Another candidate for the Darwin Awards?

Note: Colorado's annual ski passes feature the pass-holder's name, photo, and associated bar code. When a ski lift staff member scans your pass, your picture appears on the scanner.

From the December 5 Denver Post:

Girl using guy's ski pass: Had sex change

Keystone>> A father was "shocked" last weekend when a deputy called asking whether his son was having a sex-change operation, according to a report from the Summit County Sheriff's Office.

The trouble started when a woman was caught at Keystone Resort trying to use the ski pass of a man named Daniel. The woman claimed to be in the middle of a sex change. The deputy asked for the parents' phone number and the woman gave it to them. Daniel's father answered and said he knew nothing of a sex change. An hour later, the Keystone supervisor told the deputy there was a phone number on Daniel's ski-pass file. The deputy called the number and Daniel answered, informing the deputy that he had given the pass to his girlfriend, Wanda. The woman spoke with Daniel, then told the deputy that she was actually Wanda. She was arrested and booked on charges of theft of more than $500 and criminal impersonation.

Small Pleasures

Although I grew up with a relatively small dog (a cranky Boston Bull Terrier mix who loved only my mother), when I met Jim and fell almost as much in love with his Newfoundland-Irish Setter mix as I did with him, I became a "Big Dog Person." Consider the dogs that we've owned over the past 20 years: Merlin: 125 lbs. Sam: 120 lbs. Sophie: 90 lbs. Hana: 70 lbs.

So perhaps it's a surprise that my next dog will probably be a Papillon, a breed that generally tops out at around 10 pounds. (On the other hand, Papillons are sometimes referred to as "big dogs in little suits.")

Jill's dog, Foxy, was the first Papillon I really got to know. Unlike many small dogs (including the various toy breeds owned by my mother-in-law over the years), Foxy is calm, even around strange people and large dogs. In Brussels, Foxy and Hana treated each other with the exquisite manners of two well-bred aristocrats. Foxy is smart, but then Papillons are often on Top 10 lists of the most intelligent dog breeds. Most remarkably, though, she has what in humans is called emotional intelligence. She seems to sense what people around her need—entertainment, comfort, a warm body to sit quietly with—and quickly supplies it. (The only dog I've owned that truly had this gift was Merlin, the Bouvier des Flandres.)

Foxy and Hana at Chateau de la Hulpe, 2008

I just assumed that Foxy was unique and that Jill, who had adopted her from a rescue group, was one of those lucky people who had found the dog perfectly suited to her.

Then in August, my neighbor Joyce adopted a male Papillon from the shelter where I volunteer. He was a stray that the shelter staff christened "Bling." Joyce renamed him "Jack Sparrow" (a "manly" first name, a last name that referenced his birdlike bones) and paid his hefty veterinary bills when, three days into the adoption, he was diagnosed with canine influenza.

In less than four months, Jack and Joyce have become as perfectly in sync as Foxy and Jill.

Jack, 2009

When Joyce was out of town for 10 days over Thanksgiving, Jack came to stay with us and I got to see what he was like 24/7, just as I had when I dog-sat Foxy in Brussels. And here's the interesting thing: their temperaments are virtually identical. Foxy and Jack each stayed with me at times when I was feeling very low. Foxy was with us in Brussels when we knew we we had to leave Europe but Jim didn't yet have a firm job in the States; Jack was here last week when I was in complete despair about my job prospects AND was yearning for a home of my own, after dealing with a leaky (brand-new!) roof in our rental house and an AWOL property management company.

At the risk of sounding like one of those sentimental, gushy dog people, it's impossible to convey how much these two tiny creatures lifted my spirits during their respective visits, from waking up in morning to find Foxy's head on my pillow to laughing at Jack's habit of flipping his dry food into the air like tiddly winks. Which is why, at the risk of sounding like a whiny two-year-old (and knowing that our landlord is dead set against allowing us to have a second dog), I tell Jim at least once a day, "I want MY OWN Papillon."

Heartsick

Of all the jobs that I've applied for and been rejected for in the 19 months since moving to Colorado, the one that hurt the most was the Volunteer Coordinator position at the animal shelter where I've put in hundreds of hours since August 2008. During that time, I've worked in the following shelter programs: dog enrichment; trail walks (for the dogs who are short-term shelter residents); a special program for the long-term dogs (mostly pit bulls); dog-handling at off-site adoption events; and, for the last five months, as the designer for the volunteer newsletter. I've bathed a few dirty dogs and come home soaking wet, and, recently, was one of five volunteers asked to participate in a new program for dogs "with issues" that are awaiting court dates or breed-specific rescue groups.

I was never called to interview for the position; last Monday, I was just told verbally that I didn't get it. Since I got the news in public, several feet from where other volunteers were standing, there was really no opportunity to discuss it.

Since I left the shelter that day feeling heartsick, I sent an email to the shelter staff member who will be supervising the position. She has been the Volunteer Coordinator since I started there (she's moving to another position within the organization), so I've had a lot of interactions with her during my time at the shelter.

For those who haven't had to look for a job in this economy—particularly those of you over 50—the following email exchange (my email to the shelter contact and her reply) is an example of why, some days, I feel as worthless as a used Kleenex.

Hi ----,

Thanks for telling me in person that another candidate had been chosen for the Volunteer Coordinator spot. I didn't want to discuss it in the shelter lobby in front of other volunteers, but it would be helpful to me--as I continue to job hunt--to know if there was something in my resume or in my interactions at the shelter that would have made me a more attractive candidate. (I guess that I was a bit surprised that I didn't even rate an interview.)

I'm not trying to put you on the spot--truly--but if there's anything that you can add to my understanding of the hiring process without making it too awkward for either of us in the future, I'd be appreciative. Thanks much.

Kate

---

Hi, Kate,

I appreciate your email.

As I think I had mentioned awhile back, we were amazed by the 76 applicants for a part-time position. So I completely understand your surprise with the process. It was very competitive and some of the applicants had a great deal of nonprofit work experience and management/training of volunteers.

There was nothing at all that you could have done differently in the process or with your interactions with [the shelter].

I wish you the BEST of luck with your job search. Thanks for following up with me!

Sincerely,
----

Our Pilgrim Foremothers

The colonists who came over on the Mayflower believed that women were morally as well as intellectually and physically inferior, and that they should be married off as early as possible so their husbands could keep them on the straight and narrow . . . But it was occasionally difficult to wring the proper degree of deference out of women who had crossed the ocean in small boats, helped carve settlements out of the wilderness, and spent their days alone in isolated farmhouses surrounded by increasingly ticked-off Indians.

from When Everything Changed: The Amazing Journey of American Women from 1960 to the Present by Gail Collins

Great Sand Dunes

In Michigan, we had Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore, with its 400-foot high mounds of fine sand overlooking Lake Michigan. In Colorado, we have Great Sand Dunes National Park, with its 750-foot high mounds of slightly coarser sand in a valley below the Sangre de Cristo mountains. We stopped at the park on our way home from Mesa Verde.

I can't even begin to understand how 19,000 acres of sand dunes ended up sandwiched between endless plains—an "Open Range" where the cattle wander unfenced—and a line of mountains. The only water in sight is an unimpressive creek. Words like "sand deposits," "Rio Grande and its tributaries," and "ephemeral lake" (a lovely phrase that I picked up at the visitor center) have something to do with it.

Going up the dunes was dreamlike: no matter how many mounds of sand you scrambled over while fighting strong winds and shifting sand below your feet, the top still seemed no closer. After failing to summit, I was left with a) a lot more appreciation for Lawrence of Arabia and b) the feeling that my face had just undergone a 100-percent natural microdermabrasion.

More pictures from Great Sand Dunes

Mesa Verde

We'd been talking about visiting Mesa Verde National Park since we arrived in Colorado, but always found reasons for not going. It takes a minimum of eight hours to drive there, depending on your route. During the summer, it's pretty hot that far south. No matter which route you take, you have to go over some mountain passes, which makes for a dicey trip during the winter months.

But two weeks ago, the weather forecasts were promising, we had roofers hammering away above us, and life was wearing us down. We tossed our suitcases in the trunk and drove. And drove. And drove. In the three-day round trip, we travelled over 1,000 miles through ever-changing, jaw-dropping scenery without even leaving Colorado.

Mesa Verde, Spanish for green table, offers a spectacular look into the lives of the Ancestral Pueblo people who made it their home for over 700 years, from A.D. 600 to A.D. 1300. Today, the park protects over 4,000 known archaeological sites, including 600 cliff dwellings. These sites are some of the most notable and best preserved in the United States. (National Park Service)

The decision to visit Mesa Verde during the first week in November was serendipitous. Judging from the size of the parking lot at the museum/visitor center, the place is mobbed during the summer. We shared a tour of the Cliff Palace—one of the biggest settlements at the site—with about 50 delightful fifth grade girls from a Denver charter school.

Cliff Palace

The rest of the day, we saw few other visitors. We were the only hikers on the Petroglyph Trail that afternoon. The silent canyon heightened the drama of coming face-to-face with our first-ever petroglyphs, including the small handprints of the artist(s).


More pictures from Mesa Verde:
http://picasaweb.google.com/Katharine.Gillette/MesaVerde

I'm not a cyborg

. . . but when I'm without my computer, as I have been for most of the last two weeks, I feel as though I'm missing a vital body part.

(My machine has been in the shop. It caught a virus, was fixed and sent home, and two days later, caught a different virus and went back to the PC Gurus. It may be time to invest in a new box, but I have a lot of emotional attachments to the old one. Clearly I read way too much science fiction during my formative years.)