Mumbling Madly

My second cousin took this really nice picture of Josh and I. We’re sitting on the patio, at grandpa’s house, eating spaghetti sauce that we had pulled out of the freezer. My grandpa posthumously fed twenty people that night.

My grandpa was a prominent member of the SLC Italian-American community, was responsible for getting the SLC Opera where it is today, and was a ‘real fox’ according to one of the ladies who spoke at his Rosary the night before his funeral. In order to convey the experience I’ve come up with two lists.
–What made me cry:
1) Ave Maria. Don’t know what it is, but I end up in a little puddle every time I listen to this Schubert aria.
2) Mention of my grandfather’s incredible love for my grandmother who died suddenly 17 years ago. None of us, not even the steeliest of cousins, was immune to the incredible passion my grandpa carried for her year after year in solitude. We all openly wept when the priest acknowledged grandma, many of us visualizing the two of them shopping somewhere in heaven together looking for bargains.
3) Entering and exiting the church with the casket. It was like a crying parade with me somehow always ending up in the front. The finality of bringing grandpa in and then escorting him out was so heartbreaking I blubbered until tears came off my cheeks, down my chin, and fell into my cleavage.
4) Red roses on the casket that we plucked for pressing.
–What made me feel ok:
1) Watching Erin hold a little umbrella over the terminally ill priest who was not doing well in the hot cemetery sun.
2) Joining hands with ten family members as we hauled the heaviest casket ever across the cemetery and to the grave site.
3) Connecting with my Great Uncle who looks so much like grandpa it was heartbreaking, (imagine going through the entire day thinking, “Grandpa! Oh no, wait, that’s just Uncle Rocco who looks like grandpa from behind”).
4) Making garlic bread with my cousin for a large dinner the eve of the funeral.
5) We gathered all the left over spaghetti sauce in the freezer that my grandpa had made, put it into a large pot, and served twenty people with it. What a bittersweet meal: the last time my grandpa would ever feed us with his signature sauce.
6) Taking pictures with people who share the family nose, the family temperament, the family “worry about getting to the airport on time” trait.
7) Making plans to return in October to watch “Madame Butterfly” at the SLC Opera. They plan on dedicating that particular opera to my grandpa and I plan on being there, (and crying I’m sure).
8) Picking out several ties–specifically a unicorn tie for my sister who couldn’t be there and a snazzy red patterned tie for myself.
9) I also arranged every sweater he owned by color and pattern on his bed. His sweater collection was enormous and we kept finding sweaters in various hidden locations–some still in their plastic wrappers and many of them purchased on sale. The family spent hours going through his sweaters and trying them on. None of us are the square shape my grandpa was, having inherited my grandma’s height, but many of us picked out sweaters anyway out of love and the need to be closer to grandpa. I took one sweater that I’ll make into a pillow and one to wear around the house.
10) Finally, and most strangely, I got around to asking my Uncle Tony why I gasped for air right before I was put under anesthesia for my ear surgery. Being an anesthesiologist, he explained that there are two drugs: one for knocking you out and one for paralyzing you so you don’t move during surgery. Normally they knock you out first and then paralyze you while you’re sleeping. Sounds like they didn’t wait long enough between drugs, administrating them one right after the other, and my lungs were reacting to the paralysis setting in. Someone fucked up big time.

Two months ago we thought we were going on vacation in mid-July. This was the furthest thing from a vacation. Four flights in five days, hideous airport smells, a funeral smack dab in the middle of the pre-wedding festivities. WTF? Despite the reroute to SLC we still had some fun in LA. Some positive highlights:
1) In and Out burger. We were driving back from the airport through Modesto, CA around 11pm after a looong day. We needed some food. The burgers were excellent, amazing, tasty. The atmosphere was festive, the placed packed with kids and families (guess little tykes get to stay up late for In and Out burgers). I still prefer Burgerville, but I have to say these were almost ‘restaurant quality’ burgers in their own right.
2) Taco Mesa…that translates to “Taco Table.” We showed up there the day after the funeral, beat, tired, hungry, I think I had been crying. The food was blissful. I have yet to encounter Mexican food this good, not since my job at Los Tarascos in FC–which still holds the gold standard for Mexican food. Granted, the family was from Mishocaun which uses mostly fresh ingredients, spices, and black beans so it’s hard to compare to the standard Mexican-American fare that dominates the states. At Taco Mesa the sauces were obviously fresh and available for sampling in little cups, the meat grilled, crisp little salads on the side, it was heavenly. Offhand, we didn’t have a single poor meal in So-Cal. I was really impressed with the food.
3) We found a beach right next to the airport on a whim. Actually, we finally broke down and bought an LA map since our teamwork navigation that had carried us throughout the day was starting to fail. We had a little extra time before we had to load up and go to SLC so we pointed the rental car toward the direction of the water and wahlah! Beach. It was empty, just a few drunken boogie boarders and us (later one of the boarders drunkenly changed into a different pair of shorts–treating us to full frontal nudity). Airplanes sailed dangerously close overhead, disappearing into the haze of the watery horizon. Josh took his shirt off and tried to even out his magnificent farmer’s tan. I took my shirt off too, the laid back attitude of CA giving me permission to rock my black bra like a bikini top. We crinkled our toes in the sand, played in the water, dried off in minutes and headed back to our long arduous journey. Here’s a self-portrait from the perspective of the sand:

4) I loved Venice Beach. I loved the oddity, the art, the strangeness of the whole thing. The air was fresh; we were there with friends; my shoulders got ridiculously sunburned. Josh bought a wild black and white belt for 10 bucks from a street vendor. There were scrunchie trees, a dog with sunglasses, and fake boobs. Highlight: coming across a shooting for Californication and catching a glimpse of David Duchovny!

5) Of course there was also the wedding in Newport Beach…which I’ll post about later.

My grandfather died. He loved opera. Because of this I love opera, have always loved opera. Today, I listened to the following piece from La Bohème–one of my favorites–and sat on my floor and cried. In a rare gesture of compassion Hobbes showed up and licked my knee in comfort. Perhaps my grandpa sent Hobbes…here’s what I listened to:

I’m going to the airport right now…

When it rains it pours.

The incident where the man was punched for putting a traffic cone in the street in order to water a traffic circle? 8 blocks away from where we live. That man died in the hospital a day later.

My grandfather, the one I visited less then a month ago, has slipped into a coma. Not expected to live for much longer (read: the next 48 hours).

I’ve become an advocate for my sister. I’ll leave it at that.

The sun is shining mercilessly, forcing me to turn the other cheek. I found a beautiful top at Anthropologie two days ago on sale that I didn’t buy. I didn’t have the money. The same day I received a check in the mail for some jewelry. Now I have the money. Now I must have that shirt. It seems silly, but I think that shirt just might make me feel a little better.

I made Gina a tote bag out of an old zine symposium shirt. Here we are admiring it at the farmer’s market:

(I have no idea this package contains a metallic silver halter leotard from American Apparel courtesy of Abigail of gold hot pants fame…)

Everyone knows about Vail…its big brother, Aspen, manages to stay just as well known but is largely associated with elitism and unattainability. Its beefy Colorado step-brothers (Breckenridge and Keystone), kid sisters (A-Basin and Loveland Pass), and secret love child (Copper) don’t hold a candle to Vail. As far as I’m concerned, Vail remains the most widely known mountain resort of the US (never mind its competition with Whistler as the Big Daddy of North America). It also recently received the title of Most Expensive Resort (take that Aspen!) and is swamped year round with tourists. When people asked where I was going on vacation I said ‘Vail’ (easily identifiable) but I was hoping to go elsewhere. While there is a certain amount of cache one has by saying, “I went snowboarding in Vail,” the reality is that Vail makes me cry. I’ve never had a successful time there, maybe it’s the mounds of skiers, rude international travelers, and the fact that one time I got tangled up in one of their shoddy, orange, plastic fences.

This is where our wonderful CO connections kicked in, specifically: Jodi. She and Josh met in 1999 at an SOS meeting (SOS is an organization that helps at-risk youth learn to snowboard) and have been friends every since. We’ve all been friends, truth be told, but I missed out on many of their earlier ‘weekend warrior’ trips from Fort Collins to the mountains in the early years. They slept in cars, parking lots, old cabins, all for the sake of snowboarding and teaching kids how to ride. Jodi is also an entrepreneur, a real business woman, currently heading Activity Sitters, a high end baby-sitting service she founded a few years ago. Having grown up in Vail, (not as a rich kid but actually a poor kid living in the mountains), she returned after college to have a go at making a living. The town home she co-owns with her bf and roommates is nestled in Avon, which also houses the Beaver Creek Resort.

The Vail Valley is filled with two types of people: The extremely wealthy and everyone who is making money off the extremely wealthy. The disparity is far greater then when we lived next door in Summit County. With rent, food, gas etc. at astronomical levels, cost of living is very high, but the pay off is that you get to live in the wonderful abyss: Far from highways, 9,000 feet above sea level, the terrain rocky and covered with snow peeks. The isolation is huge, as if you are squirreled away from all humanity with nothing but the mountain for entertainment. Going back up to the mountains was a test: are we really in the right place? Sometimes when I’ve returned from a long day of rush hour traffic I crave nothing more then the blinding sunlight at the top of a mountain. Sure, there’s no Nordstrom Rack, limited places to go out to eat, and a small pool of people to hang out with. However, your mind is practically forced to slow down as the demands on your time become very basic and simple. I can see why this is the lifestyle I chased after leaving high paced Seattle in the late 90’s.

I’ve never been to Beaver Creek, but because it was five minutes away from Jodi’s place it became not only convenient but a lot of fun. We enjoyed two bluebird days, filled with sun and decent groomed snow. I was clipped twice, first by a skier and the second time by an out-of-control female snowboarder. I’d forgotten the recklessness one experiences when you throw a bunch of tourists on the same mountain over a holiday weekend. I also marveled at the array of accents you find when your town is a melting pot, specifically from Jodi’s roommates who were from Milwaukee and had a very pronounced way of speaking.

Jodi’s two teenage cats, Tosh and Leo, provided endless entertainment as they galloped and chased each other all over the place.
Josh and I had forgotten the vitality that young cats have and marveled at their ability to PLAY (something Hobbes gave up long ago). Here is Josh and Leo spending some quiet time on the couch:

Suddenly our toothless, chubby, old cat seemed pale in comparison to the sheer entertainment of Tosh and Leo. That is, of course, until I opened the door to our room in the middle of the night for some air. The kitties ran in and proceeded to chase each other in mad circles at the foot of the mattress. ‘They’ll settle down eventually,’ I rationalized, trying very hard to fall asleep. The pair did not settle down, in fact, I realized that they had isolated their chase to a single solitary circle that would not let up. I closed the door and opted for less air in the room.

We were extremely lucky to be on the receiving end of such generosity. Jodi’s bf is a sommelier (read: fancy wine expert) and uncorked multiple bottles of fancy wine for us to sample. Despite the altitude playing havoc on my system, I graciously drank some excellent wine. I also made a big meatball dinner for Jodi and friends as thanks for the hospitality:

While driving back down the long winding highway away from the mountains I was reminded about CO drivers: no signals, tailgating, wandering over to our lane, high speeds, everyone owns a truck our an SUV. We sighed as we left the Vail Valley, certain we would have to visit again. We spent one last lingering night in Golden before heading out on Wednesday, my body immediately rewarding me with a Big Cold the second I stepped on the plane.

CO I miss you!