chairlift.

I grew up with the privilege of getting to go to Snowmass, Colorado twice a year: once in the winter to ski, and again in the summer. Sometimes either, or. Which tapered off into never sometime around high school.

My grandparents had a condo there (subsequently sold because the stairs were getting a bit hard to negotiate), complete with a chandelier made of antlers, a cupboard full of boardgames, a piano, and mountain scape photographs lining the walls. The definition of cozy.

Oh, so much nostalgia:

inflatable animals in the swimming pool

sinking into the miraculous hot tub after a day of skiing

trips to the market to buy seemingly foreign things like Orangina sodas in their exotic bottles

the independence granted by the town shuttle

my Mama's mandatory blueberry bowls with breakfast

Porgy and Bess played on the top of Aspen mountain

the brown Jeep

decorating rocks

forever associating the smell of piñon wood to the smell of Colorado

etc.

...I didn't realize I'd missed the place so much.

Over the break my Papa and Aunt were staying in the same condos for a medical conference, so when a free place to stay and free lift tickets suddenly became available, Walker and I took the opportunity and ran with it.

Plus, I know this is silly, but I always dreamt that someday I'd get to take my boyfriend toSnowmass. And that after skiing we'd go get a beer and eat pizza.

So, check!

For the long road trip:

Blink 182 (sang loud and off-key with my eyes closed, I felt like I discovered eternal life truths) and The Book of Mormon soundtrack (genius).

Iphone-ing the nearest Jimmy Johns: Hays, Kansas.

and

The 6am mountain views on the drive home making you want to sing Hallelujah! from their sheer magnificence.

...more on magnificence, just the act of getting away and disappearing into the mountains. I feel like I'm always talking about being gobsmacked by gaining perspective in life, but it just never ceases to surprise me. What's important to me. What's not. Where I fit in the universe.

Never underestimate the power of just getting away.

Skiiiing.

Dear God, it's so much work. The ski boots alone are like these ancient torture chambers (just ask Walker, with his chronic flat feet).

But somehow so inexplicably worth it for those seconds of complete freedom, where you feel like a bird gliding down a mountain. Or when you conquer a particularly hard run (a.k.a. The Funnel) and feel on top of the world.

(I want to take a moment to thank my parents for their infinite patience in taking on the monumental task of raising kids that ski - especially in my case: I was a headache and a half).

p.s.

This YouTube phenom, especially after being stuck in a gondola with the gear-obsessed, is kinda funny: Shit Skiers Say.

Have Love, Will Travel: The Black Keys.

the ocean park series.

Richard Diebenkorn.

I'm a fan of the color scheme, get me a whole white walled room of 'em!

p.s. I will always love how Dallas is the remedy for an easy Oklahoma escape.

...but can only be withstood for a maximum of 48 hours.

walker + the richard serra's of texas.

I had a wonderful birthday with my wonderful boyfriend.

And I appreciate the work of Serra because of my Meg.

Museums:

The Kimbell.

Fort Worth Modern.

Dallas Museum of Art.

- (Jean Paul Gaultier exhibit actually was quite entertaining).

- (But I will always actually be there for the Nash Sculpture Garden).

And food:

Lonesome Dove. Featured on Top Chef. I die.

Coal Vines.

Oddfellows.

my christmas break reading list in image form.

p.s.

I'm going to try to be more textual on here.

Meanwhile, also re-trying to use Tumblr.

And Twitter.

Just, to feel a little more updated with my updating.

pumped up kicks.

So my sister got me the most awesome Christmas present ever: an all-access pass to customize my own pair of Reeboks!

Sky's the limit, there's even an option to have your name stitched on the back!

I am having a blast on the website, but there are far too many design possibilities for me to feel like I'm ever going to get these babies on to my actual feet.

The above examples are my three current favorite creations (done with help from Walker).

Obviously I've finally settled on a general Thunder colors theme (I figure when you get to customize your kicks, why not go bold?), but am finding the devil is in the details.

So here's to hoping I'll be able to make a decision and have these babies on my feet by playoffs!

NYE.

Dear 2011,

I really enjoyed law school.

...

I am so thankful for all that I have.

...

Dear 2012,

I want a hell of a lot more. (Out of myself).

I got a coffee maker for Christmas - a real life changer/game changer/the most adult thing I own. Paired with Starbucks' Christmas Blend.

I saw Girl With A Dragon Tattoo.

Man, it was good. David Fincher mesmerizes me.

I love to read!

An Object of Beauty by Steve Martin. Which I adored.

Blue Nights by Joan Didion. She is probably my favorite writer, but I must say I found this one to be a disappointment.

Currently, The Marriage Plot by Jeffrey Eugenides. Which I believe may have been written precisely just for me.

And Out of Africa, which I dabble in between the interruptions. My back-burner book, slowly simmering.

And maybe Kentucky Fried Tender, because my boyfriend insists. After I steal the volume of Christopher Hitchens essays I got him.

Outsiders see it once, or hear about it after it's been reduced to an insult: "It's a bunch of squiggles that my kid could do."

I would like to see a kid who could paint a Jackson Pollock. In a half second, any pro could tell the difference. People want to think Pollock's not struggling, that he's kidding. He's not kidding.

You want to know how I think art should be taught to children? Take them to a museum and say, "This is art, and you can't do it."

(An Object of Beauty, Steve Martin).

all of the lights.

To me, Oklahoma in the winter time is so distinct: there's this film of gray covering and clinging to the landscape so that everything appears in these dull, muted colors. I'd liken it to dirty dish water. A prolonged quiet before the storm. Makes me think of the noun subterfuge. Makes me think of the grainy quality in old movies.

...it's more romantic then it sounds.

I will always love driving through fancy neighborhoods to look at lights, but I think I've discovered something even better: crappy little houses in suspect, crumbling neighborhoods, completely covered in lights.

There's just something so hopeful and sadly sweet in a tiny, forlorn looking house on an otherwise dark, cheerless street: shining for all the world to see with its crappy candy cane cut-outs and over-the-top, low-hanging icicle lights.

The residential equivalent of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.

I think I'm starting to collect them. I saw one on 41st and Georgia the other day that made me think of a quote from one of my favorite books (having nothing to do with Christmas) Steve Martin's Shopgirl:

Mirabelle Buttersfield moved from Vermont hoping to begin her life. And now she is stranded in the vast openness of LA. She keeps working to make connections, but the pile of near misses is starting to overwhelm her. What Mirabelle needs is an omniscient voice to illuminate and spotlight her and to inform everyone that this one has value, this one standing behind the counter in the glove department and to find her counterpart and bring him to her.