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First, our bouches were amused by bleu cheese stuffed, deep-fried olives…

… then, for the appetizer, I enjoyed lamb ‘n rice filled tomato (toh-mah-toh?) in basil cream sauce…

… while she (Happy Wife) savored the shrimp keftedes…

… followed by a playful “CaBeetse” salad …

… each course thoroughly rinsed by silky tannins (first decanted) …

… and the eventual entree course, New york strip steaks with compound butter, potato (poh-tah-toh?) and asparagus…

… finished with a festive choco- dessert for him …

… and an elegant Tiramisu for her…

Stopped at a local watering hole on the way home to show off my arm candy, but also to wish a familiar face or two a happy new year. However, evidently because we were too early (~10 pm) we were disappointed to find a mostly empty bar and a live act on stage whose guitar and voice together was about as ear-pleasing as a (broken) Dremel tool on aluminum sheeting. Finally, came home to two dogs in full panic mode because the city of Anchorage strictly forbids private fireworks of any kind on New Year’s Eve!

The other night at dinner a friend comes back with, “Do you have a better idea?” This, after I responded with two objections to a question I was asked by another dinner guest, “What do you think of Obamacare?”

The content of those two objections is unimportant, with the possible exception that they may provide a glimpse into my worldview, a view it so happens nobody at the table was probably unaware of, and one which was likely set and has remained unchanged since — as I recall being told it is in most people — about age 30. For any practical purpose I can think of it makes no difference what I think of Obamacare. I may disagree with the rain, too, but I understand the futility of shaking my fist at it. One constituent belief of my worldview is that one should sweat the changeable and shrug off the unchangeable. A different worldview has it that a real American should work for change he believes in else he should shut up and abide the rules others have established. If you don’t vote, some say, you’ve no right to complain about the outcome. I’ve never agreed with that. It doesn’t work that way in science. Pointing out a flaw in someone’s scientific method isn’t predicated on my knowledge of a better one, or me personally participating in the search for one. Surely there were people who were correctly critical of geocentricism yet unable to articulate an alternative theory before Copernicus and Kepler came along, just as legitimate scientific criticisms of the gene-centric theory of evolution have been raised absent a full-fledged alternative. I can’t be critical of Bush or Obama because I didn’t vote for either of them or their opponents? That makes no sense to me.

Do I have a better idea than Obamacare? Shrug. Not really. But I don’t have to have a better idea to have legitimate objections to it.

Happy New Year.

Cross your fingers, Lucy is having surgery today to remove a lump in her lymph node, followed by one last dose of chemotherapy (mitotic inhibitor) next week. After that, if the cancer recurs Happy Wife says she’s in hospice. Personally speaking, I’m optimistic; other than this latest lump Lucy is entirely symptom free, and the damn cancer hasn’t recurred in her neck since it was removed for the (3rd) last time over a month ago. Knowing it’s gone to her lymphatics isn’t a positive sign, but on the other hand there’s no evidence it’s metastasized beyond this one lump.

Finished the newsletter! Officially known as The Nibbles, the 2013 version is relatively light compared to years past, but the recipient list is as long as ever — mailed over fifty this year. If you want to be added to the list click the Contact Me link and let me know. Word of caution: Once I add you to the list there’s no getting off, there is no unsubscribe button.

We went to The Nest this weekend to check up on the place. All was well. Got a hot fire raging in the wood stove, turned up the hot tub, mixed a pitcher of what we’re now calling Nestaritas — one can limeade, one can Tequila, one (16 oz) can Pabst. Mix well. Enjoy over ice. I grilled a flank steak and Happy Wife prepared fixins for fajitas. Stoked the fire and settled in to watch The Heat starring Sandra Bullock & Melissa McCarthy. Raunchy, trashy, and mostly amusing. Emptied the Nestaritas. Bedtime came easy.

Woke to a glorious day, once it got going that is (~9:30 am). Very little snow, nearly 30 degrees, no wind. A perfect day for a hike to Tonsina Point.

BIGGER.

BIGGER.

BIGGER.

Packed up and drove back to Anchorage early am Sunday. Happy Wife drops me at the Peanut Farm, a known hangout for Cheeseheads, as the game was not televised in our area. But at The Farm every game is on one of their TVs (>15?), and if one of the games is the Packers it appears on one of the BIG screens. Place was mobbed, even beyond usual, which is crazy. Found a lone stool next to two Bears fans, a man and a woman. Otherwise nice people. I lost a bet to the woman midway through the game on some play or another. That set me back three shots of Patron. I wasn’t going to let them drink alone!

If you saw the game you can imagine my mood at the one minute to go mark when it looked like the Packers were done for the year. And then, miraculously, on fourth and one, Arron Rodgers let’s loose with a 30+ yard strike to Cobb for a touchdown. The Farm erupts. Haven’t heard anything like that since… well, since the last time I was at The Farm and the Packers won. But this was special for sure. And then we had to endure the last 40 seconds of the game including one last hail Mary pass to the end zone. The ball hangs in the air for what seemed like minutes as every Cheesehead in the place is on their feet biting their nails and thinking about how we got ripped off last year against the Seahawks:

Not this year baby! We’re in the playoffs. See you at Lambeau Field next week 49ers. Wear an extra pair of socks, could be a long chilly day. Ha!

… from the Last Frontier. -8^o and a minute more sun!

BIGGER.

Missed my 35th H.S. reunion this year. Couldn’t justify a 10,000 mile r/t for a few hours of reminiscing, with the awkward darting of eyes back ‘n forth between a name tag and a former classmate’s face to trigger recognition. “Oh, Pam Schmidt, yes, of course… yes I remember you, of course!” And then in that instant the awkwardness doubles because you can’t describe for Pam the 35-yr old image that suddenly leapt into your mind’s eye, the one that represents your memory of Pam. No, that would be impolite all these years later. It’s not your fault, you think. It’s not like I consciously stored this memory of Pam qua cheerleader, her back against the locker, our arms tangled in awkward embrace, lips co-pressed, hands roaming and hearts beating, unguided. Is Pam’s memory of you the same you wonder, that day after the game when you were the last to exit the team room, the school hallway long since empty of players and fans except for Pam who had come back into the building to fetch something from her locker. Is that what she remembers too, you wonder, all these years later, as her smile grows wider in the long seconds that pass as you stand there looking at each other trying to think of what to say next.

Or maybe it wasn’t Pam, or maybe it wasn’t you with Pam. Memory is imperfect, and after 35 years often unreliable.

Ha! Oh, what we might do different if we could start all over again, eh?

You know the terrorists have won when…? When an airport patron is not permitted to have silverware provided with his ($14.99) Cobb salad. New security rules, I was told. Have you ever tried to slice and eat a Cobb salad piled 5″ high on a plate — a paper plate no less — with plastic fork and knife? Never mind that my Stella Artois was served in a glass glass that quite easily could have been struck against the granite bar and rendered a deadly weapon. Seriously, who are the knot heads responsible for making these inane security rules to keep us safe?

Made it into the high country Tuesday beyond the verdant perimeter of the city into the parched hills above. Expected a ~35 mile loop and ended up being a mile shy of 50. Estimating distances on Google maps running on a phone is challenging when the scale doesn’t remain displayed, the sun is shining brighter than a supernova and one’s reading glasses and phone screen are smeared beyond hope by sweat and dirt.

Suddenly, an oasis. Took a picture to make sure it was real as senses have been known to deceive. The Coachella Preserve, I think. Somewhere on the Thousand Palms Canyon Road climb. Didn’t stop to look around but it was tempting.

BIGGER.

In the staging area at SeaTac presently waiting to board the silver tube home. an old man seated next to me on the prior flight said he was sorry for not talking to me. It’s just I really miss my wife, he said. Oh, I said, you’ve been apart a while and you’re anxious to see her, I guessed. No she died three years ago and I haven’t been able to get over it. We were together 65 years.

That stopped me right there.

Once recovered I said, I can’t imagine life without my wife. It sounded cliche. He turned to me and said, Hold her tight when you get home. Don’t let her go. Frank and I talked some more, I helped him off the plane into the waiting wheelchair and wished him a Merry Christmas. Good man.

 

Found myself at the intersection of Dinah Shore and Bob Hope and saw my tires were low on air. Who knows what might’ve happened had Dinah and Bob intersected in real life. Kind of surprising they didn’t given she had romances with everyone from Tarzan to Gene Krupa. She never got my motor revved as a young lad; I was enthralled with Sophia Loren, who was like 40 when I was 14.

I paused at the intersection to check my phone, Google maps –> search “bicycle store.” So informed I clicked back into my pedals to continue east on Dinah Shore and started into the intersection once the light turned green. Sure enough, behind me a blue hair driving a large truck accelerates to turn right, sees me and the look on her face is like, This is my world, my road, what on earth on you doing here. In perhaps the fastest move she’s made in years her foot finds the brake pedal and she literally screeches to a stop. The taxi driver was right, they’re out there. I stopped again about a half mile ahead to double check with a man holding a sandwich board if I was going the right way to the bike shop. Yes yes, over the freeway there, left on Varner, continue up that road past the In ‘n Out burger, you’ll see it on your right. Gracias, I said.

Little shout out to Joel’s Bicycle Shop, an oasis of sorts in this part of town. Nice bunch of guys, and free air! It was late afternoon yesterday by the time I got there, having gotten a later start than expected, so I passed on the climb into the mountains and returned home, home away from home. Maybe today I’ll make it into the high country.

BIGGER.

BIGGER. (If you can imagine!).

I don’t know if I would’ve paired those sandals with that dress. But then again I wasn’t a candle in the wind, bigger than life, literally, which I suppose was the artist’s point, right? Plus, you’re not going to find those slingbacks at Zappos, not in that size anyway… what, a fifty seven and a half? Stand here a while and you’ll see people line up to have their picture taken, until eventually some dude comes along insisting to his girlfriend (a man/woman pair here is rarer than you might expect) that she photograph him looking up that dress. Haha. Dude that was soo out-of-the-box clever of you, nobody has ever thought of that, you’re the first one! He rushes to grab the phone from his girlfriend, anxious to review the picture, can’t wait to Facebook it, leaving his girlfriend to suffer the ignominy of onlookers. Right behind them in line imagine if you will a couple, two dudes this time, with a precious little Skye Terrier that suddenly slips its rhinestone collar and is headed for Marilyn’s leg as one of them scurries — yes, men wearing skinny jeans scurry — after it shouting in a thin, wispy voice, “Oh dear, Princess, no! Princess come!”

What a place. People queue up on the sidewalk waiting to get into the Tutti Frutti. You can not make this stuff up. Date Palms line roads unimaginatively named Date Palm Road. You expect more from people whose sole job it is to name streets in a place that I swear to God feels like the set on the Truman Show. Sans the coastal aspect. Drier than a penny stuck in a blow dryer here.

It reminds me a bit of Santa Fe but less interesting on its face. Less expensive, too, so far as I can tell; a 2-bdrm condo on a golf course inside a walled-in community with a view of the mountains, ~$160K. I’ve no idea what the HOA dues are but they can’t be negligible given the army of Mexican groundskeepers. Hey, just reporting what I see.

Tomorrow, after work, Otis and I will venture into the lower reaches of the surrounding mountains. Be especially careful of the blue hairs, my taxi driver said, they’re out there.

Especially for those of you who think my quizzes are far too easy…

For each of the following, does it refer to a fishing fly or a (Cosmo-approved) sex position [1]?

No googling!

1. Bonefish Gotcha
2. Sea Horse
3. Go-to-Joe
4. Kinky Muddler
5. Saucy Spoons
6. Humpy Dry
7. Slippery When Wet
8. Royal Coachman
9. Dirty Dangle
10. Lusty Lean
11. Extreme Emerger
12. Niagara Falls

Happy Wife went 9 of 12. And I’m like, “How on earth does she know these things?”

Answer Key.

[1] Hat tip Gene, via e-mail

Stuck here at 53. Too early for a bucket list, too late for (another) professional renaissance. No, ’tis a time to pause and look back, to be grateful you weren’t stricken with an incurable childhood disease; didn’t become irreparably disfigured due to foolish and reckless teenage behaviors (many); managed to get into and out of college slightly above the bottom of class and find work doing something useful in order to pay back the loan you took out to train to do something useful (circular, I confess); did not descend into a well of permanent despair when wedded bliss soon turned blissless but instead sought counsel in the wisdom: “That which doesn’t kill us…”; did not allow oneself to become mentally idle or repeat mistakes (at least no unrecoverable ones); neither succumbed to profligacy nor was depleted by largesse but managed to save a few bucks; dismissed voices of incredulity (“Srsly, back to school at 42?”) and dared oneself; and most importantly did not turn away but lit up like fire on that fateful day when, by happenstance, a co-worker stepped into my office to ask me two life-changing questions: “Nibbe, are you dating anybody? Do you know a woman named Nancy?”