New West Network

My Page: Little Sis

Column: Making it in Missoula

When I first came to Missoula, I heard the phrase “Missoula-tarian” often, generally used in serious tones of voice without giggling. Apparently Missoula-tarianism was an institution recognized far and wide (from Bonner to Frenchtown).

Missoula-tarians are people (they live in Missoula, obviously; this phenomenon probably wouldn’t happen anywhere else in the West, except maybe Durango) who refuse to eat any meat unless it’s local, they know where it came from, or it’s wild game—shot by anyone, no acquaintance necessary.

This is definitely a good way of trying to eat within your foodshed, but probably difficult to stick to if you’ve eaten meat all your life. I’m sure that sometimes you just crave that Old Post burger that came from a cow in an undisclosed location that most likely decimated the entire Brazilian rainforest through its very existence. No wonder you’re a Missoula-tarian. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

As mentioned before, my sweetie is the proud owner of a yellow lab retriever. Let’s call her Spot. And after more than a year, I’m finally allowed to dog-sit Spot while he’s off milling wood in the middle of nowhere and doing other things not conducive to doggy presence.

We had a dog the whole time I was growing up, but there are a few reasons why dog care was a little different in my California neighborhood. You can leave your dog outside for hours on end because the temperature never drops below a tropical 60 degrees. Everyone around us had huge yards, so walking the dog is not nearly as common. I have to admit, I thought the concept of picking up your dog’s poop in a plastic bag was a little ridiculous when I moved here, until the thaw hit and running through Pineview Park was an activity reserved to brave athletes with fancy footwork. Plus, my dad taught our dog not to lick, jump, bark, hang around the kitchen, or poop on the lawn. She was pretty low-maintenance. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Because I only have a student weekday pass at the 'Bowl, and I’m a little poor right now, the mountain is off-limits to me on weekends. Not that this is a bad thing—a weekday pass is a screamin’ deal: getting first chair is a possibility, the bartender acknowledges you in under 15 minutes, and the Meadows rarely get tracked out on a Tuesday. However, when the “epic” powder days hit on a Saturday, yours truly is left pining away for the slopes.

But not last Saturday! I underwent my first backcountry ski experience. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

I’m sure New West readers have forgotten about me by now—although I’d be flattered to think that some of you were wondering, “Gosh, where is Little Sis? I miss her witty, devastatingly funny columns.”

The truth is that a.) I left the country for several months to work with young women in a developing country, which doesn’t necessarily induce devastatingly funny witticisms, and b.) I got myself a sweetie. (GASP!!) Yes, the perpetually single and liberally-loving Little Sis has fallen head-over-heels in love. I Made It (your non-dirty interpretation goes here). [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

(Context: Little Sis finds herself in a swanky bar in downtown L.A., surrounded by chic outfits and expensive drinks in tiny glasses. She’s been introduced to several men who’s names she can’t remember, yet they don't seem to care. Catch up with Part 1 here.)

I had completely forgotten about the phenomenon of men in Southern California when confronted by women in a confined space. They do a complicated dance in which they mark their territory by invading your personal space, plying you with alcohol, and make sure one of their friends is talking to you when he goes to the bathroom so no one else moves in on you. I didn’t buy one drink after the first one—which was a good thing, because I ended up with much better ones.

Actually, it was a really fun night, despite feeling bulky and graceless in my size 8 jeans, and the gin and tonic I finally broke down and had handed to me by a territory-marking male. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

My exciting visit to Southern California began when I opened my blinds in the morning in my hometown and discovered that this damn winter follows me everywhere.

Nevertheless, I decided to go for a walk in the rain since it was a balmy 45 degrees, which elicited incredulous stares from the neighbors—it was freezing by SoCal standards. Or maybe it was the gigantic jacket I’d found in the closet. I didn’t bring my own rain jacket because I'm eternally optimistic.

I took advantage of the warm sun the next day to hit the beach. I breathed a sigh of relief to be reintroduced to diversity; I was hit on in four different languages between getting out of my car and laying down on the Santa Monica shoreline. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

In Walking Down the Wild, Gary Ferguson writes that winter is a long time retreating in Montana. He writes that we live in a land without a real spring; you get excited by some mild weather and leave your house in only a shirt, and come back in the middle of a blizzard cursing your optimism.

But yesterday, finally, the thermometer reached its highest temperature in months (and months, and months. . .). Our backyard thermometer—dubbed the coldest one in town, under a giant pine tree on the side of the house in perpetual shade—triumphantly read a balmy 64 degrees. As expected, such a high temperature catalyzed a flurry of activity,

Ok, I’m just going to be honest. I’ve been sitting here for an hour trying think of a witty, attention-grabbing topic. I considered writing about some dating experience in the past, but nothing came rushing out (I didn’t have one in mind, plus I think I’ve already written about all the good ones). And of course, weather is the no-fail conversation piece, right? But come on. I’ve apparently reached a new low.

The reason for my lack of creativity is—feel free to gasp in disbelief here—that I’ve been dating one man for nearly three months now (yes, the same man). This presents a bit of an obstacle in my contributions to a dating column. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

For a girl accustomed to bubbling hot springs surrounded by gorgeous scenery, uncrowded except for a few other random naked soakers (see Big Sis' "How to Meet Naked Montanans"), my recent experience at the developed pools of Chico Hot Springs was a little bit of a shock. I have to admit I was initially disappointed by the bathing suit requirement (until I considered how other bathers would appear in the nude, and then I was kind of grateful). [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

All right, my friends. I think we know each other well enough to introduce this topic, and I hope we're mature enough to engage in a dialogue about it. If you question your maturity, please refrain from responding. This is adult material from here on out, and I'm not interested in snide or adolescent comments.

The sexual double standard is a subject that comes up frequently among my girlfriends, and at times among the men as well. But it is rarely talked about with any seriousness when both parties are present. What I hope to do here is provide an open environment for a thought-provoking discussion of the double standard.

We all know the game. It starts with language. A woman that sleeps with several men is a "slut" or a "whore." A man that gets laid all the time is a "stud" or a "player." The negative connotation is, without fail, draped on the female. When will men get it through their heads that a woman enjoying sex is a good thing? [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Valentine's Day: horrible joke constructed by florists and chocolate makers to perpetrate on single people, or a legitimate excuse to lavish love and attention on your significant other (even if that happens to be your dog, because you’re single)?

I’m not afraid to say it, and I’ll say it to stand in solidarity with my single sisters out there. I’ve spent significantly more Valentine's Days without a male valentine than with one. I’ve come to view February 14 as a time to spend with girlfriends all dressed up to take ourselves out for several bottles of wine, determined not to feel sorry for ourselves in the midst of all the happy couples.

Honestly, I think of Valentine’s Day lately more as a show of solidarity in the strength of being alone, and it should never be thought of as an invalidation of single status, because the occasion is essentially an artificial construct. Unfortunately, I’ve only come to that realization after 25 years. I wish women could reach it after just 15 or 16. Or maybe right when they become interested in the opposite sex. [more]