On Animals, Lovingly

About a year ago, I came across a list of reminders for pet owners. The one thing from that list that has never left my mind is the reminder that while you may have a lot of things/people/events/places in your life, you are the world to your pet. You are all that they have – they rely on you for food, for love, for entertainment, for adventure, for comfort.

black cats, carlos, chicago, paws chiago, cat,

He kills me. I never thought I’d love something so much. Every time I see him, my heart expands to accommodate all the love I have for him.

He’s just discovered bath water. He’s always been curious about baths, but his curiosity finally bested his fear, and lately, he’s been hopping up onto the side of the tub, where he’ll sit and then tentatively dip his paws in the water and swirl them around. Sometimes, he’ll hover with his nose just above the water, whiskers barely skimming the surface.  It’s the cutest thing, even though I’m frozen by the fear that he’ll fall in and I’ll suffer the wrath of a wet cat.

One thing I’ve always loved about Carlos is how demanding he is when it comes to affection. When I go away, even for a night, he’ll let me know that he’s upset with me by rubbing up against my legs and then ignoring me. He’s very aggressive about the silent treatment, and his faces are priceless. He’ll rub up against my legs, then walk a few feet away, and then, sitting with his back to me, he’ll look back over his shoulder and give me the big sad yellows, as if to say, “You? Oh, I hadn’t noticed you were there” and after a while, it becomes “WHY DON’T YOU LOVE ME!?” but in cat-speak, complete with frantic meows and very clingy cat-cuddling.

(His snaggle tooth is the cutest thing.)

I’ve noticed that when I come back, Carlos gets very possessive. He’s jealous of any visitors who come over. When I get home from work, if I lay in my bed, he’ll hop up and hop onto my stomach and lay down, curling into a position that renders me immobile but assures that we’ll have some time to snuggle. I watch his little body, his stomach rising and falling as he breathes, I listen to his adorable feline sighs.

They’re far more complex than we give them credit for. They hold onto grudges – as evidenced by his distrust of my brother – and they are capable of giving unconditional love in ways that we could all learn from. The idea that to them, we are the world is humbling and terrifying – we are so responsible for them and their happiness. How can we ever live up to that?

We are their world. Don’t we owe it to them to love them madly and completely? I have grown accustomed to sharing about 60% of my bed with 13 pounds of cat. He manages to situate himself in such a position that he has the best parts of the blankets, or that you can’t lay completely straight. My usual waking position is one leg straight, then one leg bent with foot resting above the opposite knee (hey, sleep yoga!), and cat in the space where my legs should have been. Or he sleeps on my stomach, or snuggled into my arms.

As much as he aggravates me with his demands for wet food and sleep positions (how dare I try to be comfortable until he’s situated?), I wouldn’t trade any of this. We’re coming up on three years now. Three years of accidental cat ownership. I can’t fathom not having him around. Chicago street cat turned spoiled Colorado house cat. Who’d have guessed?

I read this article in the New York Times about a woman who runs a sort of cat sanctuary – she knows their names, she knows what they like, she knows what they need. The last part identifies a few of the cats, and talks about one cat who was found snuggling his owner after the owner died, and how the owner was a musician, and how the cat comes to sit by the radio every time he hears music. It just breaks my heart to think about how many people neglect and abuse their pets, given their capacity for love and the strength of the bonds that we create with them.

Of course, I recommend adopting a shelter animal. I get that they may not be the newest, or the best looking, but at the end of the day, they’re the ones who are the most deserving of love and good homes.

This year, I’m going to make sure that Carlos knows how much I love him. I’m going to make more time to play with him – I’m going to make sure we have a steady supply of catnip-infused things to hunt and “kill.” I’m going to try to keep him entertained by letting him do more jumping and perching (while also discouraging property destruction caused by his careless disregard for fragile things). I’m going to snuggle him and make sure that he’s never lacking for attention.

And in return, I expect him to finally wear his special occasion neon green bow tie long enough for me to get a decent picture.

On Being Boring, Reluctantly

I saw an article about being boring on Facebook about a month ago, so I clicked on it. Sure enough, I am boring. It’s official.

I crave me-time. The single-Katie that lives inside of me is thrilled by the prospect of nights spent with a hot bath and a good book, or visits to the library to wander through the stacks, filling my arms with more books than I can possibly read in three weeks. I’m also thrilled by thought of having endless amounts of time. Time to do what? I don’t know. Peruse the thrift stores, organize things (pssh, that’ll never happen), paint my toenails more than bi-monthly.

I haven’t jumped naked into a body of water other than my bathtub since 2010, and even the bathtub can’t count as jumping – it’s more a careful stepping to avoid slippage and broken bones. (All I can see in my head right now is that commercial where the elderly people have the bathtub that has doors on it. Is that next?!)

I don’t drink like I used to. (Note to all people: this isn’t a bad thing. It’s just a departure from my typical habit of a responsibly enjoying a gin and tonic or four with my friends and then going dancing on a semi-regular basis.) Weeks are going to turn into months and then pretty soon I’ll be sipping non-alcoholic beer in a Chili’s wondering what happened to my life. Alternately, I imagine that I’ll have two martinis at a corporate event and be so overcome by the reintroduction to alcohol that I take off my pants and/or throw up in the punch bowl.

(That scenario is entirely unrealistic. The worst drunk me ever does is jump into bodies of water – Lake Michigan, I’m coming back for you, I swear – or get belligerent and lecture strangers about anything from feminism to sexual health to politics to sports. South Boston, I’m sorry for the things I said about Belichick, even though I was not wrong.)

I make excuses about doing laundry (Jacob calls me out on this all the time) so I can go home and run a hot bath and relax. I work too many jobs to ever be hung over. There’s no room for naps or excuses or anything else. I got excited to print out IRS forms last week. I signed my very own homeowner’s insurance policy. But wait, it gets better! It’s bundled with my brand new auto insurance policy. Oh, bundling was exciting!

Ready for the worst part? I’ve been listening to oldies. At least, I was until Kool 105.1 started playing holiday music. Since I’m holiday-averse, I immediately plugged another radio station into my #5 preset in my car. Once the new year begins and the nightmare that is ever-present Christmas music ends, I will reset #5 to Kool 105 and I will revel in the disco-tastic awesomeness that it is.

8 Signs You Are Becoming Boring

NOV. 8, 2012

Disclaimer: I write this list in full recognition of the fact that I am a freshly-minted Boring Person myself. This is a space of no judgment, only facts.

1. You see students out having fun and are exasperated.

It starts with the high school kids. You see them out at the mall, scowling at things, drinking their energy drinks and just generally being assholes in front of the Pacsun or the Hot Topic. You think, “God, what irritating little warts. Good thing I was never 15,” and then carry on your boring way to go get a loofah at Bed Bath and Beyond or whatever you are there to do. Then you see college kids, getting rowdy in a bar, potentially using terrible fake IDs but still getting away with it because the bartender is cool and they want the money. Despite the fact that you, too, used a fake ID just a few short years ago, you are filled with righteous indignation. “Wait your turn, you brats,” you long to say, “Go drink 4 Loko in your bedrooms until you turn 21, like God intended. The bar is for people with jobs.”

2. Your idea of fun has become staying home with some blankets and your computer.

There is just something so profoundly beautiful about having a whole night ahead of you with nothing planned but Netflix, perhaps some tea or wine, and chilling out in your jammies under your covers. It is a state of such deep relaxation, it can occasionally reach near-orgasmic levels of joy. Add a little take-out Thai food to be eaten while still firmly in bed into the mix, and you have the makings for a night that would beat a club opening hosted by a nude Ryan Gosling and a snowblower full of free money.

3. The only thing keeping you from being obese is being lazy.

There are so many times when you are overwhelmed with the desire to go a few blocks over to get a big bag of McDonald’s or a Frappucino made out of what appears to be vegetable shortening, or simply a king size candy bar (king size, of course, because if you made the trek out there you’re not going to just get a regular-sized Snickers like a peasant). But then you think, meh, that would require leaving the apartment and turning off this episode of Dexter and putting on something other than a Snuggie, and then it’s just like fuck it, I’ll eat these carrot sticks I have in my refrigerator. Who knows how many potentially-clogged arteries were spared out of sheer will to remain a hermit.

4. Staying within budget is not a problem.

There was once a time during which you were truly concerned about spending too much money on things like extravagant nights at the bar or too many dinners/lunches at restaurants, even moderately-priced ones. It seemed like the most efficient way to burn a sizable hole in your checking account and find yourself unable to comfortably make rent at the end of the month. Then, all of a sudden, you realize that actually extracting yourself from the comfort of your apartment every once in a while and finding something worth spending said money on may actually be the more pressing issue, as you are quickly adhering to your pajamas and learning through real-time evolution how to blend your skin in with your patterned bedspread.

5. You are excited when people cancel plans.

I think we’ve all had a moment or two where you are sitting there, not at all pumped to go to this social outing that you agreed to (it’s not that you don’t like the person, you just don’t like having to go outside right now), when all of a sudden they call you with the thrilling news that they are unable to make it! It’s as though the heavens themselves have parted and shone a light down on your lazy, boring ass personally to sing to you with the voice of a thousand golden angels “Fear not, for you have a few more hours of dicking around on Tumblr ahead of ye.”

6. You prefer to go to the same restaurants, ordering the same foods.

One minute, we’re these adventurous little sprites of youth and excitement, ready to go anywhere and try anything at the drop of a hat. The next, all we have to do is call our local Chinese takeout and, through only seeing our number on the caller ID, they are downstairs in five minutes with the exactly what we want, right down to the extra soy sauces. When I was a barista, there were many customers for whom we could prepare their drink only seeing them walk through the door. I used to think that they were silly, that they should try to expand their horizons. Now I resent the fact that no one knows me well enough to make my extra-hot grande soy latte when I walk in the door.

7. Literally any plans the following day make going out a hassle.

How is it that you used to be able to stay up until 6 in the morning doing crystal meth and running naked through a forest of pine needles and still be fresh as a spring flower for class the next day, and now you have to really weigh your options about going out for dinner if you know that you have to be up by 10 the next morning to go pick something up at the dry cleaners? How is that possible?

8. People are no longer surprised when you don’t do things.

In your transition from “chill person who is down for pretty much whatever” to “boring-ass hermit who has a minor panic attack every time the bar they’re in gets too loud and full of amorous college students,” you will notice a time frame in which people still hold out hope that you will prove to be the social butterfly you once were. They will try in vain to extract you from your home-pod, thoroughly disappointed when you don’t accept. Now, of course, they don’t expect you to come out to their various parties and gatherings — they know that you, like any society diva who is so in demand on her own futon, have a lot of potential nights to choose from, and it may just end up being ice cream and The Price Is Right reruns. TC mark

Read more at http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/8-signs-you-are-becoming-boring/#GGSColeKRzqPdQbB.99

On the Road Trip to Albuquerque, Excitedly

We set off to spend a weekend geeking out over “Breaking Bad” in Albuquerque, the trip we’d planned on our first date. This was officially our tenth date, but it was so much more than that. It’s been so much more than that.

If you’ve never seen it, “Breaking Bad” is a show on AMC about a high school chemistry teacher who starts cooking meth because he’s been diagnosed with cancer and he wants to provide for his family. It’s an incredibly well-done show. It really asks a lot of “what if” questions that you’d never think to ask yourself and brings morality into focus. It’s well-written and it pulls at my heart in ways I never thought television could. (But then again, I cry at Google commercials, so it’s a given that I’m going to cry at this.)

I-25 to Albuquerque

I was so excited to spend a weekend away. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately, with work and the impending home purchase, so the promise of a relaxing weekend (three whole days off!) was almost more than I could bear. Matt and I have been communicating constantly since we met, but our dates are relegated to the weekends due to our jobs and the distance between us, so the thought of spending 72 hours with him was both thrilling and nerve-wracking.

We stayed at the Hotel Parq Central in Albuquerque (great AAA rate!). It was lovely – the hotel used to be a hospital, but was redone a few years ago. It’s clean, bright, and gorgeous. The hot tub is open 24 hours a day! We made sure to get as much hot tub time as possible in. The first night, they had a party at the rooftop bar, which got to be annoying. The guy working the front desk said that one guest had called to complain, saying that he would come down in his underwear and start yelling. That thought made me laugh.  Our room was a corner room in a separate building, so we had tons of windows and a huge bathroom.

But seriously, who throws a Halloween party on November 2nd? Albuquerque does. Apparently, they don’t let go of Halloween there – we were at a diner on Saturday and the waitress asked us if we had enjoyed Halloween. Very strange.

Saturday morning, we started our adventure. Matt was adorable and made us the sweetest map ever – he pinned all of the filming locations that we wanted to visit (I found the locations on a blog and sent him the link) and then added pictures and the physical addresses of each.

The first stop was the Crossroads Motel, which actually wasn’t on our map. We happened to drive by it on our first night in Albuquerque. (Oh, there was also an incident in which we attempted to get slices of pizza and were treated horribly by the manager after waiting more than 20 minutes only to be asked “Are you waiting for something?” by the girl who took our order. When we finally got a refund, the man snapped “I’m not refunding the Dr. Pepper!” Jeez, dude, chill. I didn’t ask for that. At that point, I just wanted like $5 in cash and I wanted to bail.)

We were standing in the parking lot of the motel when a man approached us, opened his wallet, and said, “DEA, what are you doing here?” Of course, he wasn’t from the DEA, but he was at the motel with his wife doing the same thing we were doing – taking pictures of filming locations. They were from Albuquerque, so we traded maps and chatted for a few minutes before moving on to the next stop: Jesse and Jane’s apartments.

One of the main characters is named Jesse Pinkman. He’s a small-time meth cook before he joins Walter White (the chemistry teacher) and their business expands. I love him, and one of my favorite story lines of the show is his star-crossed love affair with a recovering addict named Jane. They live side-by-side in a duplex, they fall in love, then (spoiler alert) she dies. It’s sad. But it’s beautiful. They are adorable together.

I knew that this was going to be my favorite spot, and it absolutely was. This was the site where I felt the most connected, not necessarily to the show, but to all of the emotions that I felt while watching it and all of the emotions that I felt while standing there with Matt. (We have some adorable couple pictures all over this property that you’ll see once they’re edited and ready for viewing.)

Jesse Pinkman's apartment, Breaking Bad, Jane Margolis,

(Jesse ends a lot of his sentences in the word “bitch.” It’s his way of emphasizing something. When I originally posted these, I posted them with the caption, “Jesse Pinkman’s apartment, bitch!” just because it felt like the right thing to do.)

Jesse Pinkman, apartment, Breaking Bad, Jane Margolis,

When we got to Walter’s house, we walked around the block, holding hands and chatting. (The curbs are seriously high in that neighborhood. I would destroy Simon. I’m very glad I don’t live there – I was driving Matt’s car, and when I parked, I purposefully parked about a foot off the curb so I wouldn’t take any chances of hitting the curb with his car!)

It was surreal.

There’s a scene in the show where the teacher, Walt, gets angry and throws a pizza on his roof, so apparently at one point, the family who lives in the house had to put out a sign that said “Please don’t throw pizzas on our roof.” Imagine going outside every day and having to get pizzas off your roof. I bet they clog the gutters and get annoying pretty quickly. (Still not the worst thing that could happen to your house after it’s been used as a filming location, though.)

Walter White's house, Breaking Bad, meth, Albuquerque

This is us posing in front of Walter’s house, but you can’t tell.

Hank and Marie (the chemistry teacher’s DEA agent brother-in-law and his wife) live in this insanely gorgeous neighborhood. Better than their house was the park nearby – we got out and hiked around and I got to climb on some rocks!

We also got to go to the Chicken Man’s restaurant! (In the show, there’s a super awesome meth dealer named Gus who owns a chain of chicken restaurants, so I call him the Chicken Man. In real life, the chicken restaurant is a real restaurant. We went and I got a soda.) It was amazing. We also went to the Octopus car wash – I’ll post pictures as soon as I get them from Matt.

Leaving was such sweet sorrow. We woke up, fully intending to go take more pictures near this gorgeous wooded area we’d seen the day before, but ran out of time and instead headed to Santa Fe. We had lunch there, walked around the Cathedral, stopped at Trader Joe’s (wine! chocolate covered cherries! chocolate covered pretzels! tea! pumpkin yogurt!) then headed back to Denver so that I could be home at a reasonable hour to be ready for work today.

On the whole, I would not return to Albuquerque willingly, unless you promised me that we could stop at Olo Yogurt Bar – where I had red velvet frozen yogurt topped with strawberries, mangoes, kiwi, gummy bears, and chocolate sprinkles. The city itself is stuck in the past – they have Furr’s cafes and lots of old neon. We didn’t really see much revitalization, but the neighborhoods that we found ourselves in were absolutely lovely. So perhaps there’s still a bunch of Albuquerque that we’re missing.

The hotel was amazing. The continental breakfast was Matt’s least favorite part, but I found it to be par for the course (they had me at Cinnamon Toast Crunch and Earl Grey tea). The shampoo was his favorite part. My favorite part? Hot tub. Sheets. Quarantine signs when you wanted privacy (a nod to the hotel’s beginnings as a hospital). We laughed when they talked about the “nurse’s quarters” because the building had a smokestack next to it…obviously not nurse’s quarters.

It was the best tenth date ever.

Denver, Albuquerque, I-25

 

I’ll post more pictures soon!

And note to everyone: VOTE! Tomorrow is election day and if you want the right to bitch for the next four years, you absolutely must vote tomorrow so you can at least say you did your part.

obama 2012, i voted, sticker, colorado,

I, of course, voted for Obama last week. Here’s hoping I won’t have to spend the next four years bitching. (According to Nate Silver’s newest forecast, I should breathe easy because it looks like Obama’s going to take the election easily. You can find Nate Silver and his election forecast on the Five Thirty Eight blog at http://www.nytimes.com.)

Nate Silver election forecast

But seriously – I care more about you voting than who you vote for. (I mean, that’s totally a lie, but I will find it even harder to respect you if you don’t vote than if you voted for someone I think you should in no way logically support.)

On a Night Off, Unexpectedly

This week brought an unexpected night off – there was a 24-hour power outage at the Dairy Queen and everything melted or was spoiled. It’s not funny, but it was a nice surprise. It was even better that I didn’t have to do any of the clean up. My manager said that squeegy-ing (sp?) melted cakes out of the freezer was horrific. I imagine she wasn’t wrong.

I was anxious driving home on Wednesday. I so very rarely have time that’s unaccounted for. What was I going to do? I shouldn’t have feared. I called Jacob. When he suggested our goth bar, I was elated.

It’s not really our goth bar, of course. But it is one of my favorite places in Denver. It’s only open two nights a week. You have to enter from an alley. There are two separate rooms, connected by a dark hallway. Each room plays different music. The darker room is bigger and the walls are lined with dark couches perfect for hiding away and people-watching. The Clockwork Orange-esque room is brighter, and more upbeat.

Since I was a little goth in high school (who wasn’t?!), I feel so at home here. The people are so lovely – they’re fascinating and equally terrifying. But the best part isn’t the patrons, it’s the dancing. In my natural state, I dance like your stereotypical white man: legs spread, rock side-to-side. It’s so unattractive.

Once, at a club, Jacob grabbed my hips and started moving them in a figure-eight. Like this, he said. Start there. And so I did. So now, after a couple of years of tentative figure-eights and remembering to let go a little, I’m much better. (Much better doesn’t actually mean I’m a good dancer; it means that I am much improved.)

My ability – or partial lack thereof – is not the point here, though. It’s how thrilled I am to be surrounded by people who look like they’re doing my signature dance move, The Wet Noodle, or alternately, having hipster seizures. (Sorry to offend hipsters and seizure-sufferers.)

It’s freeing. Suddenly, I’m part of a mass of moving limbs. I let my mind go, I shift to the music as I internalize it. My eyes look down, around, everywhere. I become a kinetic observer, watching from curious eyes while not-quite-mindfully moving to the music.

This is why the goth bar is the best place. That and the terrifying bathroom conversation between two large women about how tough they are. (I lingered while washing my hands – I scrubbed my fingernails! – to be able to hear their conversation. First it was about some guys “newest fiance” and then it shifted to how thick their legs were, which meant that they were more powerful. Scrubbing completed, I dried my hands and bolted. I’m tiny, I’ve never been in a bar fight, and even though I grew up fighting my now-6’4″ brother, I’m nowhere near as tough as I’d like to think I am.)

I thought this two-faced shadow bit was cute.

Last night, i spent two hours with my wonderful mother signing mortgage loan documents. Mike and I are really buying a house! Oh my goodness. It’s a leap. Last night, he told me that since I’m taking care of the paperwork, he’ll do the packing. (And the unpacking, I hope.) This is such a good example of why we make such a good team.

We are such polar opposites as people, but in such complementary ways. He’s the detail-oriented, logical, patient one and I’m the take-charge, impatient, chaotic communicator. The screen that displays everything in his car broke and he couldn’t change CDs or radio stations or anything. So he was left to cycle through his CDs, song by song, listening to the entirety of each.

I, being as ADHD about music as I am about the rest of my life, told him that this would kill me (it was killing me in that moment. He likes jam bands whose songs are all about 8 minutes or more on average). He replied that he considered it an exercise in patience. He’s that guy. Hilarious, wise, and sometimes entirely frustrating. But for all of our sibling squabbles, we get along remarkably well.

So he’ll pack. I’ll coordinate paperwork and loans and payments. We both dig this plan.

Tonight is date night, so of course I’m antsy and excited. Not being able to see him all week builds the anticipation. Of course, we’re in nearly constant communication – emails, texts, FaceTime. It’s nice, though, to be able to maintain my life and begin to start incorporating him into it. It’s also nice to email links and running commentary about everything back and forth. People’s taste in the internet is very telling.

Uggggh, I was not going to blog about any of this. I was actually going to talk about people. But I guess I’ll do that this weekend.

On Education, Gratefully

My word for 2012 has been “gratitude.” I have tried to be more mindful of the wonderful blessings in my life and express gratitude in all areas of my life. First things first: I have improved dramatically at writing and remembering to send Thank-You notes. I think that may be the only real deliverable; the rest of my gratitude practice has been solely in my own mind and heart.

As I’ve been crawling, inching, barely progressing on the series Breaking Bad, I’ve been reflecting on my own life, my own decision-making rationale, my gifts and support systems. Of course, the onslaught of gratitude and related emotions has been a refreshing reminder of how beautifully hopeful and heartbreaking life can be.

But the greatest gift I’ve ever been given was my education. From the age of three, I was enrolled in private, Catholic schools. While I realize that Catholic schools are a hot-mess of crazy (this is true), I also realize how valuable the emphasis on education is. I remember begging my parents – pleading my case every single year – to let me go to public schools. They didn’t.

I went to a Christian Brothers high school, but my real luck came from the Jesuit university I attended. The Jesuits are noted for their commitment to the education of the whole person. If there’s one thing I took away from my college experience, it was “solidarity.” While Loyola may not be known for their commitment to the betterment of Rogers Park (I think it’s a no-win situation, as far as land ownership goes, but on the plus side, the Loyola stop is in pretty good condition. and there used to be a Dunkin Donuts!), they’ve always emphasized service-learning and commitment to communities of all kinds, more than just their own student body.

My professors there were not all devout Christians, but they were all devout scholars and educators (give or take a few). One of my favorite professors was a women’s studies professor who taught some of my feminist theory classes. She was a devout Catholic, but freely admitted that as a woman, she had problems with some of the catechism. I so adored her commitment to her faith but her willingness to question it and call attention to its hypocrisies and flaws. It allowed me to see the Catholic faith in a new light, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

While attending Loyola, I lived in one of the most racially diverse neighborhoods in the city of Chicago, which is already a wonderful blend of everywhere. But that’s not the point, even though I will carry pieces of Rogers Park in my heart forever. The point is that my educational experiences have left me a more rounded, grounded, rational human being. I’ve traveled to Europe for a forensic trip because I was lucky enough to have the most badass forensic teacher (we had one of the only forensic science classes in the country at the time) ever. Loyola prepared me to open my heart and mind to the conditions in the townships in South Africa.

All of this education has left me curious, well-informed (mostly), and most importantly, someone who cares about the well-being of all human beings (solidarity, solidarity, solidarity, and so on).

Regardless of your religious views (trust me, I have plenty of opinions and don’t ever get me started about the current Pope), this article should give you hope for the future and hope that educations such as mine will continue to cultivate a love of learning in young minds everywhere:

By Carl Bunderson

Denver, Colo., Oct 16, 2012 / 03:03 am (CNA).- Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic School based in Denver, Colo., has nearly doubled its enrollment in just one year by introducing a classical curriculum.

“This is something people want, and they’ve wanted it for a long time, and now it’s available,” principal Rosemary Anderson told CNA Oct. 10.

Our Lady of Lourdes is a pre-kindergarten through eighth grade school. The parish’s pastor, Monsignor Peter Quang Nguyen, had helped turn around a number of schools in the Archdiocese of Denver which had been in danger of closing. He was assigned to Lourdes five years ago.

When Msgr. Quang hired Anderson to be principal in 2010, the school was in “quite a bit of debt” and had only 104 students enrolled. That figure is 180 today.

The school’s capacity is 235 and Anderson believes that by the next school year, “we’ll have to start wait-listing kids.”

“The biggest problem when I came on was that everyone thought the school was going under. The attitude has changed…Now people know this place will be there, and their kids are getting a phenomenal education, and parents don’t have to worry that it will close in a few years.”

“I’m very grateful for Monsignor Quang’s support. None of this would have happened if he wasn’t completely on board,” she added. “We were right in this together.”

Anderson noted that classical education is meant to help students learn how to think, rather than merely teaching them “subjects.” The program at Lourdes school was inspired by 20th century author Dorothy Sayers’ essay “The Lost Tools of Learning,” and the work of Laura Berquist, who was involved in the founding of Thomas Aquinas College – a Catholic university in southern Calif. which uses the classical model.

“She’s a huge influence,” Anderson said, “she founded a homeschooling curriculum called ‘Mother of Divine Grace’ and is brilliant in the ways of classical education.”

The foundation of classical education is a set of three methods of learning subjects, called the trivium, which is made up of grammar, logic, and rhetoric.

Lourdes school will focus on the grammar and logic phases, and will introduce the eighth graders to rhetoric.

The trivium “happens pretty naturally” using the classical curriculum, and ideas of grammar and logic and integrated into the subjects taught to students: “it flows naturally from the way teachers are teaching,” Anderson expressed.

This year saw the hiring of five new teachers, in a faculty of 15 total. And out of those five, four have either had a classical education or taught in a classical school,  Anderson reported. “I brought in people who know what the vision is…they’re confident in how to teach” classically.

Anderson noted that the school drew in numerous students who had previously been schooled at home. Several homeschooling parents enrolled their children as this type of education wasn’t available before. “Now they know there’s something that will sync up with what they’ve taught” their children.

Several non-Catholic families have also come to Lourdes just for the classical education, Anderson said. She expects that group to grow as well, “because it’s a great education.”

Parents at the school are very invested in the classical model, which she “welcomes completely.” She pointed to the Catholic teaching that parents are the primary educators of their children, and that “we’re just here to help them.”

Anderson was encouraged to differentiate her school, and with the “support and knowledge”of Bishop James D. Conley – former apostolic administrator of the archdiocese – chose to follow this approach to education as a way of imparting to students the art of learning.

“The classical approach is Catholic, through and through,” said Anderson. While “other schools are doing great things,” “no other Catholic schools in the diocese are doing this yet.”

The school’s re-organization will be a three-year process. The first year, which is occurring presently, involves a re-vamp of the English department and the introduction of Latin classes.

Latin was introduced in place of Spanish because of its importance as the basis of all Romance languages. Students “logically process things better when they know Latin,” said Anderson. She pointed to high school freshmen who “test into honors French, without having had any French before, just by knowing the root language.”

Latin is important for the grammar stage of the trivium because its nouns decline, or change their ending according to function they are performing in a sentence. This helps students to better understand how languages work, and it is coupled with the memorization of poetry.

The second year of the school’s rehabilitation will consist of a renewal of science and social studies.

“We’re not necessarily changing the material we’re teaching, but how it’s given to the kids, which is a step away from dependency on textbooks,” said Anderson.

Students will be reading more primary sources for history, and in English classes, reading historical novels to tie-in with their history classes.

“All the classes are very intertwined. What they’re reading in English should correspond to what they’re learning in history, and in history should be able to carry over to the virtues they’re learning about in religion, so it’s all very integrated.”

Morgan McGinn is in her second year at the school, and teaches second grade. She discussed how the move to classical education has changed her teaching style.

“I have to read and discover knowledge on my own before I can share it with my kids…It’s definitely changed my teaching; I can’t just look at a book anymore and read the lesson, and be prepared for the next day.”

“I’ve had to almost flip everything I know about education upside-down to teach classically,” she said.

Her students are now “required to think more,” rather than having “the information they need to know fed to them.”

The holistic approach of classical education, meant to build up the whole person, translates to an emphasis on the fine arts. “We already had a great performing arts and speech department here…so that was already very integrated,” said Anderson.

The school’s music and performing arts teacher, Patricia Seeber, is a veteran of the school, having taught there for 13 years.

“The feel where we’re at spiritually with the kids, that we’re making that the most important part of the day, has shifted for the better,” she said.

“It just feels like they’re really responding to it in a great way.”

In keeping with the introduction of Latin into the curriculum, Seeber has added Latin hymns among the songs prayed at the school’s bi-weekly Masses.

“We raised the bar I think a step or two higher than a lot of schools do, and the kids really rise to the occasion.”

Lourdes’ classical education is meant to help the students realize their full potential “spiritually, intellectually and socially,” and help draw them to God through the true, the good, and the beautiful.

The parish’s maintenance director, Bryan Heier, reflected on Anderson’s leadership at the school, saying “with enrollment as high as it is so quickly, she’s doing something right.”

On Life, Progressively

Apparently, adulthood happens all at once.

This week we entered into contract to purchase a house. This means that I may soon own land. (Scary thought, right?) Five hours prior to submitting the offer, I was apathetic about purchasing a home. I looked at the first one on our tour and inwardly sighed at the lack of emotion I felt. But at the second one, I knew.

Within reach, reasonable, adequately outfitted, and bearing the charm of a time since past, the house is the perfect blend of what Mike and I both need. Bedrooms with no shared walls. 2 bathrooms. New appliances in the kitchen. A washer and a dryer! A basement. A garage. A yard. Chill backyard space. We’re thrilled, but cautious. There is much that could go wrong yet. But until then, I’m dreaming of a hammock and Mike is planning his zen garden and we are content.

Amid that excitement, I will also be enduring my first root canal tomorrow. Joy. I broke a tooth many years ago and it’s been annoying me ever since. I went, they poked around, they proclaimed “Root canal!” and scheduled me. They’re concerned that it has a crack in it, which would mean that I’m in trouble….

The guy I’ve been seeing offered to drive down and take care of me, but I imagine I’ll be in a hellish mood, and I’m not entirely sure I’m prepared for him to see that. I’m on a pedestal now, and grumpy Katie is certain to change that. You don’t come back from grumpy Katie. You’re forever altered. I don’t want that. Not yet.

On a/the First Date, Fatefully

date night dress

(Candid. I like that I’m carrying leftovers and a rose in one hand and making a fist with the other.)

Is there anything better than the promise of what could be? Last night was one of those rare instances where the experience far outweighs the anticipation.

Dinner was set for 7:17 – a time mutually agreed upon by all parties. I was nervous all day; I scrubbed off the black nail polish that I’ve been sporting, worried about what black might say about me (entirely forgetting that nail polish doesn’t talk at all). Dissatisfied with my naked nails, I painted them a soft gray. Dissatisfied with that, I went back to nothing and groaned inwardly about wasting so much time being silly.

Construction near colfax

I was ready early. I’m never ready early. I walked; I entered the restaurant – I had home field advantage; I panicked. I didn’t see him, so I let the hostess seat me, only to find myself directly perpendicular to a friend and his girlfriend. After making awkward small talk, I sipped water and texted him. He had walked past the restaurant. I was buried in my phone, texting him a map, when I heard my name and looked up. There he was. We laughed after checking our phones and confirming that it was indeed exactly 7:17. Panic subsided and conversation flowed. The pineapple curry was exactly as it always is: comfortably perfect. And so was the night.

We wandered to my favorite bar, which was oddly noisy and annoying. Then, we prepared to walk to the dessert bar he’d been dying to try. I realized we were about to embark on a walk that would tear my feet apart, since I was wearing very sensible yet oddly antagonistic heels. I smiled and told him not to judge me as I peeled off my tights (on Colfax, of course, classy lady that I am) and stuffed them in my purse. Carrying my shoes and walking barefoot, I let him take my hand as we walked in search of chocolate cake.

Chocolate cake

He draped his jacket around my shoulder when I got cold. He gripped my hand as he attempted to steer me away from gross things on the sidewalk – I’m a very nimble side-stepper, and successfully avoided all the horror the city pavement had in store for my naked feet. He laughed when I talked as he kissed me good night.

It was lovely. It far exceeded my expectations. I fell asleep smiling. I have received confirmation that he shares my sentiments, as we have scheduled another dinner and made tentative plans to journey to the Southwest. I’m not kidding, it was that good. Here’s to strange and wonderful things in strange and wonderful places. 

On Red Rocks and Night Skies, Blissfully

I went to Red Rocks Amphitheater to see the Airborne Toxic Event play with DeVotchKa and the Colorado Symphony last Thursday night.

I love Red Rocks.

devotcha airborne toxic event colorado symphony

If you’ve never been, you must go.

You will park in the parking lots. You will drink beer that you keep in a cooler in your trunk, or you’ll pour wine into plastic cups. You will laugh. You will watch people far drunker than you. You will overhear conversations. You will climb up the entrances to the amphitheater. You will be frisked. You will take your blanket somewhere, anywhere really, regardless of what your ticket says.

As night falls, you will get chills, not because you’re cold. You will look around you at the mass of people moving to the music. You will feel the earth around you. You will see the walls of the red rocks rising around you. You will look up and see nothing but the black sky, dotted with stars. Everything that weighs you down will be lifted for those moments. You will feel like a part of something.

Since my post seriously lacks eloquent writing, I’m just going to throw pictures from a long time ago into it to make it seem more legit.

Sunrise over Denver Red Rocks

(Sunrise over Denver from Red Rocks, 2007. Above and below.)

Sunrise Over Denver From Red Rocks

I’m 89% certain this is Red Rocks….if not, it’s St. Marys Alice, but that can’t be right. So yes, Red Rocks:

Sunrise Red Rocks Denver

Colorado, you’re beautiful.

On the Weather and the China, Pragmatically

Winter is coming.

(God, can you tell that I’m impatient for new Game of Thrones? I’m about to dive into the books, so wish me luck. I’m usually a book-before-television kind of girl, but when they’re as complicated as this story, it’s usually a good idea to be able to visualize characters and general plot trajectories.)

But seriously, winter is coming. The cat is eager to snuggle against me, stealing my warmth and reminding me that I’m only good as a food provider and occasional attention-giver. The windows have been closed, but if you aren’t quick enough to grab a towel when you step out of the shower, the air feels crisp and cold through the windows. The plus side to all this unease about winter is that there will be snow for potential snowboarding (I still haven’t figured out about that this year) and that I will be able to drink hot tea without feeling silly. During the winter, I order tea by the case and drink it all day.

The thought of hot baths is a welcome one, but it’s also interspersed with images of standing on the busy street next to my house trying to scrape off my car in between spurts of traffic. It’s interspersed with ice chipping and sliding and being late because I forget that you have to warm up your car before you can command it to warm you. I’m excited, I swear. I love hot cider (with rum!) and crunching leaves and snowboarding, but I hate being cold. Unfortunately, those things are a package deal.

Colorado is one of those magical places where it can be like 40 degrees in the morning and then 85 in the afternoon, so there are at least two months a year where I’m just plain uncomfortable. I’m cold or I’m too hot, overdressed because I was concerned about being too cold. It’s terrible. And while the answer is layers, layers, layers!, I still haven’t found tearaway pants that don’t make me look like I’m about to play basketball or a stripper. (That’s a joke – I don’t want to own tearaway pants.)

(Hilarious [to me] story about my brother: When he was in 8th grade, he was at the high school to play basketball, and in front of the entire girls’ team, he ripped off his snap-away warm up pants only to realize that he hadn’t put on shorts.)

Yesterday was one of those days. I knew that it was going to warm up, but I was cold. So I wore jeans and a t-shirt and managed to nearly melt into the pavement a short time later. I hung out with a friend that I’ve not seen in a long time, and after grabbing lunch on Saturday, we headed to the local farmer’s market on Sunday and then off to the flea market.

I had never been to Denver’s flea market before yesterday. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect, but I found that it was a lot like the Maxwell Street market in Chicago and the Muizenberg market in Cape Town: lots of pure junk and then some awesome stuff. My friend was looking for furniture for her house – she has lots of space and a small budget. And of course, Pinterest has made us all believe that we are DIY-masters. (We’re not.)

I wasn’t looking for anything specific, but since I love shiny things, I knew I’d want to buy something. As we wound through the aisles – just like Muizenberg – clothes, and tires, and clothes, and auto parts, and clothes, etc. – I spotted them. Dishes, laying in a pile on a blanket.

Salem China Company English Village Flea Market

I knew I wanted them. I have loved the blue/white china patterns since I was a little girl (thank you, Grandma, for always having blue dishes – I think your taste in plates led to a subconscious love of blue that I will carry with me forever. You’re not wrong to love the color combination).

I failed miserably at bargaining – something I’m usually really proud of. Africa taught me a lot of things, and one of them is the art of negotiation. The approach, the feigned disinterest after initial interest, the offer, the rejection, the walking-away, the wait!, the agreement, the deal. Yesterday went like this:  $50, they’re worth a lot more. Will you take $40? No. I’ll be back. $45? No. Fine, I’ll take them. Do you have a box?

My friend, on the other hand, had someone much more willing to negotiate and ended up with a record player/cabinet thing (I’m sure it has a name) for well under the initial asking price.

Both of us walked away satisfied. I got home and Googled the dishes. They’re antiques, made by a china company that stopped making stuff in the early 60s. They’re worth a lot more than $50 – replacement pieces start at $5 each and go up to $25 for a teacup and saucer and much higher for the plates, so I’m thinking that even though there was a breakdown in bargaining, I made out all right.

All in all, I got more than 25 pieces: 6 dinner plates, 6 teacups and 7 saucers, 6 fruit bowls (dessert bowls?), a serving platter, and a large(ish) bowl. Somehow that counted out to 29 last night as I was washing them, but now it doesn’t seem to add up. 27? Whatever. I’m pleased as punch about the whole set, even if I’m now going to have to start taking my tea and coffee in delicate cups instead of massive mugs. (When did I start “taking” tea?)

Now, I’m on the hunt for mismatched bowls. Instead of trying to find a cohesive set of dishes, I’m just going to find ones I like and end up with an eclectic array. We have more plates than we know what to do with and like 2 bowls. So Goodwill and Target, I’m coming for you!

Release notes:

Totally cried about this new Google Chrome commercial called “Jess Time.” Growing up is really painful sometimes, and I love how the Google people manage to capture so much human emotion in their ad spots.  The Love Story one gets me every time. 

On Resuming, Blissfully

I rarely lose my voice, so the silence that fell over me this week was uncharacteristic and unsettling. I have fully recovered and am back to being my bright, very busy, and occasionally grumpy self. Of course this means I’m exhausted.

On Tuesday night, I met a friend for tea at the coffee shop where I spent most of my high school and early college years. A cup of steaming Earl Grey with a touch of honey and a moonlit walk to the park near the coffee house led to hours of discussion and ended with me spinning on the playground apparatus that they don’t install at playgrounds anymore because of safety concerns.I spun around, growing dizzier and dizzier while I stared up at the trees.

I always used to mark the coming of summer by how the leaves grew. In the middle of winter, you could see straight up to the sky if you were laying on the spinning thing, and as the spring stretched into summer, the leaves grow until they form a thick foliage canopy until you can just make out the glint of the moon through the leaves. It’s so predictably cyclical – the growth, the death, the empty, the emergence, the growth…and so on. It’s the best. Apparently, adulthood has made me less prone to enjoying the dizzying stomach sensation, though, because I had to steady myself after I wobbled off the spinning thing, and I felt a wave of nausea rush through me. But I smashed the feeling with the glorious nostalgia, and we walked back in the middle of the quiet, dark street.

Last night, I played arcade games at the 1Up, a bar downtown. I didn’t grow up with video games, so I’m not sure how to play them, or even comfortable playing them, particularly in public. My friend Ely came down from Boulder because he’d never been to 1Up and because we’ve been meaning to hang out for like three months. (We do this regularly – we’ll be like, hang out soon? and we’ll keep pushing back plans until we finally manage to meet up. The system works, though, and I imagine I’ll see him again some time next quarter.)

I was hesitant to play video games. Normally I just watch. (I think it’s cheaper and less embarrassing.) But Ely wanted to play games with me, so we played Rampage (maybe it’s called that, maybe not) – where you are a donkey thing and have to jump and smash and stomp and kick buildings and airplanes and people. It was awesome! And I was not bad at it considering I was just randomly pushing buttons.

Invigorated by my success at building-smashing and general mayhem, we went and played shooting games. I’m terrible. I would get like 19 kills and Ely would have about 85. I also kept shooting our guys – a big red X would appear every time I did it. I complained that I had no problem hitting our team, but that I couldn’t hit the enemy to save my life. Still, super fun.

But we were really there for giant Jenga. Keep in mind that Ely is 6’6″. This tower would eventually get up past his eye-level. I won 2 out of 3 games. He would stand, incredulous, after I would gently pull a block from the tower. “Fairy fingers,” I told him. Actually, I’m just very lucky.