B is for Beer

I wish it were winter so we could freeze it into ice blocks
and skate on it and melt it in the spring time and drink it! 

Whisper in my ear, "brettanomyces" and I will get weak in the knees. Because of that hazard, I made Mark drive the family in horrid pre-winter snow storm to get to the Crooked Stave, a brewery in Denver with a wildly growing reputation for creating grade-A sour beers. I mean, the owner wrote his Master's thesis on brett, a non-spore forming yeast, so he clearly did his homework in prepping his business. For some light reading, read his thesis titled: The Brettanomyces Project. What a dude!

Loves of my life: seestor-in-law, big bro, hubby.

Some say it looks like rice, others may say it seems more sausage-y under the microscope. But however you describe it, the little bugger makes a damn fine pairing when making beer. First up, the Saison and Surrette were great starter beers, but the real fun began with their award winning L'Brett D'Or. Was it sour? Oh yes. Was it smooth? Definitely. Did it meet the Schlink Gold Standard of Cantillon's Gueze? Oh Myyyy. Wow. Gosh. Yum. And that would be my professional opinion. 

Deets practicing his retro-nasal.
Just kidding.

Oak barrels lent from various
breweries all over the U.S. and France.
Such a beautiful sight.

Una MAS!

A old friend of mine recently asked me when my next blog post would arrive, to which I replied, "as soon as I have something exciting to blab about." Snorting, she retorted "What? Isn't the arrival of baby Margo exciting enough for you?" Okay, so maybe she has a point. Indeed the hours leading up to her big day were full of interesting and maybe even comical events, but I didn't want to bore or gross anyone out. But I will say that the nurses (yes: nurses, NOT doctor) who delivered Margo in under ten minutes were an incredible team; like a well oiled machine they manhandled the situation with such ease, I hardly noticed the bleary eyed deck doc who slumped in to tell me "all looked good down there" before heading back to bed. So when I say she came fast, she really came FAST. Mark and I were the new owners of a seven pound, eight ounce baby girl! Thank you to Ashley, Kim, and Jolene. Those ladies didn't mess around.

The following three days of hospital living were pretty much a dream: between great baby-feeding support and doting sets of grandparents made my entire experience. I wish all nurses could be as attentive and informed as the gals I had, they really made Margo's start of life a pleasurable one. So many thanks to Ruby, Courtney, Karen, and Vicki. I'd bring them home if I could. Between nurse visits, we watched James Bond, drank celebratory beer and spent all around quality time together as a big family. I almost didn't want to leave. 

Fast forward two weeks. Knock on wood, all four of us are fairing well. Competition for mom's attention is a daily exchange of compromises, bribery and tears, but it's not as bad as I'd feared. And that's just with Mark. My darling boy Deets seems to like his sister but quickly monopolizes lap-time for marathon readings of his favorite book, Cars and Trucks and Things That Go. I dream of Goldbug on a regular basis now. Margo takes my late night feeding fouls with remarkable patience. With sloppy technique resulting in milk in the eye, splashing on the iPad screen even hitting my sleeping husband from three feet away, I am lucky she hasn't washed her hands of me. Just last night I even lost my ever attractive mouth guard in the bed and found it this morning snugly tucked in her swaddling blanket. My motherhood skillz are smooth. And sexy, yah? 

So maybe this post is not quite as interesting as a Romanian travel post, or even the Colorado kiddy-field trip post, but I will take the tranquility (and mundaneness) of family time any day. I have no doubt I will get myself into more trouble soon enough.

Deetsie.

Hiking with the family.

Margo 2 weeks.

Denver Giraffes Through the Years

Unsure as to whether even-toed ungulates at the Denver Zoo would hold enough blog-worthy interest, I decided to go for it for sake of enjoying the picture of my brother sporting a Miller beer hat as a plucky nine year old. And Lord knows what possessed me to wear head-to-toe turquoise, thank you 1989.

At any rate, the pictures range from about 1984 to 2012, taken near the giraffe exhibit, and I thought it was too cute to pass up.

1984: King of Pop gets severely
burned while filming a Pepsi commercial.

1986: Hands Across America attempted.
So close!

1989: The Simpsons debut and
Chicago tops the Billboard 100

2012: Last known Pinta Island Tortoise
Lonesome George goes extinct.

2nd Verse, Same as the First

Old Lady Schlink: back in action! Today I conveniently (or not-so-conveniently) informed the hotel manager our temperature regulating unit died in my room. With utmost courtesy they sent the handyman to inspect the damage who found the compressor totally croaked. Repairing this would take weeks, and thus they promptly gave the cue to move myself next door. The same suite that housed my favorite door slamming, bitter teenagers and parental units. Hope karma doesn't come back to bite me in the ass.

So with that said, should I find it weird that the good folks at Town Park Suites already moved a new tenant into our former hotbox of a room? Hmm.

Deets and I make daily escapes from our temporary home, doing the predictable mommy-tot routine of hitting the museum, hiking trails, and  frequenting the bike shops. It's been lonely without Mark, but we are managing.

Hiking up Flagstaff

GrammaK and I took him to Tiny Town, a quaint historic site of miniatures complete with a hand operated diesel train run by overall-clad grandfatherly trainspotters. While he loved the train, I loved the people watching: a Polish family of 6 who smashed themselves into a miniature church, the professional photographer who followed a mom and her lil' Augustus Gloop sized child, and the manic and clearly fastidious gift shop employee who all but alphabetized the souvenirs were my favorites.

Just like Dad, he knows a good
stoop when he sees one.

Yes. That IS Wilford Brimley and Richard Riehle.
Well, at least they should be.

Today's escape was to a wonderful place called Once Upon A Child, a store full of second hand awesomeness. It was absolute mom-crack: child friendly, well-organized, and loaded with cheap finds. Deets sampled the toys for an hour while I scoured their huge collection of books and shoes.

 Those are just the 0-3 months clothes!

What $15 worth of Duplo looks like. SCORE!

Tomorrow's plans? The ZOO! I figured it was time to prove to Deets that elephants do exist...

The Quaintness of Hotel Living

I can't decide who entertains me more at my free Marriott breakfast buffet: leathery Maui Jim who took fifteen packets of cream cheese, the gal who ate four powdered doughnuts with her diet coke, or String Bean Jean who literally grabbed all the Styrofoam plates and stuffed them into her Walmart sack.

My life for the next few months feels suddenly transient as I am holed up in an extended stay hotel for the next few months.  I officially have become the old crotchety lady who complains about the stomping, slamming, and stumbling noises above me. I requested a move thinking ending up next door would be better than below, and the new digs aren't as green on the other side. Nads! Turns out I am up against disrespectful belligerent teenagers who clearly, are not happy to be stuck in close proximity with their equally pugnacious parents. For two more weeks...

Despite intense homesickness and the jolting, brazen politics slathering the Colorado front range, it's good to be back. How I've missed the perfect taste of milk, good beef, and the indulgent pre-washed, pre-cut sweet carrots! And my lovely family. I had no idea how much I've missed my big brother's stories, my sister-in-law's hugs, and my parent's utter delight to hang out with Deets. Yeah yeah, go ahead and gag.

Only in the U.S.
Effort free carrot enjoyment.

Tough guy.

"High Altitude" Training

Typical Traffic Jam. BAAA.

With the pending Colorado departure, Mark, Deets, Jim and I spent Labor Day up in the mountains checking out Lake Balea and the Transfăgărășan Highway. A whopping 6,561 feet above sea level, I thought nothing of the elevation. After all, I'm from Colorado. But I found that a 3 1/2 year absence really kicked my ass as I grunted my way up the trail. It was hilarious, scrambling after the boys like a chimp. In my skirt and sneakers no less. Hey now. If I had pants that would fit, I'd wear them...

Deets dragging mom.

Deets ditching mom.

Dad and Deets laughing at mom.

Now Lake Balea has glacial reputation seeing as how the water originates from a glacier. Check out my friend's winter pics for a cooler taste of gorgeous. If you can't get enough of Romania's stoic winter snows there's an ice hotel built there every year too.


I consider this highway a rite of passage for those prone to motion sickness. Combine that with the ridiculous "high altitude" sickness I experienced, I think I deserved a freakin' medal after I successfully avoided barfing. My cure all solution? Doing it on my bike. No ifs, ands, or buts, I want need to master that road on two wheels. So stuff me into some spandex and grease me up with sunscreen, it will be done.

The road just feels so naked without its bike.

Curvy, eh?

Go Michael Jackson Go!

Bucharest loves them some MJ, and what better way to celebrate his legacy and birthday than a flash mob tribute? I waddled my butt up to Herastrau Park tonight to enjoy their mini dance show, complete with Annie and about fifty original portraits of the King of Pop.

The vigil runs 24/6 but today it was
especially fragrant and waxy.

They're bad. You know it. Uh huh.  

MJMJMJMJMJMJMJ....

My particular favorite.