Retiring Alaska Commuter

This comes as no surprise to my faithful readers (um, are there still two of you?), but given the abominable dearth of posts as well as my impending departure for the equator, I am officially closing down Alaska Commuter. It's not up and running yet, but come July you can find me at our new Singapore blog, Latitude1.

Most importantly, if you're ever in Southeast Asia, I hope you'll look us up!

I'm not asking, I'm driving.

Following the lead of Joe White:

For the first three people that reply to me and re-post this challenge, I will send you something.

It might be something I’ve made, or something cool from my hidden stash, it might be a mix CD, or a rubber duck, a book I think you will enjoy, or something else that is awesome.

Whatever it is, I promise that I will get it to you in 365 days or less.

The only thing you need to do in order to participate is to be one of the first three to reply to this, AND post this very same thing on YOUR blog - cause it’s fun to give people stuff.

One More Cat Pic (a bit out of season)

This one was runner-up in the office contest for best pet holiday photo.

I still maintain that the voting was rigged.

Fuel Your Soul

While my brother filled up the Penske with diesel, this little roadside prayerhouse off of I-95 in central Maine caught my attention. No markings, other than "Mobile Chapel." The nice thing is, after church you don't have far to go for breakfast!

BIRDS!

This one goes out to flyRN...

All in a Day's Work

Hard to believe I haven't posted kitty pictures yet...





























Crash likes to drink out of the faucet. Okay, actually, he has an obsession with drinking out of the faucet. In fact, when I haven't seen Crash for a few hours, chances are he's upstairs sitting on the sink waiting for a drink! Ella thinks it's ridiculous.

Flying to Alaska

They rise around us like the drunken rails of a crib,
fat wads of cotton strung in crumbling columns.
We are in the center, surrounded.
I reach my hand out,
as if the atmosphere were tactile,
as if I could lay prone,
on clouds that look to hold me.

Jack of Spades Mao Mao

And ya'll thought I was crazy... although I forgot that one of the rules is that you can't explain the rules... but someone else did... we never played the "have a nice day" rule on a 10...

Nice socks, George!

A wee bit of excitement this morning in the security line at IAH. I'm rubbing my eyes (it's 6:10 a.m. after all) and shuffling forward when I notice a well-dressed man in a straw hat reminiscent of the Woodrow Wilson era. He's carrying a Louis Vuitton bag (briefcase style, double buckle) and traveling with a large body guard type, who also has a Louis Vuitton bag (overnight style, with wheels). I've shopped enough bluefly to know if you've got LV, you're somebody. And he is! I confirm my suspicions with the nice woman checking boarding passes and she nods, yes it's George Foreman. Then she asks me, doesn't he have some kind of product? And it's all I can do to say "yes, grills" when it hits me that if only I had mine with me, maybe he would sign it. But no, it's in my checked luggage. Next time I'll know.

And what the heck, Mandisa's off Idol? I gotta start voting.

Skiing with Children

Ah friends. Let me explain this large bruise on the inside of my right calf.

It is from a tree.

A few years ago, I had this bright idea to take my young nephew skiing. He liked it, and a small tradition was born. This was great! We could spend time together, I could coach him ("Make a pizza! Wedge! Snowplow! Turn!"), we could take in a little sun over the course of a dreary winter, and I could end each evening in front of a roaring fire, feet draped over a comfy couch, warming beverage in hand.

One too many days in ski school later, my beloved nephew gleefully led me down an unmarked trail he fondly calls Dilly-Dally Alley. Now, lest you picture in your head an alley such as the sane know them (i.e., straight, paved, void of vegetation), take that picture and fill it up with trees, curves, and bumps. Not just the occasional tree, but trees left and right and center; not just curves, but wish-I-were-wearing-a-helmet maneuvers you don't even see on a bmw commercial; and not just bumps, but rollercoaster-style swoons that take you up and down and up and down in less distance than the length of your skis. I can only describe it as skiing your way through a life-sized ice cube tray that has been twisted and turned and dipped in snow and dotted vociferously with life-sized trees, all in a vain attempt to keep up with an 8 year old who has much shorter skis and not nearly as much gravity-driven velocity.

Thus my encounter with a pine tree that apparently had my name on it. And thus, the bruise.

Next year, Dilly-Dally Alley had better lead straight to a spa weekend...