5 Diamonds, 14,000 Feet, and 2 Kissing Camels

Panorama from Mile 12, Pike's Peak

Hello, my friends!

How long it's been! Not that long, really, not when you measure it relative to my previous silences. But it feels long--at least to me. 

Have I mentioned that I have a romantic husband? Maybe alluded to it just a smidge bit? In case I haven't, let me say this: I have a romantic husband. In fact, he's often better at this game than I am. 

One thing about him traveling so much for work is that he racks up the bonus points for plane tickets and hotel stays FAST. This translates into us being able to travel more as a couple than we'd likely be able to do otherwise--and help out our families from time to time with a ticket here or there.

As you know from my previous post, Sean decided to cash in some of those points on Valentine's weekend and planned a getaway to a secret location. Two hours before I left for the airport he emailed me my boarding passes--for Colorado Springs.

Now, Sean travels a lot, but I'm no novice myself. I've trekked all over the globe and back. The funny thing is, I get much more anxious doing it when it's on my own than when I'm with Sean, or even anyone else. Comfort in numbers, I guess. Anyway, that's neither here nor there. I made it to the airport fine, waited patiently through a reeeeaaaaalllllllly  slow security line (they were training), and boarded with the rest of the peons (when I'm not traveling with Sean, I don't get to ride his coat tails for early boarding or any of the other perks) and settled into my front-row seat. 

 

It took me about 30 seconds of stealthy sideways glances to realize that my seatmate was crying. Of course, once this realization was made, I had a choice: stoically ignore her emotional distress and pretend that everything is ok, or reach out and see if I can help?

 

What the hell, I thought. I'm never going to see her again.

 

"Hey," I said. "I know this is weird, but you seem to be upset. I'm literally a stranger on a plane right now, so if you need to talk, we can."

 

To tell the truth, I expected her to tell me to take a hike. Instead, she gave a watery laugh and dried her eyes, and her story came out in bits and pieces. Marriage is hard sometimes, that's the long and short of it, and she felt lost and angry and hurt. For the next two hours, three glasses of wine (two for her, one for me), and a 15-minute terrifying pocket of turbulence, I listened, she vented, we swapped stories, we laughed, we even talked a little bit about the future. As we approached the runway, she told me that it had been the best flight she'd ever taken, and thanked me profusely for reaching out. One we were on the jetway, we exchanged phone numbers and email addresses.

 

Sure, reaching out felt awkward and took me out of my comfort zone and might have resulted in a cool shutdown and a cold shoulder from my seatmate, but it didn't. Sometimes you are right where you're meant to be when you're supposed to be... and it's just up to you to do the rest.

 

Anyway, I lost sight of my seatmate in the trek through the airport, though I did catch her eye again at baggage claim and waved goodbye. By that time, Sean had met up with me right past security and given me these pretty flowers. (No, I totally did NOT put them in the ice bucket in the hotel, in the sink, and draped the mirror and faucet behind with a towel to take this picture. I'm not sure why you would even think that.) He had driven with them down from Denver, and I couldn't bear to leave them behind, so I manhandled them with me back on the plane home--and they held up surprisingly well!

On our drive back to the hotel from the airport, we heard a loud noise and felt kind of a "chunk" in the car--though neither of us thought we hit anything. Luckily we were getting off the freeway anyway, because by the time we exited and pulled off the the side, the back passenger tire was hissing like a boiling kettle and losing pressure fast. Because it was a rental car, we decided to not do anything to change the tire (and thus potentially put too much liability on ourselves if something happened to go wrong again), so we called roadside assistance and waited for about an hour before the helpful dude showed up... though no less than three police vehicles stopped during that time and offered help if we needed it.

After we were patched up and cruising down the road again on a donut tire, it was nearly midnight and "tired" doesn't begin to cover how we felt. We twisted and turned through Colorado Springs and passed the Olympic Training center along the way to the hotel... which was kind of cool, since the Olympics were in progress and many of the skaters had departed from Colorado just a couple weeks before.

Eventually Sean turned onto a road was lined with trees that sparkled with fairy lights, and which ended in the shadow of a giant buildig. The building was old, and elegant, and even at nearly midnight a uniformed gatekeeper waved Sean cheerfully through as a couple of valets and bellhops rushed to the car when we pulled under the ornate marquee--with our swank donut tire.

I looked at Sean incredulously. "We're staying here?" I squeaked. "I didn't bring nice enough clothes! Or shoes!"

Sean just laughed gently as he handed his keys to the valet. "You'll be fine," he said. "I promise."

Ladies and gentlemen, he took me to the Broadmoor. If the Broadmoor is unfamiliar to you, allow me to explain. Founded as a playground FOR the rich BY the rich (railroad barons, at the time), the Broadmoor is a 5-diamond (and 5-star) hotel backed up to the mountains of Colorado Springs. It shocked people with its $2 million price tag back in the day, but nowdays it boasts its own lake (really just a glorified pond), a golf course, tennis courts, pools, spas, a bowling alley, five restaurants, a museum, a separate Wilderness Retreat and another retreat soon to be opening, a host of boutiques and shops, and some private properties for the wealthiest guests. And they have world-class french pastries.

Designed by the same architect who did Grand Central Station, the Broadmoor pays homage to the romantic Pioneer West of the days of its grand opening with its preference for tasteful western art lining the walls, but the similarities to Grand Central Station are found in the tiled floors and the pastel frescoed ceilings.

Our room -- one of the least swanky -- was fully outfitted with hands-free technology so that you could close the drapes, turn on the lights, set the do-not-disturb, and view hotel amenities from a tablet on the nightstand. The Broadmoor is old and sticks to those pre-turn of the century roots, so the decor could hardly be called modern. I guess if I had to put a term to it, it was... rich English countryside? Anyway, it was swank.

The next day we went to exchange the rental car in favor of one without a classy donut tire on back, then headed downtown for lunch and shopping. Along the way I saw this door, which reminded me of my friend V in New York because her husband is an aspiring blacksmith. That, and it looks like something that jumped out of a Tolkien story, and V is all about Tolkien-ish stories.

On our way out of the reeeeeaaaaallllly tight parking garage, we managed to graze a pylon, putting a sizeable chunk and a smear of yellow paint in the front fender of our (recently exchanged) rental car. At that, Sean threw his hands in the air and declared that he was just going to walk everywhere from then on.

Though fender benders always put you in a bad mood, we couldn't stay grumpy for long since we were on a mini-vacation. We went back and explored the hotel a bit (and I conducted a flower photo session in the bathroom after (quietly) sawing off the ends of the stems of the flowers with the foil cutter on the room's complementary cork screw while Sean took a cat nap), and then we changed for dinner.

 

I was starting to feel VERY under-dressed in my black pencil skirt and jacket as we passed several women in sparkly cocktail dresses and ball gowns...but when we saw the uniformed men in the lobby in their dress blues, I put two and two together and realized we were crashing the annual Air Force Ball (the Air Force Academy is in Colorado Springs). Sean and I had a lovely dinner at the Summit Restaurant, during which we both broke our strict paleo diet that we'd been maintaining since the new year. It was worth it, though.

Afterwards, unwilling to drive anywhere and equally unwilling to call it a night, we wandered down to the Golden Bee, an authentic English pub (really. They broke down a pub in London and shipped all the fixtures to the Broadmoor--after it had a short, but glorious second life in New York. The fixtures were all over 100 years old) on the Broadmoor grounds. You might recall this pub from my previous post, "Best. Night. Ever." Suffice it to say that booze + piano man sing-alongs + rowdy Air Force personnel makes for one fun night.

The next day, based on several recommendations, we went to go see the Garden of the Gods. The Garden is something like you'd expect in the sandstone deserts of Utah, except it is surrounded by Colorado greenery. It was beautiful, breathtaking, and WINDY.

 

I stopped to take this picture as we first entered the park, intrigued by the forces of erosion and the weakness of the rock that somehow teamed together to create just that one hole in the face of the cliff. After I had snapped the picture and was walking away, a young boy and his family passed us.

"Look!" the boy said, excitedly pointing up at the cliff. "Look! Two kissing camels!"

And for the rest of the day, whenever the kissing camels came into view, I could think of nothing else--I could no longer see it as merely an interesting geological formation.

The sun was against me for much of the shots, and my phone doesn't have the greatest camera. But one thing I noticed as I was reviewing all these photos is that I almost always was standing and taking the photo from the east facing west. And nearly all of the formations are leaning from right to left. That must have been one hell of a northern wind.

 

After the Garden of the Gods, we made our way to a small town outside Colorado Springs near Pikes Peak. We didn't really have any plan or goal, so we just strolled for a while, peeked into a gallery of local artists, and stopped for a cup of tea at a local coffee shop where I used the restroom and got an unexpected boost of self-confidence:

 

Though we had not nearly scratched the surface of the charming--and more than slighly hippy--town, we decided to make our way to Pike's Peak. At just over 14,000 feet (14,031, I think, but I'm just remembering that from the informational brochure. I'm sure you could google it if you don't trust me), Pikes Peak is merely one of more than two dozen (again, I'm just trying to dredge this out from my memory) of Colorado's "Fourteeneers," peaks above 14,000 feet. In February the road wasn't yet open all the way to the peak, so we could only go to mile 12 of 14.
 

It is a gorgeous ride on the way up, but once you hit the turnaround point (if I thought it was windy in Garden of the Gods, it was frankly terrifying when we got out at mile 12 and I worried about the car tumbling off the side with the gusts) and start going back down, the view is breathtaking. There's no way snapshots could do it justice, but here is some of what we saw:





Mile 10-ish

And that, my friends, is Colorado Springs in a nutshell. I'd love to go back in warmer weather. It's a great place to visit. If you go, stop in at the Broadmoor, and if you're a breakfast person, the Omelet Parlor in town is a great place (seriously might have been the best omelet I've ever had in my life)... but always expect a wait!

Best. Night. Ever.

Okay. In the interest of full disclosure, I should mention that 1) I am a wee bit buzzed right now, and 2) I'm typing on a STUPID laptop with a STUPID trackpad that makes the cursor jump like crazy unless I type with my wrists up like a concert pianist (thank you, Sony Vaio), and 3) the two don't make a good typo-free combo. Apologies in advance.

So, down to business. It's Valentine's day, and it turns out that I married the most romantic guy ever. Yup. Way more romantic than me. I can never hope to match him in planning and sheer awesomeness for birthdays, anniversaries, etc.

Sean travels a lot for work. This last week he was in Denver, so when he asked me to get the day off and meet him at an undisclosed location, I assumed I'd fly into Denver and spend the weekend.

Well, two hours before I boarded my flight, he sent me my boarding passes via email...and it was Colorado Springs. And not only was it Colorado Springs, but we were staying at the Broadmoor. Think the Ritz or the Four Seasons, except not a hotel chain. It's crazy... it's kind of like Cheers... everyone knows your name--because they're paid to know it.

We had a bit of drama getting here. A flat tire on the way from the airport, a bit of a fender-bender in the rental car, but what is a bit of drama in the face of a kick-ass weekend?

It was supposed to be an awesome weekend weather-wise, but today dawned super foggy and chilly, in spite of the weather man's prediction of sunny and 50s. Regardless, we did some shopping and dining and walking and talking, and then made our way back to the Broadmoor for a swank dinner.

Sean and I have gone super paleo for the last month and half, which apparently results in quasi-virgin taste buds--without artificial sweetener, everything tastes sweeter. Without processed foods full of sodium, everything tastes saltier.  Dinner was incredible.... except for the excessive (and I do mean excessive) salt. And ironically, our waiter said that the chef should know better, considering that he went paleo for 9 months or so himself.

But once more, I digress. I tend to do that in these blogs... digression is a fact of life, I guess.

After dinner we high-tailed it to the jacuzzi before it closed at 9 PM (9 PM?? Seriously??) and made chummy with a couple of guys up from Louisiana (a classically-trained musician and a lawyer) before deciding to head out to the Golden Bee, an English Pub on the Broadmoor grounds.

The Golden Bee is incredibly authentic in terms of English Pub-ness. The woodwork, the wall paper, the beers on tap... all of them spoke to the spirit of the UK. They have custom embroidered super-sticky bee stickers that they throw at all the patrons to stick on their shirts--a very cool and often hilarious gimmick And most awesome of all, they have sing-a-longs and pass out lyric books so you can follow along. A guy plays the piano and takes requests--either from the book or otherwise--and the crowd sings along.

Now, you can guess that the crowd may not be all that involved in a sing-along night, and I'm sure that often you'd be right. However, tonight the Broadmoor hosted the Air Force Ball, and the pub was full of post-ball military people ready to have a good time... and raucous fun ensued. Singing along with 100 strangers to the Beatles and Tom Petty and traditional Irish Pub songs never felt so good--not even the drunk woman who came up to me and told me I was gorgeous while getting WAY too touchy-feely could dampen my mood...but let's be honest--does anyone ever NOT want to hear that someone thinks they're gorgeous??

And in the corner, the TVs were playing the Olympics, which tonight featured men's figure skating. If there's anywhere in the US that's a good place to be watching men's figure skating in a bar, it's Colorado Springs--headquarters of the US Olympic Committee and home of the Olympic skating training facilities and the Figure Skating Hall of Fame.

During one performance, the bartender stopped in front of us and asked if we had seen it yet. It turns out his girlfriend is in sports medicine at the Olympic training center and knows most of the skaters, so he regaled us with the back story of the young 19-year-old skater from Colorado and watched the replays with us--as I imagine a bar tender would anywhere else with a crazy football play. Only in Colorado Springs could a macho bar tender rehashing the intricacies of a men's long program in figure skating seem commonplace.

We made friends with the piano man (he actually did a GREAT rendition of Billy Joel) by virtue of talking to him and buying him a beer, and as a result all of our requests jumped the queue. After a few cocktails, some Bon Jovi, Elton John, and Journey--and an increasingly inebriated and raucous Air Force population--we decided to call it a night...but not before the bartenders, the pianist, and a couple of the Air Force personnel (including the guy who looked like Patrick Stewart) waved goodbye as we walked out the door.

Best. Night. Ever.

Dear Bed Bath & Beyond

Dear Bed Bath & Beyond:

First of all, let's agree that for the rest of this letter I can refer to you as BB&B. Saying Bed Bath & Beyond each time is too much of a mouthful. And we won't even get into the fact that you really ought to have a comma after Bed (and after Bath, too, but there are always some detractors who argue the cause for NOT having a comma before "and." Poor, misguided souls).

Anyway, I digress. I like your store. A whole lot. I always end up spending way too much money when we visit and adding a whole bunch of organizational doo-dads to my "next time" list. I also like the fact that you always send out 20% off coupons. I DON'T like all the restrictions in the fine print, but that's neither here nor there.

I signed up for mobile coupon alerts to be texted to me. We will ignore the fact that I tried to sign up four different times over a period of 6 months to get email coupons, and it never worked. And no, they didn't go into my junk folder. So I gave up and signed up for the texts, which worked like a charm.

Now I get coupon texts from you pretty regularly. BB&B, please, please, PLEASE tell me why you are choosing to contribute to the massacre of the English language by using "text speak" in your coupon offers. Why?

Your offers say, "BedBath&Beyond: Ur mobile offer for 20% off 1 item in-store OR online is here!  View http://blahblahblah. Reply STOP to cancel."

After I get done shivering in revulsion at the use of "Ur," this CHEESES me.  Every. Stinkin'. Time.

The English language is suffering through an alarmingly rapid degradation without you contributing further to the slaughter. You can't tell me it's a cost thing.... You're not paying by the number of characters in your text. Even if you were, two extra wouldn't break the bank. And you're not trying to shorten or truncate any of the rest of it into cutesy text lingo. And we know these messages are not actually coming from the phone of a BB&B employee. We KNOW that someone sat in front of a computer to type these messages, which makes it even more inexcusable. I mean, you have proper usage throughout the rest of it. You even say "in-store" instead of "in store." You obviously understand the intricacies of this complicated dance we language enthusiasts call grammar.

My 16-year-old little brother-in-law has started saying "NP," and "IDK," and "LOL" in face-to-face conversation instead of "no problem," "I don't know," or, you know, actually laughing out loud.  For crying out loud, people. Are we really so lazy that taking the time to say those extra syllables is actually too difficult of a task? I'm all for the natural evolution of language, but not for full-scale lingualcide.

And what happens when a major corporation like BB&B with a crazy amount of resources, extreme public visibility, and a highly educated corporate staff starts using this ridiculous texty lingo when it's unnecessary to do so? The indoctrination of our youth--our precious youth!--deepens.

For shame, I say! It's up to people like us to save the English language... As someone famous and smart once said, "The only way for cutesy text lingo to succeed is for grammar-centric people to stand by and do nothing." Or something like that.

Well, I refuse to stand by and do nothing. I'm calling you on the carpet, BB&B.  Let's put in those two extra letters in your coupon offers, and show these up-and-coming generations what "professionalism" means. Only YOU can prevent textual abuse.

Oh, and Pier 1? In case you're listening, my girl asked me to call you out, too. What's up with you being hella expensive these days?

Sincerely and with most respectful regards,
A long-hand texter

Narcissism and the Art of the Christmas Letter

You know what's a hard word to spell? Narcissism. After I just spelled it, even after checking in the dictionary, I still stare at it, trying to tell if I actually got it right. Too many curvy letters. I feel that way about "anonymity." Never can spell that one without a lot of trouble, either. I just ran spell check, though, so apparently I got it right. Not that spell Czech is always a safety net. It won't catch properly-spelled typos or grammatical missteps. Its you're friend, but it won't save you from yourself. See?

Oh, and that's not my hand in that picture, though I have been known to use a fountain pen on occasion. The nails on Ms. Clip Art's hands are way too cute and manicured and perfect. Nails like that wouldn't survive a week in my life. Just too much maintenance, anyway.

Oy. I haven't even started my post yet, and already I'm digressing. Kind of like talking to me in real life. 

Anyway, to the point: the season is upon us. Incessant holiday music in stores has been plaguing us since Halloween. We're shopping and mailing and gifting and baking. Time for holiday cards and... Christmas letters.

Christmas letters are a tradition with Sean and I. We don't have kids or crazy adventures, but we somehow still manage to fill up a whole page front and back--though I try to use generously-sized font.

But let me tell you a little something. I don't like social media. I don't tweet. I've never even logged on to Twitter. I reluctantly use LinkedIn, though I really loathe the lack of functionality in LinkedIn's iPad app (are you reading this, LinkedIn people?). I've never been on InstaGram or Vine. I have a Facebook page, but my profile picture is from--2008? 2009?--and I hardly ever log in.

I hate social media because the moment I log in to Facebook and see everyone's feeds and comments and kids and status updates, I feel Scrooge-ish. I feel like I don't have an adventurous life. That I'm under-accomplished.  That I should have a higher-paying job. I feel guilty that I don't have a stronger opinion about Israel. Or Palestine. Or my local bond election. And my turkey chili that I'm eating in front of the computer for dinner doesn't compare to the proscuitto and buffalo mozzerella with homemade basil pesto and home-grown cherry tomato pizza my friend just posted for her pic. I feel bad that I'm not more in touch with all these people from high school, and maybe I really SHOULD have tried harder to stay in touch with Tammy Joe or whomever.

When I log off, I think, "waaaaiiiit a minute. I don't stay in touch with these people because we weren't really good friends in high school, and we're not even friends now. I didn't WANT to stay in touch with Tammy Joe." So what do I care about Tammy Joe's picture-perfect life?

Maybe I should "unfriend" everyone off my account except family and friends I actually want to keep in touch with.

And what's more... I struggle to remember that what people post on Facebook most of the time is not the nitty-gritty of real life. It's this perfect slice of their life that they want the world to see. They keep the struggle and the heartache and the tough stuff to themselves, most of the time. Facebook is for your happy face, the person you want to be. It's not for displaying the person that you actually ARE. A little bit of main-stream, society-wide narcissism--the pervasive assumption that other people care about what we ate, what music we're listening to, or what cute words your toddler just strung together.

Granted, I realize that I can't make sweeping statements like that. Some people really do have their highs and lows on Facebook. A lot of people don't. And a large group of people DOES seem to care about what you just ate. And some of the stuff on Twitter is hilarious. I know because my friend emails them to me.

Then I sat down and started writing our Christmas letter. As I was mentally reviewing our past year and glossing over our low points and struggles, I had an uncomfortable realization. Here I hold these fairly negative views of social media, and what else am I doing than presenting an old-fashioned snapshot of that "happy face" that I decry on Facebook? I carefully craft the letter to only show the fun stuff, the amusing stuff, the interesting stuff. Everybody does. That's the art of the Christmas letter. Holy Hannah.  All I'm really doing is sending out a really long Facebook post. I'm assuming that people I haven't really stayed in touch with all year actually CARE about what we've done.

Well, this is embarassing. And if you carry that further, I have a BLOG, for cripe's sake. Seems slightly more narcissistic than Facebook, really.

Huh. Well, I have no intention of changing my Christmas letter behavior. I guess like 90% of the people on Facebook, I prefer to play the tough stuff close to the vest. Seems that I'll be sending out my cards a little heavier for a slice of narcissism. Hope you all forgive me. And really, I actually DO look forward to all the other letters from people, so if people look forward to mine, is it still narcissistic of me?

Ugh, my head is starting to hurt. I'm just going to finish stuffing these envelopes and nursing my papercuts.

Merry Christmas!

Blessed

I'm a night owl. I do some of my most creative work in the wee hours. Sometimes I'll have great inspiration for posts while I'm laying in bed trying to sleep, and I'll remember them the next day but have no motivation, drive, or creativity to complete them.

And then there are nights like tonight, laying in the darkness next to my husband, typing madly with my thumbs or index fingers and relying on autocorrect to speed things along--or make really hilarious mistakes.

Nights like tonight are when I lay down in bed, and feel immediately comfortable and relaxed and at peace. Sometimes that sensation of tranquility is directly related to wine, and sometimes it isn't. Tonight is a bit of both.

Nights like tonight are when I luxuriously stretch out my toes to the bottom of the bed. I am the perfect temperature.  Our uber-fancy temperpedic-ish bed is cradling my body in a sublime blend of soft give and hard support. My husband is breathing loudly and evenly in his sleep in the darkness next to me, and my little dog--my living teddy bear--is curled up against my side.

One of my favorite feelings in the world is when I have clean sheets and freshly-shaved legs, and I have both tonight (possibly too much information, but who cares?). And If I'm OCD about anything, it's that my blankets have to be JUST SO before I can relax enough to try and sleep.  At this moment, my blankets are just so.

Sean took me out to a steakhouse tonight with his birthday money. It was date night, and we sat in the gaudy-gothic-fab Latin restaurant and talked and ate and laughed and drank, just the two of us.  Sometimes when people who have kids say, "what do you mean, 'just the two of you?' Isn't it always just the two of you?" I begin to think they have a fair point, and I feel stupid and selfish for not wanting to share our time with others. But then I have to step back and look at our situation.  We both work full time, or more than full time. Sean travels for two weeks of the month, usually.  Weekends are taken up with errands and housework. We have standing Monday night dinners with his sister and our nephew.  Weeknights are full of dishes and email and work triage on the couch with laptops and iPads.  We're side-by-side, but not really together.

When I say, "just the two of us," I mean no laptops, no emails, no tv or cell phones or iPads.  Just us. And on nights like tonight, everything feels just perfect. I am so lucky to have my husband, and sometimes can't believe my good fortune to have snagged him. He's better than I deserve. And for reasons I don't understand and can't logically follow, he seems to think the same about me.

The wine might be getting to me.  I might regret this post later. But for now, in the darkness and surrounded by what I hold most dear, I am blessed.

I am blessed.