Rocky Mountain High!

The photo below is Fisher Mountain!

The Cherry Juice Peddler

The small town I grew up in is now my current place of residence again.  I never imagined I would revert back to my small town of Canon (said like 'Canyon' because there should be a tilde (sp?) over that middle n).  Oh well, life has a funny way of taking us places we never expected to arrive again to, right?  Now that I am back to my humble beginnings, I get the opportunity to run errands for my parents.  I do errands, they get me a subscription to the New York Times.  It's my only taste of the liberal world here where Rush Limbaugh is god.  My parents subscribe to two local newspapers.  The Daily Record (I've nicknamed it the 'Daily Disappointment'), which is the daily paper for my home town and another pathetic excuse for news, the Pueblo Chieftain.  In order to maintain what my dad lovingly refers to as $40,000 a year for me to become a flaming liberal, I have struck a deal with the devil and now I do errands.  It's a decent trade, I guess.

That brings me to the title of my blog today, "The Cherry Juice Peddler."  The other evening my mom diagnosed herself with gout.  Now, I didn't know what gout was until I Googled it today.  It sounds like some sort of disease my mother contracted from a goat, right?  Well, apparently, gout is caused by the build-up of uric acid (I don't know what it is) but it's like getting arthritis in your feet.  My mom is a nurse, so I guess she has some room to come up with a diagnosis for the reason she can't wear her 20 different pairs of different colored Danskos.  Her friend said the best cure for gout is pure cherry juice.  And of course, who better to go fetch it for her than me.  There is only one place in town that creates and sells pure cherry juice.  It's this sketchy little store called Dinardos.  

I have never been to this place until now because it looks so dirty and creepy.  From the outside, the store has a lot of glass windows which look like they are covered in about 2 inches of dust.  There is all sorts of nick-knackary on the outside.  You know, chain-saw bears, crappy looking furniture for your patio, and black, wooden cut-outs of cowboys that you can put in your yard to add a little touch of pizazz.  When I entered the store (I think there were only three lanes) a small old man came up behind me and put his arm around me, welcoming me to his shop.  There are two types of cherry juice that he peddles -- cherry cider and pure cherry juice delight.  I asked which was best for gout.  The man hugged me and told me the cherry delight would be best and then tried to sell me some patron saint that would cure me in a moment.  I tried to tell him I didn't have gout but he was so hard of hearing he couldn't hear me argue with him.  I asked him 8 times if he took debit cards and by the time I finally brought out the plastic, he realized what I was asking for and said he took it.  As I left the store, he told me to come back and gave me a sweet little love tap on my bum.  Is that sexual harassment?

Well, I survived the peddler and Coop and I decided to have an adventure up at our cabin.  I have posted the photos of the fun times.  I had to shovel a drift of 3 feet of snow to get to our cabin (I have a blister on my hand to prove it) and then Coop and I went snow shoeing.  On our travels, we stole a sled from an unsuspecting house and went sledding.  Cooper is having more success in making friends than I am.  He met a new dog friend, Jessy, and they played for an hour while I shoveled.  The pictures are from my family's cabin, the bridge my parents got married on, and some other fun ones!  

I don't break the law...

I don't text while I drive, I just take photos while I drive.  Totally not against the law.  These are from the middle of nowhere Utah and Colorado.  Cooper thought Colorado was too bright compared to Washington, so he asked to borrow my sunglasses.

The Trip of Cooper's Discontent...

I made Coop wear a harness the whole time so in case we were in a wreck he wouldn't fly through the window.  This was the face he made most of the time.

Provo, Utah...snow, snow, and more snow.

I had to sneak Coop into the hotels we stayed in.  Cooper slept in his own bed every night.  Must be tough.

More photos from the road!

Release Your Inner Dirt Bag

Somewhere between Tacoma and Spokane when all of my belongings, which incidentally are literally filling my car to the gunwales, began avalanching into the front seat; I realized that the overnight bag that had been strategically placed behind my passenger-side seat was no longer accessible.  It was either clean clothes and toiletries or strapping Cooper to the roof.  Retrieving my overnight bag would surly release a title-wave of crap so mighty that there would be no turning back.  My Caboodles boxes, shoes, and heaven knows what else, would happier spreading out in the front seat.  I'm certain they would not be coaxed back into their proper places without Amber to whip them into shape.  

Therefore, in the last 3 days I have worn the same outfit and under-ware everyday.  I figured that all I'm really doing is sitting on my butt and eating cheeseburgers all day.  I'm not working up a sweat listening to books on tape.   Plus, it's not like I'm going to find my husband in Idaho Falls at the local Burger King Drive Through.  The only person (if we can call him that) that can smell me or looks at me consistently is Cooper and I don't think he cares about what I smell like or look like.  I think he likes seeing my inner dirt bag.  And, might I point out, Beyond was like an inner dirt bag exorcism.  I wore the same clothes everyday for seven days while carrying a 60 pound back through the woods. 

Anyway, my original plan after departing Tacoma was to drive to Butte, Montana and stay the night.  Then, the next day, drop down into Yellow Stone, the Tetons and stay in Jackson Hole.  Finally, I would trek my ass back to Canon City.  Well, the day I left I didn't get out of Tacoma until 11 am.  I made it as far as Spokane before it got dark and the weather turned shady.  The next day, I was rearing and ready to go at 11:30 am (so much for good intentions making it to positive outcomes, right).  I made it to Bozeman, MT and stayed the night there.

Today I was ready to head down to Yellow Stone and the rest, but as soon as Coop and I pulled up to the entrance, I saw a sign that pronounced that the only automobiles that could go through were snowmobilers.  So much for a cool road trip.  Coop and I had to turn around and head through Idaho again.  Idaho, my friends, is the worst state in the Union.  The people there do not turn on their lights in white out storms while driving and they try to run you off the road.  The state barely marks their roads and I'm lucky I made it out alive, quite frankly.  Well, just when I was about to head across Wyoming, my parents informed me that there were severe storm warnings across the state and that I-80 would probably be closed.

Cooper and I, our plans foiled once again had to drive south to the Land of the Mormons and now we're camped out for another night somewhere between Salt Lake and Provo.  I just finished eating the most terrible salad of my life and now I'm pondering the existential ramifications for letting my Inner Dirt Bag loose.   Perhaps if I continue to wear the same clothes all week, I'll have an epiphany.  Maybe I'll wear the same thing for all of 2009.  Think of the tag line I could have..."A New Year, A New Fear.  Christy Fisher's Inner Dirt Bag."  I doubt it but it may be worth a try.  Although, if I wanted to make new friends, wearing the same stinky clothes may not be the best impression.  I think my clothes may walk out by themselves tomorrow.  I just make myself feel better by thinking about all the laundry I won't have to do when I get to Colorado.  

So dear friends, I challenge you: Release Your Inner Dirt Bag.  Tell me how it goes.

I love you all and I miss you all.  I will post pictures as soon as I find my connector cord which is probably hidden somewhere impossible in the back of my car.

Remember-Team Work makes the Dream Work,  

Christy

P.S. I tried to find the origin for the term "Dirt Bag" but I was unable to find it on Google.  Maybe those of you with more access to academic search engines can help a sister out.