Fast forward to the end of September, when Dayna and I went to TEXAS! I don’t care what all the haters say, I love Texas and I will freely admit it. To be honest I’ve only been to Austin and San Antonio, so who knows what I feel about the rest of that great state. But I’ve liked what I’ve seen, and I’ve seen what I liked. (What? I don’t know.)

Possibly my favorite beer in the world… SHINER BOCK!

In Wenatchee I, of course, indulged in my two favorite things:
1. Eating/drinking mass quantities of delicious food/wine
2. Exploring via fun, outdoorsy fitnessy things

Of course my number one priority was wine, wine, and more wine. Saturday morning we made the drive out to Chelan; the boys were going to golf Bear Mountain, and Steph and I needed to get our tasting on. We visited five wineries: Chelan Estate, Nefarious, Lake Chelan Winery, Benson, and Tsillan Cellars. I had been to CE and Nefarious on previous tasting trips, and I can confidently say that Nefarious is my very favorite to visit! Inspired wine, awesome staff, and a breathtaking setting. I could say the same things about Benson, which comes in a close second in my rankings.

This trip I bought a bottle of 2009 Syrah Defiance Vineyard from Nefarious, which they descibe as a pleasure seeker’s wine… It is chewy, layered, and just plain hedonistic. Well, I am nothing if not a pleasure seeker! Tragically (and unsurprisingly), I forgot this bottle back in Shaunna’s kitchen, so that will be a treat for next time.

I also picked up a bottle of Chelan Estate’s 2007 Merlot Rose, nice and dry, what I would describe as a “summer sipper” or “porch wine” if I were writing a stereotypical wine newsletter. And sip we did, three of us split this bad boy out by Shaunna’s pool the next night as a pre-BBQ treat. That didn’t last long.

Now, on the opposite end of the culinary spectrum, allow me to present you with large platters of greasy Mexican food.

Stephanie has been telling me FOREVER about this restaurant in the ol’ Wenatchers called La Fuente. We tried to go when I visited last month, but of course life hates me and it was closed. Clearly my one weekend demand was some La Fuents (as the locals call it) in my mouth, and I was not let down. I took everyone’s advice and got pollo a la crema, complemented by a gigantic cadillac marg. Normally anything cream-based wrecks me, and this was no exception, but it was worth it. Ole!

Sooo how did I work off the 34068947 pounds of tortilla chips, cream-based sauces, and bottles of vino?

First off, Steph took me up to hike Saddle Rock where we enjoyed intense sun exposure, took some great pictures at the top of the mountain, and I almost slid off the face of a cliff to my demise (okay, slight exaggeration, there were some questionable moments though).

I also went running in Riverfront Park with Shaunna, who is training for a half-marathon (which I may or may not commit to as well! Augh!). We were going to do a 7-miler, but the after effects of my ass-busting hike, combined with the fact that the 95+ degree sun was beating down on us, meant that we threw in the towel after 5.5. Oh well. I still felt it gave me license to cook out (and pig out) one last time on Sunday night. BBQ chicken, mushroom risotto, caprese salad, and garden fresh green beans. I feel like I’m still full, 24 hours later.

The most unpleasant part of my weekend was today’s 5am train back into the coastal greyness… and the fact that I couldn’t drink that entire bottle of Syrah to provide myself entertainment on the long ride. (Kidding.)

Top 10 Reasons Why Denver Rules Forever:

Apparently Denver is nicknamed “Menver” because of the guy:girl ratio. We gals are hot commodities down there. Holla.

Everyone is fit and tan because they do outdoorsy stuff all the time! Yeah, everyone in Seattle hikes and bikes as well, but they have to bundle up and maintain that pasty demeanor.

Altitude messes with you. I watched multiple people get sick, not that it’s good, but it was kinda funny. And since I wasn’t used to working out in high altitude, I got major runners high! Thinner blood = natural drug? (I also was out of breath after like a mile, embarrassing, but you quickly acclimate. By the end of my stay I could run 5mi+ like normal. The air is an interesting extra challenge, though.)

The most casually dressed population I’ve ever seen. People showed up to business meetings in hippie sack dresses, baggy sweatpants, and flip-flops. This would be appalling to stuffy east coasters, but for me? Heaven! I would live in sandals if I could. If it’s not sandals, it’s cowboy boots. On board!

A surprisingly eclectic and exciting dining scene! (For more essential details on this, my Denver dining highlights on ES!) Heavy on the meat products. And for some reason everyone seems to be into brats and pretzels down there… I support this. Also, 2-for-1 drinks at like every happy hour. I support this as well.

The Denver-Boulder area is considered “The Napa Valley of Microbrews” … SAY NO MORE.

Visits to Red Rocks, hiking in the Flatirons, all sorts of amazing parks. SO breathtaking, I could not stop gushing. And I only had time to scratch the surface of the natural beauty available to explore. See for yourself:

SHOT-SKIS! How did I never know such a wonder exists? A ski full of jager shots, what’s not to love?!

300 days of sunshine, hot hot weather, and when it rains instead of gloomy downpour it’s dramatic thunderstorms!

THIS hilarious/amazing/patriotic(?) mural:

To be completely honest, I wasn’t ready to leave this evening. I felt like I had so much more to do and see. I didn’t even have time to eat a reindeer dog at Biker Jim’s. Oh well, I guess I’ll just have to go back SOON.

BUT APPARENTLY IT DOESN’T SHAME ME ENOUGH because once the plane hit the tarmac at LAX, I started rabidly fantasizing about Robertson and all the financial havoc I could wreak in one week’s time. Something happens to my brain chemistry when I’m in California. Things I could consider gaudy and wasteful in Washington suddenly become acceptable – no, more than acceptable, they become desired! For example, take my reaction when I discovered the Kitson clearance outlet in Santa Monica; I believe there were audible screams of joy and disbelief. Embarrassing…

Finally, though, I was able to reconcile my Californian thirst for spending ridiculous amounts of money and my Washingtonian rustic, cozy sensibilities with a new boutique I discovered in the heart of Robertson, right across from celeb dining hotspot the Ivy (talk about prime real estate! We saw Ciara!): MOODS OF NORWAY!

It’s a well-established fact that I am mildly obsessed with Scandinavian culture. Moods of Norway even won over my  companions, who previously had been getting a little impatient with my wild-eyed window shopping. It was decorated like a cheesy lodge (made me happy!), had a huge golden tractor you were allowed to “ride” (made Grace happy!) and it was freaking “waffle Saturday” aka FREE WAFFLES FOR ALL (made KJ kind of scarily happy!). Those crafty Norwegians, they made it all too easy to justify spending $120 on a fur-lined jacket (see image). When I told the shopgirl I was going back to Seattle and needed something that would keep me warm all throughout our miserable, disgusting winter months, she claimed my jacket would be “warmer than a Northface, but ew, I am against Northface anyway” …ha, nice way to subtly stereotype and shoot down Seattleites. But the tactic worked, once she pointed out “these are jackets made BY Norwegians FOR Norwegians, and you know their winters are really cold!” Eh, true. It doesn’t take much to convince me, especially when I’m just begging for someone to validate my gratuitous impulses in the first place.

Moods of  Norway is so hip that is only has that one boutique in LA. Otherwise it’s only in Norway itself. Providing me with faux-European elitism at its finest! Unless you are shopping in Norway or Los Angeles, YOU CANNOT HAVE MY JACKET. Apparently most people in Seattle don’t want it anyway; the other day I was walking home, proudly displaying my new coat, and this guy actually shouted at me from his front yard, “You can’t be that cold!” …whoa, way to call me out, random dude! Wearing anything with luxurious fur (albeit fake fur) seems to alienate and anger the natives here in Ballard. Everyone keeps ogling my outfit like I’m an asshole. It probably doesn’t help that I often wear the jacket with a pair of huge designer sunglasses, to drive home the fact that I am soooo fashionable and exclusive and I care enough about my wellbeing to keep myself fashionably warm while still protecting my eyes from damaging UV rays! Suck it, Seattle. My Norwegian roommate, Linn, loves my jacket. When I brought it home, she squealed, “Ooh! Moods of Norway! They’re SO HOT RIGHT NOW in Oslo!”

Made BY Norwegians, FOR Norwegians, and apparently APPROVED OF by Norwegians. As a ghetto-fabulous graphic tee I discovered at the Slauson swap meet proudly proclaimed: Haters keep on hatin, cuz u makin’ me famous.

Great. So now I have yet ANOTHER stupid issue to deal with.

Apparently, I am now afraid of flying… I used to love flying! I thought it was awesome! I adored every aspect of it – trooping through the airport, getting seating assignments, watching the land get smaller and smaller as the plane ascended, little sterile packages of single-portion food, free wine on international flights… I even enjoyed relieving myself in airplane bathrooms!

Something has changed, however.

I first noticed it when I was flying from London to Istanbul. Glancing out the little porthole window during takeoff, I noticed my palms beginning to sweat heavily, and my heart leaped into my throat. I had to down like three Vicodin (my “mommy’s little helper” of traveling) to calm down and breathe normally. Uhhh, what was that reaction?! I asked myself. The rest of my travels yielded a similar reaction, but I attempted to push it to the back of my mind with copious amounts of poor quality airline merlot and expired prescription pills donated to me by caring friends.

My trip back to Seattle from Austin last weekend was worse than EVER! I don’t know what is going ON with me!

Perhaps I should paint a detailed picture so we can all visualize what a hot mess I was. First of all, it was an early morning flight and, predictably, I had stayed out late drinking an unhealthy amount of vodka. Last night on vacation, there is no other choice. Anyway, I hadn’t plotted the situation out clearly (imagine that) and had already packed everything in a precariously stuffed duffel bag. Including all underwear. So I donned the only skimpy sundress I had left out of my luggage, along with the bikini top I had been wearing in the pool the night before, since it was still drying out in the bathroom. And all the jewelry I had brought with me, since that was still out on the nightstand, of course. Quite the respectable travel outfit.

We finally board the plane and it’s absolutely disgusting. Thanks, hotwire.com. (It’s not really hotwire’s fault, it’s mine for being such a cheapass and settling on the very bottom of the barrel because it saved me like $50.) Anyway, this was a US Air flight on an airplane that had to have been manufactured in 1973. There were still ashtrays – WITH RESIDUE – in the armrests! Not only that, but the paint job left a bit to be desired. As in, there were scratches and suspicious stains everywhere on the walls of the plane and sides of the seats. Great. Also, it smelled weird. The plane took off and I realized I was in trouble. This was the bumpiest ride ever. Seriously, we would be better off taking a rickshaw to Seattle. It would at least be more comfortable.

I sat there on the plane, petrified of crashing. I was seated in an exit row, which is usually sweet because you get more legroom, but in this instance I was cursing my luck. With this deathtrap, we certainly would be in need of the emergency exits at some point, and this hungover, panicked woman dressed in an unnecessarily slutty fashion clearly was not the best choice to be manning the only pathway to freedom when this plane was up in flames somewhere over Colorado.

When we finally landed, I was shocked and embarrassed to see that I had been panic-sweating so profusely that my seat was soaked in sweat. My palms were so clammy that the novel I had been attempting to read was damp and its pages were all wavy and clumped together. SO GROSS. My heart had been beating so fiercely during landing that I was having trouble walking without wobbling. Plus, thanks to a combination of too much alcohol and too much stress, I had one of the worst cases of heartburn ever. Add this all to the fact I was paranoid I had contracted a case of clap from the 1970s from sitting on that sketchy seat with no underwear. I was a walking disaster; ask anyone else who had the privilege of being on that miserable US Air flight.

On our layover in Phoenix, I calmed my nerves (and acid reflux) with a little treat from TCBY (take note: nonfat, sugar-free frozen yogurt is a surefire way to my heart). I also dug through my bag to find some clean underwear and fixed that situation in the airport bathroom. These two activities improved my mood considerably, then the tables were turned even further in the right direction when I discovered one last Ambien leftover in the illegal Mexican pharmacy otherwise known as my purse. Perfect.

So the flight from Phoenix to Seattle was considerably more smooth, thanks to my pharmaceutical epiphany (complete with bizarre hallucinations the whole way; sleeping pill side effects: blessing or curse? You be the judge!) and before I knew it I was back on my home turf.

I think I’ve learned two lessons from my ordeal:

1. Don’t buy the cheapest flight off one of those travel deal websites. Even if you are pretty ghetto. At least spring for Alaska Air… or Southwest. Seriously, worth it.

2. Apparently I have some weird travel anxiety that has waited 23 years to rear its ugly head, probably time to take a break from jetsetting around this summer. I get a vague Final Destination vibe from all this.