whether furry, feathered, quilled, or scaled.  All animals deserved a chance.  To my parents' credit, most creatures made a stop at our house, some stayed longer than others and some survived, and others received aid until they could pass from this life, over the Rainbow Bridge with dignity.  They were all welcome.

So, now living on coumadin, I am somewhat careful as to just how many gregarious doggies I can handle, or how may time my cat should be allowed to bite or scratch me.  A few dark spots here and there were gently and kindly diagnosed a "liver spots", better know as age spots.  I realized; an Epiphany of sorts, that I was reaching the mid point of life; that is, if we judge life spans from birth to 100.

Liver, not being high on my culinary tastes - I have renamed the liver spots, a more aesthetic sounding  "life experience" spots.  I love that name far more than liver.  Somewhere I figure there is a platter of onions awaiting me.  No way.  

The recent king daddy of bruises is behind my left calf.  It's a doosey.  And even more thrilling is that fact that I have no recollection of how it got there.  The lines and small spots I attribute to my over zealous dog, happy to see me when I walk through the door at the end of the day.  I wear those bruises as a bizarre badge of honor; someone loves me!  It's the ones that just appear from out of some secret jar of coumadin mystery bruises.

I suppose the alternative is another DVT, or worse pulmonary embolism.  I can mark those off my "been there, done that" list.  I can even mark a trip to Disneyland off as done. 

Talking Pretty

Lately, due to circumstances beyond my control, I have been hitting the reading racks with ferocity.  Some lovers of books stick to one vein of topics.  Murder/mysteries, crime novels, fact, fiction, poetry, self-help - everyone has something that entices the soul.  For anyone that knows me, I'm a political person who thrives from Ann Coulter, Sean Hannity  & Bill O'Reilly.  I also have a passion towards history. 

Since I injured my back in March 2012, my choice of topics has remained the same, but has now included humor, poetry, classics and an author introduced to me by dear friend - DAVID SEDARIS.  Often times, books can lag bite.  Some people who recommend books might  start their recommendation with "give it time, the first few chapters are a bit slow".  I go through the painstaking labor of endless chapters, and reach the end, all along thinking to myself..."it's got to get better"...alas it never does. 

DAVID SEDARIS is anything but boring.  I will be honest in saying a few chapters left me in a neurotic state - like watching Al Pacino's "Dog Day Afternoon", but what's a little neurosis when the rest of the book threw me into little grins, internal belly laughs, giggling, a smile and thoughts of "did this guy live my life"?   

Me Talk Pretty One Day is a collection of little tidbits of some one's childhood and life's experiences.  While each chapter is laid out like a short story, Sedaris weaves them all together, into a neat little package, and delivers a wonderfully funny book.  With chapters titled "Jesus Shaves" to the "Tapeworm Is In", a casual Barnes & Noble finger flipping browser might be drawing the conclusion of "WTF'???? And truth be told, I very well may have been one of those consumers. 

My dear friends, Don & Connie have known me the span of my life. They are like parents to me.  Both are lovers of literature and language.  I see their polite eye rolling when I announce my love of all things conservative and republican.  However, they are also keenly aware of my deep love for literature and that I do have a sense of humor.  A few months ago, a large, heavy package arrived from Amazon.  Once unwrapped, I found the complete works of e.e. cummings.  Tears rolled down my face - such a marvelous gift.  I caress that book often and each time I open to a new page, another one of e.e.cummings poems graces my eyes.

So, during December, when facing an unreal amount of stress, Amazon delivered another package.  An early Hanukkah present?  Yes!  No card attached, and none was needed.  The minute I saw the title, and read the first chapter, I KNEW!  My friends, my dearest, most treasured parental friends had done it again.