The Dust Bunnies Must Go!

Today, Alistaire and I took a little jaunt to school.

Lately, it seems that everything in my life has been about de-cluttering. At home, I harvested my closet for clothes I won't be using anymore and donated them to people who could really use them. Actually being able to walk into my closet and not feel claustrophobic? Pardon me, but I'm going to sound like a Mastercard commercial: it was priceless. It was a wonderful, freeing, cathartic moment.

Thus began the great cleansing of 2010. The closet cleansing simply seeped over into the rest of my home. Reorganization of misplaced or shoved items became priority one, and oddly, disposing of, finding a home for, or repositioning just a few items made my living room seem jarringly bigger. I won't say that my domain is showroom-worthy yet, but significant progress and improvements have been made, and I no longer fear the sudden stop-by from various friends. (You all know the feeling--you're totally cozy and happy in your clean but "lived-in" home, but you'd die of embarrassment if anyone ever saw it, right?)

The thing is, apparently home was not quite enough. Alistaire and I (with my aide of my awesome new colleague Mallory) decided to take on the ancient relics of the music department at my school. In showing my new colleague around the department's nooks and crannies, we found that long-forgotten bits of useless rubbish had been stashed here, shoved, over the years, into odd little conformities. The intention was, of course, (and I speak as a sometime "shover") to come back at a later date after the shoving, and purge the cupboard of all useless piffle. Except that, as every teacher of every age knows, often those organizational details of teaching may fall by the wayside in the interest of spending more time on what we really do--create relationships with and learn with students. (Forgive us this little oversight.) The stuff so often becomes secondary to the heart of our profession. I don't mean to use this as a disclaimer for sometimes being a pack rat, but it is true. I'd like to think that it's less important that I shoved the equipment for the antiquated (and unusable) midi-keyboard lab (that hooked up to something like a Comadore 64!) into the cupboard and more important that I focused my time instead on building curriculum, planning lessons, and helping kids.

I digress . . .

After yesterday, we had filled at least four of the regular trash bins and two recycling bins. Today, one of our custodians kindly lent me a large bin (on wheels) for the continued purging. :)

Today, slightly lighter in the dross department (though still a little . . . let's say "chubby"), Alistaire and I came armed with cleaning supplies--glass/surface cleaner, paper towel, and Swiffer duster cloths. And we attacked those dust bunnies, dust bears, and dust dragons with zest. Somehow, in my mind, my wiping cloth was really more of sword taking down the monstrous dust zombies as they raged their battle and tried to stake their claim on our space. But, ha! I would slay them all.

Quite frankly, I know that I teach in one of the driest non-desert locations of all time, and I am cognizant of the fact that the Dust Bunny Army is biding its time, strategically forming its plot to take over the music department again. But I too am armed (still with the better part of a spray cleaner!), and today . . . Today I am victorious!

British Llama

Now firmly back home in the St. Paul area, Alistaire and I ventured across the pond (you know--that little thing also known as the Mississippi River) for a taste of Minneapolis and a smashing good time at Brit's Pub.

If you live in or have visited the Twin Cities and have never been to Brit's, you really should go. It's quite a lively place, and it's got a little something for everyone. Standard British pub fare (fish and chips, chicken pot pie, bangers and mash), football games (or as we Americans call it, "soccer"), and a lawn bowling. (I've personally never tried it, but I have it on good authority that it's fun.) Oh--and for those so inclined--yup, it's got the alcohol.

Alistaire and I met up with my friend Becky for drinks and some much-needed single-gal talk. (I mean no offense to my married friends, but sometimes you just need to talk to someone else who lives in your same state of being; you don't spend all your time talking about being single or men, or anything that silly, but you do share a common perspective on some things without any necessary preamble.) Until today, I guess I had never known how many people venture out for happy hour after work in downtown. Brit's seemed to attract everyone, too. The up-and-comers were there in their suits that were fitted "just so," or their matching skirt-heels-purse combinations with perfect hair. Those who were further along the career path had already ditched their ties in briefcases, swilling the pint as though there were no tomorrow, glancing up at the golf scores every so often. The hipsters came in with their carefully planned "I-don't-care" layers of clothes perfectly mismatched enough to look cool, but enough to still be a look. (Mind, there were not many hipsters. This was downtown, Nicollet Mall, not UpTown.) The summer cargo-pant crew was there too, along with the cute summer dress posse.

Personally, I had dressed somewhere between the "summer dress posse" and the "up-and-comer." I actually had put a decent amount of thought (probably too much) into what I wore for this occasion simply because I wanted to blend in. Why? I guess I didn't want to look like the country bumpkin' cousin coming to play in the big city, even thought that's exactly what I was doing. I am the school teacher on summer break trying to blend into the fold of the working city. The coolest thing was, I did blend in. And I probably would have blended in no matter what I had worn because Brit's is a place that oozes comfort, charm, and a lack of prestige. That's one of my favorite things about this pub. It takes you as you are. Somehow, I'd forgotten that on any given night, Brit's is host to all walks of life. It's strategic location (and yes, this really is strategic, as opposed to Pie Town!) across from Orchestra Hall brings in concert-goers on performance nights, bachelor/bachelorette parties on the weekends, and hungry visitors looking for sturdy fare on any given night. Brit's is near several hotels and other dining/shopping establishments on Nicollet Mall, after all. (Ooh! A rhyme!)

There was a steady stream of people waltzing through the door. Becky and I seem to have timed it right--we got there and placed our drink and appetizer orders, were served in a very timely manner, and BAM! The people just kept coming through the door. I wondered how many of them made this their "regular place" after work. The whole idea of a daily happy hour still amuses me, as it's not something I do on a regular basis; for me it's more of a special event, a time to chill with friends, but it's not "just an ordinary day." For this teacher, an ordinary day of work includes finishing teaching at 2:25, working on projects, planning, or rehearsing until 3:30 or 4:00. Or 5:00. (Ick.) Then coming home, inhaling whatever edible thing I can find ("Broccoli? Yum!" or "Chicken--excellent." or "Um, bag of microwave popcorn--it's easy. Ok! It's dinner!"), and then collapsing in a heap. I'm lucky if I can find my way to my bed at the end of it all . . .

Perhaps that's why I'm extra-primed for adventure in the summer, even if it is just to one of my favorite low-key pubs, enjoying the company of a very good friend. Sometimes, low-key is exactly what the llama ordered.

There's no place like the land of 10,000 lakes

Leaving Nebraska was bittersweet. On the one hand, I had to say goodbye to one of my dearest friends, who I see far too infrequently. And my visit had been so brief . . .

On the other hand, I got to go HOME. There is something wonderfully welcoming about crossing the border from Iowa into Minnesota. Suddenly a few hills rise up, there are a few more trees . . . I know that southern Minnesota is similar in topography to Iowa, and compared to my driving in Denver and Albuquerque, it could be considered flat, but for me, crossing that border will always feel refreshing and welcoming. I don't consider myself an overly-anxious driver (unless I'm running late for something), but as I crossed the border and continued north to St. Paul, I couldn't help but inhale a breath of relaxation. I sensed my entire mind opening and clearing and simply feeling happy to be back in my homeland.

Dorothy said it--"There's no place like home." And I'd to add that there's no place quite like the land of 10,000 lakes. Yah sure you betcha'!

Nebraska--it's not that bad

I have long-suspected that I may have read too many romanticized books, and have watched far too many romantic comedy movies. (The worst are those made-for-t.v. movies that you don't want to watch, but somehow Lifetime or Hallmark sucks you in and you find that you've sat trough an entire movie despite your better intentions.)

I say this because I recently drove through Eastern Colorado and across Nebraska; despite my teen-action book-on-CD (I've been working my way through the Percy Jackson series, remember?), I found my my mind wandering instead to the rugged and restless hearts of ranches, to wind-swept prairie lands, skirts being picked up in the wind and fluttering around knees and ankles as you think about your devotion and love to the land . . . as well as to that brooding farmer down the road. Of all places, Nebraska had me completely enthralled with romantic notions that I have wanted to pretend I don't have. I couldn't stop thinking about all those wonderful works of fiction by Nebraska author Willa Cather. I went through a big Willa Cather phase in 8th and 9th grades. O Pioneers!, My Antonia, and especially The Song of the Lark came flooding back into my mind as I raced across Nebraska. I have a special love for The Song of the Lark. Although it has been a long time since I read that book, the protagonist, Thea, sticks with me. Perhaps it was that she was always seeking something but wasn't sure what, that she was different from her siblings simply because she sang (because even if your siblings are also musical, when you come from a stock of instrumentalists and you're the lone vocalist, you feel a bit like a fish out of water just because you're "the different one"), or simply because she was strong enough to do what she wanted, and although she loved sincerely, she didn't let her romantic disappointments ruin her. Whatever it is, that book has stuck with me, and it haunted me as I drove across Nebraska. I could almost picture myself in the hazy breeze with a more modern picture of romanticism, perhaps. Instead of long, pioneer skirts fluttering in the wind, I picture hair wisps flying about in the summer sun, blinking and squinting up at the treeless sky . . .

After hours of driving and daydreaming, I finally arrived in Omaha. This was not my first, nor my last, visit to Omaha. One of my best friends (Amy) lives there with her husband, so I usually visit at least once or twice a year. As with Denver, I was merely passing through, but this visit was one I looked forward to simply because I got to spend a day with Amy. After a delicious dinner at Lazlo's, a brewery and grill, Amy's husband met up with some of his friends to complete a beer tour at Old Chicago, and Amy and I had some girl time. (Yay!)

For years, Amy has tried to get me to consider moving to Omaha. (I, in turn, have consistently tried to get her to move back to the Twin Cities. It's that ploy we all use--we want all the people we love most to live near us. Nothing wrong with that!) Her rational explanations about the lower cost of living, deals, and the arts scene and history of Omaha always end with, "It's not that bad." Every time I visit Omaha, I do have a considerable amount of fun. Of course, I credit this with the company, though, not the city. I generally feel that the people you are with are more integral to enjoyment than the place being visited. I frequently love doing nothing with great company. In fact, that may rank among my favorite things. (I do have a penchant for "the little things," like great phone calls with friends, walks on a cool summer night, the crunch of leaves in the fall, the hush that falls on a busy city when it snows . . . )

I'm not looking to move--I do love living in the twin cities--but I must say I agree. Nebraska--it's not that bad. There is a certain appeal to all that open space, maybe a touch of romanticism tucked into those long grasses and tall cornstalks.

But . . . my heart still belongs to Minnesota.

Eastern Colorado has the juiciest bugs

Splat!

Splat!

Splat, splat, sploosh!

The bugs of Eastern Colorado were like a percussive song all to themselves. I don't know if it's all the ranching in Eastern Colorado, the clear skies that extend on forever east of Denver, or just a weird phenomenon, but Eastern Colorado has got some seriously juicy bugs. I knew that my car wouldn't look clean after all the driving. After all, this little road trip of mine clocked in at about 2600 miles. By the time I reached Albuquerque, there was some heavy-duty bug squashing going on all over the car. I thought about running my car through a car wash at that point, but decided I'd wait until I returned to the twin cities. Why wash it when it was quickly going to get covered in bug guts again?

Eastern Colorado brought a whole new bug massacre. I almost pulled over the first time one of those big bugs splattered against my wind shield. SPLAT! It's yellow guts spilled out over the windshield. "What in the . . .?" I thought. Then, realizing it was just a big Colorado bug, I sprayed my windshield with wiper fluid and gave it a rinse. Of course, this did smear the bug in a whole new way. It didn't really clean the windshield of my car, but I suppose it was a slight improvement. Instead of a smattering of yellow goo, I was left with an opaque smudge.

(On a completely geeky note, I would like to point out that smudge is a fantastic word! It sounds just like what it actually is. Smudge. The consonant cluster at the beginning of the word gives it a smacking, splattering sound, and the "dge" at the end makes it sound like it is simply sinking in, seeping in, rubbing. Try saying it: Smudge. Smudge, smudge, smudge. Smudge. What an oddly perfect combination of sounds. Smudge.)

So, here's my haiku to Eastern Colorado, home of the juiciest bugs ever:

Oh, Colorado,

Your bugs once so full of juice

Now rest on my car.

Ok. Maybe I shouldn't give up my day job just yet . . .

*I would like to note here that although I tease and make sarcastic jokes about Colorado's bugs, I really enjoyed my visit to Colorado in every aspect. I loved driving every part of the state that I visited, even the flatter eastern part of the state. My other thoughts on Colorado fit more thematically with my thoughts on Nebraska. Tune in to my next installment for something a little less silly** and a lot more thoughtful.

**Although the next installment isn't as silly as this bit about juicy bugs, I don't think I'll ever be so serious that all silliness will be gone. This is what happens when your parents bless you with a middle name like "Happy."

Denver, I barely knew ye

If you've never driven north from Albuquerque (or Santa Fe, for that matter) to Denver, I highly recommend that you try it at some point. Without a doubt, this 6.5 hour trek was the best stretch of driving I covered during the entire trip. From start to finish, it was breathtaking.

Of course, there were moments when the drive literally stole my breath. Driving through the mountains north of Santa Fe, I found myself constantly holding my breath. I wasn't driving overly fast, my car was not out of control, and the weather was extremely cooperative; and yet, even as I was consumed by the visual feast on all sides of my car, I experienced an irrational fear that my car would suddenly careen over the edge of the mountain and fall into oblivion below. Thankfully, I didn't hyperventilate whilst driving, and the actual driving in the mountains ended shortly.

(Alistaire would like to point out that llama trekking would have saved me from a whole host of irrational worries.)

The remainder of the drive was still quite gorgeous. Rolling hills and mountains rose on all sides, and as I rolled into Denver, I could see the mountain ranges growing bigger and bigger and becoming more distinct with every spin of my wheels. Finally, I was in Denver.

Denver! I was finally in a city I had dreamed of visiting for years. I will confess that this dream started about 3-4 years ago. My Amazonian friend from Chicago and I had long-discussed the merits of Denver--it's a good hub of arts and culture, yet has access to the outdoor activities we like. Plus, Denver has consistently landed itself on the list of "best cities for singles" for the past several years. Sometimes, it's nice to know that you can go somewhere and not feel like a pariah because you're not part of a duo.

Denver didn't disappoint. I only wish that I could have spent more time there, and another trip to Denver is DEFINITELY on my list of "musts" for the next few years. I had less than 24 hours, and there were too many neighborhoods to explore, too many places to go, and too much to take in to do it all in such a short amount of time.

Denver, I barely knew ye, but I know that I'll see you again before too long. :)

Apparently Santa does not live in Santa Fe

Thursday: my last day in Albuquerque.

So naturally, I spent it in Santa Fe!

Dan and Mary suggested we go to Santa Fe for several reasons. First, we could actually ALL go out together with ALL the kids because we could take the bus to the train. (Dan and Mary only have 5 seats in their car, which did limit us a bit earlier in the week.) Second, it is apparently the cultural and artistic hub of New Mexico. They assumed that I would dig Santa Fe because I am so heavily immersed in the arts. I think that's a pretty good assumption--I teach choir, I sing in a choir, I work with kids in the theatre, and I like art museums . . .

(Plus, I secretly suspect that Santa lives in Santa Fe. Isn't it obvious? North Pole, Schmorth Pole--Santa needs a little more arts and culture than the elves can provide year round. He must at least have a summer home here . . .)

The train, it turns out, is a brilliant way to travel with young kids. You can bring snacks for the kids, books and toys, and they don't have to be solely responsible for entertaining themselves. Instead of being stuck in the back seat, they can sit with you. Even better? On a train, they can get up and wiggle about, which, for the kiddos, is really the best part. Lizzy, Emily, and Alex spent most of the train ride to Santa Fe bopping from seat to seat, walking, crawling, toddling, and scooting wherever fancy took them.

Once in Santa Fe, we saw a lot of really interesting things. Santa Fe is a really neat city. It capitalizes on the tourist industry with artisans pedaling their wares up and down every nook and cranny of the city. There are stores upon stores upon stores with jewelry, paintings, sculptures, and pottery and hand-blown glass (admittedly my two favorite artistic weaknesses). I think my pocketbook was spared a thorough cleansing only because we had small children with us. We wisely decided that any store that prominently featured or specialized in too many breakables should be looked at from outside, not from within. Given the children's penchant for shiny objects, I don't think we could have made a better choice.

(Plus, with all honesty, anyone who knows me knows that I am an absolute klutz, and although I'd had a good record so far on this trip, I didn't want to tempt fate by stepping into a store full of breakables. Kudos to the kids for keeping my record in tact!)

We did see two churches--one was the oldest church built, which was impressively old and solid. There was something very solemn about that church--it smelled of ancient incense, had floorboards that creaked underfoot. In the daylight, it was a beautiful place to reflect and meditate for a moment. However, I admit that the thought of being in that very tight, cramped church, wreaking of incense and creaking at the joints at night scares the bejeezus out of me.

The second church we visited (which, chronologically speaking, we actually visited first . . .) was home to the Immaculate Staircase. Being the matter-of-factly sarcastic person I am (who knew nothing of the staircase's history), when we first saw the stairs, Dan said, "Well?"

"It's a staircase," I responded dryly.

Dan shook his head in dismay and made me sit down and listen to the history of the staircase, which the church loops on an audio track over and over throughout the day. I was inclined to ignore the speaker at first--I couldn't help it. They had laid the speaker's voice over early music sung by the Santa Fe Chorale, and I immediately started playing, "Name that Early Choral Music Composer" out of habit. (I'm sure all my grad. school buddies can relate . . .) However, the story truly is quite fascinating, and the staircase is truly beautiful. It almost appears to be made of one solid piece of wood that curves around with the stairs. I didn't actually take any pictures of the staircase--the one I included in this post was a better picture than I could have possibly taken (courtesy of el internet-o). If you ever find yourself in Santa Fe, I think this chapel and staircase are worth the $3 . . .

Santa Fe's plaza is a picturesque little square in the heart of the downtown area. I now wish I had taken more pictures in Santa Fe so I could share some of the scenery with you. I did take quite a few pictures that day, but they were all pictures of the kids. Since they are not my own children, I don't quite feel I should be posting pictures of them, but it should be noted that the kids are impossibly cute. We spent about an hour in the square. Mary and I took the girls through a narrow alley where artisans sold their wares. Emily, at age 1, was already eyeing all the shiny hand-crafted jewelry and hair accessories. (This is going to make it very easy to shop for my goddaughter . . . You know, once she gets past the phase where all items are likely to get shoved in the mouth and/or licked . . . And when she has hair for the hair accessories . . .) The plaza square was also a good place for the kids to run around and have downtime out of their carriers (the two baby backpacks and a stroller with some serious wheels). We did have to watch that they didn't eat things they found (twigs, rocks, tree bark, leaves), but they were pretty good. Lizzy, the oldest, likes to collect rocks--not eat them--and Emily and Alex seemed more intent on pushing the stroller that towered above them than on eating things from the ground. (Unless it was a stray cheerio. They recognized those cheerios . . . ) Lizzy also had fun dancing to the unicycle-riding guitarists music (but she seemed to agree with Mary, Dan, and I that his singing detracted from his performance, and that wearing a koala ear headband just made him look silly, not artistic) and chasing pigeons.

Now, should I ever go back to Santa Fe (which, given that I only had one day in a town with lots to see, I may), I think I will definitely have to investigate a fantastic little venture known as Llama Trekking. Alistaire seems to agree, and I know a certain theatre-directing friend of mine would think it fitting . . . Really, what more do you need to know? It's all there in the name--LLAMA TREKKING!

(If the name of the blog doesn't give it away, I do find llamas entertaining.)

Alas, I did not see Santa in Santa Fe. I think this means that I simply must go back to Santa Fe again and look. It was one short day, and there are lots of little burrows in which Santa could be hiding with a stash of New Mexican cookies and milk. Or maybe a sopapilla? And a llama. It's not quite the right climate for a reindeer after all . . .