Guess who’s back

A group of my co-workers goes walking every day at lunch and today I joined them. As we walked past some bushes, someone wondered aloud about the source of the clicking noise. With investigative skills worthy of Nancy Drew, I peeped under the bush.

Originally, all I saw was something alive and something gray. Because there are a plethora of bunnies in the area, I didn’t initially register anything beyond “gray animal” and skipped directly to the thought, “I didn’t know rabbits made that noise.”

That’s because they do not.

Then I noticed the eyes. The gigantic, yellow eyes. At this point, I would say I was about 95% startled, 4% afraid, and 1% excited. Given the small ratio of excitement to those other common sense emotions, happily yelling “It’s STANLEY!” might not have been the ideal first reaction. But that’s what I did.

(Back story: Stanley is the name we gave to the owl who hung out in the tree outside our cubicle window last summer. No owls have been seen in the area since, and there has been lingering sadness about the owl departure as they provided a great deal of workplace entertainment.)

Even though it was not a cognizant decision, I am happy to report that after my successful detective work, there was at least a small part of me that was smart enough to remove myself from the immediate vicinity of the bird of prey making warning noises.

But despite my desire to leave well enough alone, there appeared to be a Stanley 2 watching over this scene who did not seem to trust my intentions to exit. I was perhaps three steps away from the grounded owl when there was suddenly an owl with an overwhelmingly large wingspan swooping directly in front of my face. I sincerely have no idea where he came from, but I’m guessing he was watching from the building roof and decided to come personally administer a warning.

And this point I moved to 100% terror, which was evidenced by a very unfortunate shriek and the subconscious, split-second decision to use my co-worker as a human shield. I ducked behind him and waited for all predators to depart from the area, promising myself that my days of yelling at local wildlife were officially over. After all this excitement, I decided that I had had enough of nature for the day, cut my walk short, and returned to my cubicle to recount of my adventures from the safety of my computer.

baby, you can drive my car

You might be expecting some kind of happy and reflective Christmas post. Except you’re reading my blog, which means you probably know better. You, oh astute reader, are aware that there is no day of my year exempt from ridiculous situations and random stories.

Colorado most certainly had a white Christmas this year, which was quite beautiful. That is until I had to make an hour drive up to my boyfriend’s parent’s house for dinner. I’m not really too big of a wuss about driving in the snow, but I really wasn’t in the mood to put in so much effort for food. (I mean, next you’ll be expecting me to help cook it and everything…) I realized that that was probably not the best reason for blowing off a dinner (plus his mom makes pie!) and so I ventured out into the cold afternoon. And then I ventured back. I forgot my car’s gas light has been on for 4 days now. Oops. Somehow pumping gas in a snowstorm seemed utterly unpleasant, unpleasant enough for me to REQUEST to take the family’s minivan instead. Oh, the joys of living at home. I bet you wish you had minivans at your fingertips, waiting for your beck and call…

The roads were fairly slick and the snow was falling pretty heavily. The drive started out with me forgetting that I forgot how to get there until I got to the point that I had to pick my path. I, of course, picked wrong. Then, as I was driving down the wrong highway through a winter storm, the passenger-side windshield wiper of the car FALLS OFF. Luckily it gets snagged by the still attached and now worthless piece of wiper and I can assure you that I uttered some phrases that might not have made baby Jesus feel very welcome on his birthday. I made it to the next exit and proceed to call my mom to see what it is I need to do to reattach detached pieces of car. (And if any of you so much as start the “driving with a cell phone” lecture now, how about you go drive someone else’s car and have a vital and completely-necessary-for-the-moment-at-hand piece of said vehicle FALL OFF while you’re driving? Then you can talk. I might still whack you with a wiper blade, but you don’t even get to talk until that point.) Anyways, turns out the exit ramp was uber-slick and the car felt that skidding back towards the highway would be fun way to make my heart stop. (Again, I’m really sorry about the language, buddy. Happy birthday.) I finally got myself pulled over and spent the next ten minutes decrusting ice and reattaching car parts.

By the time I got back on the road, I had had about enough of this whole white Christmas nonsense and thought that I might just drive my car into a snow bank when Let It Snow came on the radio. It was time to turn off the Christmas cheer and find some real music. Luckily, the family minivan has good taste in music and a Beatles CD was already in place for me. It’s hard for anyone to stay mad when they listen to Hey Jude. (Maybe Mark Chapman…)

I spent the rest of the drive happily listening and playing with acronyms. Every time I lost traction when I braked today a fun little light in on the dashboard lit up. Since my car apparently does not have the same “TCS” excitement as the minivan, I was a little puzzled by the acronym and spent a fair amount of time throwing ideas for meaning around. Some of my personal favorites:

TCS: Traction Coming Soon
TCS: To Cure Skidding
TCS: Take Caution! Slow!
TCS: Time to Curse Silently

Apparently TCS actually means Traction Control System according to Google, but I kind of like all my definitions better…

If you weren’t have a good day already, hopefully the mayham that is my life helped bring just a little cheer. Happy holidays!

(Side note: Happily, I made it to my destination without any other major disasters and it turned out to be a very fun afternoon that proved worthy of the drive.)

thinking of spring in the fall…

Dandelions are not flowers. I get it. But does not being a flower mean that they have to be a weed?

I think dandelions are happy. Maybe I’m just a little nostaglic for childhood memories, but I have nothing but fond memories of those little “weeds.” I recall countless mornings of going out to “pick flowers” for mom, which she of course dutifully put in water. Recesses throughout elementary school were spent rubbing the bloom on each others arms with the certainty that the yellow stain would serve as a perfect cootie repellant. And I have no idea how many wishes I’ve made throughout my life while blowing the seeds away.

Even without all the memories, dandelions still make me smile. I think they are the best weed around. I love it when I walk and see the grassy areas spotted with yellow. (Some would cynically say blighted, but I kind of think of them as fields of wildflowers.) They add color and brightness to my day.

I know I’m going to get the “you’ll think differently when you have your own yard” response. WRONG! First of all, if I ever have a yard I’m xeriscaping, and I think dandelions will only add to my interesting and water-efficient plant life. And two, whoever decided that grass reigned supreme in environmentally planned environments anyways? Why is there a constant fight against dandelions?

I saw someone who let dandelions take the spotlight in their lawn and it made my day…made my day enough to take a picture of their front yard.   Note: As per the below comments, I can’t figure out how to upload the pictures though. (please don’t tell me how sad it is that “pictures” is plural when referring to weeds…or that I can’t figure out how to use my own website…I know these things already…) For now, you’ll just have to imagine its awesomeness on your own.  Sorry!

Not Showering is Good for the Soul

I just got back from a weekend spent camping at the Sand Dunes (or more accurately, “The Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve.” If you should happen to spend time watching the information movie in the Visitor’s Center to avoid a hailstorm, you will realize after the 25th time of hearing the phrase in its entirety that stating “the Sand Dunes” is really not sufficient. Anyways…) and it was absolutely fabulous.

I started out as a very reluctant attendee. The last time I had gone camping was with my church group as a teenager when we used to go every summer. While I wasn’t one of the girls that required makeup and mirrors, I also was never a camping enthusiast. My favorite summer was not the year of the high adventure camp, but rather the year when we had an adult with us who disliked camping enough to bring the contents of an entire Bath and Body Works to the outhouse. Thus: not exactly a ‘roughing it’ person. And the last time we tried to camp as a family, the trip ended about 14 hours after it started, despite being originally planned as a long weekend trip. As I recall, we got to the mountains around 4; we managed to set up camp, make some foil dinners, and start the smore process before the rain. After a sleepless night of tent leakage, loud rain, and intense snoring from my youngest brother (the only one who got to sleep because Mom ensured that he slept on a raft of bodies), we called it quits. We packed up everything as soon as it was light and drove to the hot springs instead…
The Point:
basically, I would fit in quite well with Troop Beverly Hills.
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