Bad Copy of the Day award

See, the issue isn't how you begin to spell "attributable"... but how you stop spelling it.


This qualifies for the coveted Bad Copy award because there's only one brand of people at my place of business that would just keep adding letters to a word until it looks long enough. That brand is SalesGuy (tm). We try to wrangle them with a sophisticated system of handlers and assistants.  We even put mittens on their hands so they can't type too easily and get themselves in trouble.  But sometimes little gems like this manage to slip out.  "Attributalaitable."  Solid.

Funundrum Recommends

Today Funundrum would like to strongly recommend voting. Furthermore, if you could find it in your heart to vote for change, hope, and a young guy who doesn't suck, Funundrum would like to further recommend that you vote for Barack Obama.

Obama shows up.

So this is pretty much the view from where we were standing.  I'm zooming in with the camera about halfway, but it's certainly not maxed out.  We were very fortunate to be so close, though I can't say I'm sorry for the lazy people who rolled out of bed at 9am and expected to get into this thing.

I cropped this one up a bit so you can see that we were, in fact, watching Barack Obama speak.

It's just not a political rally without the fascism people, the John 3:16 guy, and the aborted fetus people.  I assure you they were all out in force.

Get on the O Train!!!

Chris and I are lucky enough to live in a swing state this election year.  Yesterday, Barack Obama came back through Denver and held a rally downtown in Civic Park, which is the massive expanse between the courthouse and the capitol building.  Because we have a bad case of Obamania, we got up at 5:30 and took the train up there so we could get in line early.  It's a good thing we did, because there were only 1,000 or so people in front of us.  This sounds like a lot, until I tell you that there were at least 100,000 people at the rally by the time Obama took the stage.  The crowd spilled out of Civic Park and flowed all the way up the steps of the Capitol.  It was a breathtaking sight.  

It was damn cold, and we did a lot of standing around, but it was totally worth it.  I feel like I was a part of history.  His detractors may say that he's "only a community organizer," but I look around and I see a squabbling, jaded, self-centered community of 300 million people that could do with a little organizing.  It will be nice to say, fifty years from now, that I remember the day I waited for hours to see the man who would one day change America for the better.

Here we are, waiting in line.

This sign said "CO 4 CHANGE"

Ever wonder what 99,000 people looks like? (This is looking back from where we were standing -- the other 1,000 were in front of us.)  I strongly encourage you to click on this picture -- it will open bigger and you can take it all in. 

Stupid, stupid cross-promotion.

Lately, it seems as though the Susan G. Komen "HEY GUYS IT'S BREAST CANCER!!" Foundation has achieved a monopoly on pointless cross-promotion.  From soup to yogurt, frozen meals to kitty litter (you tell me I'm wrong), that damn pink ribbon is on everything.  They've stopped even trying to make a connection between the product I'm buying and the relative level of my awareness.

And yet, none of that even comes close to attaining the level of "Wait, what?" that today's crappy cross-promotion enjoys.  Sit back, relax, unfocus your eyes, and try not to think too hard about what I'm about to show you, because something in your brain might go "twing" and you'll show up on next week's episode of House.  Hint:  it won't be Chagas' disease or lupus, either.  

This sticker. It was on a pumpkin. The kind that will be turned into a jack o' lantern. A pumpkin. Member of the squash family, maybe you've seen one? Big, orange... piratey? No. No, it is not in the least piratey.  What the hell.  I guess the people at Disney figured out that, like, kids help to pick out their pumpkins, so maybe this sticker will raise their awareness that there are pirate movies out there?  Kids have to go to the doctor, too.  Can we brand flu shots with Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers?  It would be neat.

I do deeply appreciate the swashbuckling font in which they've printed the code for "large pumpkin."  Now, that's a 4735 that looks like it's about to shiver a timber or two.

Pikes Peak part two

It's odd, I didn't take any pictures of the teeming masses that swarmed the summit.  I was likely just too tired.  But here's Chris in front of the excellently retro train that eventually took us back to civilization.  Would you believe we got applauded?  The train tour guide lady announced that there were several people on the train that had climbed the mountain, and there was a very enthusiastic response from the crowd.  It was quite nice, but I know if I would have heard that, I would have thought, "What, they couldn't go back the way they came?"

We had to take a more traditional "we made it to the top" picture, as well as the other ones you'll see below.  This is usually how we have to do it, because at the top of most other mountains, there's... nothing.  It's the way we generally like to have it.

The building behind us is the giant cafeteria/restroom/gift shop thing that everyone crowds into for most of their time atop Pikes Peak.  I don't get it.  This particular sign is around back, where the train comes in.  It says "A summit photo is a lasting memento of your trip to this world-famous peak."  Oh, the Americans and their "world-famous" crap. 

This sign is around in the front of the building, closer to the huge parking lot.  This is the entire group that climbed the mountain with Scot (except his wife and child, who drove up for the occasion).  Even the dog, Floyd, came with us -- he had more energy than anyone.  One of the guys brought a bottle of 14er beer (brewed by Avery Brewing in Boulder) that we cracked and passed around to celebrate Scot's amazing achievement of 58 14ers in just two or three years.  

Pikes Peak pictures!

We managed to hit Pikes Peak on the last beautiful weekend of the year.  The aspens were just about hitting their peak, the weather was beautiful, and you could pee outside without fear of hypothermia.  Always nice.

After starting up the mountain at about 2:30 p.m., we made it to base camp just after dark.  The going was a little slower than we're used to because Scot's dad was with us, and he's got two very bum knees.  But he was an excellent sport and good company.  Once we got to our rustic cabin at Barr Camp, we fired up the wood stove, cooked our dehydrated dinner, drank a few beers, and settled down for some sleep.

We set out for the summit the next day.  This leg of the journey took longer than the first, but we made it just in time to catch the 2:00 train down from the top of the mountain -- we figured that a 13-mile hike plus an hour and a half drive would equal two very tired people the next day at work.  Plus,  I always wanted to take that train.

Here we are on the second morning of the hike.

Finally, above the treeline!

We figured if this woman could climb the mountain 14 times (okay, 13 non-fatal times), so could Scot's dad.  

I am a servant of the people.

I don't know if that's still valid if I'm a servant of the people for entirely selfish reasons, but there you have it.  A few months after I started at my current job, I volunteered to clean out the fridge every Friday.  We have four floors, with fridges on each one, so I just do one floor a week.  Easy.  I do this because I hate the following groups of people:

• People who bring their lunches in plastic grocery bags, then leave the bags in the fridge with one or two items in each bag.  Old bags get shoved into the back of the fridge by new bags, and soon there has built up along the back wall a sort of solid piece of refrigerator jetsam.  Terrible.
  
• People who can't be bothered to make a sandwich before they come to work, so instead they choose to bring a loaf of bread, a jar of mayonnaise, a bottle of mustard, a container of lunchmeat, a jar of pickles, and a small kitten (to keep them company while they assemble their sandwich).  Said sandwich materials take up about a quarter of the refrigerator volume.  Terrible.
  
• People who can't be bothered to throw a collection of single-serving items into a bag each day, so they simply bring a week's worth of single-serving items to work and store them in the fridge.  5 yogurts, 10 frozen meals, a slither of individual string cheeses (have you ever tried to stack up individually-wrapped string cheese in a refrigerator door?  Now you know why it's called a slither)... these people are probably my least favorite, because this behavior is the most premeditated and carries the least regard for fellow human worker bees.  
  

Anyway, I started cleaning the fridge once a month simply so I'd have a place to put my (reusable, single day's worth of food) lunchbox every day.  I love the measures that people take to keep their stuff from being thrown away.  They'll put their name on the item, maybe the date, or even a "Please don't toss" note.  None of this matters to me.  The only reason I sometimes show mercy is because I get a pang of guilt throwing away perfectly good food in a time of global food shortages and economic woes.  

But I didn't come here to tell you about any of that.  I came here to show you the funniest thing I've ever seen during a refrigerator cleanout.

What you are looking at is a single slice of American cheese, onto which "Anna" has scrawled her name in ballpoint pen.  Anna, I'd like to ask you something.  What are you saving that cheese for?  Do you really mean to tell me that you needed to save this cheese so much that you were willing to find a pen, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, take out your cheese, and write your name on it?  JUST EAT THE CHEESE.  

Because it's there -- Pikes Peak, beyotches!!!

It's certainly not the tallest mountain in Colorado.  It's certainly not the most difficult climb (I hope).  But it's certainly the most famous.  Did you know that Pikes Peak is the second-most visited summit in the world after Mt. Fuji?  It's true, I read it on the internet.  It might have something to do with the fact that there is both a road and a damn railway to the top of it.  Aside from being eminently accessible, Pikes Peak's (that looks weird, doesn't it? I should have another beer so my punctuation gets better) anyway, its claim to fame is that it was the inspiration for the song "America the Beautiful" (motto:  "More Verses Than You Think").

And we're climbing it.  Chris' friend and schoolmate, Scot, has been our behind-the-scenes informant in all our Fourteener adventures.  He spends most of his summers at an incline, heading up.  In fact, he's climbed all the Fourteeners (of which there are 53, I think) -- all of them, that is, except mighty Pikes.  He invited his dad and some friends along to be with him when he crosses this one off the list, so it should kick some serious ass.

We're taking two days to make the ascent, as the trailhead begins around 7,000 feet (most of our mountain hikes start around 11,000).  We'll get about halfway up and stay the night at Barr Camp, a rustic bunkhouse type place that sends hikers off each morning with a hearty pancake breakfast.  We'll summit on Sunday, then hike all the way down the same day.

It will be weird to arrive at the top of the mountain, sweaty, stinky, and panting, to find fat Americans arriving by the carload to snap a picture, eat a cheeseburger, and trundle back down to civilization.  I understand that the same undistinguished fate greets those who finish the Appalachian Trail at the top of Mt. Washington.

Anyway, I'm really looking forward to getting out-of-doors one more time before the Giant Snow Duvet of Doom smothers us all.  Check back for pictures, hopefully not from the Medivac helicopter. 

My dog lloves llamas.

Actually, they're alpacas, but whatever. This was at a small church-sponsored pet and animal fair that we attended last weekend (the greyhound group had a booth).  The alpacas were right next to us, and our greyhounds were surprisingly unaffected.  

I have given you the dynamic "dog's-butt view."  Suck it, Ansel Adams.  Ooh, also take a look at our trees changing color.  Suck it, places that don't have seasons. 

I just met Dave Barry!

About a month ago, Chris and I were walking into our local library (Give a hoot -- read.) and I spotted a poster advertising the appearance of Dave Barry at an author event/booksigning thingy.  I got inordinately excited and bought a ticket online as soon as we got back home.  

For those of you who are not familiar with Dave Barry and his effect on who I am today -- Dave had a widely syndicated humor column in most major US newspapers.  He's also written a ton of books, but I think he's funniest when he can filter his brand of funny into 600 words or so.  Then, he's pure genius.  My family and I have always been big readers of his; I know one of my dad's prized possessions (if he still has it) was the "Thank you for being an Alert Reader" postcard that he got after sending Barry some funny newspaper clipping. 

I try to sneak in some Barryisms on occasion.  If you ever see in my writing the phrases "I am not making this up," "______ would be a really good name for a rock band," or "I support the death penalty for the creator of the low-flow toilet," you are witnessing a direct homage to (read: ripoff of) Dave Barry.  Even my CrapCam wouldn't have a name without him.  God bless him, he's right up there with Gary Larson in my world.

Dave's talk was great -- he told many stories that I remember from his old columns (some involving the dogs he used to have:  his main dog, Ernest; and his auxiliary emergency backup dog, Zippy) and some great ones that were from his more recent adventures at the political conventions and the Beijing Olympics.  Good times.  At the booksigning, I was able to thank him wholeheartedly for his blog, which has "sustained me so far through three crappy jobs, and I hope it's there for the next several crappy jobs."  I hope that pleased him.  

Anyway, here's the picture.  I took it with my nice camera, but since I was sitting on the signing table and leaning back, and taking the picture myself, and Dave is looking at the camera screen instead of the lens, I think this qualifies as a CrapCam photo.  As it should.

I just want to ride on my motorsickle.

Been cleaning out the CrapCam.  I don't usually see clever license plates on motorcycles, but this one simply takes the cake.

If you're not laughing your ass off right now, you're probably among the 99% of people who don't know "The Motorcycle Song" by Arlo Guthrie.  You should really make an effort to listen to it, as it's fairly bizarre, which is what I'm always looking for in a story song.  At any rate, the chorus goes like this:

I don't want a pickle

I just want to ride on my motorsickle.

And I don't want a tickle

I just want to ride on my motorsickle.

And I don't want to die

I just want to ride on my motorcy....cle.

Holliday of the Damned -- AMAZING FOLLOW-UP

This last Friday, I was lucky enough to win a pair of Rockies tickets from work, so Chris and I grabbed a sandwich and some sushi and headed up to Coors Field.  The seats were good enough that we had to pay very close attention to the game, lest we get clobbered by sports paraphernalia.  A woman about 5 rows back got hit by an errant bat.  No joke.

We enjoyed ourselves, especially considering that we were sitting next to the only two Astros fans in the stadium.  They had just come up from Texas the day before, so you can bet they were getting their high-altitude drank on.   Super entertaining.  But that's not what I came here to talk about.  After the Rockies won (yay, or whatever), we were standing around waiting for the crowd to thin, when we noticed two women who had come down to our level to get some pictures.  "Hey Chris," I said.  "That kind of looks like those crazy women, remember?"  Chris sounded not a little shaken when he responded... "No, dude.  That IS them."  I just about busted a gut laughing, and nearly emptied out my purse looking for my phone so I could take a CrapCam photo.  

Sure enough, they had made their way down into our section in their identical jackets, to take identical photos with each of their identical cameras, of the "Rockies Win" sign on the JumboTron.  Just... unbelievable.

Now imagine having to get the sidelong stinkeye from this gruesome twosome for an entire ballgame.  Gah.

Why I'm not bothering with a flu shot this year.

I'm staying home sick today.  While I am, in fact, sick, this also allows me to prepare a bit for the arrival of my sister-in-law Michelle, who is visiting us for the weekend.  For the occasion, I went out and bought some toilet bowl cleaner.  I hope she understands what a rare privilege she will be enjoying.

Anyway, since this particular toilet bowl cleaner is made by the good people at Clorox, its main selling point is its germ-fighting abilities.  Frankly, (please pardon this coarse pun) I could give two shits about its germ-fighting abilities -- I just want our toilets to be clean enough that they don't look like they belong in the Kingdom of the Swamp People.  But this toilet bowl cleaner wants to kill germs anyway.  Fine.

In big, bold letters, the bottle proclaims, "DISINFECTS -- KILLS 99.9% OF GERMS."  Unbelievably, in even larger bold letters, right above it, it says, "KILLS FLU VIRUS."

My dog will be overjoyed to know that I have made her secondary source of drinking water flu-free.  I'm not sure how long the flu virus can survive inside a toilet bowl, but if you're coming into direct and regular contact with the surface of the inside of your toilet, you deserve to catch the flu anyway.

Holliday of the Damned

Our friends Sarah Marie and Stuart were kind enough to bring us along to a Rockies game last night that they had tickets for.   Chris and I loaded up on Subway, sushi, and cookies and readied ourselves for a good old ballgame.  When we got there, we sat behind two women who were... okay, remember the creepy twins from The Shining?  Sure you do, but since I'm trying to up the creep-out factor of Funundrum, here they are again:

Ew.  Now put these girls in matching Matt Holliday jerseys, make them look like the vaguely disapprove of everything around them at all times, and make one of them 55 and one 35.  There.  They were also radiating displeasure, not smiling like the joyful tots pictured above.

As soon as I pulled out my sandwich, a stiff breeze came up and blew away the bag.  Not one to suffer littering gladly, I jumped up to retrieve it.  Unfortunately, this caused a bit of tomato and lettuce to fall onto the younger of the Holliday Zombies just in front of me.  She recoiled and made a face like I had just taken a crap on her head.  I apologized profusely, but didn't feel too bad because her precious jersey looked like it was fairly unscathed.  This did not stop Cryptkeeper Mom from repeatedly and obsessively wiping the seat back with her hand before asking me in a nasty tone, "Do you have any extra napkins?  This stuff is NOT coming off."

The four of us were all wearing the thinnest, tightest possible veneers of concern, but I assure you we were all about to lose it.  Ladies, you are at a baseball game.  You are in the middle of a seething mass of humanity* and chances are very, very good that some of that humanity is going to come into contact with you in a less than optimal fashion.  How many times have my readers had nearly-full beers poured on their heads at a sporting event?  Raise your hand.  Right now you should be raising your hand.  And we all lived to tell the tale, holy crap.

So after this monstrously entertaining scene, we all went back to watching the game.  At some point I found my extra napkins -- I had been sitting on them.  Oh well.  The Holliday twins continued to elicit snorts and snickers from the peanut gallery, because every time Matt Holliday came up to bat, they would each raise identical Canon cameras in front of them and they would both take pictures of the Jumbotron showing his name and face. I'll let that sink in.  Can you imagine?  "How was the ballgame?"  "It was FANTASTIC.  Here's 8 pictures of a sign that says Matt Holliday's NAME on it."  Because this wasn't just once.  It was every time that he was up to bat.  I'm overly happy to report that this former MVP completely failed to achieve any level of greatness the whole night.  A strike-out, a pop-out, and then he died of embarrassment that these two women were so fixated on his Jumbotron visage.  "Hey!" he was heard to shout sometime during the sixth inning.  "You, up there in section 330!  I'm down HERE, you wacky uppity bitches!"  I heard him; I was there, don't question me.

I will leave our reaction to his performance up to your imagination.  As long as you imagine me yelling, "SUCK IT HOLLIDAY!" each time he forlornly trotted off the field, you will be imagining correctly.  

We spent the rest of the evening offering each other wads of extra napkins.  Second best baseball game ever.

*Slightly less seething and cramped than usual, considering the Olympics were on (and the Rockies suck).  I did experience a little withdrawal by not getting my nightly swimming fix.

Bad Copy of the Day Award

My friend Shannon was asking me about the terrible pictures from this infertility site I wrote back in the day (related:  I came up with the world's best infertility tagline for this guy -- "Turning Wishes Into Miracles") and I wanted to show her the rest of the site.

I remembered that he had not only the fancy new website that we built for him, but a bunch of crappy old sites too, where the old pictures might still live.  I went to my old employer's website to try to find this doctor's site, and was completely sidetracked by this sentence.  Please keep in mind that at least 40% of what this company sells is really well-written copy.  

"You are also invited to explore this website, as well as the websites of ABC Co.'s five major subsidiaries:  ABC Co. Medical, ABC Co. Dental, and ABC Co. Law."

Go ahead.  Explore all five of those.  I can't imagine why I left that place.

White person confession.

Our local NPR station just switched over from AM to FM, and I have made a disturbing discovery:  you know Steve Inskeep on Morning Edition?  He sounds way more attractive on AM.  They switched over and suddenly the full, rich, friendly voice that breaks the new day's bad news to me sounded thin and tinny.  They were simulcasting on AM and FM for a few days, so I was able to switch back and forth to make sure I was hearing him properly.   Sure enough, the Steve I knew and loved was gone.  Stupid switchover.  Stop messing with my reality.

Update:  I am pleased to report that NPR still broadcasts on its old AM station.  Sometimes I switch back during Steve's bits.

Overheard in Target

This was one of the funniest and saddest exchanges between a married couple that I've heard in a while.  I was browsing the women's clothes when I passed a couple who were looking at the clothes on clearance.  The man pointed out a bright orange blouse and the following conversation ensued:

"Hey, hon, you should get this."

"......Why?"

"The bears are coming."

(confused silence) "....What?"

"The bears are coming."

"................What are you talking about?"

(as though speaking to a child) "Football is coming. The Bears are coming..... you know, you gotta wear orange every Sunday."

"Oh."

And then they walked on.  I can't even imagine this woman's life, though I know conversations like this happen all over America, and all around the world (but usually for soccer).   I just loved his simple conviction, and her masterful ability to completely sidestep that conviction.  Well done, the both of you.  And go Bears.  

The Yogurtinator -- available at a commune near you

Yesterday, Chris and I came one step closer to achieving off-grid sustainability, when we successfully* made yogurt on our own, right after baking a couple of loaves of bread.  The idea came from our good friends the Kilzers, who showed us their version of a box that cooks milk and a small starter amount of yogurt into... well, a bigger amount of yogurt in just a few hours.

Here you see us assembling the Yogurtinator (Stu calls his the "Yogurnator," which is a more clever name, but I like the irritating quality caused by the extra syllables in "Yogurtinator"), which consists of nothing more than a cheap styrofoam cooler from the grocery store, a lamp kit, a dimmer switch, and a thermometer thrust unceremoniously through the top of the lid.

I'll spare you the steps (hint:  they're here) but suffice it to say, we got some mighty yogurt-looking stuff out at the end of the process.  I'm waiting for Chris to come home from school so we can try it at the same time.  After all, the family who experiences paralyzing stomach cramps together stays together.

*This remains to be seen.

It's... HUGE!!! RUN!!!

I thought about filing this under Bad Copy of the Day, but it doesn't quite fit, and rather does much better as a platform for my usual misplaced-yet-no-less-incandescent rage. I recently received this email at work (names changed, as usual, to assist in keeping my job):

"Congratulations to Producer Adam Farfegnugen and wife Krystal on the birth of their first child. Daughter Mairzy Doats Farfegnugen was born yesterday Sunday the 22nd of June 2008. This dainty little gem weighed in at 6 pounds and 12 ounces. Don't have a length yet but stay tuned for another bulletin. Everyone is doing well."

STAY TUNED. We're still waiting on that bulletin, by the way. I've lost countless hours of sleep, just lying there at night, wondering, "BUT HOW LONG WAS SHE?" Here's where I'm going with this. I know that it's been the tradition for ages to report the length and weight of newborns. It's the only achievement they've made thus far, after all. But ask yourself -- why do people always want to know the length and weight of the baby? Answer: because just asking the weight is a nearly transparent substitution for "how grisly and difficult was the birth?" Search your heart, you know it to be true. So instead, people throw in the length thing to legitimize their nosiness.

Unfortunately, there are no other questions that one can ask about a newborn or new mother that aren't rude or insensitive ("Does it have all its parts?" and "Will you be eating the placenta?" are two that I would consider acceptable if I was in charge of the world). So I guess I'll be stuck with having a brazillion people ask me these same time-worn, retarded questions when I have a child. I'll simply have to keep them on their toes, I guess. "Yeah, he's 7 pounds, 64 inches. He came out like a roll of Fruit by the Foot."

Best cake ever!*

I've finished my second Wilton cake decorating course, and here's my final cake.  It features pansies, mums, roses, primroses, daffodils, violets, apple blossoms, and daisies, which are all made out of royal icing (they're made ahead of time and placed on the cake when hard).  I also learned the super awesome-looking basketweave maneuver.  I'm really damn impressed with myself.  Next up is the class that teaches me how to work with fondant and make tiered cakes.  I'm not sure when that will be, but I'm thinking I'll wait a couple months to let the rage subside.  

This is a fun thing to learn, but it's a real bitch to prepare all the different kinds and colors of icing for each class -- especially considering that royal icing falls apart into a sobbing, useless heap if it comes into contact with the slightest bit of grease.  My kitchen has to be medical-grade clean before I can make this stuff.  Seriously, I spray everything down -- tablespoon, mixer bowl and beater, tupperware containers -- with 401 before I start.  It's outrageous.

* Yeah I know "Best cake ever!" is hardly modest.  But holy crap, LOOK AT IT!!

I'm not sure why...

but I've crocheted an egg.  I think it started when I saw some knitting patterns for pretend food on etsy.com, and got a sneaking suspicion that I could make some of it without any pattern at all, and some of it I could even do better.  I don't know.  I think it looks like an egg.

It's cake time again!

After being thwarted repeatedly by my own schedule and the apathy of others, I've finally managed to get into another Wilton cake decorating class.  This time, the focus is on lots of different kinds of flowers, including chrysanthemums, violets, apple blossoms, and a rose that is somehow slightly different than the rose I learned to do last time.

I'm weeping with joy that these flowers are all done with royal icing (mostly powdered sugar), and not buttercream made of Crisco.  This isn't a health thing, either.  Crisco is just evil to work with -- it sticks to everything, won't rinse off, and even if you wipe it off with a paper towel, you're still left with a sheen of gross.  Crisco is proudly trans-fat-free, though, so there's that.

Anyway, the only thing I really learned in the first class was how to do this chrysanthemum.  I'm pretty happy with it.  Everything else was just slapped on there at the last minute so it wouldn't look like my cake was covered in yellow dustballs.  

First hike of the season!

Even though I go to a trainer once a week, and even though we just got back from a fantastic adventure-packed honeymoon, the first mountain of the season kicked both our asses.  Our choice was Bison Peak, a 12,000 foot beauty that features a summit made of rolling grassy tundra and giant granite boulders stacked atop each other.  Because Bison Peak is at a lower elevation than the 14ers we've climbed before, it was warmer at the top and we were able to spend some time up there.  Don't worry that it wasn't just as hard of a climb, though -- the trailhead was also much lower than a 14er, so the climb was about the same.  Here's some of the highlights.

Best Copy of the Day

Among other things I do at work, I sometimes have to do stuff with loss reports. These are pretty much lists of injuries that happen in the workplace that are covered by workers' compensation insurance policies. Depending on the workplace (mental institutions are always a good bet), the short injury descriptions are always good.

Today I was looking over a loss report for a sporting goods store. Imagine the guy who received a "lump on the head -- cause: struck by stuffed elk head."

He probably won't live that one down for a while. Poor guy probably got hurt pretty bad, too -- the claim was for more than $15,000.

Now what?

So now that both Chris and I have a bit more free time, we've been able to discuss what it is we'll be doing with it.  I know I've got plenty of pent-up knitting that I'm going to be getting back to, but I'll save that for when Chris is at school.  

Thanks to our friends, Shannon and Stu, we've discovered the wonderful world of homebrewing.  See, it combines all of my favorite stuff -- beer, following instructions, and having a smug sense of superiority over other people who don't make things with their two hands.  YAY!  

We won't go out and buy the necessary equipment until we have a closet cleaned out to put everything in.  Until then, the first step is to collect enough empty beer bottles to accommodate a whole batch of beer -- that's about 50 bottles.  Rough work, but someone's got to do it.

Happy third birthday, Funundrum.

 The big day was back on May 12, but whatever.  And to both of you still reading, thank you.  (This number may increase, now that my dad plugged Funundrum during his toast at my wedding.  No joke.)

Remind me to get y'all pictures of the socks and bikini that I've knit recently (not intended to be worn at the same time, mind you).

What does a girl have to do to get a cold Fat Tire around here?

I found this when clearing out the CrapCam -- and I had completely forgotten about it.  One of the perks of my job is Beer Friday.  Every Friday at 3pm we all gather in the lunchroom for a beer, some popcorn, and gossip.  It's a great way to celebrate the anguished death of another work week, especially because whoever orders the beer knows what time it is and always makes sure there's a great selection of brews.  I usually reach for local favorite Fat Tire (if you're lucky, it's distributed to a liquor store near you -- if not, God does not love you).  Oftentimes, though, the Fat Tire is mysteriously less than cold.  I can't call it warm, as it's below room temperature, but it's never as cold as the Corona and Michelob Ultra that it shares a shelf with.  This makes for a gut-wrenching decision most Fridays -- do I sacrifice flavor and personal pride in favor of cold beer, or do I suck down warmer-than-optimal Fat Tire so I can still look like I have standards?  (Hint:  microbreweries are #23 on the list of Stuff White People Like) 
This was my ingenious solution on that particular day that I couldn't bear to part with my need to support a wind-powered, employee-owned Colorado microbrewery.  My coworkers all thought I was 1) a genius or 2) retarded.  You can tell which group contains fellow beer drinkers.  

Our IT guys are not getting beaten down hard enough.

One afternoon at work, about a week ago, I walked through the IT department and saw... this.  It's an honest-to-goodness stuffed gazelle head, which quickly became adorned with plastic nerd glasses.  Since I took this picture, it has acquired two or three different neckties, which get changed frequently and mysteriously.  The best part is that it's still up.  I hope it stays that way, because it's a little visual reminder that I work at an insurance brokerage that's a little less uptight than others.

I also love that it reminds me of my dog.

Funundrum recommends

Today Funundrum would like to recommend two websites that have been creating boundless joy for me and my friends.  The first is Stuff White People Like, which is essentially a list of stuff that white people like.  Other types of people may like this stuff, but this stuff, when considered as a group, seems to define white people and everything they stand for.  When I say white people, by the way, I mean (generally) young, upwardly mobile, slightly-left-leaning hipsters.  Like you and me, and millions of others in this great country of ours.  What kind of stuff, you ask?  Well, stuff like sushi, having bilingual children, Barack Obama, traveling, high-performance clothes, 80's night, and breakfast places.  If you do not intensely identify with at least four things off of that seven-item list, you are either not white or you're lying to yourself.  Even if you don't fall into the demographic of white hipster, it's a very entertaining read.  They're up to 100 things that white people like, with no signs of stopping.

The second is a fantastic little site called Graph Jam, which offers up crappy Excel-based charts, graphs, and diagrams illustrating concepts that really don't need illustration, but are 100% more amusing for having been so illustrated.  Here, just look at these examples.

The first one, if you need a hint, is a graphical representation of whether or not we will let him go, as sung by Queen in "Bohemian Rhapsody."  The second one?  I just gave you that so you'd have the Jeffersons theme song stuck in your head for the rest of the day.  My point is this:  Graph Jam is full of teh win.