This past Friday evening, my husband and I enjoyed a murder mystery dinner theater. Being that this is the month of hearts and flowers and love, The Saint Valentines Day Murder Mystery or Rubout at Uncle Vinny's seemed appropriate. We had a delightful time.
My husband fell in love with me years ago when I took him to see the stage performance of The Phantom of the Opera. Turns out, live entertainment has become something of a specialty for us. We have enjoyed plays, musicals, comedy clubs and now we've added dinner theater to our adventures. Each time we attend a performance, I say to myself that acting looks fun. It certainly doesn't appear to be difficult, at least not the acting part. The singing and dancing...well, that's an entirely different matter. Heaven knows, I certainly don't have the pipes for opera.
Anyway...I digress. During the performance, I made a personal decision. After the show, I would contact the troop and ask how one becomes involved in a production such as this. Turns out, I didn't have to do that. In fact, I had already been "discovered." The director/producer of the show noticed me during dinner and took note of how well I interacted with the characters. He invited me to sit with him after all the guests left and discuss the technical aspects of dinner theater.
Not only was I immediately cast in the next production without a formalized audition, but I was also cast as the lead. Yeppers. I'm the "Go To". The "It" girl for the March performance. The first show is scheduled for March 11th at the The Highnoon Saloon in downtown Leavenworth, Kansas. Feel free to come and enjoy a meal with a side of murder. Oh yeah...I'm the one getting murdered.
It's all good though. I play two parts: the victim and the investigator. Yeppers, I get to solve my own murder. How cool is that?!
The best part about all of this is that I am now considered a PROFESSIONAL actor. It's true. I'm getting paid.
I am so excited about all of this. Acting in a play has always been one of those things that I've wanted to do. Life is a wonderful thing. The older I get, the more I enjoy it.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Friday, February 10, 2006
The latest and greatest
My husband, the most wonderful man in the world, did tons of research and purchased a treadmill for me. Normally, I would have been offended by the implication, however, in this particular instance, I was pleased. Actually, I encouraged (that's code for "nagged") him to buy one. My pants have become uncomfortably snug (that's code for "Damn! I'm fat!) and I felt compelled to fix the problem (that's code for"get of my rapidly expanding ass and do some exercise").
I had read in some fitness article that if you really want to loose some belly fat, you simply have to walk aggressively for one hour a day. Talk about unrealistic and ridiculous. I walk my pups for about 10 minutes and that's plenty of walking for me. It is also about the most free time I have lately. But....it is either that or spend a small fortune of a wardrobe of larger sizes. So, the lesser of two evils....get to walking.
When I married my husband, the both of us had been living in the adult world for some time and brought to the marriage a household of stuff. The result was two of everything. So, when the treadmill went into the basement, so did a television and a DVD player. With some clever design tricks, I turned an unfinished basement into my personal happy space good for sweating.
I have extra bath mats (provided by my mother who sold her Bed and Breakfast. She had tons of towels, sheets and assorted linens that found their way to my house. I now have enough blankets to keep my family warm even if we were snowed in with no heat for a month.) that I put down all around my treadmill. I hooked up the TV and DVD player and got out the old small refrigerator from my college dorm days. It is stocked with bottled water and lately, I noticed my fabulous husband has adopted it for chilling beer. I have hung baskets on the rafters and draped decorative tapestries over the concrete walls. Because my pups like being with me and I am a sucker for those big brown eyes, I have brought down an ottoman and a dog blanket for them. Now, they can keep me company in comfort.
In the past, I tried doing the stationary bicycle, treadmill, and elliptical at the gym using headphones and listening to a book on tape. I figured I could get my literature fix while exercising. Unfortunately, I found myself making short-term goals like "I'll stop at the end of the tape." Those goals grew shorter and shorter to "I'll stop at the end of the chapter" and finally to "I'll stop at the end of the paragraph."
I didn't want to fall into the same pattern at home. With the DVD player, I had a brilliant idea. My husband, although amazingly wonderful, does not enjoy watching the same kinds of movies that I do. So, I decided that I would rent/borrow DVD's like National Geographic Presents and girl movies like Where the Red Fern Grows. That hour passes quickly and I get to enjoy seeing nature shows and movies that I otherwise wouldn't be able to see. It's a win-win situation. Just so you know, at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, the story turns very, very sad. I found myself having difficulty maintaining proper breathing while sobbing and snotting myself. I would recommend an alternative viewing experience while exercising.
I had read in some fitness article that if you really want to loose some belly fat, you simply have to walk aggressively for one hour a day. Talk about unrealistic and ridiculous. I walk my pups for about 10 minutes and that's plenty of walking for me. It is also about the most free time I have lately. But....it is either that or spend a small fortune of a wardrobe of larger sizes. So, the lesser of two evils....get to walking.
When I married my husband, the both of us had been living in the adult world for some time and brought to the marriage a household of stuff. The result was two of everything. So, when the treadmill went into the basement, so did a television and a DVD player. With some clever design tricks, I turned an unfinished basement into my personal happy space good for sweating.
I have extra bath mats (provided by my mother who sold her Bed and Breakfast. She had tons of towels, sheets and assorted linens that found their way to my house. I now have enough blankets to keep my family warm even if we were snowed in with no heat for a month.) that I put down all around my treadmill. I hooked up the TV and DVD player and got out the old small refrigerator from my college dorm days. It is stocked with bottled water and lately, I noticed my fabulous husband has adopted it for chilling beer. I have hung baskets on the rafters and draped decorative tapestries over the concrete walls. Because my pups like being with me and I am a sucker for those big brown eyes, I have brought down an ottoman and a dog blanket for them. Now, they can keep me company in comfort.
In the past, I tried doing the stationary bicycle, treadmill, and elliptical at the gym using headphones and listening to a book on tape. I figured I could get my literature fix while exercising. Unfortunately, I found myself making short-term goals like "I'll stop at the end of the tape." Those goals grew shorter and shorter to "I'll stop at the end of the chapter" and finally to "I'll stop at the end of the paragraph."
I didn't want to fall into the same pattern at home. With the DVD player, I had a brilliant idea. My husband, although amazingly wonderful, does not enjoy watching the same kinds of movies that I do. So, I decided that I would rent/borrow DVD's like National Geographic Presents and girl movies like Where the Red Fern Grows. That hour passes quickly and I get to enjoy seeing nature shows and movies that I otherwise wouldn't be able to see. It's a win-win situation. Just so you know, at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, the story turns very, very sad. I found myself having difficulty maintaining proper breathing while sobbing and snotting myself. I would recommend an alternative viewing experience while exercising.
Monday, January 09, 2006
And They're Off
This past Saturday, I was in the mood to get out of the house. I didn't have any particular destination planned. I just had to go do something. I grabbed the "Things to do in the Kansas City Metropolitan Area" booklet. My husband and I got in the car and headed out on an adventure.
In the back of the booklet, there was a listing for 33 free things to do. Number 33 was The Woodlands. Hmmmmm. As I read the information provided, I discovered that The Woodlands is a race track. They offer horse racing, weiner dog racing (yep. It is advertised as "wiener dog" racing) and dog racing. I called the contact number and was told that there were races that afternoon. Unfortunately, the wiener dog race happens only once a year, on the last Sunday in July. That will have to wait until next year.
Anyway, I'm sure you can guess what happened next. That's right. We ended up at The Woodlands.
Okay, I have never been to a horse race, nor a dog race. And while waiting for my husband to return from the restroom, I chatted with the nice man standing next to me. I could see the dogs run by from where we were standing. It was exciting and naturally, I squealed with delight. The nice man asked me if this was my first time at the dog track.
"Yes. I've never been to a dog race before."
"Where are you from?" he asked with a look on his face that clearly communicated, "What planet did you come from? Everybody has been to the dog track."
I defended my ignorance with some pitiful excuse that there just were any track near my home town and left it at that. We went on to discuss the wiener dog race. He said it is just too funny to watch. Most the dogs don't even finish the race. They get distracted.
When my husband finally found me, we wandered off to the upstairs viewing area. The next race was about to start and of course, I wanted to place a bet.
Being a novice at dog gambling, I walked up to the betting window and inquired, "Okay, how do I do this?"
The girl at the window looked at me like I had a third eye growing from my forehead. She turned to the fellow next to her and shrugged her shoulders. He poked his head around the corner and asked what I was interested in doing.
So, I scooted over to his window and explained that I had never done this before and wanted to know how it worked.
"How much do you want to bet?" he asked.
"Little as possible," I replied. I have zero risk tolerance. Las Vegas makes me nervous. "Isn't the minimum two dollars?" See? I'm not completely stupid.
"Yes. Two dollars on To Show."
"What's that?"
"That's if your dog comes in first, second or third." That means Win, Place, or Show. It took me a few minutes to figure that one out by myself.
"Okay. What dogs are racing?" He pointed to the television monitor and explained all the colors and numbers.
"Well then, I'll bet two dollars To Show on number 4." I handed over my money. "Now, if my dog wins, I'll be back just as tickled as can be."
He was polite enough to smile at me as if he were enjoying my enthusiasm and not like I was a simpleton.
A few minutes later, the dog handlers escorted the dogs to the starting boxes. They put the dogs in and then ran to the end of the track. Then the little mechanical rabbit zipped around the track and as soon as it passed the starting blocks, the dogs were off and running.
They run FAST. The whole thing lasts less than 30 second. But it sure is an EXCITING 30 seconds. I was hollering as was everyone else. My number 4 dog (who I picked because it's little jacket was green and I thought it was pretty) was bumped coming around the first turn and unfortunately, never recovered. Too bad for me....my dog came in last.
Poop.
By this time, my wonderful husband who was doing his best to educate me in the ways of gambling on races, produced the information booklet with all the dogs' statistics. We looked at the runners for the next race. I didn't care what the numbers meant. I just picked the coolest name. I chose the number 6 dog, "Tater Clips." How funny is that?
Back to the betting window. I explained to the fellow that my dog had come in last. He smiled and said he had noticed.
I put my two dollars down on the number 6 dog To Show.
Moments later, they were off. My dog was running like crazy. She was so fast, but not fast enough. She ended up in last place.
Poop.
I was picking the wrong dogs.
My husband did some research on the dogs in the next race and compared the statistics. He eliminated several dogs and ended up with the two that he thought would do well.
Back to the betting window. This time my two dollars went to the number 2 dog in the little blue jacket. This was my last chance as this was the last race for the afternoon.
And they were off and running. As they turned the first corner, the number 4 dog took a tumble and recovered looking dazed and confused. The number two dog was in second place and they rounded the second turn and held its position in the stretch. By the third turn, some other dog was coming up the side. Everybody, my husband and I include, was yelling and cheering. As they rounded the last turn and headed down the home stretch, another dog passed number 2. Then a brown dog zipped up from behind and pulled ahead for a photo finish.
My dog came in fourth.
Poop.
In the back of the booklet, there was a listing for 33 free things to do. Number 33 was The Woodlands. Hmmmmm. As I read the information provided, I discovered that The Woodlands is a race track. They offer horse racing, weiner dog racing (yep. It is advertised as "wiener dog" racing) and dog racing. I called the contact number and was told that there were races that afternoon. Unfortunately, the wiener dog race happens only once a year, on the last Sunday in July. That will have to wait until next year.
Anyway, I'm sure you can guess what happened next. That's right. We ended up at The Woodlands.
Okay, I have never been to a horse race, nor a dog race. And while waiting for my husband to return from the restroom, I chatted with the nice man standing next to me. I could see the dogs run by from where we were standing. It was exciting and naturally, I squealed with delight. The nice man asked me if this was my first time at the dog track.
"Yes. I've never been to a dog race before."
"Where are you from?" he asked with a look on his face that clearly communicated, "What planet did you come from? Everybody has been to the dog track."
I defended my ignorance with some pitiful excuse that there just were any track near my home town and left it at that. We went on to discuss the wiener dog race. He said it is just too funny to watch. Most the dogs don't even finish the race. They get distracted.
When my husband finally found me, we wandered off to the upstairs viewing area. The next race was about to start and of course, I wanted to place a bet.
Being a novice at dog gambling, I walked up to the betting window and inquired, "Okay, how do I do this?"
The girl at the window looked at me like I had a third eye growing from my forehead. She turned to the fellow next to her and shrugged her shoulders. He poked his head around the corner and asked what I was interested in doing.
So, I scooted over to his window and explained that I had never done this before and wanted to know how it worked.
"How much do you want to bet?" he asked.
"Little as possible," I replied. I have zero risk tolerance. Las Vegas makes me nervous. "Isn't the minimum two dollars?" See? I'm not completely stupid.
"Yes. Two dollars on To Show."
"What's that?"
"That's if your dog comes in first, second or third." That means Win, Place, or Show. It took me a few minutes to figure that one out by myself.
"Okay. What dogs are racing?" He pointed to the television monitor and explained all the colors and numbers.
"Well then, I'll bet two dollars To Show on number 4." I handed over my money. "Now, if my dog wins, I'll be back just as tickled as can be."
He was polite enough to smile at me as if he were enjoying my enthusiasm and not like I was a simpleton.
A few minutes later, the dog handlers escorted the dogs to the starting boxes. They put the dogs in and then ran to the end of the track. Then the little mechanical rabbit zipped around the track and as soon as it passed the starting blocks, the dogs were off and running.
They run FAST. The whole thing lasts less than 30 second. But it sure is an EXCITING 30 seconds. I was hollering as was everyone else. My number 4 dog (who I picked because it's little jacket was green and I thought it was pretty) was bumped coming around the first turn and unfortunately, never recovered. Too bad for me....my dog came in last.
Poop.
By this time, my wonderful husband who was doing his best to educate me in the ways of gambling on races, produced the information booklet with all the dogs' statistics. We looked at the runners for the next race. I didn't care what the numbers meant. I just picked the coolest name. I chose the number 6 dog, "Tater Clips." How funny is that?
Back to the betting window. I explained to the fellow that my dog had come in last. He smiled and said he had noticed.
I put my two dollars down on the number 6 dog To Show.
Moments later, they were off. My dog was running like crazy. She was so fast, but not fast enough. She ended up in last place.
Poop.
I was picking the wrong dogs.
My husband did some research on the dogs in the next race and compared the statistics. He eliminated several dogs and ended up with the two that he thought would do well.
Back to the betting window. This time my two dollars went to the number 2 dog in the little blue jacket. This was my last chance as this was the last race for the afternoon.
And they were off and running. As they turned the first corner, the number 4 dog took a tumble and recovered looking dazed and confused. The number two dog was in second place and they rounded the second turn and held its position in the stretch. By the third turn, some other dog was coming up the side. Everybody, my husband and I include, was yelling and cheering. As they rounded the last turn and headed down the home stretch, another dog passed number 2. Then a brown dog zipped up from behind and pulled ahead for a photo finish.
My dog came in fourth.
Poop.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Christmas Dinner
Normally, I opt to make reservations for dinner. When I do decide to cook, my family makes a big production out of it. My husband tells folks that I cook about once a quarter. For the most part he's correct.
With the exception of this past Thanksgiving, I can't even remember the last time I cooked a holiday meal. I am the poster child for the holiday buffet. Having cooked for Thanksgiving, I was justified in my rebellion against cooking Christmas Dinner.
I simply had to locate a holiday buffet. Turns out, folks around here don't "do" holiday buffets. I called just about every restaurant in the greater Leavenworth/Nothern Kansas City area. I also called many hotels as they are usually good for a buffet. Alas, my efforts were in vain. Every place I called was closed. Can you believe that? Closed! What are Jewish folks, Muslims, and Buddists supposed to do? Are they expected to stay home and make a tuna sandwich?
As luck would have it. I was able to locate two eating establishments who were willing to eschew the boycott of holiday foods; Sonic and the Isle of Capri Casino Calypso Buffet. Not much of a selection, but it did mean I didn't have to cook.
Apparently the Patron Saint of Holiday Meals became aware of the not quite conventional dinner plans to celebrate the birth of Jesus and whispered to my sister. She got the hint and called to invite us to her house to enjoy her home-cooked holiday feast. Yeah!
Not only were there lots of yummy mashed potatoes, there were super yummy cheese balls and a delicious apple pie. The four hour drive to Oklahoma (actually, an oversight in directions added two extra hours to the trip, but that's a whole other story) was worth it. I didn't have to cook and because my brother-in-law excels in cleaning up, I didn't even have to do dishes.
With the exception of this past Thanksgiving, I can't even remember the last time I cooked a holiday meal. I am the poster child for the holiday buffet. Having cooked for Thanksgiving, I was justified in my rebellion against cooking Christmas Dinner.
I simply had to locate a holiday buffet. Turns out, folks around here don't "do" holiday buffets. I called just about every restaurant in the greater Leavenworth/Nothern Kansas City area. I also called many hotels as they are usually good for a buffet. Alas, my efforts were in vain. Every place I called was closed. Can you believe that? Closed! What are Jewish folks, Muslims, and Buddists supposed to do? Are they expected to stay home and make a tuna sandwich?
As luck would have it. I was able to locate two eating establishments who were willing to eschew the boycott of holiday foods; Sonic and the Isle of Capri Casino Calypso Buffet. Not much of a selection, but it did mean I didn't have to cook.
Apparently the Patron Saint of Holiday Meals became aware of the not quite conventional dinner plans to celebrate the birth of Jesus and whispered to my sister. She got the hint and called to invite us to her house to enjoy her home-cooked holiday feast. Yeah!
Not only were there lots of yummy mashed potatoes, there were super yummy cheese balls and a delicious apple pie. The four hour drive to Oklahoma (actually, an oversight in directions added two extra hours to the trip, but that's a whole other story) was worth it. I didn't have to cook and because my brother-in-law excels in cleaning up, I didn't even have to do dishes.
Saturday, December 10, 2005
A Haunting I Will Go
Yesterday, while shoveling horse poop, the topic of after death came up. The idea of reversal was mentioned. Basically, if you are fat in life, you will be thin in the after life. Size 6 women will end up being size 36. That's my idea of Karma.
I have a few thoughts of my own on the matter.
Okay, in TV shows, movies and documentaries, ghosts are portrayed as "romantic". The forlorn woman wears a long flowing white dress. Her hair blows in the wind and she appears graceful. The ghosts from the mid 1800's wear attire of the era as do ghosts from the Middle Ages. Soldier ghosts are portrayed wearing military garb. Even the Headless Horseman had a long black cloak.
So, what happens if you died naked? Is your ghost doomed to walk this realm in its birthday suit? What happens if you are wearing torn jeans, a mustard stained T-Shirt and a flannel overshirt? Goodness knows it would suck if you were to die barefoot. Can you imagine the pedicure you would need after a 100 plus years of roaming your haunting area?
How about dying while wearing the most uncomfortable pair of shoes of all time? Nothing says agony like walking a mile in shoes that moonlight as bear traps. Perhaps that's why the forlorn woman doesn't go into the light. She's hunting for the jackass who designed those killer shoes.
Ghosts are generally reported to appear as they were when they died. Okay, what if I die and had a BIG FAT zit on the tip of my nose at the time of my departure? Am I forever to be the poster child for Oxy Cleansing Pads and acne medicines? What if I'm having a really bad hair day. A big zit and bad hair...frankly, that just sucks.
As I fully intend on hanging around after I die (mostly for payback to those who have caused me grief; a little poltergeist action sounds like good even-up time to me) I suppose I must prepare for my "Dying Attire". Hmmmm, what to wear, what to wear?
I have a few thoughts of my own on the matter.
Okay, in TV shows, movies and documentaries, ghosts are portrayed as "romantic". The forlorn woman wears a long flowing white dress. Her hair blows in the wind and she appears graceful. The ghosts from the mid 1800's wear attire of the era as do ghosts from the Middle Ages. Soldier ghosts are portrayed wearing military garb. Even the Headless Horseman had a long black cloak.
So, what happens if you died naked? Is your ghost doomed to walk this realm in its birthday suit? What happens if you are wearing torn jeans, a mustard stained T-Shirt and a flannel overshirt? Goodness knows it would suck if you were to die barefoot. Can you imagine the pedicure you would need after a 100 plus years of roaming your haunting area?
How about dying while wearing the most uncomfortable pair of shoes of all time? Nothing says agony like walking a mile in shoes that moonlight as bear traps. Perhaps that's why the forlorn woman doesn't go into the light. She's hunting for the jackass who designed those killer shoes.
Ghosts are generally reported to appear as they were when they died. Okay, what if I die and had a BIG FAT zit on the tip of my nose at the time of my departure? Am I forever to be the poster child for Oxy Cleansing Pads and acne medicines? What if I'm having a really bad hair day. A big zit and bad hair...frankly, that just sucks.
As I fully intend on hanging around after I die (mostly for payback to those who have caused me grief; a little poltergeist action sounds like good even-up time to me) I suppose I must prepare for my "Dying Attire". Hmmmm, what to wear, what to wear?
Thursday, December 01, 2005
Another publication....unfortunately unpaid
After I returned to the United States from a three year absence, I was struck by all the changes to my "hometown." Althougth I only lived in Golden for a short while, I consider it to be my "hometown" simply because my family lives there. I wrote this article for the local internet news site.
"Return to Golden"
Although I was a short-time resident of Golden, I am still very much a friend and family to many people who consider this delightful city home. Golden will always be a special place because of its quaint, small town feel and the wonderful people who made it possible for me to meet my husband. That not-so-by-chance meeting and matrimonial bliss is what limited my residency in Golden as my military man soon received orders to move to Germany.
Just this past month, we returned to the United States after a three year absence. How things have changed. I never thought it possible to suffer "Culture Shock" simply by returning to my homeland, but I did. While in Germany, I had acclimated myself to hearing undiscernable conversations during daily outings. The spoken word, similar to Charlie Brown's teacher, blended into background noise and was dismissed. I didn't realize the effect of a foreign language until I returned home and picked-up English like pin-point radar zeroing on target. Hearing English spoke around me had been sorely missed and I discovered myself unintentionally eavesdropping into conversations. It is amazing what people talk about when they think nobody is listening. I could tell you things-but that's another story.
During my absence, my adopted home-town of Golden experienced many changes. I would expect that as a local resident, minor changes that occur over time may not seem dramatic, but the development of the city has been just that. Imaging leaving your house for work one morning only to return that evening to discover a decorating/renovating team had painted, landscaped and installed new carpet while you were gone. That's what it was like for me to drive down South Golden Road for the first time in three years.
The roundabout in front of King Sooper's sprouted to life. The 7-11 vanished and Dairy Queen went south of the border. Tequila's guacamole and "gigante" margarita's are a definite improvement over soft-serve ice cream.
Continuing into town, passing the last roundabout, I was delighted to the the statue of the mounted Indian. The vegetation, at the time of my arrival, left something to be desired, but by the end of my initial home-coming, the organic design crew made improvements that exceeded my expectations.
Further into town, I kept my fingers crossed in anticipation of the removal of the unsightly, abandoned convenience store near the bicycle shop and bowling alley. That corner of town has always been like biting into a crisp juicy apple ripened to perfection only to discover half a worm on the inside. Alas, the blemish on what is otherwise an aesthetically pleasing view, remains, much to my dismay. A smile returned when I noticed the evolution of the Muffler Man. No longer a space man, the cowboy fits much better with the theme of Buffalo Bill's final round-up.
Continued exploration of the changes in Golden likened itself to a treasure hunt. Each street corned a new surprise of wondrous gems. Of all the statues adorning main street, the miner and burro is my favorite. The artist really captured the joyous expression of the discovery of a golden nugget on both the miner and his companion. The cowboy on vacation statue near Clear Creek pays homage to the connection with nature and the abundant life in and around the creek. Then there is the bridge. Kudos to whomever decided to design a comfortable resting spot for travelers. I could spend hours sipping a cool beverage and watching the water flow downstream. During Buffalo Bill Days, it was the perfect location to witness hundreds of little yellow rubber duckies float by.
The walking foot trail under the bridge was too much to resist. It beckoned to me. I walked along that trail and delighted in the wondrous creations that weren't there three years ago. The huge fish, in my opinion, second only to the butterflies. As always, the benches aligned the trail are a welcome sight. It makes it easier for a visitor to just sit and smell the roses, well, more accurately, to sit and watch the world go by. I find it refreshing to watch the water and all those who find enjoyment in the creek. The kayaks are always fascinating to watch and happiness can be found in watching a dogs leap into the water having just as much super fun-time as it can stand.
The fire that destroyed part of the Buffalo Rose clearly had a beneficial impact in the downtown area. The beer garden is definitely the silver lining behind the cloud of smoke. Seeing the office/retail spaces filling up in the new buildings across the street from the downtown post office is refreshing. The western town of yester-year is vibrant and alive with modern day amenities and new construction, which blends well with the older buildings. To the casual observer, the growth and development of Golden has been carefully thought out and planned making it an even more desirable place to live. My return to my accepted home town of Golden, Colorado, was cut short by the demands of the United States Army. Now I am only a state away rather than a continent and look forward to my next visit. I can only imagine what tremendous ideas will have come to fruition.
Kelly Hanson
Part time Golden Resident.....
"Return to Golden"
Although I was a short-time resident of Golden, I am still very much a friend and family to many people who consider this delightful city home. Golden will always be a special place because of its quaint, small town feel and the wonderful people who made it possible for me to meet my husband. That not-so-by-chance meeting and matrimonial bliss is what limited my residency in Golden as my military man soon received orders to move to Germany.
Just this past month, we returned to the United States after a three year absence. How things have changed. I never thought it possible to suffer "Culture Shock" simply by returning to my homeland, but I did. While in Germany, I had acclimated myself to hearing undiscernable conversations during daily outings. The spoken word, similar to Charlie Brown's teacher, blended into background noise and was dismissed. I didn't realize the effect of a foreign language until I returned home and picked-up English like pin-point radar zeroing on target. Hearing English spoke around me had been sorely missed and I discovered myself unintentionally eavesdropping into conversations. It is amazing what people talk about when they think nobody is listening. I could tell you things-but that's another story.
During my absence, my adopted home-town of Golden experienced many changes. I would expect that as a local resident, minor changes that occur over time may not seem dramatic, but the development of the city has been just that. Imaging leaving your house for work one morning only to return that evening to discover a decorating/renovating team had painted, landscaped and installed new carpet while you were gone. That's what it was like for me to drive down South Golden Road for the first time in three years.
The roundabout in front of King Sooper's sprouted to life. The 7-11 vanished and Dairy Queen went south of the border. Tequila's guacamole and "gigante" margarita's are a definite improvement over soft-serve ice cream.
Continuing into town, passing the last roundabout, I was delighted to the the statue of the mounted Indian. The vegetation, at the time of my arrival, left something to be desired, but by the end of my initial home-coming, the organic design crew made improvements that exceeded my expectations.
Further into town, I kept my fingers crossed in anticipation of the removal of the unsightly, abandoned convenience store near the bicycle shop and bowling alley. That corner of town has always been like biting into a crisp juicy apple ripened to perfection only to discover half a worm on the inside. Alas, the blemish on what is otherwise an aesthetically pleasing view, remains, much to my dismay. A smile returned when I noticed the evolution of the Muffler Man. No longer a space man, the cowboy fits much better with the theme of Buffalo Bill's final round-up.
Continued exploration of the changes in Golden likened itself to a treasure hunt. Each street corned a new surprise of wondrous gems. Of all the statues adorning main street, the miner and burro is my favorite. The artist really captured the joyous expression of the discovery of a golden nugget on both the miner and his companion. The cowboy on vacation statue near Clear Creek pays homage to the connection with nature and the abundant life in and around the creek. Then there is the bridge. Kudos to whomever decided to design a comfortable resting spot for travelers. I could spend hours sipping a cool beverage and watching the water flow downstream. During Buffalo Bill Days, it was the perfect location to witness hundreds of little yellow rubber duckies float by.
The walking foot trail under the bridge was too much to resist. It beckoned to me. I walked along that trail and delighted in the wondrous creations that weren't there three years ago. The huge fish, in my opinion, second only to the butterflies. As always, the benches aligned the trail are a welcome sight. It makes it easier for a visitor to just sit and smell the roses, well, more accurately, to sit and watch the world go by. I find it refreshing to watch the water and all those who find enjoyment in the creek. The kayaks are always fascinating to watch and happiness can be found in watching a dogs leap into the water having just as much super fun-time as it can stand.
The fire that destroyed part of the Buffalo Rose clearly had a beneficial impact in the downtown area. The beer garden is definitely the silver lining behind the cloud of smoke. Seeing the office/retail spaces filling up in the new buildings across the street from the downtown post office is refreshing. The western town of yester-year is vibrant and alive with modern day amenities and new construction, which blends well with the older buildings. To the casual observer, the growth and development of Golden has been carefully thought out and planned making it an even more desirable place to live. My return to my accepted home town of Golden, Colorado, was cut short by the demands of the United States Army. Now I am only a state away rather than a continent and look forward to my next visit. I can only imagine what tremendous ideas will have come to fruition.
Kelly Hanson
Part time Golden Resident.....
Friday, November 18, 2005
What are YOU making for dinner?
As the traditional day of eating way too much is rapidly approaching, I am beginning to panic. I haven't made a Thanksgiving dinner since 1996. The minor meal in 2004 doesn't really count because a tiny breast and a baked potato is not a "Thanksgiving Dinner." {Scully--I guess the Canadian pilgrims didn't need any extra help from the Indians to survive the winter months. Seeing how Canada doesn't do Thanksgiving, I suppose the Canadian pilgrims were better at hunting beaver than the American pilgrims.) Usually, I stick to the philosophy that I make only one thing for dinner--Reservations. In the past, I either traveled to my sister's home for Thanksgiving or attended the Holiday Buffet at the local hotel and/or cafeteria.
My older sister has been preparing the traditional meal for many, may years: pretty much ever since Mom decided we would have hotdogs. My sister was having none of the Weenie Roast and skipped off to the grocery store for a turkey. The result of mom's decision: my sister cooks.
This year, my sister, her family and my mother are coming to my house for Thanksgiving. I suppose they are all curious about what I'm going to serve. I suspect they are taking bets on what I shall present to them. It's no secret that I make pretty food. I'm best at Frankenstein Cups and Witch's Bubbling Brew, eyeballs and brain jello, vertebrae roll-ups and finger sandwiches. Yep, Halloween type foods, not typical, autumn, family gathering foods.
I suppose I can heat up a can of corn and open a can of cranberry sauce. Even so, my family is bringing food to my house. My brother-in-law is bringing bread and my niece is bringing the pie. I wonder, does apple pie go with burritos? I make a mean burrito. I can also make the Juevos Rancheros. But that doesn't quite say "Thanksgiving", does it?
So, I'll accept my task and broil a turkey, fry up some corn, roast a green bean caserole, and bake up some mashed potatoes. It'll be good.
My older sister has been preparing the traditional meal for many, may years: pretty much ever since Mom decided we would have hotdogs. My sister was having none of the Weenie Roast and skipped off to the grocery store for a turkey. The result of mom's decision: my sister cooks.
This year, my sister, her family and my mother are coming to my house for Thanksgiving. I suppose they are all curious about what I'm going to serve. I suspect they are taking bets on what I shall present to them. It's no secret that I make pretty food. I'm best at Frankenstein Cups and Witch's Bubbling Brew, eyeballs and brain jello, vertebrae roll-ups and finger sandwiches. Yep, Halloween type foods, not typical, autumn, family gathering foods.
I suppose I can heat up a can of corn and open a can of cranberry sauce. Even so, my family is bringing food to my house. My brother-in-law is bringing bread and my niece is bringing the pie. I wonder, does apple pie go with burritos? I make a mean burrito. I can also make the Juevos Rancheros. But that doesn't quite say "Thanksgiving", does it?
So, I'll accept my task and broil a turkey, fry up some corn, roast a green bean caserole, and bake up some mashed potatoes. It'll be good.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
The Bell Ain't Done Rang Yet.
Is it any wonder why American students perform so poorly on academic tests? Yesterday, while earning my paycheck as a substitute teacher for 8th grade math, I actually heard the above sentence spoken to me. I began taking attendence and one girl graciously informed me that I shouldn't because, THE BELL AIN'T DONE RANG YET. This was a student in the 8th grade. What makes it even more appauling is that English is her first language. Now, I could forgive the poor grammar had she been a foreign student having been exposed to English as maybe her second or third language, but she was a native speaker! How horrible is that?
Later the same day, I actually heard a member of the faculty say, "I growed up with these kids." An educator actually uttered growed and used it in a sentence. It's not even a word! Frankly, if faculty can't speak English, how can the students be expected to speak properly?
GROWED.
I would really like to see a community where folks have a command of the spoken and written word. I'm sorry that our society condones celebrities who can't speak a coherent sentence nor write one. I'm disgusted with the whole eubonics approach to literacy.
I don't be nothing. I ain't no sick mess, aw'right. I don't want to be axing no pacific questions to none of them inbred igits. Aw'ight. My peeps don't be needing to be trippin' like dat. Peace out. Word. Oh, no you din't just go there. I sho nuff did. Don't be gittin' all like dat. Aw'ight.
This isn't an issue of race. It is simply an issue of education. These examples of unacceptable English are spoken by both whites and blacks. I have heard white faculty members slaughter English grammar. I have heard both white and black students speak horribly. Sometimes, the written submissions are not even legible. The chicken scratch that passes for penmanship is pitiful and that doesn't even take into consideration the "hooked on phonics" spelling. Granted, I am not the best speller, but I know that "my techr is nis," is a poor display of middle school academic performance.
Later the same day, I actually heard a member of the faculty say, "I growed up with these kids." An educator actually uttered growed and used it in a sentence. It's not even a word! Frankly, if faculty can't speak English, how can the students be expected to speak properly?
GROWED.
I would really like to see a community where folks have a command of the spoken and written word. I'm sorry that our society condones celebrities who can't speak a coherent sentence nor write one. I'm disgusted with the whole eubonics approach to literacy.
I don't be nothing. I ain't no sick mess, aw'right. I don't want to be axing no pacific questions to none of them inbred igits. Aw'ight. My peeps don't be needing to be trippin' like dat. Peace out. Word. Oh, no you din't just go there. I sho nuff did. Don't be gittin' all like dat. Aw'ight.
This isn't an issue of race. It is simply an issue of education. These examples of unacceptable English are spoken by both whites and blacks. I have heard white faculty members slaughter English grammar. I have heard both white and black students speak horribly. Sometimes, the written submissions are not even legible. The chicken scratch that passes for penmanship is pitiful and that doesn't even take into consideration the "hooked on phonics" spelling. Granted, I am not the best speller, but I know that "my techr is nis," is a poor display of middle school academic performance.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Oh, the telemarketers
Well, now that we are back in the good ol' USA, we have received several telephone calls from solicitors. Seems that once a person purchases a home, the "THEY" get it. That's when "THEY" start calling. Not only that, but also "THEY" send lots of solicitations in the mail. "THEY" aren't interested in welcoming me to the area/neighborhood. All "THEY" want in my money.
And...that just sucks.
The magazine "THEY" folks just love to call. I've had three calls in as many days. I guess I was so used to not having "THEY" call me. That's one perk of living abroad. Unfortunately, I fell for a deal I just couldn't refuse and "THEY" got me. Yes, I bought some magazines. CRAP. Now, I'm really on the "THEY" list.
Then the charity "THEY" called. "THEY" wanted money for Katrina relief. "THEY" wanted money to support the Amber Alert system. "THEY" wanted money for the State Police.
Then "THEY" ambushed drivers at stop lights. There "THEY" were, waiting for the light to turn red so "THEY" could run up and encourage folks to toss spare change into the bucket. "THEY" were not the firefighters who ask folks to Fill The Boot. I do contribute to that cause, so I don't mind them at all. Okay, within reason. I don't like the firefighters at each traffic signal in town. By the end of a short trip to the grocery store, I don't have and spare change anymore. As a matter of fact, now I don't have money for my groceries.
Anyway......"THEY" have found my blog. Frankly, it really bums me out that "THEY" try to sell me stuff on MY OWN BLOG! I would have thought that this would be one place that "THEY" leave alone.
And...that just sucks.
The magazine "THEY" folks just love to call. I've had three calls in as many days. I guess I was so used to not having "THEY" call me. That's one perk of living abroad. Unfortunately, I fell for a deal I just couldn't refuse and "THEY" got me. Yes, I bought some magazines. CRAP. Now, I'm really on the "THEY" list.
Then the charity "THEY" called. "THEY" wanted money for Katrina relief. "THEY" wanted money to support the Amber Alert system. "THEY" wanted money for the State Police.
Then "THEY" ambushed drivers at stop lights. There "THEY" were, waiting for the light to turn red so "THEY" could run up and encourage folks to toss spare change into the bucket. "THEY" were not the firefighters who ask folks to Fill The Boot. I do contribute to that cause, so I don't mind them at all. Okay, within reason. I don't like the firefighters at each traffic signal in town. By the end of a short trip to the grocery store, I don't have and spare change anymore. As a matter of fact, now I don't have money for my groceries.
Anyway......"THEY" have found my blog. Frankly, it really bums me out that "THEY" try to sell me stuff on MY OWN BLOG! I would have thought that this would be one place that "THEY" leave alone.
Thursday, September 22, 2005
How much wood?
How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood? I don't know, but he sure does love to eat my corn.
Yesterday, the pups were going crazy at the window. I assumed they were fretting because of the deer. They come around in the early evening to munch on the goodies I have left them. Well, the pups didn't calm down after several minutes so I took a peek out the window. Hmmmm, it was no deer sitting there nibbling on the cracked corn I set out for the deer. At first, I thought maybe it was a rabbit since we have those, too. It's ears were way too small to be a rabbit. So, I went outside.
It turned and looked at me for a second then darted off for a wood pile. Definitely a woodchuck/ground hog. They are the same thing, aren't they? Anyway, I have seen some big ones munching in other people's yards around town. This one must be a baby guy. He was much smaller than the ones I have seen.
Personally, I think he is just as cute as a button and I'll continue to put out special treats for my backyard wildlife. Okay, except for the mole. Unfortunately, there were new tracks in the yard this morning, so I think the trap is not working. We set it again. Tomorrow is another day for trapping/spearing moles.
A few days ago, my neighbor commented that we have the assorted wildlife; deer, raccoon, birds, chipmunks, moles, rabbits, squirrels and then she mentioned the worst creature of all----OPOSSUM. I really, really, really don't like the possum. It's a long story. Okay, it goes like this...
When I was a child of 11 years of age, my family lived in Panama. As I was adventuresome and was not usually frightened by insects or other unusual creatures, I found that it was a fascinating place to live. Some animal of some sort or another crept into our lives and sometimes into our house nearly everyday. I remember one afternoon when my mother asked me to take the garbage outside. This was a typical request and I did as I was instructed. I tied up the ends of the Hefty bag and took it outside to the big metal tragicomic. I set the big green plastic trash bag on the ground next to the trash bins so I could use both hands to open the lid of one of the cans. As I did so, a hideous beast feasting inside the can protested my intrusion. It spun around and stared at me. Its glistening black eyes were wide open and it hissed at me showing its shiny white teeth. Its rat-tail curled around its black body. I screamed! I slammed the metal lid back down on the can and ran inside the house. I was still screaming. My mother rushed into the kitchen asking me what was wrong. I told her there was an animal in the trash. She laughed. I guess she thought I must have been hurt or something. Afterall, I was screaming as if my arm had been severed from my body. Clearly, my mother thought I had overreacted to a simple animal, probably a mouse, inside the trash can.
Imagine her surprise when she went to investigate my outlandish claim. I knew what was in the trash can and wanted nothing to do with it. I stayed in the doorway to the kitchen watching. When she lifted up the grey metal lid, that creature inside hissed at her. I could hear it from where I was.
My mother closed the lid, now a believer. She simply stated that it was a possum and that it was probably much more afraid of me than I was of it. Well, that meant it was scared out of its mind because I was terrified.
And you know what? That wasn't my ONLY run in with a possum. To this day, I get the heeby geebies whenever I think about those nasty creatures. So, heaven help the possum who decides to get a snack in MY yard. Oh no no. That would not be a good thing. No way. No how.
Yesterday, the pups were going crazy at the window. I assumed they were fretting because of the deer. They come around in the early evening to munch on the goodies I have left them. Well, the pups didn't calm down after several minutes so I took a peek out the window. Hmmmm, it was no deer sitting there nibbling on the cracked corn I set out for the deer. At first, I thought maybe it was a rabbit since we have those, too. It's ears were way too small to be a rabbit. So, I went outside.
It turned and looked at me for a second then darted off for a wood pile. Definitely a woodchuck/ground hog. They are the same thing, aren't they? Anyway, I have seen some big ones munching in other people's yards around town. This one must be a baby guy. He was much smaller than the ones I have seen.
Personally, I think he is just as cute as a button and I'll continue to put out special treats for my backyard wildlife. Okay, except for the mole. Unfortunately, there were new tracks in the yard this morning, so I think the trap is not working. We set it again. Tomorrow is another day for trapping/spearing moles.
A few days ago, my neighbor commented that we have the assorted wildlife; deer, raccoon, birds, chipmunks, moles, rabbits, squirrels and then she mentioned the worst creature of all----OPOSSUM. I really, really, really don't like the possum. It's a long story. Okay, it goes like this...
When I was a child of 11 years of age, my family lived in Panama. As I was adventuresome and was not usually frightened by insects or other unusual creatures, I found that it was a fascinating place to live. Some animal of some sort or another crept into our lives and sometimes into our house nearly everyday. I remember one afternoon when my mother asked me to take the garbage outside. This was a typical request and I did as I was instructed. I tied up the ends of the Hefty bag and took it outside to the big metal tragicomic. I set the big green plastic trash bag on the ground next to the trash bins so I could use both hands to open the lid of one of the cans. As I did so, a hideous beast feasting inside the can protested my intrusion. It spun around and stared at me. Its glistening black eyes were wide open and it hissed at me showing its shiny white teeth. Its rat-tail curled around its black body. I screamed! I slammed the metal lid back down on the can and ran inside the house. I was still screaming. My mother rushed into the kitchen asking me what was wrong. I told her there was an animal in the trash. She laughed. I guess she thought I must have been hurt or something. Afterall, I was screaming as if my arm had been severed from my body. Clearly, my mother thought I had overreacted to a simple animal, probably a mouse, inside the trash can.
Imagine her surprise when she went to investigate my outlandish claim. I knew what was in the trash can and wanted nothing to do with it. I stayed in the doorway to the kitchen watching. When she lifted up the grey metal lid, that creature inside hissed at her. I could hear it from where I was.
My mother closed the lid, now a believer. She simply stated that it was a possum and that it was probably much more afraid of me than I was of it. Well, that meant it was scared out of its mind because I was terrified.
And you know what? That wasn't my ONLY run in with a possum. To this day, I get the heeby geebies whenever I think about those nasty creatures. So, heaven help the possum who decides to get a snack in MY yard. Oh no no. That would not be a good thing. No way. No how.
Wednesday, September 21, 2005
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