Fat Charlie's Diary
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Fat Charlie's Diary
Deadmill
The treadmill....is dead.
I bought this treadmill three years ago for $300; it seemed stout enough to put up with anything that I could throw at it.
But they say that dust is the great enemy of treadmills; and there's dust aplenty in our garage.I thought that the problem was that dust would cause friction in the bearings or belt; now I'm thinking that they are talking about dust in the circuitry.
Just before I left for the winter, the 'mill suddenly shut down and whine "ERROR S 1" at me. It turns out that this is an over-voltage error; support said to swap out the fuses. However, these fuses - big ceramic slow-burn 12- and 15A - well, they don't sell them at Ace Hardware.
I ordered some online - but they were the wrong length. I ordered some more, but then was too busy to use them.
But I finally tried them the other day, and it seems to not be the fuses; it's the motherboard. When I replace the fuses, and turn the 'mill on, the belt jerks suddenly, and a big POP emanates from the motherboard. And we're done - "ERROR S 1" shows up again.
Do I want another dreadmill? I have to admit that I'm not sure. Right now, I'm in a long slow ramp-up of my mileage, with the assumption that what I learn during the ramp-up will tell me what my training volume will be, which will indicate what length of race I might like to train for.
But I'm so discouraged these days that I can't help but wonder....WHY?
Maybe it's time for me to do 20 minutes on the elliptical and go to Denny's, like the majority of 50-somethings at the gym.
I've found a True 500 HRC for $350 in town; Trues are supposed to be very good, but there's a question of reliability. I'm assuming that any True that's made it this far is past the "infant mortality" period when lemons show up; it's understood that I'll check the functionality when it is delivered.
But maybe I don't want it. Maybe I want an elliptical, instead.
And to move closer to Denny's.
Two Weeks?
...since my last post? That can't be right.
Or, maybe it is. When I get ...depressed? subdued? deflated?....discouraged, I have learned that sometimes not calling attention to my woes can help me forget them (or at least help me not bring them to mind every fifteen seconds). And blogging about them calls attention to them, even if nobody's reading.
But, whilst I still do indeed have things on my mind, here's somebody who is on top of the world - Ethel "Nancy Lopez" Puckett : )
Ethel took four never-ever lessons last fall, and then played a few games, and really enjoyed it but found it frustrating. (well, DUH!) And she was ready to get back out there this year.
However, I decided that she should now have some lessons after the "don't try to stick the putter in your ear" level lessons, and got her hitched up w/Sheila Peterson at the 500 Club.
Ethel's first lesson was about ten days ago, and she did some swinging practices, and then she went for her second lesson this last Saturday, around noon.
After that lesson, she and I went to a little Par 3 course down the street.
Ethel beat me six or seven holes out of nine.
She had two or three pars and two or three bogies. She was amazing.
(disclaimer - when Ethel took her second lesson, I took my first, in which Sheila showed her (NB -there is no word like "misogyny" for women who hate men. I reckon we'll just have to call them "women") whatever by tearing my swing apart and leaving me unable to find the ball with the clubhead. But this in no way diminishe's Ethel's play, which was amazing).
The next morning, Ethel beat Floyd and me pretty badly on the front nine of Mountain Shadows, but she started falling apart on the back nine. But those first eighteen holes were amazing - in fact, a little scary.
I don't suspect her to improve linearly like that - if she did, I'd already have my retirement plan in place. But I didn't suspect that she would be anything like this good after months of play. One week? I'm flabbergasted. That's right - my gast has been flabbered.
I just hope that she doesn't get discouraged if this....anomaly doesn't continue. But, then, Ethel doesn't get discouraged, much.
New Nipples and Old Sons
Today's FCD graphic is brought to you by my friend Arnie.
Arnie noted my my last post and decided that he saw possible commercial applications in the technique of Fire Cupping:
Like the second Meg Ryan in "Joe vs the Volcano", I....have no response to that : )
I will be having more firecupping done tomorrow, as the last treatment seemed to be effective. I will not be posting any more pictures, however, as I am wary of the direction in which this is going.
A general diary-like update ensues: We spent the last four days in Alabama, seeing Momma. Momma is really getting on in years now, and is pretty feeble. And sometimes I wonder if she remembers things.
Thursday night was a case in point; we got to the assisted-living complex which Momma is making her current residence, and walked into her room. I knew that she knew that we were coming, but we came into her living room at the same time that she was coming out of the bathroom, and as she toddled in on her walker, she....she looked up and me and smiled.
And she kept looking up at me and smiling. And kept looking, and kept smiling.
And so I finally said "Momma, it's me - Dick, your youngest son."
Momma said, "Oh, I know that you're Dick, but....you're not supposed to be so old."
Thanks, Mom.
....About being Dick - My name is James Richard. Up through fourth grade, I was Dick Puckett. It was sorta like the whole "boy named Sue" paradigm; want a kid to grow up tough? Give him a name that folks will make fun of.
..Except, in my case, it didn't work. I'm too much of a weeny, I reckon. But when I walked into the fifth grade and the teacher called my name, I told her that it was now Jim Puckett. And I remember that there wasn't much trouble in changing it - some folks may have given me a problem, but compared to the rest of my life, it wasn't much.
But Momma has never been able to latch on to the whole "Jim Puckett" thing, so, to her, I'm still her Dicky Duck.
(That will be enough of that. Don't make me come over there).
Anyway, Momma didn't quite recognize me because she didn't think that I would be so old. When an 82 year old woman holds onto her walker for dear life while telling you how old you look, you have to take it to heart.
I spent a good bit of the weekend looking at the old people that I would see everywhere, and wondering which of them were my classmates in high school. Didn't see anyone that I recognized - but, if my own mother can't recognize me, what chances do I have of recognizing people whom I never really got to know, anyway?
I was a sort of "secret agent X-9" in high school, and I was fairly sure that I was making it through the whole four years invisibly. As it turns out, that was not reality; people noticed me, anyway. For all the years since, I've been trying to get in touch with my Inner Wallflower, and failing.
But now that I'm aware - really aware - of how old I look, I think it'll be easier for me to keep that low profile. I'd rather be ignored than pitied : )
Arnie noted my my last post and decided that he saw possible commercial applications in the technique of Fire Cupping:
Like the second Meg Ryan in "Joe vs the Volcano", I....have no response to that : )
I will be having more firecupping done tomorrow, as the last treatment seemed to be effective. I will not be posting any more pictures, however, as I am wary of the direction in which this is going.
A general diary-like update ensues: We spent the last four days in Alabama, seeing Momma. Momma is really getting on in years now, and is pretty feeble. And sometimes I wonder if she remembers things.
Thursday night was a case in point; we got to the assisted-living complex which Momma is making her current residence, and walked into her room. I knew that she knew that we were coming, but we came into her living room at the same time that she was coming out of the bathroom, and as she toddled in on her walker, she....she looked up and me and smiled.
And she kept looking up at me and smiling. And kept looking, and kept smiling.
And so I finally said "Momma, it's me - Dick, your youngest son."
Momma said, "Oh, I know that you're Dick, but....you're not supposed to be so old."
Thanks, Mom.
....About being Dick - My name is James Richard. Up through fourth grade, I was Dick Puckett. It was sorta like the whole "boy named Sue" paradigm; want a kid to grow up tough? Give him a name that folks will make fun of.
..Except, in my case, it didn't work. I'm too much of a weeny, I reckon. But when I walked into the fifth grade and the teacher called my name, I told her that it was now Jim Puckett. And I remember that there wasn't much trouble in changing it - some folks may have given me a problem, but compared to the rest of my life, it wasn't much.
But Momma has never been able to latch on to the whole "Jim Puckett" thing, so, to her, I'm still her Dicky Duck.
(That will be enough of that. Don't make me come over there).
Anyway, Momma didn't quite recognize me because she didn't think that I would be so old. When an 82 year old woman holds onto her walker for dear life while telling you how old you look, you have to take it to heart.
I spent a good bit of the weekend looking at the old people that I would see everywhere, and wondering which of them were my classmates in high school. Didn't see anyone that I recognized - but, if my own mother can't recognize me, what chances do I have of recognizing people whom I never really got to know, anyway?
I was a sort of "secret agent X-9" in high school, and I was fairly sure that I was making it through the whole four years invisibly. As it turns out, that was not reality; people noticed me, anyway. For all the years since, I've been trying to get in touch with my Inner Wallflower, and failing.
But now that I'm aware - really aware - of how old I look, I think it'll be easier for me to keep that low profile. I'd rather be ignored than pitied : )
Desperate Appliance
The other day, my PT said that he wanted me to see his associate for "fire-cupping".
....backstory: 18 years ago this week, I ran the Boston Marathon. Right after that race, I noticed a tight spot in my right hamstring. Saw a sports doc, no relief. A few months later, while living in Bisbee, AZ, I went to physical therapy for that hamstring - alleviated the problem some, but it came back.
I've had some relief, over and over, but it's never been complete and the problem has always come back. And, since I only started recreational running in 1992, this has been with me for my whole career.
So I was willing to pretty much try anything.
“———–diseases desperate grown
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.” -- Hamlet, Act IV, scene III
Yes, that blob of flesh that has been sucked up into that bowl-shaped cup is, indeed, my hamstring.
They told me about how painful it was going to be, but, you know what? Not so much. I mean, there were times when it hurt, but mostly it was just uncomfortable. When he would run the cup directly over the affected area was when it was the most painful, but the greatest discomfort came when he was moving the cup onto, or away from, the big chunk of tight muscle; while directly over the offending tissue, it felt not so bad.
That big purple area you see around the cup is The Big Hickey, a byproduct of firecupping. By now, it's just plain ol' bruised leg (I've since put on long pants to avoid scaring people with it, so I don't really know how it looks myself).
And I have to admit that, while I'm typing this, I can feel that tightened-up area of my hamstring. It's sorta like an albatross around my neck, except that it's not a dead bird, and it's behind and above my knee.
And I don't think any dead albatross will last 18 years.
And I'm pretty sure that a dead albatross wouldn't make it through fire-cupping.
I'm supposed to go back next week.
"By desperate appliance are relieved, or not at all." ....yeah, I'm desperate.
PSA - I DO NOT WORK AT GO DADDY FOR THE SUBSIDIZED LUNCHES
....but, if I did, would that be such a bad reason?
Here's todays culinary offering - two masa tamales, w/rice and beans, and a bowl of Texas chili, and that's $2, out the door and back to my desk. No driving to a restaurant, no having to deal with anybody's Miracle Whip, just walk across the parking lot and mmfff tamales!
No, that's not why I work here....come to think of it, why DO I work here?
1) Compensation : I have a funny feeling that this is not a currently-favored answer. But the fact is that I work because they pay me - and GoDaddy pays me very well indeed, for being a Leaf Node.
Now, it is true that I might very well be doing programming even if nobody paid me, but I wouldn't be doing it full time. And I'd probably pick my projects with an eye more to "gee, what would be fun?" than having them come to me in an email.
So they pay me, and they pay me well. But that ain't all - 6 weeks vacation? Are you SERIOUS? And Ethel says that anytime she hands the insurance card to a provider, their eyebrows go up and they let her know that she has very good insurance indeed. The list of compensations goes on and on.
2) Co-workers : When I started working here, I had to take a short test (the Thurstone) that they gave to find out if I was a doofus or not. I must not have scored "doofus" (although they never did tell me what I DID score) but the point is that they made it plain that it was a doofus-free environment.
I don't even know if they still use that test, but simply in order to thrive at Go Daddy, you've got to be reasonably bright. And the way things move through here, you've also got to be interested in getting some work done.
So just working with smart, hardworking people is very nice, all by itself. N.B. - I suspect that the doofus test might have something to do with weeding out grumpies, because the grumpies here are few and far between (and, for all I know, the ones that I do know might only be grumpy when I see them, which is when they see me, which would indicate.....?)
3) Flexibility : Folks do a lot of work at Go Daddy, but it's surprising how much of that work might be earlier than other folks, or later than other folks, or on the weekend, or when they get up and go to the bathroom at 3 AM and suddenly wonder "what would happen if I moved that semicolon?" Go Daddy makes it easy to work for them.
In my own case, since I lived so far from the office, I started telecommuting years ago two, and then three, days a week, and then it became very easy for me to slide that into short full-time remote situations (such as when we are living in Colorado in the winter). My boss once mentioned in my review that he simply could not tell if I was in the office, or in New River, or in Durango - he just knew that I showed up as online in our chat tool, and whenever he dialed my extension it was forwarded to wherever I was.
Of course, that door swings both ways - Go Daddy is so flexible with me that I make it a point to make myself available for them, whenever they need me. So far, though, I've gotten the best of that deal (although maybe they don't think so - that guy checking his semicolons at 3 AM might just wind up sitting down and keeping going, you know...)
4) MISSION : First off, I love saying that I work at Go Daddy, because regardless of the size of the listening audience, somebody will be in the group who then starts gushing about how much they love the company and how great the customer service is and....well, that might last a while. So it's good to know that the company that I work for is serving a need, and serving it well.
But there's also a mission. It might sound hokey to say it, but - dadgummit - what we are doing at Go Daddy is changing the world. In the early 20th Century, automobiles existed, but most folks simply saw them, from a distance; it wasn't until Henry Ford came along with this whole "mass-production" thing that most everybody could afford an auto voiture - and the world changed.
Well, Go Daddy made the personal or small business website affordable, and - with our tools - usable by any Joe on the street. And so, while Google has been busy indexing the information from the world's websites, we've been busy increasing the number of websites. We're really like Homer Stokes in "O Brother", we're the 'friend of the little man". And the little man seems to like it.
5) TAMALES : okay, yeah, maybe that matters as well : )
NOTE: The views expressed on this website/weblog are mine alone
and do not necessarily reflect the views of Go Daddy Software, Inc.]
She's Gone But It's Still Here
Yesterday I made lunch for Ethel and I here at the house.
Everything is fine, got the mustard, the bread, lettuce, tomato, got the cheddar and thin-sliced turkey - everything is fine EXCEPT for the fact that I have to have two jars or white stuff.
Ethel....eats Miracle Whip.
I've often littered these pages with my morbid reflections about how Mom raised me wrong - for my whole childhood, we ate Miracle Whip and called it "Mayonnaise". It never occurred to me to wonder whether or not I liked it - it was the white stuff that you put on one piece of bread to balance out the yellow stuff on the other piece - sort of like salt and pepper.
Then, when I grew up and went into the Outside World (and eventually sobered up) I found out about mayo, and it changed my life.
I've dropped (mostly) my bitter resentment against parents who didn't care enough to tell their child the truth. That's all water under the bridge.
But then, once I found out that Miracle Whip really wasn't mayonnaise, I married a woman who used Miracle Whip. And now, when I make us some sandwiches, I have to pull out two jars.
Looked at in the naked light of reality, there is no real resemblance between the two. Mayo is white, and Miracle Whip is white-ish. Mayonnaise is obviously a full-bodied, healthy colloidal suspension, whereas Miracle Whip is a greasy-looking gelatinous substance that looks like it might be purchased at a surgical-supply warehouse. Mayonnaise smells like *mayo*, whereas Miracle Whip smells like a salad dressing.
Ethel's gone now - she's in Indiana for the weekend, at the Barton Reese Pogue Poetry and Arts Festival. Turns out she's a featured speaker - the poet in question being her grandfather - and she'll be eating a couple of dinners with the celebrants.
But I wonder if she's going to admit to them her secret shame?
Nah. I'll bet that her Miracle Whip secret stays in the closet. As it should.
Everything is fine, got the mustard, the bread, lettuce, tomato, got the cheddar and thin-sliced turkey - everything is fine EXCEPT for the fact that I have to have two jars or white stuff.
Ethel....eats Miracle Whip.
I've often littered these pages with my morbid reflections about how Mom raised me wrong - for my whole childhood, we ate Miracle Whip and called it "Mayonnaise". It never occurred to me to wonder whether or not I liked it - it was the white stuff that you put on one piece of bread to balance out the yellow stuff on the other piece - sort of like salt and pepper.
Then, when I grew up and went into the Outside World (and eventually sobered up) I found out about mayo, and it changed my life.
I've dropped (mostly) my bitter resentment against parents who didn't care enough to tell their child the truth. That's all water under the bridge.
But then, once I found out that Miracle Whip really wasn't mayonnaise, I married a woman who used Miracle Whip. And now, when I make us some sandwiches, I have to pull out two jars.
Looked at in the naked light of reality, there is no real resemblance between the two. Mayo is white, and Miracle Whip is white-ish. Mayonnaise is obviously a full-bodied, healthy colloidal suspension, whereas Miracle Whip is a greasy-looking gelatinous substance that looks like it might be purchased at a surgical-supply warehouse. Mayonnaise smells like *mayo*, whereas Miracle Whip smells like a salad dressing.
Ethel's gone now - she's in Indiana for the weekend, at the Barton Reese Pogue Poetry and Arts Festival. Turns out she's a featured speaker - the poet in question being her grandfather - and she'll be eating a couple of dinners with the celebrants.
But I wonder if she's going to admit to them her secret shame?
Nah. I'll bet that her Miracle Whip secret stays in the closet. As it should.
April Showers Bring May Avalanches
I....am in the Valley of the Sun.
I am here because Ethel hates me. I know this because yesterday it was 90+ F down here. Nobody would live in 90+ F if they had their druthers, which means that not only does Ethel hate me, she hates me so much that she's willing to be miserable herself in order to make me miserable.
Meanwhile, up at the condo:
See that? That's what my contractor buddy Jeff is living with - fresh snow.
But I'm not bitter! This weekend, Ethel is going to go to (wait for it...) INDIANA. On purpose. So she'll be seeing hard freezes, but no snow. Imagine - frozen corn pollen. That's got to do a number on one's respiratory system.
Whiles she's off doing that, I'll be here in Arizona, enjoying the last of the sub-100 temps and working in the yard. The yard is in terrible shape - we didn't lose that many plants this winter, but the ones we lost are in high-profile areas and need to be pulled and replaced with something. And, since Ethel will be gone while I'm replacing them, I'll be replacing them with the wrong things.
The weekend after that, we are both going to Alabama for a few days, to visit my mom and family (especially my middle son, who still lives in Alabama, on purpose. Something about kids : ) Spring in the Tennessee River Valley - folks come from all around the country for the Sinus Infection Festival. Pharmaceutical companies put up kiosks, and there are clinics on topics like "Nose-Blowing: How To Get Those Last Few Pounds Out of There" and "What To Do When Grinding Your Teeth Doesn't Relieve The Pain Anymore".
Then it's back to Arizona until such time as Herself decides that we can go back to Colorado and see how far the aspens have budded out. I suppose, in that context, I should be glad that I'm down here while it's snowing up there, because maybe that will hold back the timeline for a week or so.
I am here because Ethel hates me. I know this because yesterday it was 90+ F down here. Nobody would live in 90+ F if they had their druthers, which means that not only does Ethel hate me, she hates me so much that she's willing to be miserable herself in order to make me miserable.
Meanwhile, up at the condo:
See that? That's what my contractor buddy Jeff is living with - fresh snow.
But I'm not bitter! This weekend, Ethel is going to go to (wait for it...) INDIANA. On purpose. So she'll be seeing hard freezes, but no snow. Imagine - frozen corn pollen. That's got to do a number on one's respiratory system.
Whiles she's off doing that, I'll be here in Arizona, enjoying the last of the sub-100 temps and working in the yard. The yard is in terrible shape - we didn't lose that many plants this winter, but the ones we lost are in high-profile areas and need to be pulled and replaced with something. And, since Ethel will be gone while I'm replacing them, I'll be replacing them with the wrong things.
The weekend after that, we are both going to Alabama for a few days, to visit my mom and family (especially my middle son, who still lives in Alabama, on purpose. Something about kids : ) Spring in the Tennessee River Valley - folks come from all around the country for the Sinus Infection Festival. Pharmaceutical companies put up kiosks, and there are clinics on topics like "Nose-Blowing: How To Get Those Last Few Pounds Out of There" and "What To Do When Grinding Your Teeth Doesn't Relieve The Pain Anymore".
Then it's back to Arizona until such time as Herself decides that we can go back to Colorado and see how far the aspens have budded out. I suppose, in that context, I should be glad that I'm down here while it's snowing up there, because maybe that will hold back the timeline for a week or so.
Back In Arizona
Well, I'm back in Arizona for a while.
As you can tell, it doesn't agree with me:
This is a photo that Ethel took this morning, as a new side-gig I've picked up required a head shot. I became aware that it has been many years since a photo has been taken of me for any grown-up purpose whatsoever. All of my photos show me in ski gear or in climbing gear or running or looking goofy in some way.
This was the best that Ethel could do. Well, I didn't give her much to work with. When did my head get so big,. and my body so small?
When I'm back in Arizona, it takes me a while to get back on my feed. But not so up in the Rocky Mountains. Here is a picture taken just a few weeks ago, outside of the condo in Colorado:
Those mountains back behind me are the West Needles range we can see from the balcony.
Yep, I'm always at my best at elevation.
Now that I've got a head shot, I have to go write up a "bio". I hate those things. It's difficult for me to talk about myself in the third person. Additionally, all of the other folks doing this gig have such cool things to say - they are all Senior Architect Guru This or Vice President Director That, and they've all been opensourcing the platform analysis triage infrastructure,. the whereas I'm as far down the org chart as the org chart can go, and I "uh, wrote code".
But that's what they pay me for. So I'd best get with it.
As you can tell, it doesn't agree with me:
This is a photo that Ethel took this morning, as a new side-gig I've picked up required a head shot. I became aware that it has been many years since a photo has been taken of me for any grown-up purpose whatsoever. All of my photos show me in ski gear or in climbing gear or running or looking goofy in some way.
This was the best that Ethel could do. Well, I didn't give her much to work with. When did my head get so big,. and my body so small?
When I'm back in Arizona, it takes me a while to get back on my feed. But not so up in the Rocky Mountains. Here is a picture taken just a few weeks ago, outside of the condo in Colorado:
Those mountains back behind me are the West Needles range we can see from the balcony.
Yep, I'm always at my best at elevation.
Now that I've got a head shot, I have to go write up a "bio". I hate those things. It's difficult for me to talk about myself in the third person. Additionally, all of the other folks doing this gig have such cool things to say - they are all Senior Architect Guru This or Vice President Director That, and they've all been opensourcing the platform analysis triage infrastructure,. the whereas I'm as far down the org chart as the org chart can go, and I "uh, wrote code".
But that's what they pay me for. So I'd best get with it.
As Far As She Goes
This was my next-to-last day of sliding on snow at Purgatory.
As you can see, the last day is coming none too soon:
That's on the front side of the hill - on the back side, there's still plenty of good skiing, but you have to cross over a lot of dirty snow to get there.
It's days like these when I would say "Let's move to Alaska".
Actually, it's not that I WOULD say that. It's that I DID say that. Just last night, as a matter of fact. And - unsurprisingly - she balked. Didn't want to move to Alaska. Yes, I know, but what can you do?
...As it turns out, though, Alaska wouldn't be the best (unless I could afford helicopter skiing all year round). The place with the longest lift-served skiing in North America is Timberline Resort on Mt Hood, Oregon. 50 & 1/2 weeks a year. (There they have lifts that only run in the summer, when the snow pack gets low enough for them to stick their towers out : ) Mammoth Mountain in California would be the second longest, although sometimes Snowbird in SLC claims that title. Whistler/Blackcomb in BC has a really long season, as well.
Well, we've already lived in SLC, and she won't go back. And the idea of a....a conservative girl like Ethel moving to Oregon or California - well, it ain't gonna happen.
And whenever I say "How about Whister?" Ethel has a quick response - "HEALTH CARE! HEALTH CARE!" So we won't be moving to Whistler.
Crested Butte has a longer season - and, in Crusty Butt, there's no commute. The mountain, meetings, church, groceries, HEALTH CARE is all within a short bicycle ride. But Ethel "just says no".
Now, I've always had my own response to these sorts of statements. I would pretty much sum it up like this: "I want to live in ski country - somewhere wild and high, with big cliffs and huge dumps and a very long ski season. But Ethel won't go. Seems like Ethel decided where we'll have our condo, and my input doesn't matter at all."
There are a lot of things like that. I want to go climb in Patagonia with a llama and some short dude named Pedro - Ethel will be glad to go belay for me at Watson Lake or up at Jack's Canyon. I want to sell out and become a beach bum in Fiji - Ethel's willing to rent a condo for two months in Cabo so I can take surfing lessons.
I want to become a ski bum in Alaska, Ethel's willing to telecommute from Purgatory.
So - do we climb in Patagonia? No, but we'll probably head up to Jack's Canyon in a month or so. Do we become beach bums in Fiji? Nope, but Cabo's possible.
It always seems like I want to do something, and Ethel wants to do something else, and we always wind up doing it Ethel's way. That's the way that it SEEMS. And thus, it looks like Ethel always gets her way.
Sure, I can go to Patagonia/Fiji/Alaska, but I'd have to go without her, and I've always looked that one in the face and realized that, no, I don't want any of those things enough to not have her.
But last night, (after yet another 'No' on Alaska) I asked for a different way of looking at it, and you are sort of seeing how that way evolved.
Ethel doesn't determine what we do/ where we are/ how we live by official decree - Ethel just goes in the direction that I want to go, but she can only go in those directions so far.. She is not crazy enough for Patagonia/Alaska/Fiji, but she's crazy enough for Jack's Canyon/Purgatory/Cabo.
And instead of fussing about how my wife won't let me do what I want to do, perhaps I should be grateful that I have a wife who is willing to go as far as she is willing to go. Most guys would be tickled to have a wife like that, but I just grumble because she won't go farther.
Definitely need to change that viewpoint, most riki-tiki.
Stairway Through Heaven
Here's the current state of our stairway up to the 2nd floor of the new condo:
Down at the bottom, where you can't see it from here, is our signed "Smooth Johnson - Master of the Carve" poster, next to the front door : )
Coming up the stairs on your right - personal pics of Ethel standing in front of the big Taos trail map (at the ill) and me standing in front of the big Monarch Mountain trail map. Then there's the Niehues painting of Alta/Snowbird, then a poster showing various Jackson Hole Air Force members hopping into Corbet's Couloir from various directions, then the big map of Solitude, then the big map of Brighton, then a map of Powderhorn.
Coming up the stairs on your left, it's Jackson Hole, then the 1993 map of Crested Butte, then Snowshoe (WV), then the Canyons in Park City map, and then Sugar Mountain in North Carolina (which is one of the first two mountains I ever skied - the other one was Beech, and we skied both the same weekend, and I don't know which was which : )
And, in the middle, of all of this, the big Jackson Hole poster facing up the stairs:
College degree.
Good job.
Big house.
We all make mistakes.
Good job.
Big house.
We all make mistakes.
....Man, I love that : )
This is one of the more highly-concentrated areas of trail maps in this condo; we also have some in the great room, on the dining area wall, and in the hot-tub room.
We're attempting to get a map of eveyr ski hill that we've ever skied onto the wall somewhere in this condo: we've still got one more map to get printed (Wolf Creek Pass; it's oddly shaped enough that we'll need a panoramic printing) and four maps already printed that are waiting on frames.
When Ethel mentioned this as one of the plans for the condo, I was ....diffident, but it's turning out great.