Mumbling Madly

Dancers for freedom at the “Coming to America” video shoot, (Joey, Joanna, Andrea)

Beautiful Bald Bee is heading off to Iowa City…I’m gonna miss her (and her new husband behind her).

A few extra details about our trip. It was Kimberly and Justin’s wedding/10 year anniversary party that prompted us to make the trek to LA in the first place. I met Kimberly pulling coffee at The Bucks on Capitol Hill eight years ago. We discovered we both had matching degrees: major in Drama/minor in Dance. Hurrah! I recruited her for the show I was working on, we danced (contemporary), eventually Justin ran our lights, and they became our best ‘couple friend’ while living in Cap Hill for the summer. Then we moved to CO and they moved back to So-Cal.

The inside joke of the party was by far Kimberly’s blog reference to signing their marriage license under the lines Party A and Party B (to reflect the recent gender neutral licenses distributed in CA). No Husband and Wife terms for them! (Which suits them perfectly). Their ceremony was 5 minutes, led by a mutual friend, and very touching. There were no exchanging of rings, no vows they had written, and no wedding cake (but not to worry, I had spotted large cupcakes in the kitchen!) The ceremony wrapped up with a a simple “Do you take this person?” and a “I do” from Justin and a “I totally do” from Kimberly.

The room exploded with cheers and in the following chaos Josh started casing out the lime tree in the backyard. Wanting to help out the bartender (a friend of K and J’s who was super sweet and made me a humongous martini in an equally sizable plastic cup), Josh managed to extend his long arm up into the tree and extract a lime. How cool is that! How ‘California’ to have fruit trees that produce lemons and limes–I had no idea!

The Newport Beach breezes picked up as we dined on vegetarian lasagna (reflecting Kimberly’s vegan tendencies), drank wine from the care free bottles of red and white that had been placed tactfully on each table, and met other arty/drama-y friends from the K and J community. Champaign was passed around at the end for toasts and rememberences. Josh had been happily drinking beer all night, drank his champaign, and then cheerfully added the glass of red wine I had poured for him hours ago (for dinner). This resulted in a very Sick Josh the next morning in the LAX airport (who has since then swore off champaign for the rest of his natural life). That combined with a nerve wracking 45 minute wait to get through security, no food, and a packed plane led to both of us melting down. To top it off we had an inexperienced mother sitting behind us with two screaming, screeching, complaining, whining children…one was about a year old and the other was barely three. It was so bad that the stewardess came over and said, “The seatbelt sign is off, now would be a great time to walk your baby up and down the aisle…here I’ll take your three year old.” Did the mother walk her baby? No, she sat like a lump in her seat while her child emitted a series of painful yelping noises. I couldn’t even sit back in my seat because my chair was being mercifully kicked the entire time by an impatient and pissed off toddler. Worst Flight Ever.

But all that aside, the wedding was a delightful highlight to an otherwise somber weekend. Hurray for Kimberly and Justin!

So, what is the social network etiquette when it comes to accepted ‘friend requests?” If you haven’t heard from someone in ten years and they contact you on facebook, well, what do you do? I’ve tended to base my acceptance on my last interaction with this person and if it was generally positive. Hence, the few folks I ran into at my 10 year reunion and had a good conversation with are now my ‘friends.’ The girl I barely know who stage managed the last Legend’s show, who was so sweet and provided much needed estrogen to a cast ripe with men, is my ‘friend.’ The flattering photographer who snapped the first F.D. photo shoot and can always be found at the base of the stage with his huge lens pointed at my hot pants is my ‘friend.’ Anyone I’ve ever shared the stage with improvising is considered a ‘friend.’

A few weeks ago I was contacted by someone and I had no idea who they were. The black and white profile picture was of a demure woman holding a little boy in her lap. Who the hell is this? I couldn’t see much of their profile, but I gleaned that they were from Vancouver, married, and Christian. OK, so this is not typically a demographic that I relate to. Probably their last name must have changed? I sleuthed, but I didn’t recognize them. Then I realized: this was my close friend in 7th grade. I say ‘was’ because she and I had a falling out in 8th grade where she pitted my (still) best friend Courtney and I against each other. Tempers flared, sides were taken, and by freshman year our friendship had dissolved. Did I accept her friend request? No. No, I did not.

Italians are known for holding a grudge. It doesn’t matter how much time has past, we will hold a grudge against you until the very end. I know this sounds dramatic, but I’ll be the first to admit: I have a very hard time ‘getting over things.’ If I have one negative encounter with you, even if you apologize, I’m going to hold onto it and file it away (and if you don’t apologize, man, you better forget it). Sure, Italians are also noted for their great passion, empathy, and ability to bring people together (usually around food). But we can turn this all around and become just as passionate about being slighted (and how that made us feel, and how it should make everyone else feel, and so on and so forth). I make plenty of allowances, but I am not a ‘live and let live’ type of person.

This side of myself has been oddly triggered due to social networking sites and my recent exposure to the performance community. Recently, I received a friend request from a girl I was friends with in college. Typical for that age we both got very distracted with boys, relationships, ourselves, etc. and grew apart somewhere around our junior year. She lived with my X in a house filled with other friends (which was hideous since it cut me off from many of them). None of this was her fault, but I still felt left over uneasiness about the evaporation of our friendship. Cut to ten years later and she’s happily married with two kids, lives far away, and recently sent me a ‘friend’ request. Really? I thought.

“It’s been ten years!” a mutual friend brought up. But, that’s the thing: sometimes it doesn’t matter how long it’s been. (Hell, my X showed up at a Legend’s show and I almost threw up right there on stage–I was so panicked. “But it’s been ten years! You’re married now and you own a house!” a fellow performer exclaimed as if that would somehow erase my anxiety). Still, in this case I realized any sort of stubborn grudge holding was silly. Friends…even long ago friends are important. Even though it’s just facebook, the sense of community, of extension, is really important to me. The climate in this country has been extra hard lately, and I realized that I don’t have time for grudges. I accepted her friend request and immediately we dove into a lively discussion about theater, parenting, and our artistic quests. It was a nice step up from the casual acquaintance format of social networking sites–one where you merely use your friends as receptacles for a million event attendance requests.

But that’s me…and I know it’s case by case. Some people would rather have huge friend numbers, regardless if they actually know each and every one of their ‘friends.’ So, I turn it over to you, dear readers…what is your criteria for accepting ‘friend’ requests?

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

This weekend is filled with performing and parties (sometimes both)!
It is my pleasure to brag that I made the following with great pride (and mostly from scratch):
Cheese straws (puff pastry and parmasean)
Seasoned party almonds
Lite chocolate chip cookies
Hummus
Two types of dip (sun dried tomato and regular)
Brie wrapped in puff pastry and topped with apricot preserves
Pot stickers pulled from the bag and fried
Strawberries with real whip cream
In short: If you’re going to move to Australia, expect to be rung out with style.
Top this off with fresh bread made for a book club meeting tomorrow and you can find me spending the entire rainy day in the kitchen. I truly enjoyed it. And I even managed not to make too much of a mess.

Hi.

Yesterday, I wrote a long personal post about a friend who has breast cancer. I wrote: “This is the vicarious nature we have with our friends. We latch on, we hang on, we experience and all the while we have side by side experiences with those we adore. We share, we care, we talk about our similarities as a way to navigate through life. And then something happens and we don’t have the experience…we can’t have the cancer right along side them. Instead we have to remain behind as they dive into this new part of their life.”

It was too upsetting. Even though this friend has been open about her health, I think I might have divulged too much and made it more about myself then, well, about reality.

The reality is breast cancer sucks major ass. When you learn a 27 year old friend has fallen ill with cancer it should motivate you to put your arm behind your head and start massaging your boob in circles checking for lumps. It should prompt you to take the plunge and get your first (or second or third) mammogram no matter how young you are. It should make you reflect on the health choices you’re making in your own life. It should make you hug those you love a little tighter.

This is all my friend really wants: “Please share my blog with the world. That’s why I have it. Feel free to use my full name - I’m about education. I have to make this somehow have a positive effect on the world. Tell everyone you know. Please do self breast exams every month! Please visit your OBGYN regularly!”

With that advice, I’m going to go feel up my booby and gain the strength to get my first mammogram.

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!

“TEXAS license plates? No way, we need a different car,” it was Saturday, Josh and I had been up since 5am and we were standing in the Alamo rental car parking lot. The sun was beautiful, blinding in its strength at 5,000 feet above sea level. Josh had waded through line after line, finally getting us a crappy American mid-size sedan for our Colorado trip. We had pre-paid for our rental car (the most expensive part of our trip besides the plane tix) through priceline but had forgotten that it was President’s Day weekend. EVERYONE had the same idea: let’s run away to Colorado where it’s sunny and there’s tons of snow in the mountains. The SUV’s were snatched up by eager New Yorkers, desperate for a slice of Rocky Mountain living–and driving. The forecast called for spotty snow but mostly sunny weather. Our sedan would be fine for the trip, but the Texas license plates offended me.

“We’re not trading,” Josh informed me. “This car is fine…let’s get out of here.” He was right, normally stuff like license plates don’t bother me, but I was super tired and hungry. I conceded, “Fine then, I’m going to have to find some super liberal bumper sticker for the back window…something really over the top, like: ‘Abortions For All’” (quote the space aliens from The Simpsons). Josh reminded me that we would have to go to Boulder to find something remotely liberal (and that was not in our trip plans). While waiting for Josh to get the rental car (guarding our heavily packed bags filled with snowboarding gear) I had made small talk with a couple from Belltown. They were equally shocked by the sunshine and we talked about the usual Seattle related things: the housing market, the cost of living, renting versus buying in the city, and the weather (specifically: the rain). The couple abruptly left me to pile into a very nice rented Range Rover while I half expected Josh to pull up in a car the size of a jelly bean. Turns out it was a nice size, our snowboards fit and that was all that mattered–who cares if Coloradoans think we’re from Texas on this trip.

The sun served as a salve as we began our first trip on the old familiar highway. It was as if the coldest parts of us were warmed, the soaking wet cold from the Seattle winter was temporarily dried. We were breathless, largely from the change in altitude, but also from the flat expanse of land and endless sky. My nose immediately started whistling and my lips automatically needed chapstick. Josh and I went to a sketchy 7 eleven where the cashier neglected to ring up Josh’s cheap sunglasses while bitching to her friend, “I don’t know why she doesn’t come to work, I mean what’s up with that shit?” While traveling in the car I ate some of the worst cheese I’ve ever had (the texture was chunky) and began my love affair with water.

My aunt and uncle always lived outside NYC when I was growing up so the fact that they now live in CO is still new to me. I felt very lucky to be a guest in their lovely home and was thrilled when we busted out the spaghetti press and made noodles.

The weather shifted from sunny and warm to snowy. The following day we went to Thornton where my bestest friend in the world lives. I hadn’t seen Courtney in three years and we immediately fell into a well worn groove of communication, locked in from years and years of confiding, gossiping, and sharing. Her son is huge (at all of four years old) and very sweet. Her husband, Lyle, and Josh chatted about motorcycles, work, and skateboarding. We ate stew, went on a walk, and watched the beginning of Flashdance. There is no way I could ever convince Court to return to the northwest, so I must be happy in the meantime with occasional correspondence and precious visits. Sometimes when I am running all over Seattle in my new, urban, lifestyle I miss Courtney deeply. When you spend the majority of your formative years with one person (age 5-22) they become ingrained in your spirit and you always miss them on some level. When pulling out of her driveway I realized I had no idea when I’ll see Courtney again and I cried in the car on our way out of Thornton.

Stay tuned for Part 2 of Colorado (How I Love Thee). And check out my flickr page for more glorious photos.

A friend of mind from CO posted this amusing dialog on gender with his toddler: