Dear Diary,

I love shopping on Christmas Eve because people are so extraordinarily friendly.

Everywhere I went there were free cookies and/or complimentary coffee. Sometimes homemade cookies.

There were bell ringers dancing.

The tip jar was stuffed full, by 10 AM.

The roads were nearly empty.

Main Street was full, but everyone was grinning.

They had free limo rides as well as free horse and carriage rides.

You could see other people in their cars singing Christmas songs along with the radio. (Pa rum pa pum pum is quite recognizable.)

Everyone says Hi when you walk in, and Thank You when you leave, and even the customers call out Merry Christmas before the door closes behind you.

Sometimes, on a normal day, I wish I could make one day--just one--that everyone could be in a good mood.

Seems like someone beat me to it.

Dear Diary,

My friends say, it's remarkable how little drama I have in my life. But my local post office hates me and goes out of their way to make me miserable. Why? My dog bit the postman five months ago. I've been to court. I've paid everything. I've agreed to get a PO box for a year because they refuse to deliver to my house. I don't have the dog anymore.

I'm heartbroken for losing the dog I tried so hard to rescue (another story for another day). My sentence for owning a dangerous dog has been deferred for 1 year, should there be no additional incident, so I get all panicked when I don't see my dog in the back yard. If the county picks up my little dog the escape artist, I could go to jail for a year and pay upwards of $2000 in additional fines. This feeling is recurrent. Further, my son is extremely sensitive about having the dog taken away from us. Occasionally he comes in and climbs into my lap and cries, spontaneously.

The Post Office tells me they'll hold my mail. When I go in, they've sent it back. I fill out another hold order, and they lift it after I pick up my mail twice even though I told them not to, and they send my mail back again. I open a PO box and fill out the forwarding information, but the system is slow and a weeks worth of mail gets returned--again. The people are rude. They tell me I deserve it because of what my dog did. They tell me I'm a bad guy.

I would love to stop using the Post Office. As a personal protest, not as a political statement. I think they're a valuable part of the United States infrastructure, vital, in fact. So I feel terrible when I find myself glad they're having problems and a sketchy future.

I don't have constant drama, but if I were a TV show, you'd have to explain the backstory to an episode to someone who hasn't been following all season.

Every time I have to go get the mail, every time I have to mail something, every time I see my mailbox, I have to breathe deeply to keep from crying. Seriously. They took away, locked up in a punishing cell, and killed my dog for this. Why should the Post Office continue to retaliate? Will it end after a year? Will it end only when I move? Should I be finding myself considering buying a new home and moving to escape the treatment of the Postal Workers?

How much is fair?

Dear Diary,

The month of noveling has ended.

I have this love-hate relationship with words--I could put together everything I've ever written about the ability or inability to write.

I know every detail of the English language. But I don't mind if you break the rules, make up a new word, jumble your grammar a bit.

I write because when I speak no one listens, and when I write, no one listens either but at least I can go back and read it and revel in what I have the ability to say. If I speak it aloud, it's gone. Though, then I think of my dad and his musing that sound waves are energy and cannot disappear, but get infinitely weaker, so if we had the technology we could listen to Abe Lincoln as he spoke at Gettysburg. Or me, in high school, reciting these words spoken at Gettysburg.

I made a friend who claimed me as an Author. I decided to accept the post but I really can't let you know anything I've authored, truly.

I am connecting--possibly, finally--to a person I have always admired but has left me with the perpetual insult that maybe wasn't supposed to be at the time, when she looked at my business card and said, "so you're proficient at everything?" and I had to answer yes, as if I thought it were true, but to answer no would not be true, and now I have to carry that with me infinitely. For her, I must be proficient at everything, and she rarely gives me the time of day.

I am proficient at everything but fiction--I reached a mere half my writing goal for this month.

I don't like when people are recorded sounding like they are not well-spoken. I don't like people who are not well-spoken. I don't like when I read poorly written communications, and I don't like it when people know I don't like what they've tried to write. Seriously, if you can't handle the idea that you could always be better, how can you ever improve? Do you like stasis?

Stasis. That's where I am--I am a writer who writes the same things now that I've been writing for years and years.

Like Shakespeare or the guy who wrote the stuff attributed to Shakespeare, whichever ends up being true, I want to have measurable growth over the course of my career as a writer, but I don't trust that that will happen, so I expect that will never truly have a career as a writer.

I don't like musicians who are bad at what they do. I don't like politicians that are easy to make fun of. I don't like when people decide labels for me, because they are inevitably wrong. I can always prove a label wrong.

I don't like when people say they can't write, but often I can't write so it's a hell of a struggle.

I dislike more when people don't even try.

Dear Diary,

During the month of November,

everyone is fair game.


If I see you, am reminded of you, notice you in any way, you become permanently part of me. Of my novel. Whether this novel is something I ever look at again, or anyone else will look at, you are a part of my repertoire. The description of you I used, the characteristics I found fascinating, these will remain with me always. There is no one in the background.

You cannot be a wallflower in my life if I am writing. Today, I am writing.

I find you beautiful. I find your dress absurd, but your face, your hair--nothing goes unobserved. I love your braid. I don't like your lip color. I like the way you shape your words with your mouth.

I like the pattern on the sole of your shoe, the volume of your voice, the look on your face while you think about the person on the other end of the cell phone call. I like your kid, though he needs a haircut, because his smile is stunning.

I especially like your boyfriend. But my character is looking for a woman. So I don't have much to do with your boyfriend; at least, I promise I won't say anything too nice about him.

I like the sound that's made when the mug you bumped hit the floor, and the nervousness that's in your voice while you clean it up and people walk in looking down at you.

I like the shrill condescension in your voice as you talk to the girl behind the counter as if her coworkers are her pets.

I like the look you gave your husband after he watches the girl in the tights, high boots, and tiny skirt walk by.

So if you want to talk to me, or show up in my vicinity, behave yourself. Because if you don't, your antics may stay forever as an extension of my imagination.

Dear Diary,

I would blow this up and print it on huge banners and post it everywhere:

I was just talking about this with my niece, as we're driving around trying to figure out what we're doing with her life. Pretty much we're sure what the goal is for her, but we're also talking about how awesome my life is and how I got here.

I started homeschooling my niece in June. We're just about done with her Freshman year (or so I believe...I have yet to tally up the hours and make an evaluation). We're trying to get her to audition for a Korean pop-music company before she's 17, which means we have to finish high school shortly after she turns 16. This is pretty easy, but I'm also trying to make sure she can actually be a pop star.

Things a Korean pop star from America needs to know:
How to dance
How to sing
How to write music
How to audition
How to choreograph
How to design costumes
How to read Korean
How to speak Korean
How to write Korean
How to get around Korea
How to defend herself physically
How to get into a Korean college
How to defend herself verbally (so she doesn't get taken advantage of)
How to get back to America, should it be necessary
How to make money

So if you've ever thought about learning all these things in two years, ask me for the full story. It's not easy, and on top of that, there are legal requirements that she has to meet to get her high school diploma, otherwise known as academics.

I target the whole curriculum towards this goal. She's doing well.

But we're talking about what it's like being her dance instructor, and what it's like being me. How the people she's meeting have made a life for themselves without being trampled by "the man" or even "Uncle Sam." People like us, we're kicking butt. Her dance instructor is teaching a class of Hip Hop to adults. When I was a kid, I guarantee you couldn't find that class available anywhere.

See, we're adults now. WE get to decide what we do for a living, and WE get to choose what is considered "grown-up."

Grown-ups dance Hip Hop!
Grown-ups dress up and sit in coffee shops pretending to be from the future!
Grown-ups bring their typewriters to write-ins!
Grown-ups get to sit on the floor and play with kids who are afraid of getting smarter!
Grown-ups go caroling!
Grown-ups throw parties and turn out the lights and light candles!
Grown-ups can pour the whole bottle of bubbles into the bath!
Grown-ups stay up all night and shoot Zombies on the xbox!
Grown-ups can eat all the cookie dough before baking a single cookie!
Grown-ups can choose to spend all their money on play pit balls!
Grown-ups can paint Animal on the back of their car!

I love my job.
I love what my job affords me.

I get to play.
I get to get up in the morning to a phone call of a friend in distress and drive 2 hours to go rescue him and his family in the snowy mountains.
I get paid in cash and can go grocery shopping.
I set my own hours, and I can cancel and play hooky and my job is still there when I get back.
I have time to write and draw and knit and do all sorts of hobbies.
I can call my friends and they can come over, whenever I want.

Dear Diary,

Prepping for NaNoWriMo. Hoping to get my writing groove back.

Dear Diary,

Part 1 of potentially only 1.

The awesomeness of an adventure weekend presented itself as we reached ultimate fed-up-ness with the experience of waking up yet again to daunting day-to-day-life pressures.

And we have a great life, I am to remind you I am pleased I am not part of a 'normal' family routine.

It all started with the Family Reunion road trip--which leads to another more intriguing story, for another day--where we packed and slam-bam hit Kentucy in fewer than 36 hours after leaving home.

Tip #1: Avoid the Interstates
Tip #2: Look at the map of the campgrounds you might hit BEFORE you leave.

Driving blindly ahead at two am seeking a campsite the Garmin assured you you passed a half hour ago and a lonley sign once suggested you were on the right path is not ideal for sleepy travellers.

Tip #4: Make sure you have paper maps in addition to your GPS. Who knows if you're going to short out your charging outlet?

So the trip to Kentucky was quick, wet, and less than refressing. The perfect length of time for a road trip averages three week, within a few days on either side.

For example: Our three week tour through Wyoming, South Dakota, Minnesota, Wisconsin, the UP of Michigan, the LP of Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Missouri, and aKansas. Or perhaps the three weeks through New Mexico to the Hill Counttry of Texas with a one week layover and then on to the Gulf of Mexico, along the Mexican border, Arizona Rockies, and Utah. Or even the two week quickie through Kansas, Missouri, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio to Michigan and back.

A road trip is about windmills, campsites or hotels with windowseats, merry-go-rounds, slides and swings; rivers, lakes and beaches. A road trip is about dirt roads, the local pizzeria, brew pub, or greasy spoon. A road trip is about lookingin museums the size of my backyard and riding restored carosels. It's about inside jokes, pop songs on the sirus radio, and overused words. A road trip ais about making the country feel huge again.

Tip #4: Bring a Jacket.

So upon arriving home, we laid out our musty, smelly tents to dry, gave up and washed them over the next week, along with the sleeping bags that absorbed some of the August air from the midwest.

We had lives to reinhabit, work to employ us, and the same dirty dishes we'd left behind.

We were just getting to the part where we communicated well in a small space when the trip ended.

Tip #5: Use a road trip to strengthen your relationship. Nothing says I have time for you like being strapped in a metal egg for hours with someone.

We find ourselves talling about long-harbored issues with the casualness of how lovely the sunset is. Of course, there's a break-in period where we're both holding back and being abrasive, but the electricty finds the pat of least resistance and we open up.

Tip #6: Children are an exception to the fifth tip. They will argue more at the peak of the trip and again towards the end when they know they'll be home soon.

We clashed with each other and the kids for the week we were home, then we packed the trunk with horseshoes, frisbees, a skateboard and pads, fishing gear, tents, bags, charcoal, swimming suits and towels, and water and took off.

We had no idea where we were going.

Tip #7: Use recreational maps, not just road maps. Dirt roads do not mean 4x4 only.

On Friday, we ventured out timidly, skateboarding in Palisade, drinking a beer and eating popcorn at the brewery, and then heading home.

On Saturday, we were gone. We dropped off keys, said hi to a sister back from out of town, and took the highway down to Crawford, leaving Land's End and the Mesa for a different day.

We said hi to grandparents and looked at gardens growing, showed off our new car, and talked about the weather.

We drove to Paonia from the south and drank the best cherry soda ever made while playing chess at the brewery. We consulted a map and chose a dirt road to Crested Butte. We'd never been to Crested Butte.

Trains leaned in on the turns in the road-coal biled high. Huge miming operations glittered up the mountainsides in the sunset, hidden in the trees, extracting the black gold.

Tip #8: If searching for Craft Breweries, pick up the most recent copy of Rocky Mountain Brewing News, or the local equivalent, type in the address in the Garmin and go.

We got to the pub in Crested Butte, who sponsors the local hockey team, has a large deck for the chilly night air, and one girl running the whole kitchen.

Avacados must be in season. My daughter and husband split a bowl of deep-fried avacado slices, a salad topped with avacado, and an avacado, cheese, bacon, and tomato sandwich.

We drove up toward on of the little flags on the recreeational map indicating a campground. Garmin didn't believe us. Gothic, it said, was a town. The map didn't agree. We were determined to find the truth.

The road turned to dirt again and that--that fluffy-looking creature was a porcupine. Those were deer, and that was another porcupine. That might have been an owl.

Garmin won--Gothic is a teeny town founded for research in 1929. They had barrels--traffic barrels--orange and white striped--in the middle of the road, with 15 emblazoned on the speed limit signs perched on top.

Gunnison National Forest greeted us on the other side of the town, and I laughed at myself for using the car as an oversized flashlight to read the signs posted on the side of the road. I turned into the sign: Parking, no camping. The next: Parking, no camping, Later, after several more Parking, no camping signs, a larger one: Day Use Only: Flash Floods blah blah blah Please don't camp here Blah blah You'll regret it. Fine then.

Finally, the map wins--Goth the campground announces Bear Country and I pick up a pay envelope.

We tour the campground--#1 has a camping motorcyclist. Five feet later, #2 has a large truck. Another five feet and #3 has a little Subaru. Take a turn and immediately ahead is a 4-runner in #4, and to the left, #5 with nothing but a fire pit.

I pitch camp as the family sleeps. I pitch camp crooked, apparently.

Tip #9: No matter how tired you are, don't skimp on setting up camp properly. A bad night's sleep fror all can be a direct result of the pressure to get under the covers.

Remember the part about bringing a jacket? We camped at 9500 feet. It was cold. We were crooked and people and pets all slid to one end of the tent. The boy child had nightmares.

At some point in the darkness, both the husband and I are awake.
"This is camping," he said. "This is peaceful. Hear all that racket from Kentucky that's missing up here?" He's right, the silence at altitude is comforting. The constant white noise of insects punctuated with the staccato of various other night critters was disconcerting down near sea-level.