Column: Making it in Missoula
Politics + Spring + Butte = Montana Democrats’ Prom
On Saturday I attended that time-honored American spring ritual: the prom.
Granted, I'm ten years too old for the real thing. But the beauty of this particular prom is that the older you are, the cooler you are—because this was the Montana Democrats’ version of prom, the annual Mansfield-Metcalf dinner in Butte.
This prom featured coiffed mullets, shiny curls, and stiff Stetsons. Diamonds set off battered-looking bolo ties. Ballgowns swished next to Wranglers, and minks sat next to Carhartt coats—usually on different people, too. My take on the night's theme: “sequins and denim.”
As Hillary Clinton said in her speech at the dinner on Saturday night, the only party to rival Butte’s infamous Saint Paddy’s Day is the Democratic Party. And, boy, was she ever right.
[more]
Column: Making it in Missoula
What the Heck is a Missoula-tarian?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]
- FLICKR Photo Pool
- View Slideshow
- FLICKR Missoula Group
Advertisement
Column: Making it in Missoula
Perils of Dog-Sitting in MissoulaAs 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
Comedy of (Backcountry Skiing) ErrorsBecause 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 Made It With a Mountain ManI’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
Hooks in the Water of Missoula’s Murky Dating PoolIt's been a while, Missoula. I haven't been writing columns because...well, because all the best topics are off-limits unless I want to alienate my friends, lose my job, and move far outside the city limits. The thing about Missoula is that even with a pseudonym as clever as mine, I'm about as anonymous as a pink elephant sitting at the Old Post bar. So I have to be careful, thoughtful, strategic about the column's content. Also, I've just been lazy with my daily 12 minutes of free time.
But here's the short update: dating is just as exhausting and entertaining as ever. They don't tell you in all those romance novels and Hollywood flicks that integrating new, unknown single males into your life takes a helluva lot of time and energy. Luckily, I've started taking Vitamin B to up my energy supply during these dark, dark days before winter solstice. (I'm considering switching to high-grade cocaine to power through the holiday party season, though.)
The longer dating update involves a recent discovery that most of us single Missoulians seem to have several “hooks in the water.” Monogamy is apparently out of fashion this season.
[more]
Column: Making it in Missoula
Thoughts on Thirty: Entering the ‘Odyssey’ PhaseOver the years I have come to appreciate and revel in the morbid irony that on a day when millions throughout the world celebrate death, I celebrate birth.
Today, November 2, is Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead. Yes, here we are 30. It sure isn’t what it used to be. They’ve even got a new trendy name for it. As New York Times columnist David Brooks wrote last month, the four traditional phases of life -- childhood, adolescence, adulthood and old age -- have been replaced by at least six: childhood, adolescence, odyssey, adulthood, active retirement and old age.
“Of the new ones, the least understood is odyssey, the decade of wandering that frequently occurs between adolescence and adulthood,” Brooks wrote, most likely to placate his fellow baby-boomer parents who eye their offspring with nervous optimism.
[more]
Column: Making It In Missoula
Ants In My Pants For Saturn’s Return
When I moved here I was young. Carefree. And completely uninterested in conversations where my older friends talked about things like recurring joint injuries, ticking biologic clocks, and “Saturn Returns.”
When these topics came up, I just drank another beer, hiked faster, and celebrated being 22 and fully in control of my planets.
But now I’m 27, the tendons in my knees require lots of ice, and I’m not sure what the hell Saturn is doing. In fact, it’s quite possible that my Pluto's in full retrograde and Venus has fled to check out a new galaxy. All I know for sure is (cosmologically speaking): I’ve got ants in my pants.
[more]
Column: Making it in Missoula
Going to Grandpa’s Wedding
I just got back from Grandpa’s wedding. Not a sentence you read every day, huh? Grandpa’s hot stuff, especially in the over-70 crowd. Doesn’t look a day over 62, and active to boot. He and his lovely new wife are off to Timbuktu for their honeymoon—they’ll be riding camels across the desert in Mali to an African music festival. I’ll be in Missoula, pretending my office chair is a camel and my keyboard is a tribal drum.
Grandpa’s wedding has given me new-found hope that I, too, can find a love-of-my-life and ride to Timbuktu. Plus, I returned from San Diego to full-throttle fall, the season that makes a woman yearn for extra body heat—preferably from a man who’s bringing her lots of freshly-killed game.
So watch out, Missoula: I’m on a mission. Again. Because next time one of my grandparents gets married I’m bound and determined to have my own special someone to foxtrot with.
[more]
Column: Making it in Missoula
Extreme Solutions to the Mid-Day Lull in MissoulaDo you often feel incapacitated by a mid-day energy lull? Maybe, like me, you hit a wall between 1 and 3 p.m.
This is the time of day when the blood pools somewhere around my ankles, my butt is numb from a poorly-designed office chair, and my eyes are tripped-out with computer-screen-induced cobwebs. Other (arguably more advanced) cultures have evolved to take the time-honored 'siesta' at this point in the day.
But in America we work through it. So, when I find myself gazing longingly out the window at the real world, I have to remind myself that I am not, actually, a caged zoo animal and I should therefore get the hell out of my office.
[more]
