A mother's labor

So. I've been a terrible blogger lately, and although my bundle of excuses are totally and completely valid, you all probably would still judge me. Please accept my apology.

My sister got married in June, so Clif and I went back to Colorado and hit peak garden flower season - or at least it seemed that way, since we live in sage/grey/granite/pine world.

My Mommasita (she is really little, so it's okay to call her that), spends copious amounts of time cultivating her multiple gardens and I couldn't resist taking photos and posting them, albeit a bit late...

We grew up with chickens - usually 7-9 at a time.
My cousin recently "remodeled" the outside coop.
The barn came with the house when my parents bought it, when I was maybe 4.

I grew up with a playhouse. A playhouse with electricity, glass windows, a porch, and a loft.
... Grandpa retired early, and there were 5 girls in our family. So. There.

Oh, well hello there cowboy.

I didn't enhance this photo. That's real pink.
Those seat covers are NOT real zebra. Just Mommasita glam.

This rose bush was the size of my first house.
Quite literally the height of the garage roof.
Shit just doesn't grow like that in the Eastern Sierra.

This tree was once the same height as my 6-year-old self.
How cool is that?
Shade is cool.

Mule Days. Bishop, CA

Sierra summers should always start with a cold beer and a hot sit, always reliably found in Bishop, CA.

While not being completely convinced that mules are better than horses, I do enjoy watching grown men run around the arena trying to control their beasts, and little kids racing in socked feet through mud to  fight over a few pairs of shoes in pure delight.

As an interesting piece of history, Mule Days does provide days of entertainment for us mountain folk, and I recommend it to my climbing friends who know Bishop for very different activities.

Cloud cover, to ease the pain of blistering sun.

Shot gun startle. 

Pack scramble.

Nevada's oldest thirst parlor

Located 4 miles west of highway 395, this may be the most historic bar I've ever set foot inside.

Diamond dust mirror, animal busts, signature drinks and beautiful doors, this place is dripping with western charm (and the most excessive dust I've seen, ever).

Yes, that's a bra up there on the deer's antler.

Beautiful, vaulted ceilings, glass doors ... and a skull.

Big horn sheep and BOOBIES!

I spy Clif. And the diamond-dust mirror.

My favorite part of the whole building. Keep your horses outside dagnabit.

Nature is cold. So am I.

It's cold here. Very cold. I made the mistake of saying "it never snows after my birthday" and nature proved me wrong. It's listening, that nature.

Take Time to Make Time

Below is a Mono-logue post I wrote several moons prior, that I should read more often during days of stress. Enjoy, and follow the Mono Lake Committee's blog. You won't be disappointed.

Take Time to Make Time

I have a dog and a car on the brink of explosion. The combination of the two means more time spent rambling through sagebrush and walking interwoven dirt roads on the east side of Highway 395 … on foot.

Max-dog had never seen Rush Creek, which is a travesty for a Mono Lake Committee dog. We found ourselves yet again rambling via dirt road; exploring side roads and slowly making our way to the line of green willows that mark Rush Creek’s path. It took several hours to find the best swimming hole. We came upon several, but decided to keep going in search for the best. Along the way we saw hundreds of birds, several deer, what we surmised to be mountain lion scat, and chipmunks galore. It was hot, but it was also glorious.

Much of the time spent walking, I was thinking about an article I read recently, titled I Want it Today. Amazon.com is aiming for same-day delivery of any product ordered online from their website. While this lofty goal proves human ingenuity and innovation can make our lives more convenient, wasn’t I just learning how wonderful “inconvenience” was? What if I had driven straight to the swimming hole? I would have missed so much. Amazon (and other online stores) may spell ruin for brick and mortar retail stores because we all demand instant gratification. As the manager of the Mono Lake Committee’s Information Center & Bookstore, I should be worried.

Walking back to the car, refreshed from a dip in Rush Creek and ready to face the dusty road ahead, I realized I wasn’t going to be concerned. Mono Lake Committee members and visitors come to the east side of the Sierra and take time to do the same thing I was doing; explore. Instant gratification means experiences missed along the journey. Imagine missing the smell of a physical book while leafing through its pages in your favorite bookstore. Or finding a book that you didn’t know existed, tucked between two of your favorites on a shelf, and reading the first few pages realizing that you are in for a good story.

That walk  was a good reminder to me, and hopefully others, to make time to take time. The final destination might be great, but please do not miss the journey.

Reading to fill the cracks in time.

Oh dearest readers, how I've neglected you!

My latest project (building an entire motel website in a month) has kept me away. Apologies. But I haven't been gallivanting about, worry not.

I just finished Snow by Orhan Pamuk, and while I enjoyed the character development that was the entirety of the book, I'm glad it's over. Pamuk covers three days in 400-plus pages, and the protagonist is a poet who struggles with religion, love, and politics. That's why it takes so many pages.

Don't let me deter you from reading it: I just felt like I was reading a book for a literature class again, which hasn't happened in a long while.

On to Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis, which, according to Becca is going to make me want to drink and do drugs in the hot, hot heat of summer. While I am enjoying this shorty (I read half of it last night), it is making me happy to no longer be in college, and even happier that I don't live is Los Angeles. I'm also considering a cleanse post-book. I suppose it's fortunate that I am not tempted to do drugs, since I have no money for drugs and have personally never seen cocaine, and happen to really like my nose. Phew. Narrow miss on that one.

Plus, the kids in this book are rendered completely lifeless due to their addictions - probably the point of the book - making them partially interesting, but mostly annoying. Clearly I have little patience for rich kids acting stupidly.



What are you all reading? Less Than Zero will be done ASAP and I'm dying for more somethings that aren't backlit.

Plant life

As wind devastates not only the damned hot tub cover, but also my inner peace, I sit here with hot lemon water because my throat hurts. I've been busy as always, and am pretty sick of looking at a computer and/or sounding somewhat interesting.

As a result, you get photos of my plants. Why? Because my plants represent children that I have yet to birth. I talk to them. I nurture them. I leave them at home all day while I work, and they don't care. Plus, they are pretty, and without my plants, winter would seem more of a wasteland here in crazy June Lake.

One more thing: Because I am plagued by sore throat and wind tension, I cared less about photo quality. You get iPhone photos. Suck it up and read the captions.

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Below we have a view of the ICU. Two meanings: Intensive Care Unit, and literally, "I see you." Morning sun and daily watering for these beauties. Some plants are lifers in the ICU, others move on to bigger and better pots and windowsills.

Panda plant. He's a guest at the ICU. Thriving, but still needs
those first rays of morning sun. Fuzzy Wuzzy.

Another wonderful succulent of the 'sill. This, like Pandy, was a Trader Joe's purchase,
that Clif let me buy so I would stop bugging him about getting a dog.
We all know how well that worked.

I don't like to say mean things about my plants, but this guy is a weed, not a plant.
If he didn't so valiantly guard my stack of Vogue magazines,
he would probably be a goner.

Next up we have a beautiful spider plant.
Spidey is sporting a thrift store basket with only three functional legs,
and a tree fungus accessory, found while hiking in June Lake.
She was a gift from my friend Rose.

CHEATER!
These two things aren't alive. But they used to be.
And I love them.
Shhh. Don't tell anyone I gather.

Although Fred here looks sickly, he gets to sit next to a piece of rock from a volcano on Mars.
Not a bad spot, minus the kryptonite poisoning. That's why parts of him are looking a little brown.
Fred was a gift from my friend Tara, right before I left Boulder, CO. He's grown, a little.

Orchids don't photograph well. But my collection must be represented.
Every Valentine's Day, Clif gets me another Orchid plant.
I then proceed to kill it.
Before the year is up.
Except for last year. Now I have two.
Let the slow death begin.

Here lies my favorite plant. I put it next to
Clif's side of the bed, so when I stare at it, Clif thinks I'm looking at him lovingly.
Philly has been with me since I got him from a disheveled lady
who answered my Craigslist ad for "plant rescue."
He has offspring in the ICU right now, with full visitation rights.
Doesn't really care. Forgets to pay sprout support.
Still, I love him.

Close-up of my BEST FRIEND, Philly
(also pictured above).

Yey Christmas Cactus!
Also adopted through Craigslist, Jesus Cristes (pronounced HEY-Zeus Cristes)
came from the MOST adorable man who lived across the highway from me.
He loved Jesus's mother, but there was no room in the new inn
(read: his retirement condo).
So I got him.
Jesus is sporting the base of our Christmas tree (fitting? yes) from last year
and a split stick antelope gifted to me by a raspy-voiced woman.
He blooms over Thanksgiving.

Last, and least, we have DeathBot.
DeathBot was an aloe that took up this entire pot.
And then he died.
And then I put him on the front porch all winter.
And then he survived.
Sort of.
He gets watered once every few months, because he likes to suffer.
And he has become a mini zen garden.
And then Hatchi steals the rocks from DeathBot's zen garden.
Which makes DeathBot just look scary with a pitchfork in him.

THE END.