blind insight

Weekend round-up.

After spending 8 hours in the office on Saturday, I was pretty darn happy to have the rest of a three-day weekend ahead of me (thank you, Dr. King). After I finally left work, Steve and I joined his roommate and the roommate's girlfriend for dirt-cheap pizza and beers at our new favorite hole-in-the-wall in Golden, then stayed up late playing a heated girls-against-boys game of spades. Of course we kicked the boys' butts, though they claim it was the result of too many beers on their part.

Sunday brought us the first lazy, relaxing weekend morning we've had in weeks. We decided to forego skiing and instead slept late, made waffles for everyone with Steve's new waffle iron, played some more spades (the boys did somewhat better, but we broke for the afternoon dead even), and then hit the rock climbing gym for the first time since early December. I climbed surprisingly well, and even managed to make the first couple of moves on a 5.12- route that was more balance-oriented than burly.

After a nice dinner, we returned to the card table to resume the spades match. Despite some setbacks, the girls had a comfortable lead when Steve's roommate left for his hockey game. Steve and I settled into the couch and watched Brotherhood of the Wolf on DVD. What a phenomenal movie -- beautiful photography, great acting, and an engrossing and disturbing story. Plus, I love the opportunity to listen to French!

Today, we did ski, and had an awesome day at A-Basin with my friends Dawn and Jeff. The snow was marginal, but the slopes were practically empty and the sun was shining, so it was a great day for me to really push myself. This was my first day on alpine skis after a month of tele, and I was pleasantly surprised that I remembered how to ski steeps and bumps.

Now I'm home, showered, slightly rested, and about to head out to my women's discussion group this evening. Our talks are always satisfying and interesting, and I love spending time with this group of diverse, talented, and fun women. While most of what we discuss must remain within our circle, I'm hoping that tonight's gathering will provide me with food for thought and fuel for this forum.

Then again, I have to finish my brief tomorrow, so perhaps it's better if I don't have any huge ideas bouncing around in my head, crying out to be transformed into something bloggable.

Picture this.

I'm not technologically sophisticated enough to create my own website, complete with pictures, graphics, and other nifty features. But hopefully this will work:

This link should take you to a little album of photos from the New Year's Yurt Adventure. Many of our pictures turned out to depict great white expanses populated by tiny dark dots that are either one of us or a tree, but I've spared you most of these.

Enjoy!

P.S.: I've also updated my archived entry from Halloween to include a few photos. If you're interested in some ancient (in blogging time) history, click on the first line in the "Archive" list over on the right.

Adventures in a Winter Wonderland.

Time to chronicle our New Year's getaway! Sit back and relax, since this will be a long one.

Last Saturday, Steve and I ran around town printing maps and picking up a few essentials at REI, then spent a small fortune on food and a somewhat lesser sum on a bottle of Andre Champagne and a box of Franzia Cabernet (the backcountry is no place for a wine snob). We woke early on Sunday and headed south, stopping briefly in Pueblo to pick up my brand new K2 She's Pistes at the Edge, a great little ski and paddle shop. Then, on the recommendation of Bob at the Edge, we veered slightly off course to watch the Broncos/Packers game in the tiny mountain hamlet of La Veda, Colorado.

We drove up the main drag in La Veda searching for an open bar, but found only a steakhouse (closed on Sunday) and a tiny diner (no TV). Fortunately, the folks at the Main Street Diner directed us a bit further up the way to the Pub and Grub. When we walked inside, the place looked something like a union meeting hall, with folding tables and chairs scattered about. But it not only was the only open watering hole in the vicinity, it also boasted the day's entire NFL lineup on satellite TV. Even better (at least from Steve's perspective), seated at neighboring tables were several die-hard Packer fans, who improbably had congregated in La Veda for the game.

I was perfectly content to see the Packers beat my boys' third-string offense, particularly since a Green Bay victory would guarantee a far more pleasant start to my vacation (Steve takes these games veeeeeeeeeeery seriously). But the drama of the day began when Dallas managed to lose to the Saints, meaning that even if Green Bay won, the Packers could only make the playoffs if Minnesota lost to the pathetic Cardinals. Throughout the game, the Packer crowd in the bar kept one eye on the Minnesota/Arizona matchup. Though it was close, by the last few minutes it appeared that the Vikings had a lock on a win and a playoff berth. But football miracles happen, and in the final seconds, Arizona's quarterback recovered from a string of sacks to throw a game-winning touchdown pass. Steve and the other Packer faithful jumped up an down, slapped hands, and generally went nuts. I breathed a sigh of relief that I wouldn't be skiing into the wilderness with a grumpy, grouchy man.

After several elated calls to Steve's buddies back in Wisconsin, we continued on to Alamosa, our destination for the evening. There we spent a quiet night in our motel room, eating pizza and watching NFL highlights.

We managed a reasonably early start on Monday, and drove through the San Luis Valley to Cumbres Pass. The valley was beautiful -- dry and yellow at this time of year, but dotted with farms and small towns and surrounded on all sides by snow-capped mountains. Though we saw virtually no snow in the valley, as soon as we reached the base of the pass, the white stuff manifested itself in abundance. This was a slow drive on icy roads, but absolutely gorgeous. Finally, we crossed La Manga Pass and continued to the trailhead, just below the summit of Cumbres Pass. Feet and feet of snow awaited us there, and we were soon skiing along on lightly packed trails.

Although the trailhead turned out to be a veritable snowmobile convention center, after our first mile we didn't see a single other person. The trail was well-marked and mostly a gradual uphill for 4.5 miles, taking us through the woods to open meadows, past a rotted-out car and a few small (and apparently uninhabited) cabins. I struggled some on Monday. Whether from the minus-ten-degree weather, lack of sleep, a mediocre chicken sandwich in La Veda, the weight of my pack (which was loaded with way too much food and a bottle of champagne), or dehydration, I felt nauseous and dizzy most of the last two-and-a-half miles or so. But finally, around 2:00 p.m., we reached the Flat Mountain Yurt.

Unfortunately, while the folks at Southwest Nordic Center had provided me with a thick confirmation packet, including maps, waivers, yurt maintenance requirements, and a welcome letter, they had made absolutely no mention of the fact that the yurt would be protected by a combination padlock. We tried the last four digits of the SWNC phone number, we tried the usual easy combinations, and we tried to call SWNC but had no cell service. At this point, we were both freezing cold, and I was feeling ready to puke or collapse, so Steve took matters into his own hands and kicked in the door. Fortunately, he managed to do this pretty gracefully, resulting in minimal damage to the yurt.

Once inside, we found that the yurt was cozy and clean, though the woodstove turned out to be finicky and Steve nearly burst a blood vessel in his head trying to get the darn thing started. But at last, the fire was burning, the yurt was warming up, and I emerged from under a down jacket (which Steve wisely had toted along) to whip together some hot chocolate and lunch. Soon, we were warm, dry, and full, and we spent the afternoon playing cards and sipping wine in a concerted attempt to lighten the load of the box in Steve's pack. The down jacket turned out to be a yurt-trip essential, along with our new down booties; the perfect attire for trips outside to gather snow to melt for water or to visit the outhouse. Outhouse trips, by the way, involved a short trek behind the yurt while carrying the toilet seat, which hung on a peg near the woodstove to protect one's buttocks from frostbite.

Steve cooked a delicious meal of lemon-garlic chicken and orzo that night, and after dinner we spent the evening talking, reading, and playing two-handed Sheepshead into the wee hours. Though the yurt included two bunks, each with a pillow and futon, we piled both of our sleeping bags onto one of the lower bunks and huddled together for warmth. The fire kept the yurt quite toasty into the night, partly due to Steve's restless night of monitoring it.

We woke to a foot of fresh snow and lightly falling flakes. After a breakfast of egg-and-potato burritos and hot drinks, we packed up, left a note about the broken lock for our successors, and set out for the Trujillo Meadows Yurt. This 4.1-mile trek was moderate and rolling, but proved challenging work as we had to break trail through nearly a foot of snow almost the entire way. But the day was gorgeous -- the woods were blanketed in fresh snow, the temperature somewhat warmer than on Monday, and the absence of old tracks or other signs of human presence created a feeling of utter solitude.

Like Flat Mountain, the Trujillo Meadows Yurt was locked. But this time, we were prepared for the problem, and Steve was able to unscrew most of the lock and get us inside without damaging the door at all. This second yurt was quite a bit nicer than the first (perhaps because our entry into it was less stressful). The woodstove started easily and burned reliably, the gas cook stove had three fully-functional burners, the Coleman lanterns brightened the whole yurt enough for me to move comfortably at night, and one of the bins turned out to include all sorts of board games.

The snow continued to fall lightly until just after we'd finished our lunch. We contemplated exploring our surroundings that afternoon, but decided to stay inside, and instead relaxed, napped, read, and worked our way through more of the Franzia. After a dinner of hearty minestrone soup and a potato gratin, we nibbled no-bake cheesecake and played Cribbage until we couldn't keep our eyes open anymore.

Wednesday brought us a day of rest (at least from touring), and so we set out to find some turns. Steve led the way through the woods, eventually convincing me to slide down a steep drop to a beautiful powder-filled basin below. Despite the frustration of having my climbing skins repeatedly fall off, the day was filled with powdery fun. (For those of you who are unfamiliar with backcountry skiing, having your skins fall off means that your ability to ascend even a moderate slope is severely compromised, and reattaching the skin involves taking off your skis and standing in waist-deep snow while you attempt to manipulate a long, slippery, and very sticky strip of rubberized mohair.) We eventually found ourselves at the base of a near-perfect "ski run," which we hiked up, then skied down through perfect champagne powder. After a few up-and-downs here, we headed back to the yurt, stopping several times during the steep part of the return trip for me to wrestle with my skins.

Not long after we arrived back in our cozy retreat, it began to snow again. We watched the snow accumulate on the deck as we battled one another in Cribbage.

For our New Year's Eve celebration, we made linguini with shrimp in a garlicky pesto sauce, zipped up with a bit of spicy red pepper. We struggled a little to stay awake until midnight (Steve actually napped for an hour or so while I curled up with my book in front of the fire). But we made it, and popped open our champagne and toasted 2004 with cheesecake and bubbly.

We woke on New Year's Day to find bright sunshine painting diamonds on the fresh snow outside. After dong our very best to finish the remaining food, we hoisted our far-lighter packs for the four-mile ski back to the car. Though we had to break trail a bit on the way out, the freshies weren't quite as deep as we'd plowed through before, and we made short work of the return trip. The final mile brought us back to civilization, when a convoy of a dozen snowmobiles suddenly roared past us. Barely two hours after leaving the yurt, we reached the car (which even started!). The rest, of course, is history (or at least recounted in Friday's entry).

I've left a message for the SWNC staff, and Steve and I are crossing our fingers that our breaking-and-entering won't have us banned from future trips back to these wonderful yurts. We're thinking next time we'll round up a crowd and head to the Bull of Woods Yurt, just two miles from the Taos Ski Valley . . . .

Kitchen confidential.

I've spent the past four hours baking and cooking, mostly to disastrous results. First, my ruggelach (baked according to my mother's legendary recipe) came out a crumbly, flattened mess. So much for sending a traditional Jewish treat home for Steve's family to enjoy at Christmas. Then, my caramel pecan squares appeared to be perfect, but I cut them a teeny bit too soon so now have to wait for the stuff to harden in order to attempt a quick fix. Last, I made a curried rice dish with almonds and raisins, for tonight's Hanukkah party with my family's close friends. This seems to be alright, but the rice is a bit gummy for some reason, and I almost forgot to add the all-important butter. Oy. You would think I'd never set foot in a kitchen before.

In fact, I love to cook and bake. The nascent Jewish mother in me revels in the joy of feeding the people I love, and I find it incredibly relaxing to putz around the kitchen concocting tasty treats. Perhaps my efforts today were foiled because I was too sleepy and wasn't concentrating. Or because I forgot to turn on the all-important Billie Holiday CD to which I usually cook. Yet as I was working, I felt smooth and methodical, unfettered by time constraints or stress. Thus, I am even more annoyed that what should have been a lovely Sunday morning in the kitchen has turned into a frustrating, messy debacle.

I'll write more later, maybe even about something more important and interesting than my kitchen catastrophes. For the moment, I need to get outside for a run or something to collect myself and burn off the irritation of the morning's failures.

Free up your heels!

After Friday's aborted ski plans, I was a wee bit nervous heading into Sunday. But all went well, and I had a wonderful day of telemark skiing with my friend Traci. Around two years ago, Traci and I decided to free our heels. We jumped into the world of tele skiing at a clinic run by the "Backcountry Babes", a group of women who teach other women how to tele.

We were both a bit frustrated by our first Babes class. For my part, I felt like the instructors were more interested in showing off and hawking gear than really teaching us anything. But I knew I needed some instruction before the Great Yurt Adventure coming up over New Year's Eve, so when I saw an announcement for an all-day women's tele clinic this Sunday, I called Traci, who agreed to give the Babes another shot. The experience was wonderful, and the group obviously has fine-tuned its operation over the past two years.

We were asked to reserve demo gear in advance, so they had all the right sizes and equipment for each of us. And what great gear!! I got to try out the exact set-up I'm coveting, this year's models of the Scarpa T2 boot and the K2 She's Piste skis, with quality bindings. I loved it all, and wish I could afford to buy the new stuff now.

After registering, getting our gear, and receiving a cool goodie bag, we peeled off a few layers and warmed up with a martial arts stretching session. I remembered this as the best part of the clinic a couple of years ago, and it was even better this time. After 45 minutes of bouncing, twisting, and stretching, I felt relaxed and centered, ready to hit the slopes!

Happily, Traci and I were in the same group, along with five other women. This group was a bit larger than I'd have liked, but with two instructors we didn't end up standing around TOO much. And the instructors were great. One of them seemed to struggle a bit to speak "beginnerese," but the other was able to translate her directions into terms we relative neophytes could grasp. By the end of the day, I was linking turns pretty comfortably (albeit not so beautifully) on moderate terrain, and was feeling far more confident than I anticipated. After sharing a beer and some success stories with the group (and winning some nice goodies in the raffle), I left feeling that I'd gotten my money's worth and excited to try another Babes' clinic later this season.

Tele is amazing -- so much more rhythmic and athletic than alpine skiing. While it's somewhat disconcerting for me to be back on the groomers, the whole experience is more satisfying than alpine. And learning in an environment geared towards women was great. I'm not usually one for women-only events, but this clinic worked so well precisely because it was focused on women introducing other women to the joys of free-heel skiing. Maybe it's because tele skiing attracts a certain type of person, but I walked away from the clinic feeling like virtually all of the women I'd met, instructors and students alike, were the kind of cool chicks with whom I like to hang. Several of the women in our group were climbers, and all of us shared active lifestyles and a love for the backcountry.

My only disappointment came today. I'd spoken with the head Babe about buying a pair of last year's demo skis for a great price, and called her this morning ready to buy. Though she didn't give me any sense of urgency yesterday (or I would have pulled out my checkbook on the spot), she e-mailed me this afternoon to say she'd sold the skis to someone else, who apparently had made an earlier offer on the same pair. I'm terribly disappointed, and am now trying to find a comparable deal elsewhere (so far, coming up empty). In any case, it's time for me to invest in tele gear, and to devote some serious energy to improving my skills.

The best laid plans . . .

I took yesterday off to play with Steve, since I have some vay-cay on the books and am not taking a major vacation this year. The idea was to have a last week-day play day on the slopes before he goes into finals mode and I have to focus on a complicated brief. We planned to telemark in the morning at Winter Park, then drive to Devil's Thumb Ranch for some cross-country skiing, and then head back to Denver and hit the climbing gym in the evening. We were pretty excited about this semi-insane "triathlon," since both of us are trying to ratchet up our training level.

Alas, our efforts were frustrated from the get-go. First, Steve was unable to get me tele gear from his climbing shop. Then, contrary to website and telephone information I'd found, Winter Park is not offering telemark gear for rent yet. After I nearly took the head off the girl at the WP rental office, Steve calmed me down and we decided to try to get a workout on our XC skis. We drove the ten miles or so over to Devil's Thumb Ranch with sinking hearts, as we realized there was no snow at all in the valley. Upon arrival at DTR, we were told that we could pay $6 (down from the regular $16) for the privilege of ruining our skis on grass and gravel.

By this time, we were beyond frustration, so drove back through Winter Park hoping to find a place for lunch and perhaps a beer. But everything in town was closed, with virtually every restaurant opening only for apres-ski and dinner. Finally, we went back to the ski area, searched for parking, and paid exorbitant prices for sandwiches and beer.

I ranted and whined for a bit about having wasted a precious vacation day, but we managed to salvage things somewhat at the rock gym. Neither of us was feeling terribly strong, but we both climbed pretty well and burned off some of the energy we'd saved up for our planned multisport extravaganza.

After the gym, we decided to get a bite to eat and try to see a movie. Since we were already in the north 'burbs, we planned to head to the 24-plex (do we really need twenty-four movie screens under one roof?!) in Westminster, but missed the exit. So we decided to head into downtown and check times for one of the indy/art flicks at Tivoli or a more mainstream movie at the Pavilions. Silly me -- I'd completely forgotten about the traffic-snarling, parking-price-inflating hell that is the Xcel Energy Parade of Lights. Fortunately, we managed to get out of downtown before the parade began, but still had to battle horrendous traffic in the process.

We revisited our plan and decided to try Cherry Creek, where at least one can park without having to sell one's first-born child. As it turned out, the only movie playing there at a time we could make and that we were willing to watch was the latest Tom Cruise vehicle, the Last Samurai. Against our better judgment, we bought tickets for the late show, then went all the way back to the other end of the mall for some dinner.

When we returned to the theatre, we learned that the 10:30 show for which we'd bought tickets was nearly full, and there were no seats left together. So we waited another 15 minutes for the 10:45 (I guess there is some benefit to having zillions of theatres in one place). Once the movie started, I think I was awake for a total of about an hour, over the nearly three hours of film. Steve and I both loathe Tom Cruise, and the best thing I can say about this movie is that it provides ample fodder for Cruise-bashing. The story is weak, the acting weaker, and the battle scenes felt like Braveheart on steroids, without any of the beauty, drama, and intensity of the fighting. For a samurai movie, there also was distressingly little swordplay, a disappointment to both of us (but especially Steve, who loves that stuff). The only thing that distinguished this movie from every other Cruise vehicle was that his character didn't seem to have any major father-figure issues, although in typical fashion he was haunted by his past.

By the time we got home, it was nearly 2:00 a.m., well past my bedtime! I'm still dragging this morning, and trying to get motivated to go running and then holiday shopping. I should go to the office, but it's too pretty outside and I won't have another weekend to get my shopping done before the holidays. At least I have a women's tele clinic to look forward to tomorrow (hopefully with more successful results than my last tele attempt).

Make way for ducklings.

For reasons that remain a mystery to me, we federal employees have today, a Tuesday, off for Veteran's Day. I'm certainly not complaining -- it's nice to have a holiday in the middle of the week! I contemplated skiing or climbing today, but decided to take advantage of the day off and the beautiful weather to take my snazzy bike out for a spin.

The Platte River trail is one of my favorite rides in town, but I've never ridden it mid-week before. It was almost like having my own private bike path -- aside from a few homeless men crouched by the creek under the bridges, I only passed a few other cyclists (just enough to feel safe, really). The absence of traffic allowed me to let my mind wander and to take in my surroundings in a way I typically can't when I have to worry about scanning the path for people and objects.

My sense of smell is always pretty powerful (I joke that it's overcompensating for my eyes and ears), and today it seemed to be working in high gear. As I rolled along, I could smell the changes in the landscape, from the fresh cut golf-course grass to the dry leaves collecting in the underpasses to the smell of the South Platte itself -- not unpleasant, but you wouldn't want to drink it. On the way back, I must have been hungry, because I felt bombarded by intense food smells I've never noticed on the path before. At one point, the smell of chicken noodle soup filled the air, followed a mile or two later by fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Closer to downtown, I thought I smelled popcorn, but realized it was coming from a nearby construction area.

But the best moment of my ride came about 15 miles into it, right after I turned around. I saw something on the path ahead, and slowed down to try to navigate it. As I got closer, I realized it was a conga line of ducks, waddling purposefully across the path to the river. I stopped and watched as they shuffled along, wiggling their little duck tushies and quacking happily. They paid no attention to me on their way to the water, although one or two of them tossed a beak in my direction as if to say, this is our world, but you're welcome to share it.

It's been a while since I've had such a close interaction with non-domesticated animals in what really is the middle of the city. I was reminded not only of one of my favorite children's books (as my title today suggests), but of the blue-footed boobies I encountered in the Galapagos Islands. These colorful birds spray their guano-ring nests in the middle of the trails and waddle about tending their eggs, oblivious to the camera-happy tourists stepping around them.

There's no great point to this observation (and I need to take a shower now so I can get down to the serious business of laundry and cookie-baking). But this little ducky moment made my day, so I wanted to share it.

Vive le weekend.

Some Monday mornings, I arrive at my office feeling like the previous Friday was a lifetime ago. This weekend seems to have had that effect on me (but in a good way).

Friday night, I attended a dinner and lecture event at a modern orthodox synagogue with a couple of friends. I went only because my friend Linda asked me to join her, and I was happy to have the excuse to catch up with her. My friend Howard came only because I asked him to, and because he's been looking for opportunities to reconnect with the Jewish community.

Not unexpectedly, walking into the orthodox shul felt a bit like entering a foreign country. Howard and I, reform Jews that we are, both felt a bit out of place, but we did our best to muddle along with the davening. And though I always feel like an outsider in an orthodox shul, I love watching the insiders. The scene is one of organized chaos, as part of the group earnestly speed-chants in Hebrew, another segment kibbitzes loudly, oblivious to the prayers, and the rest keep an eye on the kids that are constantly running in and out and around the room. And my feeling of otherness came only from within -- the rabbi and the regulars were warm and friendly, and brought a nice bottle of whiskey to our table of twenty- and thirty-something mostly-newcomers to make us feel welcome. The only Jewish events I've ever been to at which hard liquor flows freely are the orthodox ones!

I woke up on Saturday with a bit of pounding in my head from the few sips of Cutty Sark I'd foolishly ingested. After a much-needed pedicure, I spent a few hours roaming around downtown in search of the perfect presents for Steve's impending birthday.

I have a tendency to work myself into a tizzy over present shopping. I love buying things for people, but I'm never content to just buy some random nice thing. No, I always have to find the perfect gift; one that captures both the recipient's personality and interests and reflects my own connection to them. Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my quest for the perfect present that I run out of time and energy and end up buying exactly the marketing-driven type of thing I so studiously try to avoid. But I did well on Saturday, finding almost everything I wanted. And no, Steve, you CANNOT take a peek in my closet . . . .

After sating my shopping urge, I was feeling domestic, so baked a big batch of chocolate chip cookies. I cranked up Billie Holiday on the kitchen CD player and danced around the kitchen with the mixing bowl, humming along to Lady Day's silken sounds. Baking always leaves me feeling calm and contented, and fills my little house with sweet smells. I sometimes bake just because the smell of fresh-baked goodies relaxes me (and my office is always happy to indulge this need). The cookies came out pretty well, too. They didn't have quite the chewy-gooey consistency I was shooting for, and I was afraid to let Steve try them since he'd assured me that no one can touch his mom's chocolate chip cookies. My efforts may not have rivaled Wisconsin's best, but Steve's eaten close to a dozen of them already, so I guess I did OK.

Perhaps it was the sugar high, but against our better judgment, we decided to brave the crust and crowds and GO SKIING yesterday. Despite the long lift lines, it was worth it. We were only on the slopes for a couple of hours (hooray for season passes), but got in five decent runs and had a great time. I'm always terrified when skiing in dense crowds because of my lack of peripheral vision, but I managed not to kill myself or anyone else, and was able to relax and even let my speed out in a few places. I can't wait for the "real" season to begin. I'm already dreaming of the powder days ahead!

So now it's Monday morning. I have briefs to write, a hearing to prepare for, and a death penalty case to review for a colleague in Wyoming. Some weeks, particularly when I've been working non-stop or am struggling with a case I can't stop thinking about, I lose all sense of time and the days blur together in a haze of sleep deprivation. Today, though, I feel like I've returned from a rejuvenating vacation. I'm full of energy, and eager to jump back into my cases.

The speaker on Friday night (who was too intense and judgmental for my taste) talked about making Friday night Shabbat. I had a hard time hearing him and never quite figured out how his actual speech related to the topic, but the concept of Shabbat as a separation between the mundane and the spiritual is valuable. While I'm not sure that "making Friday night Shabbat" is the key to my emotional well-being, making the weekend a separation from the hyper-scheduled intensity of the rest of my week very well may be.

Tricks 'n treats.

I'm like a little kid when it comes to Halloween. There's something about costumes and candy and mass wackiness that just gets me, every year. When I was growing up in Boulder in the '70s and '80s, Halloween was a huge deal. The annual Mall Crawl hadn't yet disintegrated into a drunken, violent frenzy and was still a chance for everyone in town to come out and see one another, compare brilliant, creative, silly, political or downright disgusting costume concepts, and stroll (very, very slowly) along the Pearl Street Mall with 30,000 of their friends and neighbors.

My sophomore year in high school (also known as The Mohawk Era, or, if you're my parents, The Year We Gladly Would Have Sold Madeline To The Gypsies), a friend's mom allowed a small group of us to have a party in her store on The Mall. My punker friends and I spent the evening dancing in the window and writing notes on scrap paper to the people outside. We were protected from the crazed, ass-grabbing throngs (and the annual Halloween freeze), but had a front-row view of the fun and madness. I was a vampire that year, complete with a fabulous homemade black satin cape (even punkers can convince their mommies to make Halloween costumes) and a spider web painted on my shaved skull. If you doubt that I actually had a mohawk, I assure you that timeless proof exists on page 19 or so of the 1986 Boulder High School yearbook.

I always try to come up with a great costume idea. A few years ago, I was Tropical Storm Madeline, since my eponymous weather event had blown through Florida just a few days before. My costume consisted of a bikini, grass skirt, tropical straw hat, sunglasses, and Storm soda labels on my face and chest. And a squirt gun!

This year, I'm going as Betty Boop. As I hinted yesterday, there's a story behind this costume . . . .

Back when I was in private practice, I did pro bono work for the Jewish inmates in Colorado's prison system. One of them developed a rather alarming crush on me, and regularly sent me novel-length discussions of kabbalistic texts, vegetarian recipes, disturbing amorous declarations, and unusual gifts (such as a hand-made, purple knitted scarf and hat, which I donated to a local shelter). After I finally paid a visit to him and some of the other Jewish guys in prison, he decided that I looked like Betty Boop, and that I was a modern-day Betty Boop (his reasoning was that she brought hope and cheer to the soldiers during the war, while I brought hope and cheer to the Jewish inmates. Both the analogy and the resemblance are pretty weak). Then one day, a package arrived at my office with an etched mirror depicting Betty Boop (sort of) under my name. Trademark violations aside, this triggered mass hilarity among my colleagues, and my secretary began buying me Boop stuff whenever she found it. Somehow this evolved into a "thing," which has stuck with me to the present.

So this year, I'm going to be Betty Boop for the Halloween party I'm going to on Saturday night. I actually did this a few years ago, and have never received so much male attention in my life! But that's what Halloween is for, right? I get to dress sexy and get hit on enough to last me for the other 364 days of the year.

The party we're going to is a big benefit-type deal, and I have no idea whom I'll know there. Somehow I'm more excited about going to a party where I don't have to mingle with people and can just enjoy drinking, dancing, and taking in all the crazy outfits along with a few close friends. My blogging buddy Rebecca and her bike-guru husband Dan will be here and are transporting costume fixings all the way from Austin. Steve is going to be the Incredible Hulk, assuming we find the necessary makings during tonight's expedition to the costume shop. I think Betty Boop and the Incredible Hulk make a cute -- or at least colorful -- couple!

UPDATE: As of January 14, 2004, photos of our Halloween silliness can be found here.