Since medical marijuana has been legal in Colorado for about three years, and recreational marijuana is now (provisionally) legal here, you’d expect we’d have an establishment like this somewhere in the state. But, nope, it’s in Hamburg, Iowa.
I wonder how many times a stoner has wandered in, thinking he’s hit the mother lode, just to leave empty-handed and bewildered.
November 1, 1969, I watched my first real football game: Nebraska vs Colorado. Until then, the only exposure I had to the game was standing on the sidelines as my brother played with his friends in the empty lot on the corner. Once I saw how trained athletes executed precision plays on the offensive and defensive sides of the field, I was hooked.
Over the years, I discovered how watching, and following, football is more than just “a game.” It is a bonding experience with others who watch, and live vicariously through, the players on the field. When I moved to Nebraska, I became a Cornhusker fan by default.
It was easy, when living in Nebraska, to hang out with other fans to watch the game. In fact, in Nebraska, there is nothing else to do on Saturday afternoon in the Fall, other than drink beer and watch football. After moving to Colorado, Nebraska fans have become harder to find. That doesn’t stop me. I still wear red on game days.
Yesterday, Husband and I went to our favorite bar to watch the final Nebraska-Colorado game. I wore my Nebraska shirt, and everyone had a good laugh. Until it got ugly.
With each Nebraska touchdown, the room temperature dropped a few degrees. About halftime, the bar had broken into two factions: “kill Nebraska fans” and “kill ourselves because CU sucks so bad”. By the end of the third quarter, they joined forces and focused on me and that damn shirt, because they had nothing left to lose.
Our plan of buying them conciliatory beers backfired. Now they weren’t just angry; they were angry and drunk.
We stayed through the end of the game because there was no clear path out of there. Finally, with a handful of sporks, Husband fought our way to the door.
I held off on shouting “Woo hoo, Nebraska won, neener, neener, neener,” until we were safely outside and climbing in our car. Fortunately, by that time, the crowd had lost their will to fight and was sinking into a collective pit of despair.
The Huskers and Buffs will never play each other again. Sixty-two years of tradition had drawn to a close, and I made it out alive.
The Cornhuskers earned their spot in the Big-12 Championship game for the sixth time – more than any other North Division team; two more than Colorado. Sorry, can’t stop rubbing it in. I’ll be wearing my red shirt, and cheering them on to the final second as they charge their way across the field to another Bowl game.
Next year, I’ll no longer have to divide my loyalties, or bring along my body guard. I can root for both Nebraska and Colorado State. Sorry CU, I’m just not ready.
I have a cleaning lady.
I can hear you thinking:
So, I’ll respond:
She’s cleaning my house, and I’m fixing her website. And helping her with marketing her business. She’s totally getting the raw end of the deal.
I don’t think I’m a slob. Entirely. But with 4 surgeries in the span of two years, I’ve had other priorities.
Not that I don’t like a clean house. I love a clean house. A house where everything is in its place, and I know where that place is when I go to look for it.
Thursday, the cleaning lady came over for 4 hours so we could organize my office. Four hours. Turns out the room is bigger than I thought. And, the top of my desk is made of wood. See?
Those are tic tacs on the desk, by the way. No funny business here.
She also helped me organize my closet. Skirts at one end, pants at the other, dresses and shirts in-between. Arranged by color and sleeve length. I discovered I have a lot of duplicates. Three purple suits, for example. Every woman should have at least one purple suit. I have three. Awesome.
More amazing than the sight of my desk top was the fact that she showed up again today to clean my kitchen. Sally (that’s her name, Sally) said to me, “You don’t have to be embarrassed by your kitchen. This is the kind of challenge I love.” That was her polite way of saying, “Holy crap, girl, when was the last time you cleaned this room???”
In addition to getting all excited about fighting grime, Sally teaches parents how to get their kids to clean their room. I wish I had met her 20 years ago, when my daughter was young. I wouldn’t have been afraid of being attacked by the monsters growing under her bed. And it would have saved her from my endless nagging. We could have spent more quality time together, just hanging out, or taking goofy pictures of ourselves in the 4-pictures-for-a-dollar photo booth at the mall.
Everyone should have a cleaning lady. It’s a liberating feeling, doing what I want, without the drudgery of cleaning house. I can enjoy living here, in the house I chose, sitting on the furniture I bought, and not feel enslaved by housework.
You could have a cleaning lady, too, if you want. Barter is a wonderful thing. What do you like to do, that you’re good at, that someone else would like in trade? Can you cut hair? Babysit? Design a twitter background? Weed a garden? Ask around. Pull business cards off the bulletin board at the supermarket. Get creative.
If you’ll excuse me, I’m headed to the kitchen. Just to stand there and marvel at the sparkling surfaces. Yeah, I could really get used to this.