Hello and welcome to An Altitude Problem, where there be cooking. The pitas are out of the oven, mushrooms, avocados, lettuce, tomatoes, peppers, carrots, cucumbers, and feta cheese are all nestled into my divided tray, ready to go, the thin steaks are cooking in their bath of olive oil, oregano, garlic, onion, and thyme. The tzatziki sauce is mixed up and ready to go. I am taking gyros to our friend's house tonight, with the option for the vegetarians of the group to make falafels. My friend is making the falafel patties.



In the last few days, there has been snowboarding. Skiing for Uncle Leroy. Cross country skiing for the mother. Constant excitement and a miniature houseguest for the dog.

...Let me rephrase. In the last few days, there has been two paragraphs of this blog sitting in my drafts folder. It is now Monday, not Thursday.

Thanks to B's new TV, hosting of a Super Bowl party fell to us. Work is busy, and your blogger, along with B, has come under the clutches of a cold that refuses to leave. I am working on my second week, B is working on his third week of burning sinuses, chapped nose, raspy voice, and a constantly draining head. My voice all but left me by last night.

Someone reported us to trailer park management for our dog being a bit too friendly this week, so we have been trying to clamp down on his training, which means walks, not bike rides, and lots of verbal commands in cold that burns our chests and throats when we breathe it. Every time we get back in the house, we spend the rest of the evening hacking. We argue about who will walk the dog this time, and I usually lose.

Today has no arrivals, which normally would mean a day off, but the weekend starts tomorrow. Yes, in ski season, the weekend starts on Wednesday and guests pour in until Sunday night. They leave on Monday and Tuesday. I have an insane amount of work to do for tomorrow, so instead of a day off, I will be working. It is about this time of year we begin to feel a bit of malaise and begin scanning the job classifieds, the real estate listings, the weather forecasts for places like small, orchardy, mountain bike-ey towns on the western slope. Some day, we will blow this joint. Some day. Of course, we always decide to wait to blow it until after the season is over, and when it ends, we get a bonus check, and that alone is enough to humble us and make us retreat into a cloud of apologetic mumblings and promises and makes us decide again to hunker down and wait it out. We do not remember what it was like working a normal job. We think we may have had a bit more freedom. We at least got a day off a week, and often two days. Really. We only worked five days, and then had two whole days to do what we wanted. True, we did not get to decide on a whim to take a morning off, making up for it by working late in the evening or twice as hard the next day, but the fact is, it really isn't worth taking the time off if you are going to go cross-eyed from the stress of making up for it later. In the end, we still think we like a feast-or-famine job better, but in the middle of both phases, we go just a little bit crazy.

Which is what I am doing as I write, taking an ill-afforded morning. I am still in my pajamas, my new computer battery allowing me to type as I sit and warm my toes in a puddle of sunshine on my living room floor. The dog is tied up just outside the front door, against trailer park rules, but he is beyond happy, sniffing the breeze and soaking up the sun. What I want to do is sleep, but that could stretch into a much longer morning than I am willing to take.

I decided yesterday to plan our vacation for this spring. It seemed a good idea at the time. By last night, I did not want to hear the word "vacation" again. Apparently there is a reason we do not make itineraries. We tend to argue over details and schedules and time allotments. Our voices raised to the point of completely disappearing when our poor mucousy throats could not handle the amount of air we were trying to push through them. So all we know at this time is that, at some point after ski season, we may go west. Or northwest. Or southwest. In the truck, with the dog. Or book a Caribbean cruise (although I hope not). Or an Alaskan Cruise (I kinda hope so, but the chances are slim.) B wants to go somewhere to be warm. If I would so much as mention the Caribbean, he would jump all over it, take it in his teeth like Andy does a dirty sock, whip it out of my grasp and run away with it. I care not so much about warm, I want to be inspired. I want to take "America's loneliest highway" through Nevada, I want to see glaciers and rugged coastline and well, why not climb Half Dome, check out Mt. Rainier, Mt Hood, heck, why not buzz on up and check out Mt. McKinley? I think I have seen about enough palm trees and fat folks in swimwear, I want to see Redwoods. I want to see the most desolate, the most rugged, the biggest America has to offer. So you can see our problem. We could be done with the Caribbean in less than two weeks. I have a four thousand mile road trip planned to six national parks, a two day hike on Vancouver Island, mountain biking in northern Idaho, camping and mooching showers from friends or relatives... or a flight to the west coast followed by two weeks of freezing in the far north. If we had a month, we could maybe get it all done. We decided, last night, that planning a vacation was far more hassle than just throwing our suitcases, mountain bikes, hiking shoes, a mattress, and Andy into the back of the truck and hitting the road.

And now, time to...do something distastefully productive. Like get forty-some condos ready for check-in. That's a lot of patio doors to wash, remote controls to find, bedspreads to turn from sideways to right-end-up, blankets to fold, burner plates to clean, and light bulbs to change. (If one would think the housekeepers might do these things, just because it is in their job description, one would be wrong. Housekeepers are more speedy than thorough.)

On that note, have a wonderful day.