Welcome to Taco Hell

If I had the nerve to submit this as a letter to the editor, I would. But I’m too chicken. So, instead, this particular rant can serve its purpose on my personal soapbox. Thanks for reading:

Just because I have a dog (and I love her) — and you see me out running with her — you shouldn’t conclude that I love your dog too. I don’t. And I don’t see our communal moment of “hey — you’re on the sidewalk with your dog and — look! — so am I” as an opportunity to stop in my very limited timeframe track to let them sniff each other’s a**es. Okay? And just because you appear to have limitless time to let your furry friend lead you hither and yon around the neighborhood and even straight up the a** of my dog while she’s trying to take a crap, well that doesn’t mean that I do. And I don’t.

So there. I’ve always been a fickle dog lover. (Just ask my mom☺.) Don’t get me wrong, I see many, many little faces that I find adorable. But I’ve never had the urge to run up to a strange one and hug it. Even the ones I know well don’t always inspire me to a snugglefest. I’m just that way. But if I’m not on a run, then I welcome any affection you’d like to bestow upon my gem of a canine. (I know. It’s a double standard, but at least I’m being upfront about it. Right?) I should mention (and finally come out of the closet) that I’m this same way about children. I adore mine and think they have to be the cutest things I’ve ever laid my eyes on. But that doesn’t lead me to maternal bliss each time a child comes into my path. Why I barely even pick up the cute little lumps recently birthed by my closest friends. I’m just weird (or wired) that way. And I can’t tell you why. And, again, my heart does a leap and a soar each time someone admires or pays attention to my offspring. They become my instant BFF. But I find it almost alarmingly impossible to reciprocate. So please don’t take it personally. I’m living proof that freaks of nature do indeed exist. And I’m only getting older and more grumpy, so I suppose it can only get worse from here. (Nice.)

Yesterday I was talking to my mother on the phone and she said, “Hold on a sec (to me). I’ll have a crunch wrap (to the drive-in window attendant).” I hear the muffled response, “We don’t have those, ma’am.” To which my mom replies, “Oh. Okay. Well then I guess I’ll have a Mexican pizza.” I can barely make out the response, but I’m pretty sure it was something about Wendy’s. Then I figure, no, can’t be. She must have said, “drive to the window” in southern-ese. I then hear mom say, “Oh. Okay.” And then she starts laughing hysterically. I then realize that I have been witness to a brain fart of significant magnitude. She’s just tried to order not one, but two, Taco Bell items — from Wendy’s. So then I ask her, as she makes her way to the correct fast food establishment’s window, “Do you think you can get them to make you a Frosty?”

In other updates, Miss 6 (now 7) got her comeuppance for her Spanish class vanishing act. Besides the big talking to — in regards to safety (or the lack thereof) of wandering around school when no one knows you’re there, predators (those bad guys who just can’t wait to snatch up little girls. I didn’t include the large, predatory beasts this time), and how this could affect her chances of getting into Stanford — that had her in tears, we also required her to stand up and apologize to the class. You would have thought we’d asked her to drink bat’s blood. But the hubby was not to be deterred. He wrote out her script and I e-mailed the teacher to ensure that it actually happened. When we asked her how it went, she said fine. But upon further questioning, we uncovered that one of the older girls in class had actually stood up and read it for her. This was after she’d read it first but, “too quietly.” We’re going to have to watch that one.

In other Boulder news, a guy walked into the ER at Boulder Community Hospital, sat down in a wheelchair and declared to all within earshot that he had a bomb and was planning to use it. Soon. This of course set everyone into a tizzy (understandably so). The vicinity was evacuated and the size of the bomb was calculated by the people who know these things. This allowed ‘safe zones’ to be determined so that not every patient who was hooked up to various life-saving devices would have to be moved to the parking lot. SWAT teams arrived. Snipers were put in place. Quite the scene. And in the midst, the b-partner arrives — eldest son in tow — and in her state of b-partner-land, proceeds to walk right through the SWAT line. “I have an appointment.” They explain the situation — as SWAT team members are apt to do — in plain terms. “Ma’am you’re not going in there. There’s a guy with a bomb.”

I speak to her moments later and she relays the injustice of having her son all pre-prepped for a blood draw to then have to pack it in and drive across town to the other lab. I say, “But…a bomb?” “Yea. That’s what they said.” Sorely implying that they were just yankin’ her chain. I quickly log onto to the news site and read back to her, “…A man who entered Boulder Community Hospital and threatened to detonate a bomb has been shot by a SWAT team member…” “Oh. Huh.” She’s funny.

And the story got weirder. Apparently the guy got up and tried to head towards one of the established safe zones, wasn’t deterred by being pelted with rubber bullets and bean bags, so was then shot. He was rushed to surgery. Meanwhile, the alleged bomb was taken out by a robot and moved to North Boulder Park to be detonated. That’s the part that strikes me as odd. Taking the bomb to a park to blow it up. It makes sense since there’s an open field, but it’s also strange too. Turns out it wasn’t a bomb and the guy died. A day in the life of Boulder. Albeit, not a normal one. (And the b-partner barely came away from her son’s blood draw. He fought and bit and scrapped and blood sprayed. If only those SWAT members had just let her through. ☺)

In the following days we had national news coverage on a fight club being conducted after school by high school kids at the park at the end of our street. (I had no idea.) And then a guy was nearly killed at CU when another brainiac launched a full-sized mirror from the 13th floor of a dorm. Ah yes.

This past Friday evening, the hubby and I got out for a long-anticipated date night before Rock Star headed off for spring break. We tried a new place, Radda. The new, hip restaurant in town. It was really good. We sampled a Barbera and actually got to taste the mellowing process with each sip as we enjoyed our very leisurely dinner. We had grilled pizza with housemade mozzarella, locally harvested beans and truffle oil for apps then shared a pork dish and gnocchi. I thought the pork was way too fatty and a little undercooked, but it was all good for the most part. Good service and so forth. So who knows what got into us. Maybe guilt over stepping out on our most favorite restaurant in the world — but we soon found ourselves standing outside of The Kitchen. Contemplating a drink before we headed home. It was in this moment of indecision that Hugo spied us and we all waved. He came out to chat and we enjoyed an always great conversation about restauranteuring, food sourcing, etc., despite his catching us in a moment of near-stalkerdom. And that’s with barely acknowledging that the hubby and I share an elbow-the-other-out-of-the-way crush on this unsuspecting man. I go all gooey, but try to be cool. It’s silly really. The hubby’s the same way. We have become these crazy food people. Obsessed with sourcing, cooking, growing, and the general decline in quality of the American food chain. Hugo’s just the unwitting recipient of this newfound passion (hesitant pioneer/food celeb that he is). So we love him. He’s a rockstar to us — as I’ve mentioned before. So I was a bit reluctant to follow up as promised on sending him an article I saw in Time. I had to guess on his e-mail address and was all a-flutter over whether he’d respond or not. When he did, I might as well have gotten an e-mail from the Pope. (or Sting.) I’m a complete nut. At least the hubby is complicit in my state of ga-ga…

And on that note of major length. I think I’ll call it. Even though I’d love to rant on about the book I’m reading about eating locally for one year (Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver). Instead, I’ll leave it to you to look into. If you’re up for it. ☺ I’d also give some detail on going barhopping with Purse Girl and Z-Liz on St. Patty’s Day (guy doing yoga poses over our green beers) and the girls’ nite at Lady Lou’s (yes, I went out twice last week!), but, alas, I won’t. I’m tired. Bean’s sleeping. And it’s my day off.

I’m off for a week of family-ness. No Facebook. No blog. No voice mail. Nuthin’ but us. For six blissful (or insane, depending on the point of view at any given moment) days. I don’t think I’ve taken a full week off without checking in or anything since we started the business. Let’s see if the lure of the crackberry pulls me in or if I can relinquish it all and reconnect with my fam. (How’s that for a cliff-hanger?)

TODAY’S THEME SONG: Say (All I Need). OneRepublic. I said all I need is the air I breathe. And a place to rest my head.