a few questions I need answers to

1. When will it stop snowing?
2. Will the Golden Compass be as good a movie as I want it to be?
3. Is it a good sign that Canadian bills include pictures of people playing hockey, ice skating, and sledding?
4. Should I buy the oh-so-cute and sexy dress that is totally impractical?
5. Why am I so delighted that I've finally been rated on PickaProf?
6. If I run for political office on a scrooge platform, where I promise to outlaw all public playing of Christmas music until a week before Christmas, will I win?
7. When will I finally be rated on RateMyProfessor?
8. Will I get a chili pepper?
9. Will 30 Rock be on forever?
10. Will I be able to survive if it does go off the air?
11. Do I know how to count?
12. Why didn't Martha Stewart do a holiday issue this year?
13. Is it wrong that I've worn the same pair of socks three days in a row without washing them? I can't help it! They're so stripey, so woolly and so warm.

the best spam ever

I got this in my mailbox over the weekend, and I think it is definitely the most entertaining spam I've ever received:

I am working in a detective agency. I can't say my name. I want to warn you that i'm going to overhear your telephone line. Do you want to know who is the payer? Wait for my next letter.

P.S. I'm sure, you don't believe me. But i think that the attached record of your yesterday's telephone conversation will assure you that everything is real. The record is in archive. The password is 123qwe

I bet this guy is really successful. I mean, I have to admit that part of me is anxiously awaiting his next letter. Of course, I'm not too worried about what he might hear over my phone line. I recently gave up my lead-tainted dinner plate smuggling business, so I'm completely wholesome now. Even though I haven't read much detective fiction, I feel like the guy gets the voice just right here. The clipped sentences. The commands. I nearly had to restrain myself so I wouldn't click on that attachment.

the dreaded day when brides acknowledge wedding gifts by e-mail

The title for this post is thanks to Newsweek's article on the much-discussed Vanderbilt study that found that the "majority of primary-school teachers believe that students with fluent handwriting" produced more and better writing. I haven't been able to track down Steve Graham's actual study (if anyone knows where to find it, let me know) but every summary I've seen of it includes that important distinction "believe"--which suggests perception more than the reality of some impending writing apocalypse. And if all the apocalypse brings is brides sending thank-you notes by email, then I think we can all rest easy.

I imagine that the study probably cast handwriting in terms of a larger discussion of writing fluency; obviously one's ability with writing technologies (whether a pen or a keyboard) are important. I composed a very elaborate post on this subject while laying in bed a few nights ago, but because I was too lazy to grab a pen most of those ideas have been lost. However, in yet another version of the Johnny can't write hysteria, reporters are emphasizing the importance of handwriting over all else. When the codex was introduced, writers lamented the loss of the scroll; when keyboarding becomes the norm, we lament the loss of handwriting. Will we ever learn that shifting writing technologies will signal the end of all thought and knowledge.

I think the most interesting aspect of the reported study, the part that deserves scrutiny is that teachers believe that good handwriting equals better writing. Perhaps we should focus on encouraging teachers to critique their assumptions? I had endless troubles with handwriting in school. I taught myself how to write before school (well, my version of writing anyway) so I held the pencil with my fist. I could write quickly, but my first grade teacher was worried I wouldn't be able to learn cursive, so she made me write with one of those rubber grips to learn the appropriate finger placement. In third grade, I can remember getting berated in for not being able to scribe perfectly slanted cursive r's. Luckily I was tenacious and kept writing, eventually giving up my flat-topped r's altogether for a print/ cursive hybrid. If my teacher had given me a little more flexibility with those r's, maybe I could have spent more time crafting my stories and poems. I'm not saying we should give up handwriting instruction, but couldn't we give kids who struggle with the process other options, like say keyboarding?

Several years ago, I would have thought the link between handwriting skill and composing fluency even more suspect, but through my work at the Literacy Action Center I have realized that there is some relation. I've been lectured in handwriting technique because some members of the writing group couldn't translate my letterforms. I've also brought in books that no one could read because the typefaces used weren't standard or tried to mimic handwriting. For the writers very early in their writing development, an "a" was a very specific thing and the tiniest of alterations led to confusion. However, if handwriting were made a key component to composing, if they had to first master their letterforms, these writers would never get anywhere.

So, we look for options for them. We transcripe stories that they dictate. Even if they aren't technically "writing" they are learning about content, structure, characterization, chronology--all the things that make writing writing. Many writers have also jumped immediately to keyboarding. One of the writers has severe cerebral palsy and can't even feed herself. She lived a life of desperately wanting to learn and no one teaching her because she didn't seem to have the capacity. She can't do any type of handwriting (other than being able to marginally sign her name), but she can write. She's an incredible storyteller. She began by dictating her stories and then typing up what she had dictated. In the process, she gained fairly solid keyboarding skills and now she is beginning to compose her stories directly on computer.

Rather than bemoaning the loss of handwriting skills, perhaps we should consider how to use new technologies so that teachers no longer believe that the students with good handwriting are the ones composing well.

I am a doorknob

The other night, I was made my niece and nephew write a story with me. I was the scribe and I alternated between the two of them for sentences. I think it turned out pretty well. I think I might take this down to Cup of Joe's for the big poetry slam. I could kick some literary asses.


Untitled

I am a ninja turtle. I am really tough. I am a princess. I'm not really a ninja turtle but I always wanted to be one. I'm not really a princess, but I really want to be one. I am really nice and a really tough girl. Yesterday, I got a costume. I help people when they drop something--even if they don't ask me to I still help them. Help others. I will be really kindd to people. I am a bad guy. I am the bad queen. I am a door. I am a doorbell. I am a doorknob.

7 fab, fresh things about me

This is my attempt to join the Nanoblopo? thing with all my slcc'ers. Hightouchmegastore tagged me to list seven things about myself. I'm supposed to pass it on, but I have to stop the madness! That and, as Middlebrow says, she already tagged pretty much everyone I know (seven people--that's a lot!) So here are the seven things you might not know about me:

1. I was born on Thanksgiving. My mom cooked the entire meal while in labor, then went to the hospital. I weighed 10 lbs, 11 oz. and everyone called me the Butterball. My birthday is on Thanksgiving again this year, so feel free to bake me a pie.

2. I don't have a middle name, so when I was little I gave myself one: Crazy Cat. It was also sometimes Crazy Cat Cookie--and a long, continually changing list of other things I liked. (although I should clarify that I don't like cats)

3. I love sugar, any kind. When I was little I ate half-eaten candy that I found on the street and mistakenly ate comet to get my sugar fix.

4. I once dj'd a radio show called "Lost in the Supermarket"; I only played 80's new wave and punk. I also think it would be a good idea to have a radio show that is all Jackson 5, all the time.

5. I came in second at my school spelling bee when I was in fifth grade--lost to my academic nemisis, no less. I don't think I've ever gotten over it. My word: "lichenafied."

6. Before deciding on my current career, I wanted to be a botanist, an astronomer, and a journalist. My decision to abandon each of those career options had to do with math. Now I am marrying a mathematician.

7. I am the seventh child and nearly every address I've lived at has had the number 7 in it.

Give me some candy!

When I was a kid, I used to dream about Halloween. I wasn't that excited about dressing up--it was the candy. Weeks before Halloween, my sister and I would draw up maps of our neighborhood and plan our route, readrafting it several times to make sure that we could maximize our time. As soon as I got home, we'd dump out our candy on the floor and sort it: chocolates, caramels, hard candy, gummy candy. There were always some tough calls: does a blow pop go in the gum or sucker pile? After sorting and counting our haul, I'd tuck my bag of candy by the side of my bed. Somehow I just slept better having that candy to gaze at. It was pretty sad to grow up and have to leave that trick-or-treating behind.

Last year, friend T. and I came up with a plan to take her kid trick-or-treating. He would be two, so old enough to be a legitimate trick-or-treater, but young enough to not notice when we stole all of his candy. We had pretty elaborate plans about what neighborhoods and what costumes would get us the most candy. T. almost backed out on me when Halloween finally arrived, but I wouldn't let her. So we arranged to have dinner and go trick-or-treating with our colleague A and her son.

A's son was an ace at trick-or-treating. He was very polite and made sure to tell everyone "Happy Halloween" at least three times. He made sure to let us know that we should only say "trick or treat" and never, never "smell my feet." He was very charming. T's son, not so much. It took him a few houses to figure out what trick-or-treating was all about, but once he figured out the game he was committed. There was nothing shy about this kid. When the door opened, he just demanded, "Candy!" Once he'd been given a piece, he demanded "More!" He needed a little training. At the beginning of the night, I had to remind him not to pick the smarties, but by the end he was picking the chocolate.

This neighborhood was the shangri-la I never found as a child, where nearly everyone gave out chocolate and one house even gave the much-rumored, but never discovered full-size bar. One house was even giving hot, homemade donuts to the adults.

Since T's son is not allowed to be a sugar fiend, I got to take home the stash. I'll be sleeping well tonight.

Readering

Yesterday, I finally received my Best American Essays anthology which is my favorite reading of the year. I love the essay, in all its permutations, more than any other type of writing. I was too tired last night to read much of it, but I did manage to read David Foster Wallace's preface and some other essay which I was too drowsy to make any sense of. I'm never sure whether I like DFW. Footnotes of any kind annoy me, so his that are meandering and excessively long drive me crazy. And yet. He seems quite aware of his inability to write concisely (he speaks to this in his essay), so I have to forgive him and I find "Consider the Lobster" one of the most ingenious pieces of food writing. And yet. His intro. to the collection was delightfully strange. He argued that his role is not really as an editor but as the Decider. He then riffs on the word (in honor of GWB): Deciderization, Decidering. The latter is my favorite new noun form. One could argue that "decidering" is just a clunky synonym for "deciding," but no. It evokes something else--not just the act of deciding, but the act of being the decider. Not just reading, but acting as a reader--and those are certainly different. Reading involves turning pages and processing words. Readering involves ordering books weeks before they are released, tracking packages, and blogging about reading.

I'm not sure if I will like DWF's choices, but I already know I'll like the collection better than last year's: Lauren Slater's "Best American Essays About Death." The only light-hearted essay in the thing was Adam Gopnik's "Death of a Fish," which is a lovely thing that explores the death of his child's fish with an analysis of Hitchcock's Vertigo. If you haven't read it, you should.

Ok, back to readering. Happy bloggering.

I need new shoes!

I know women are supposed to love shoes or something like that, but not me. I'd rather not wear shoes at all. When I go into a shoe store I usually leave crying. There are no shoes that I like. They are all too high or too shimmery or adorned with too much frippery. Or they are too frumpy. Can't there be something in between? I hate buying shoes so much that I usually just keep wearing the same pair until they fall apart, which happened today.

At some point during my day, I felt a flip, flip on the side of my foot and looked down to find the sole of my shoe falling off. I went barefoot (well, I was wearing tights) for my afternoon class and tossed the shoes into the garbage. I have other shoes, but they are all falling apart in some way or another. I have a pair of boots that I've had for 10 years. The soles are falling off, even though I've had them "repaired" at least twice. I love them, though, and will never get rid of them. I have a pair of too-big flip flops that belonged to Will's ex-girlfriend. It's a desperate situation.

So if anyone knows where I can get a pair of shoes that are decent looking, but not too girly or flashy please let me know. Maybe we can schedule a group shoe-buying excursion like we had in Chicago for Jason. I need help too! Please, it's almost winter.

experienced teacher, grumpy teacher

There's no question that I'm a more capable teacher now than I was when I began teaching eleven years ago. I am better at anticipating students' questions. I can build a class discussion out of next to nothing (mostly because I am better at filling up time with my own blather). I'm better at reading my students and adapting my practices. But I am also unquestionably a grumpier teachier. I have less patience for questions like: when are we going to write something fun? when is this assignment due? did I miss anything important? I can barely stand it when students hand me a stack of loose papers when I've specifically reminded them (in writing and in person) to bring a folder or a paper clip.

I'm not always grumpy. There are moments when I think my students are charming and brilliant. Last night, while responding to drafts, I actually found myself excited to read the next one. But overall, I am much more of a grump.

So I wonder whether the increased grumpiness negates the increased capability. What makes a better teacher, after all? Effective classroom management or non-grumpiness? I think I'm going to get Will to plot this all on his fancy math program, to see the interactions between increased skill and increased jadedness.

the week in review: aka, I have nothing really good to say

I Like Being Old. Although Dr. Write is trying to pretend she's not old, I want to declare that I love being old (well, older). I hate going to parties. I have always hated going to parties. Ok, I like some parties, the ones where I know all the people and I get to eat good food and talk to the people I don't know--or not talk at all if I don't want to. What I hate are the parties where I don't know anyone and I am supposed to talk to new people and there are more things to drink than there are things to eat. I do not like those parties, but I used to feel obligated to go. Because if I didn't go I would be lame and not have any friends or not meet any men or whatever. But now I am old. I have friends. I have a man. I don't care if people think I'm lame. So I don't have to go. Which I didn't last night. Instead I stayed at home and watched Breach, the movie about uber-spy Robert Hanssen. I ate Ben and Jerry's and drank beer. I didn't have to talk to anyone.


Creepy Men Pick-ups. This was the week to get hit on. Not all by creepy men, but I hate gettiing hit on. Even if I were single. Even if I were getting hit on by Doug Fabrizio or hottie climber Chris Sharma. I hate it when strange men talk to me. Leave me alone!


The most humbling moment of the week. One of the writers in a writing group I work with has severe cerebral palsy and so has a significant speech impediment. She's been working on her speech and making great improvements. Yesterday, she told me she'd spent an entire evening practicing my name. It's pretty amazing to me that someone would devote so much time just to pronounce my name correctly.

bookstore evangelism

This week, because of our fundraiser at the B&N, I have received so many comments about the evils of B&N.

Some friends told me I should have had the furndraiser at one of our local bookstores (which is not a bad idea, but it's certainly easier to have a fundraiser at a place that already has a structure for the event vs. a place where I'd have to invent the details). This is an idea that I will likely pursue, but the vehemence with which the suggestion came was a little, well, annoying.

Another friend passed by me, cocked her head, and intoned, "Barnes and Noble?"

I understand all of the arguments against B&N and for independent bookstores, but the preaching gets tiresome. I find the evangelical enthusiasm for independent bookstores particularly surprising around here where everyone is so uptight about the evangelizing of a certain religion.

I did make a deal with a friend that I would stop shopping at B&N if he stopped eating baby carrots (which I personally find ridiculous and are often produced in sweat-shop type conditions). That seems like a pretty good compromise--one pecadillo for another.

a little gift to help with the time wasting

I'm just blogging today because everyone is blogging today--and getting comments--which means that everyone is in that first day of school zone where there is so much to do, but still so little you must do, leaving ample time for blogging and sending endless strings of emails about the Love Boat, etc. So I just want to be part of the back-to-school-time-wasters-blogfest.

So read this and leave me comments.

Then get back to work!

a few things I'd rather be doing next week

My syllabi are done. I whipped them out in one very productive day. I have no idea what I will do on the first day of class, but I'm sure I'll figure that one out. In the meantime, I can keep daydreaming about all of the things I would rather be doing than heading back to the classroom next week.

1. Running a pie shop. I really think Salt Lake needs one of these--a place where you can buy pies of all types and flavors.

2. Opening a gourmet popsicle shop. This was inspired by my making cucumber-chile popscicles this week.

3. Starting a granita shack. I worked in a snow shack when I was a kid, but those shaved ices are just too sweet. Adults want frozen treats!

4. Camping. Why didn't I camp more this summer? Oh well, I'm getting in one last weekend.

5. Making jam. I've probably already made more than we can possibly eat in a year, but I need more!

Vacation Report

I'm back from my sojourn to Idaho and Washington--just in cas you missed me. Not that you did since I am invisible this summer.

In addition to getting lots of sleep and meeting countless members of will's extended family, I did the following:

-sailing
-sea kayaking on a lake
-decided that I must get a dog soon (will's parents have a springer spaniel who is the best dog in the world; i wanted to kidnap him)
-got into an argument with will's uncle (who I had just met) because he wouldn't accept my assertion that teaching grammar is an impediment to teaching writing (he's a geology professor, by the way)
-ate huckleberries, which I'd never had before
-wished huckleberries grew in utah
-bought and read the new harry potter--finally, it's done.
-tried to swim in a lake
-watched the new HP and Ratatouille for the second time
-tripped while trail running giving myself a bad case of road burn (worse, perhaps, than the treadmill incident


It's an exciting life I lead. Truly.

ms. cellophane

I ran into dr. write at the farmer's market on saturday. She says it's like I've been invisible all summer. Well. I guess I'd better post, so I can at least have some online visibility. (don't worry, though, we're having a party next week--email details forthcoming).

Friday, we went to the the Lucinda Wiliams concert--what I like to call the Kelly Joe Phelps concert. Our primary motivation for buying tickets was Kelly Joe. We both love him and are ambivalent about Lucinda Williams. We even left the show early because apparently we are not so ambivalent about her after all. Her songs were all a little too droning, a little too nicely rhymed. And the sound was screwed up, so everything sounded a bit too harsh and rattling. Kelly Joe Phelps, though, was amazing--as always.

We spent most of the week down in the hot, hot hinterlands of UT/AZ cruising through Bucksking Gulch and Paria River. I could tell you about the stunning walls of the narrows and the cooling meander of the river, but I'll just keep that all to myself and show you a few pictures.

why do I miss all the good stuff?

I attended three graduations at Knox College (two while I was employed there and one on a return visit to see former students graduate). Who spoke at those graduations? I have absolutely no idea.


Who has spoken at the two most recent Knox College graduations?

Last year--Stephen Colbert
This year--Bill Clinton


I felt a little guilty about not going to graduation this year, but if it had been Bill Clinton speaking instead of the Under-secretary of Labor I would have gone.

I'm so freaking unlucky. This missing the good commencement speakers is like my inability to win anything, ever.

Damn.

summer update

At the beginning of summer, I planned to post a declaration of my summer intentions (as seemed to be the trend) but really I didn't want to have any accountability. That's what summer is about, right?

But here's a quick update of what I have been doing:

Reading. I went on a bit of a reading binge just after the semester ended, reading about six books in a week, but that has slowed down and now I'm at about one a week (sometimes not even quite that). It's been quite a pleasure reading this much. I've been buying a lot of books too, which is not a very good thing for my budget. Among the recent reads:

*Larry's Party, Carol Shields
*The Botany of Desire, Michael Pollan
*The Perfect Scoop, David Lebovitz (it's a cookbook, but it's about ice cream, so it deserves a careful read)
*The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Brian Selznick (a kid's book, but highly recommended--a sort of graphic novel that draws a lot of inspiration from film)
*Flight, Sherman Alexie
*Cowboys are My Weakness, Pam Houston


Moving The move wasn't a very big one--just downstairs in our building--but the space is bigger and there is a separate kitchen with a huge window which I love. You'd think that moving downstairs would simplify life, but moving sucks no matter how far you go. I am sure we will have some sort of event soon, so you can all see it.


Writing I wish I could impose a word count on myself like Dr. Write has done, but I'm not very good at structure. But the writing projects are going pretty well. Hopefully by the end of summer I'll have a report with good results.

Otherwise, I've just been playing outside and anxiously awaiting the start of the farmer's market. This weekend we went to Moab--more eating than hiking, but it was a good trip. Everyone there but me was a mathematician. Of course, I was the one who ended up figuring out every restaurant bill. Why is it that mathematicians have no ability to do simple arithmetic?

I know it's almost done, but. . .

I am blogging as a way to further postpone my grading, an act all of you can certainly understand. I know that if I just started working it would all be over soon, but I just can't seem to get enough motivation. I've spent the past few days catching up on Community Writing Center work, so now I'm tired and all I want to do is lay in my bed and read. It doesn't help that it's cold and rainy today.

I left my house, thinking that a change of scenery would help my motivation (and get me away from using housecleaning as an excuse for not grading--you know things are bad when housecleaning seems appealing). But here I am at the Cocoa Cafe, not grading. And I'm grumpy because they put way too much hazelnut syrup in my steamer.

I wish I weren't such a procrastinator. I've never been very good with the logic that if I just finishe a dreaded task it will be done and then I can move on. I think sometimes I really believe that if I wait long enough the dreaded task will go away.

Ok, back to grading.

wherein a housing application reveals my failings

I just spent an hour and a half filling out a housing application. Doing so has made me feel like a total loser. I am not a very good keeper of information and they ask all these questions that I should know but don't. These are things I do not know:

• My license plate number
• The name/ number of my previous landlord
• My savings account number
• The telephone #/ address of several good friends
• The address of my employer
• My gross monthly income

Some of these things I can find out easily, some with more difficulty, some are lost forever. I should have a file or something labeled "Important Information." Alas, even if I did have such a file I would probably forget to file anything in it and the Important Information would be stacked in a pile on my desk somewhere. And it's not that I don't have a system at all. I have a way to get all of this information, but it's not very efficient. I used to call my dad repeatedly for phone numbers of family and friends; he would always tell me that I should get an address book. What he didn't understand is that I did have an address book--him. But I could tell I was annoying him, so I bought a book. And it is handy--when I can find it.

I have visions sometimes of me becoming an organized woman, of knowing where to find information when I need it. But I fear it will never happen. And this is what makes me feel like a loser. I imagine that if I were more organized, then I would be more together in all aspects of life. Luckily there is the Internet and a system that only requires four little numbers to access my money. Otherwise, I would probably be living in a shack with my money shoved under the mattress.

Well, here's hoping that my failure to keep track of all that Important Information will not stop me from getting to live at the swank new apartment.

just so you can save some money in your budget. . .

Jenna Bush is apparently writing a book for children:

“The president's daughter, 25, says the book …is aimed at ‘getting kidsthinking and involved’…’there's so much they can do’ to deal withissues of ‘exclusion’ — from research on HIV discriminationto ‘inviting new kids to sit with them in the cafeteria.’"

I'm a little skeptical about this, but she says she's going to donate the proceeds to UNICEF so I do have to give her some credit for that. You can read more here.

unlucky thirteen?

My four-year-old nephew has no concept of the number 13. He seems to be aware that the number 13 exists, but he has no sense of where it belongs. He also understands that there is a number between 12 and 14, but for him that number is 14. In his world, there are two 14s.

The other day we were playing "Bubblegum, bubblegum in a dish" and I told him that I wanted 13 wishes (just to entertain myself). He counted up: "12, 14, 14, 15, 16" getting all the way to 21 before I stopped him. I told him that he'd missed thirteen. He started over: 12, 14, 14.

on memory

I feel like if I never blog that when I do I have to offer something really worthwhile. But don't get your hopes up, people.

This morning, Will and I were talking about romance novel covers after having been sent this by Sarah of 3 Tarts. Suddenly I had this memory of a Christmas party from when I was a tutor at UVSC. We did white elephant gifts and someone brought a romance novel. A co-worker read the back cover, giving a compelling performance that had all of us on the floor laughing. The thing about the memory was that I had completely forgotten about that co-worker. She was a woman that I liked and respected and until that moment it was as if she hadn't existed. It was a shock to suddenly see her face, hear her voice. I still can't remember her name.

It has me thinking about all the people that come into our lives only to get lost somewhere in our memory. And why our memory brings them back at certain times. I wonder what else or who else I've forgotten.

all hail the sun

I am a sun worshipper. I forget this sometimes, but it's true. I live for sun. I'm surprised I haven't yet made a soltice pilgrimage to the sun tunnels to burn sage and dance in circles (or whatever a proper sun worshipper might do).

When I was making grad school decisions, the clincher was probably reading somewhere that Ft. Collins has 360 days of sunshine a year (and it pretty much did). Once, during an atypical week of cloudy skies a professor remarked that the sun better come out soon or students would start killing themselves. I also briefly considered attending college in Fairbanks, Alaska until I read that it had the highest suicide rate in the nation (along with other extreme responses to cabin fever).

Now I live in the land of smog. It's smog people, not that hopeful " haze." Air so thick and dirty, it coats your car. Sometimes I even forget that there is a sun--a total faith crisis.

But luckily if you drive high enough (maybe those Babel tower building folks lived in an inversion) you can find some evidence for your tenacious faith. Sun. Real sun, not sun that sets behind smog before it retreats behind the real horizon.

Today, Will and I hiked (so little snow you can hike) up to Dog Lake. At the top, the sky was blue and fierce. There was so much sun that I didn't have to wear gloves or a coat or a hat. I was so ecstatic, I even climbed a tree (which didn't go so well, the tree being a wobbly aspen).

This is just to assure all of you Salt Lakers that there is still a sun.

how I spent my christmas vacation

I may not have been to Spain or Scotland, but I did briefly escape from the valley and the smog (which today, thankfully, gloriously has disappeared).

First to a yurt in the Uintas (Lily Lake) for Christmas. This included 5 1/2 miles of cross-country skiing with a backpack which is an impressive feat for a girl who had never put on a pair of skis until this winter (and who desperately hates winter).

Cross-country skiing is pretty fun and winter camping is made tolerable with wood floors, canvas walls, and a stove.

For New Year's, we cruised off to Vegas, but stayed totally out of Vegas (except for a trip to Trader Joe's) . I detest Vegas and have know realized that the only way it is worth seeing is from a Sandstone peak miles away in Red Rocks. We camped, we hiked, we climbed (well, mostly Will climbed. I was kind of in a wimpy mood). On New Year's eve, we fell asleep at 8:30, but we did wake up for three subsequent countdowns (couldn't they have coordinated a little?) in the campground and some ill-advised fireworks. It was, I think, the best New Year's I've ever had.