In a Barnes & Noble, I was jonesing for a cup of coffee.
Not a latte, not a frappucino. Just coffee. Regular coffee.
As oddball as it might sound, I sauntered over to the counter, where a teen with numerous piercings and carefully disheveled hair asked what I'd have.
"Coffee. Small, please."
"$1.51."
For just coffee? Sadly, yes.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
STOP!
Caught up in conversation, I must have been in a daze while walking out of a Chinese restaurant with my hubby and two dear friends. Either that or the bright Colorado sun blinded me while I was digging for my sunglasses.
At once, three people screamed at me and the basic gist was a screeching "STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!!" I was about to walk underneath a ladder. And some people think superstitions are a joke.
So, what superstitions do you have?
At once, three people screamed at me and the basic gist was a screeching "STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!!" I was about to walk underneath a ladder. And some people think superstitions are a joke.
So, what superstitions do you have?
Monday, March 13, 2006
Thud!
Just as clearly as I was brought back to reality with a tickle in my throat, Denver was brought back to the realization that we have not reached spring. Not yet.
The weekend, the last one of winter, teases of higher temps as we sit shivering in the below-freezing atmosphere. We drug out the heavy coats, the gloves, the wool caps and tossed aside the light jackets we only thought would be sufficient.
All I know is I want to get out and enjoy the warm weather. I just have to wait longer until it gets here.
The weekend, the last one of winter, teases of higher temps as we sit shivering in the below-freezing atmosphere. We drug out the heavy coats, the gloves, the wool caps and tossed aside the light jackets we only thought would be sufficient.
All I know is I want to get out and enjoy the warm weather. I just have to wait longer until it gets here.
Sunday, March 05, 2006
It's coming
It was there. I could feel it. Warm breezes. Hot sun warming the back of my neck. Fresh, crisp air. It has been in the mid-60s and we haven't seen freezing temperatures since last week.
Spring is knocking.
With the windows and doors flung open, I did my own version of early spring cleaning (including rearranging some furniture) with some help from Mom on Friday. We shook rugs, we scrubbed, we dusted, we vacuumed. We walked on fluffy carpet and tidy floors when we were done. But something drew me back into the not-so-fun times of winter.
It was subtle. A cough. A sneeze. A little catch in my voice. Ears plugged up. Rats. I am getting sick. I downed some OJ, got plenty of rest this weekend (like staying in my PJs until 6:30 Saturday night) and my hope is to fight this crap off before it knocks me down.
Many of my friends and colleagues have not been so lucky. Hope they all get well soon.
Spring is knocking.
With the windows and doors flung open, I did my own version of early spring cleaning (including rearranging some furniture) with some help from Mom on Friday. We shook rugs, we scrubbed, we dusted, we vacuumed. We walked on fluffy carpet and tidy floors when we were done. But something drew me back into the not-so-fun times of winter.
It was subtle. A cough. A sneeze. A little catch in my voice. Ears plugged up. Rats. I am getting sick. I downed some OJ, got plenty of rest this weekend (like staying in my PJs until 6:30 Saturday night) and my hope is to fight this crap off before it knocks me down.
Many of my friends and colleagues have not been so lucky. Hope they all get well soon.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
No time for a movie?
Now you have no excuse to not see a movie. These little 30-second clips are great! Bunnies reenact our favorite movies. (Sidebar: I really wish Silence of the Lambs was on there.)
Fun stuff can be found at the Angry Alien Web site.
Fun stuff can be found at the Angry Alien Web site.
Thursday, February 16, 2006
I promise . . .
To all my nearest, dearest girlfriends in the world, I promise . . .
* Not to lose touch, no matter how busy I get
* To listen to you, even when the urge is to blurt out my problems first
* To see your point of view; and I know there will be times when I won't
* To not always pretend like I know what to say; silence, sometimes, is golden
* To be there, at 4 in the morning, at 8 in the morning, in the middle of the day for tea - I'll be there
* To not expect perfection from myself, from you, from my loved ones
* To be accepting, loving, and most of all, to remember to laugh
Sunday, February 05, 2006
Cell phone nation
Standing in line at the post office near work, I waited patiently - and quietly - to send a package.
Two spaces ahead of me, a familiar noise broke the silence. It was a ringtone advertising its catchy matador theme. The owner, clearly in his 60s, was wearing a letter-style jacket with a southwestern design on the back. He assured the caller he would pick up more W-2 forms.
Directly in front of me, another phone began to ring. Its owner dug through her purse as the music blared loudly from her shoulder bag, and the phone continued ringing until she discovered who the call was from. After that, she slipped into chat mode, passing the time with a personal conversation.
Yet another ring, nothing fancy, began to fill the air behind me. And another. One, no, two more. And all the while, people continued to chat into their phones, not afraid to let the public hear their one-sided conversations.
A person answered his phone while he was making a transaction at the window, and the postal employee looked more than a little annoyed. I bet she was mentally ticking off the minutes until quitting time.
Later I realized had I been carrying my phone (it was at home, forgotten on the counter), I would have joined in the cell-phone medley with a jazzy rendition of Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead.
Two spaces ahead of me, a familiar noise broke the silence. It was a ringtone advertising its catchy matador theme. The owner, clearly in his 60s, was wearing a letter-style jacket with a southwestern design on the back. He assured the caller he would pick up more W-2 forms.
Directly in front of me, another phone began to ring. Its owner dug through her purse as the music blared loudly from her shoulder bag, and the phone continued ringing until she discovered who the call was from. After that, she slipped into chat mode, passing the time with a personal conversation.
Yet another ring, nothing fancy, began to fill the air behind me. And another. One, no, two more. And all the while, people continued to chat into their phones, not afraid to let the public hear their one-sided conversations.
A person answered his phone while he was making a transaction at the window, and the postal employee looked more than a little annoyed. I bet she was mentally ticking off the minutes until quitting time.
Later I realized had I been carrying my phone (it was at home, forgotten on the counter), I would have joined in the cell-phone medley with a jazzy rendition of Ding Dong! The Witch is Dead.
Wednesday, January 25, 2006
Copycat
Yes, I am taking a cue from my friend's blog for this post. I'm interested in your lists. If you're up to it, post one in the comments section below.
10 Things You Don't Know About Me
10 Things You Don't Know About Me
1. My nickname is Doe, as in "Doe, a deer, a female deer." Mom didn't want people calling me Jo as a child. Too boyish, I guess, but the nickname stuck. Just look at my Web address.
2. I want to try skydiving.
3. I used to play the flute.
4. I danced with tap-dance sensation Savion Glover - my dancing idol - in a "master" class at Denver East High.
5. I had a real-life, paying job as a photographer in college.
6. I secretly (maybe not so secretly now!) want to move near the ocean someday.
7. I won several spelling bees in elementary school.
8. I redesigned my dad's restaurant logo 15 years ago.
9. I minored in mathematics at Metro State.
10. As a 6-month-old infant, I tipped the scales at 20+ pounds. Yikes.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Midnight cowboy
Driving home on my usual route around the Drury Inn off Interstate 70, I had a one-of-these-things-just-doesn't-belong-here moment. First, there are dozens of horse trailers stashed along the frontage road by ranchers who visit Denver every year for the National Western Stock Show. Cowboys start hauling their big trucks and trailers a few days before the event begins; a clear sign the January spectacle is near.
But this cowboy, fiddling with his trailer, appeared to be sweeping up a pile of hay from the cold asphalt. There was a plastic bucket by his feet. Light shone out of the open cab, reflecting off his big belt buckle, but he was all about business. And what task could it be that had him still working hard well after midnight? I guess if he was lucky, perhaps he sold his livestock for a hefty price and happily was preparing a clean trailer to take back home.
I hope that was it.
P.S. Yes, I have a goal to knit these nasty little buggers in the near future.
But this cowboy, fiddling with his trailer, appeared to be sweeping up a pile of hay from the cold asphalt. There was a plastic bucket by his feet. Light shone out of the open cab, reflecting off his big belt buckle, but he was all about business. And what task could it be that had him still working hard well after midnight? I guess if he was lucky, perhaps he sold his livestock for a hefty price and happily was preparing a clean trailer to take back home.
I hope that was it.
P.S. Yes, I have a goal to knit these nasty little buggers in the near future.
Wednesday, January 11, 2006
Obedient friend
Walking with my hubby down the street to our favorite Japanese restaurant in Denver, we spied a pained little soul sitting on the sidewalk. Well, lying on the sidewalk is more like it.
Hind legs glued to the concrete (I imagine his tummy was pressed against the cold ground), he gave us a short glance but got back to his real job - staring longingly at the action on the other side of the window. With his grey and black patchwork coat keeping him warm, the weepy-eyed dog just might have been watching his owner eat a hot Japanese meal inside Taki's on East Colfax.
And as we walked through the door dreaming up something yummy for dinner, we heard the little guy say, "Woof!"
Hind legs glued to the concrete (I imagine his tummy was pressed against the cold ground), he gave us a short glance but got back to his real job - staring longingly at the action on the other side of the window. With his grey and black patchwork coat keeping him warm, the weepy-eyed dog just might have been watching his owner eat a hot Japanese meal inside Taki's on East Colfax.
And as we walked through the door dreaming up something yummy for dinner, we heard the little guy say, "Woof!"
Thursday, January 05, 2006
It's here!
The tiny, sleek and stylish 2 gigabyte music device I talked about in my 9/22/05 post arrived in the mail last month, only I forgot to share the jubilant news here.
Snap. It really does work!
Snap. It really does work!
F---
Shit.
Double shit.
The scarf I have been knitting for months (well, in between other projects) has become my Cursed Project. I bought the yarn in September, fantasizing about a nice, new, colorful scarf for the winter. And here we are.
About three quarters of the way through, I was unsure of what I had been working up those late nights after work by just a few rows at a time. Just get it done, I told myself. Finish it, then wash the entire thing in Woolite, let it dry and see what you have. It should match the designer's picture. (A statement always carefully phrased in a question to myself.)
But after conquering knitting in the round and completing this lovely beret (which fits me better as a skull cap, by the way) it dawned on me the next time I picked up the neglected scarf that I had been working the wrong-side rows wrong. I was purling in the knit stitches. I was knitting in the purl stitches. NO!
Triple shit!
So I sat, unraveling weeks of work, rolling the gentle but overworked purple Cascade 220 wool yarn back into a ball.
Shit, shit, SHIT!
Double shit.
The scarf I have been knitting for months (well, in between other projects) has become my Cursed Project. I bought the yarn in September, fantasizing about a nice, new, colorful scarf for the winter. And here we are.
About three quarters of the way through, I was unsure of what I had been working up those late nights after work by just a few rows at a time. Just get it done, I told myself. Finish it, then wash the entire thing in Woolite, let it dry and see what you have. It should match the designer's picture. (A statement always carefully phrased in a question to myself.)
But after conquering knitting in the round and completing this lovely beret (which fits me better as a skull cap, by the way) it dawned on me the next time I picked up the neglected scarf that I had been working the wrong-side rows wrong. I was purling in the knit stitches. I was knitting in the purl stitches. NO!
Triple shit!
So I sat, unraveling weeks of work, rolling the gentle but overworked purple Cascade 220 wool yarn back into a ball.
Shit, shit, SHIT!
Thursday, December 29, 2005
Undercover
When the sun goes down, that is when we get our second wind.
"We" are the night people. We sleep late. We work late. We check our mailboxes at 1 in the morning. We eat breakfast about 11 a.m. We stop at the 24-hour market after work for snacks, or deodorant, or cat food. We are the people who stop to refuel our cars in "the middle of the night," which, by the way, for us is about 5 a.m.
That's when some of you get up for work during your "normal" hours. As a "normal" (but I beg to differ) woman once told me, our kind of people must miss out on all the "fun times." Yeah, lady, I never have any fun at all. (And this conversation took place on a ski lift at about noon on a Tuesday. Not having fun? Bollocks!)
Fun for me happens all the time. It is going to the grocery store at midnight, picking what I require off the shelves and coasting through the almost-empty aisles, occasionally passing one of my fellow "night people." It is making a dentist appointment and not having to take half a vacation day. It is cruising through the mall at 1 p.m. and not having to fight the regular weekend crowds, which I am sure you are a part of. It is never having to hit rush-hour traffic. It is being able to accept that invitation for a beer late at night and not worry whether I can make it to work the next day.
It's freedom.
Don't wrinkle your nose when you hear what time we go to sleep. Don't wrinkle your nose when you hear what time we actually got out of bed. And, most importantly, don't call us before 10 a.m. We love our lives. We love our hours. So get used to it; it is not about to change.
And the best part is, we don't need alarm clocks.
"We" are the night people. We sleep late. We work late. We check our mailboxes at 1 in the morning. We eat breakfast about 11 a.m. We stop at the 24-hour market after work for snacks, or deodorant, or cat food. We are the people who stop to refuel our cars in "the middle of the night," which, by the way, for us is about 5 a.m.
That's when some of you get up for work during your "normal" hours. As a "normal" (but I beg to differ) woman once told me, our kind of people must miss out on all the "fun times." Yeah, lady, I never have any fun at all. (And this conversation took place on a ski lift at about noon on a Tuesday. Not having fun? Bollocks!)
Fun for me happens all the time. It is going to the grocery store at midnight, picking what I require off the shelves and coasting through the almost-empty aisles, occasionally passing one of my fellow "night people." It is making a dentist appointment and not having to take half a vacation day. It is cruising through the mall at 1 p.m. and not having to fight the regular weekend crowds, which I am sure you are a part of. It is never having to hit rush-hour traffic. It is being able to accept that invitation for a beer late at night and not worry whether I can make it to work the next day.
It's freedom.
Don't wrinkle your nose when you hear what time we go to sleep. Don't wrinkle your nose when you hear what time we actually got out of bed. And, most importantly, don't call us before 10 a.m. We love our lives. We love our hours. So get used to it; it is not about to change.
And the best part is, we don't need alarm clocks.
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Dreamboat
It has been over two weeks since my return from Fiji, and it also has been nearly two weeks since my last dream of life on the island.
I was curled up in my fleece robe, tucked in beneath my trusty down comforter and the world around me was of no consequence (except, maybe, for the temperature in the teens outside).
Until I heard a faint, distant noise... What was that?
A low hum. A familiar pitch I hadn't heard often.
Seriously, what was it?
It was a boat. Chugging along past the reef outside the front doorstep of our Kukuru bure on the tropical island of Qamea. It was early, and it probably was transferring a group of the resort's staff to work about 6 a.m. I had heard this noise often during our 10-day stay. Like the beautiful birds singing to each other in the predawn silence or an early fit of rain that would tickle the leaves on the native foliage just outside the window, it was a welcome noise that often shook me from my slumber. A natural alarm clock, if you will. And one that I gladly would get used to given the chance.
Then I realized I was in my own bed, covered by layers of warmth to fight off the Colorado cold. The noise I heard? A truck humming along Interstate 70, bracing for the soon-to-come rush-hour traffic.
A boat? It's a much, much nicer memory when I think of it like that.
I was curled up in my fleece robe, tucked in beneath my trusty down comforter and the world around me was of no consequence (except, maybe, for the temperature in the teens outside).
Until I heard a faint, distant noise... What was that?
A low hum. A familiar pitch I hadn't heard often.
Seriously, what was it?
It was a boat. Chugging along past the reef outside the front doorstep of our Kukuru bure on the tropical island of Qamea. It was early, and it probably was transferring a group of the resort's staff to work about 6 a.m. I had heard this noise often during our 10-day stay. Like the beautiful birds singing to each other in the predawn silence or an early fit of rain that would tickle the leaves on the native foliage just outside the window, it was a welcome noise that often shook me from my slumber. A natural alarm clock, if you will. And one that I gladly would get used to given the chance.
Then I realized I was in my own bed, covered by layers of warmth to fight off the Colorado cold. The noise I heard? A truck humming along Interstate 70, bracing for the soon-to-come rush-hour traffic.
A boat? It's a much, much nicer memory when I think of it like that.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Irony
After a quiz, I discovered I am a fruity, tropical concoction ... a mai tai! Click below to see what type of drink you are.
| You Are a Mai Tai |
 You aren't a big drinker, but you'll drink if the atmosphere is festive. And when you're drunk, watch out! You're easily carried away. |
Honeymoon central
Sunday, December 18, 2005
Time machine
Two weeks ago, Chris and I experienced the day that never was.
Sunday, November 27, 2005
We were on an international Air Pacific flight to Fiji; we had left Los Angeles just before 11 p.m. Saturday, Nov. 26, 2005. When we arrived in Nadi, the sun was rising and it was Monday, Nov. 28, 5:30 a.m. Fiji time.
The flip side of losing that day -- a day we never experienced, a day we never really were able to live -- was the Groundhog Day-like experience on our way back across the International Date Line. It was in the morning on Thursday, Dec. 8 when we left Qamea, Fiji. It was 6:30 p.m. Thursday, Dec. 8 when we arrived in Colorado. We had been traveling for nearly 28 hours.
(Note to self: Next time you go to Fiji, book a return flight on your birthday, that way you will have more time to celebrate!)
Sunday, November 27, 2005
We were on an international Air Pacific flight to Fiji; we had left Los Angeles just before 11 p.m. Saturday, Nov. 26, 2005. When we arrived in Nadi, the sun was rising and it was Monday, Nov. 28, 5:30 a.m. Fiji time.
The flip side of losing that day -- a day we never experienced, a day we never really were able to live -- was the Groundhog Day-like experience on our way back across the International Date Line. It was in the morning on Thursday, Dec. 8 when we left Qamea, Fiji. It was 6:30 p.m. Thursday, Dec. 8 when we arrived in Colorado. We had been traveling for nearly 28 hours.
(Note to self: Next time you go to Fiji, book a return flight on your birthday, that way you will have more time to celebrate!)
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Ch-ch-chilly
Less than a week back home from the tropics, I can't stop shivering.
Everyone says Chris and I missed the worst of the cold snap (and I believe them what with reports of -13 degrees Fahrenheit), but that doesn't make me feel any better. We returned Thursday to 8-degree temperatures and snow on the streets. We puffed out white clouds of hot breath as we huddled together at the airport, waiting for a ride.
And tonight, while walking along Broadway during my dinner break, I double checked all the buttons on my coat and the knot on my scarf - stopping short of hiking up my socks - to find out exactly from where the cold, cold air was sneaking in. The hair was raised on the back of my neck. Temperature? 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Not bad, you say, for a Colorado winter evening.
I'd still much rather have that number in Celsius.
P.S. That's my new goal. Learn the metric system since the rest of the world uses it, too.
Everyone says Chris and I missed the worst of the cold snap (and I believe them what with reports of -13 degrees Fahrenheit), but that doesn't make me feel any better. We returned Thursday to 8-degree temperatures and snow on the streets. We puffed out white clouds of hot breath as we huddled together at the airport, waiting for a ride.
And tonight, while walking along Broadway during my dinner break, I double checked all the buttons on my coat and the knot on my scarf - stopping short of hiking up my socks - to find out exactly from where the cold, cold air was sneaking in. The hair was raised on the back of my neck. Temperature? 30 degrees Fahrenheit. Not bad, you say, for a Colorado winter evening.
I'd still much rather have that number in Celsius.
P.S. That's my new goal. Learn the metric system since the rest of the world uses it, too.
Tuesday, December 06, 2005
S.C.U.B.A.
Fins? Check. Goggles? Check. Weights? Check. BCD? Check. Tank and regulator? Check.
After ticking off this list of essentials for our first S.C.U.B.A. dive, Chris and I took to Nuku Bay off Long Beach on the island of Qamea, Fiji. We spent the morning in the resort's pool with our instructor, Pana, and learned the odd sensation of breathing air from a tank and viewing the massive world below.
After a 5-minute boat trip, we took a backward drop off the side of our dive boat after watching our new pals from Australia go first. Equipped with our buoyancy control devices, tanks filled with about 175 bar of air, we both took deep breaths in and out and began our descent.
The world underneath us is amazing. Hard and soft coral. Anemonies. Big and little nemos. Sergeant fish. Needle fish. Parrot fish. Sea slugs. Sea cucumbers. I even spied an empty clam shell. After 40 minutes and the deepest descent of 20 meters (oops...we were only supposed to go about 12 meters), we were back at the surface after a decompression safety stop at 5 meters.
What a wonderful, wonderful way to begin our S.C.U.B.A. certification process. We hear there is no place else like it to start.
P.S. Sadly, we didn't see any reef sharks, like we did on our first guided snorkel at the sea fan site around the corner from the resort. One was a small white-tipped reef shark, about 4 feet long -- AND FAST! -- the other, a gray reef shark, was catching a snooze at the sandy bottom. Pana tried to wake him from his slumber so we could see him move, and he scooted fast into the darkness of a coral cave. Sensational!
After ticking off this list of essentials for our first S.C.U.B.A. dive, Chris and I took to Nuku Bay off Long Beach on the island of Qamea, Fiji. We spent the morning in the resort's pool with our instructor, Pana, and learned the odd sensation of breathing air from a tank and viewing the massive world below.
After a 5-minute boat trip, we took a backward drop off the side of our dive boat after watching our new pals from Australia go first. Equipped with our buoyancy control devices, tanks filled with about 175 bar of air, we both took deep breaths in and out and began our descent.
The world underneath us is amazing. Hard and soft coral. Anemonies. Big and little nemos. Sergeant fish. Needle fish. Parrot fish. Sea slugs. Sea cucumbers. I even spied an empty clam shell. After 40 minutes and the deepest descent of 20 meters (oops...we were only supposed to go about 12 meters), we were back at the surface after a decompression safety stop at 5 meters.
What a wonderful, wonderful way to begin our S.C.U.B.A. certification process. We hear there is no place else like it to start.
P.S. Sadly, we didn't see any reef sharks, like we did on our first guided snorkel at the sea fan site around the corner from the resort. One was a small white-tipped reef shark, about 4 feet long -- AND FAST! -- the other, a gray reef shark, was catching a snooze at the sandy bottom. Pana tried to wake him from his slumber so we could see him move, and he scooted fast into the darkness of a coral cave. Sensational!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Silence . . .
Who knew a newsroom could be this quiet?
I sit at my desk, thumbing a day-old paper, waiting for the night to end. I've read the sports wire, the national wire, the foreign wire. The Nuggets lose. A fatal fire in Tennessee. Another pit bull attack, but this time in Illinois. Bird flu worries in Beijing.
My eyes are dry and tired and filled with glare from my computer screen. My ears are almost ringing it's so quiet. Occasionally, they are filled with the tick, tack of keystrokes and click, click of mouse maneuvers of 10 colleagues located within a 25-foot radius.
Our second deadline is still 49 minutes away - an eternity in these parts. (And even longer when something as light as a sigh would break the silence.)
I sit at my desk, thumbing a day-old paper, waiting for the night to end. I've read the sports wire, the national wire, the foreign wire. The Nuggets lose. A fatal fire in Tennessee. Another pit bull attack, but this time in Illinois. Bird flu worries in Beijing.
My eyes are dry and tired and filled with glare from my computer screen. My ears are almost ringing it's so quiet. Occasionally, they are filled with the tick, tack of keystrokes and click, click of mouse maneuvers of 10 colleagues located within a 25-foot radius.
Our second deadline is still 49 minutes away - an eternity in these parts. (And even longer when something as light as a sigh would break the silence.)
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