Denver 30 was an attempt to step back from my blog for a bit and have more time for other things. For one, I’ve been taking a writing class for the last two months that wrapped this week. It was taught by Nick Arvin, who has published a successful novel, a book of short stories and has a second novel coming out in March. As a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, you’d think he’d be a cocky, leather elbow tweed coat jerk. And you’d be entirely wrong. He is a soft-spoken, kind and generous man who led our little class through a handful of other novels with thoughtful discussion and encouragement on our own projects. I was taken by his humble presence.


There has been a sweater knitting class too. Work travel. Thanksgiving. Ignite Boulder.  And oh, that little holiday in three weeks I spend six months planning for.


Denver 30 — all 110 photos of this lovely city — was an attempt to honor my father. He, who I idolize, isn’t such a fan of what I share on the interwebs. As an an intensely private, quiet man, I’d guess he’s fairly shocked to be in in someway responsible for creating a loud-mouth, all knowing, non-stop attention sponge of a daughter.

I’ve read in several memoirs that in your early 30s, people find a self-confident swagger and stride they could have only dreamed of, say, that pimply year of high school when jeans were never quite long enough to cover awkward limbs akimbo. Or maybe that was just last year, which had decidedly clearer skin, but ankles still in full view.


To my father’s credit, I did spend November considering thoughtfully about the blog. And yet, the plan backfired. The introspection brought me to a tail-feather shaking realization that frankly, you just can’t please everyone.

Let the blog trolls do their anonymous cowardly acts of malice. Let the crowds roll their eyes at my love of Christmas — the carols, the Excel spreadsheet planning of gifts, expenses and mailing calendar, the decorations and the pure joy I find in celebrating. Let the fashionistas laugh at the fact I still have a hard time finding jeans that cover all of my socks. Let the nutritionists scorn my autopsy, which will surely show veins coursing equal parts chardonnay and Diet Coke. Let those without pets snicker how a pound pup could complete change my life for the better.

December 1, 2011

Instead, I have some gifts to wrap, a soda to guzzle, carols to sing gleefully off key and a very happy Willie Nelson Mandela to snuggle.

Shake your tail feathers, Chickens.