second

Saturday we drove to South Tahoe and took a gondola ride up eighty bazillion feet to an observation deck at Heavenly. I'm excellent with heights. Incredible with them. I love to be on top of the world (read: Nevafornia. I wasn't ever sure what state I was in). What I don't like? Ski lifts that pause longer than ski lifts should pause without notice from the ski patrol telling me what the heck is going on while I'm dangling about 8K feet in the air with my kid.

I don't like anything unexpected when I'm anywhere at any height with my kid.

Luckily there was a bar at the deck and we ordered one of each of the boozey drinks. Some sort of rum and some sort of tequila thing. ALcohol + ALtitude = ALright. Triple A. First rule of the mountains. I'm a cardcarrying member. I was disappointed that I was so shaken, but glad I am able to jam all of my emotions inward so I'm not one of those ChihuahuaChicks, all shaky and nervous with big creepy wet eyes. That grosses me out.
Public displays of any emotion generally do.
Jake was fine. He got a smoothy and was mad that he wasn't allowed to run around the deck.

Oh, and there was a baby raccoon that some park ranger was holding. For some reason.
Public displays of wild animal holding grosses me out too.

Check the pictures here, because they are better than anything I can come up with. Not that I didn't try.

Have you ever taken a mile long hike with a three year old?
Oh. My. Forever.
Oh. My. Amazing.

I tried to take a million pictures but none of them were worth two cents. If you ever go on vacation and if you are an outdoorsy go to Tahoe. Here in Pennsylvania we have mountains. I guess. Hardly. We have lots of pine trees. Imagine the biggest tree you've ever seen and times it by four. In every direction. Think about the oldest thing you've ever touched and times it by the ages. Then pick it up and throw it in the woods. There was a lot of that going on.

I love feeling tiny and unimportant and pan flashy. Sometimes I try to make (drink/curl/sleep/run) myself invisible. I close my eyes and think about how much bigger my bed is than I, my room, my house, my street, my town, my state, my country, my planet, my galaxy, my universe, my everything. How little and specky I am in the grand scheme of things. It makes my brain/soul/self balance out and the pan of brownies I just scarfed down seem not so bad and the fact that I didn't give the change in my pocket to the man who needed it more than I not seem so terrible and the impatience I feel with mothering not so horrible and and and and it makes all that I have ever known/felt/said/did just one tiny part in all the truth and consequence that exists anywhere at any time. Does that make sense?

Anyway. Being up in those mountains did that for me and I was blissfully insatiated with wonderment and peace and rum.
Rum is good for that. Especially when blended at ten thousand feet with ice and red sugar syrup stuff.

Moving on.

I was so hungry.
How hungry was I?
I ate a whole chicken.
With my bare hands.
In about ten minutes flat.
On the floor of the hotel.
And used a towel to wipe my hands and face.

Not the whole chicken. I pulled the legs off and tossed them to Jake.
Dark meat tastes like the inside of your mouth after you first get braces. Blood and metal and preteen angst.

I hate chicken.
Except for that one time the other day.

Then we went swimming and went to bed by 8.

We did a great job of staying on East Coast time. If you live east and you head west, I'd suggest you do the same. You'll have the whole timezone to yourself from about 4am until noonish. No traffic, no lines, no people, no nothing but you and the world.