But just a few months ago, my boyfriend and I were in the Siberia of house hunting. We are renters, but still the two of us have very particular standards. We were looking for a house in an Old Town in one of the towns in Boulder County. We came with baggage (a dog, a cat and a VW bus), and we had a small list of wants and needs: two bedrooms, some semblance of a yard, a solid location in walking distance of good restaurants and trails.

Seemingly simple.

The housing market is tough for almost anyone—buyers, renters, Realtors and anyone who might happen by a for-sale sign. It’s an absurd time filled with ups and downs, but finding a little two-bedroom rental didn’t sound as tumultuous as making a $500,000 investment in real estate.

But then we met, a man we’ll call, Leonard, a homeowner in Longmont who was renting out his little downtown bungalow. Despite the horrid wallpaper in nearly every room, it was a stellar place with crown molding and hardwood floors, a backyard and a garage. Leonard had hoped to sell the house—and had already lowered the price $30,000. Like many sellers, he figured he could rent it out until the market improved. He wanted us to fill out a six-month lease and then consider renting-to-own. He talked a lot and used words like “conservative” and “investment” with enthusiasm.

We filled out an application, and Leonard called us two days later to let us know we had checked out. “I’m out of town this week,” he told us.

“I’ll call you on Friday and we can set up a time for you to sign the lease.”

We were thrilled and gave our landlords 30 days notice. But on Friday, no Leonard. I drove by the house the next day, and oddly, the lights were all on and there were people inside. We called him again, and were told he was still out of town. Can you wait til mid next week? Being optimistic, we waited for his call. The following Friday, my boyfriend received a text from Leonard. “The house was sold! We won’t be needing you to sign a lease.”

Oh, really, Leonard? You won’t need us to sign a lease?

It was a lesson in adaptability (and anger management). We had less than 30 days to find a new house, something far away from Leonard and his bad wallpaper. We went south to Louisville and Lafayette. And we saw place after place.

And finally, there she was: a cute little spot in downtown Lafayette—with honest, trustworthy landlords, a sunny living room and a tiny yard. After the stress of packing and a weekend of moving and cleaning and unpacking and more cleaning, the house became a home. With that came pride and comfort, happiness, lots of barbecues and bike rides around the neighborhood. We can now walk to Efrain’s.

The moral of the story: Whether you are renting or buying, sometimes you have to kiss a few frogs before you find your prince.

You see, good old Mother Earth is gradually slowing down. Friction from tides is the big culprit, but how mass is distributed around our globe in the forms of water and ice (or lack thereof), as well as shifting tectonic plates (earthquakes), have an impact, too. And let’s not even get started on the fact that, due to the elliptical orbit of our planet, in clock time, the earth can take longer to spin all the way around in a day depending on what month it is.

Because of this gradual slowing down (we know thanks to atomic clocks and precise astronomical observations) and because the definition of a second is a bit off, the world has (since 1972) been adding seconds to our official time (Coordinated Universal Time or UTC) to keep our wall clocks in sync with the spin of the earth. But because the slowing isn’t consistent—some days our watery ball spins milliseconds faster than others—we have only added 34 seconds in 40 years.

Adding a second every couple of years (the last one was in 2008 and before that in 2005 and then again back in 1998) isn’t like moving the hour hand back and forth twice a year so we can see to mow the lawn after dinner in July. It’s more akin to Leap Years—where we add a day to the end of February every four years because the earth actually revolves around the sun in 365 days and six hours— only
more random.

But the powers that be (officially the International Telecommunication Union) are set to vote on whether or not to get rid of leap seconds at its meeting in January in Geneva, Switzerland. This group sets standards that the world uses to keep things like the Internet, cell phones and the Global Positioning System running like, well, clockwork. The leap second has been a pain for telecommunications companies for years because it’s a sporadic event. It’s easy to program software to adjust for daylight saving time and leap years because we know they will happen and when; with leap seconds, not so much.

So what happens if we get rid of the leap second? First of all it won’t take effect until January 2018. And we may not miss the ditzy TV reporters trying, with mixed results, to explain the event (which typically happens on New Year’s Eve when the extra second gets slipped in between gulps of Champagne) to viewers who will never notice.

However, over the span of 100 years, our original timekeeper, the good old earth, will have gotten behind by about a minute compared with today’s super accurate clocks. One proposal is that we would have a leap minute to get us back on track, but no one alive today will have to worry about that (kind of like funding Social Security).

The idea of getting an extra minute at some point in the future makes it fun to think about how one would spend it. A second is rather fleeting for such a “what if” exercise, but there’s a lot you can do in a minute. I think everyone should get to say anything to anyone with no consequences. A comment like: “Honey, those jeans make your butt look HUGE!” would just roll off and be forgotten in a leap minute. Like it never happened.

I’m just sayin’…

If you’ve never heard this little adage, you’ve obviously never needed to lose weight.

The phrase is a simple, accessible way to explain the entire concept of weight loss without explaining caloric intake, metabolism, muscle mass and insulin levels. It’s supposed to be a helpful message for those stuck in the emotional tug-of-war of fad diets filled with grapefruits, chalky shakes and anti-carbohydrate propaganda.

But if you’ve ever tried and failed at losing weight, you’ll know “eat less, move more” is a fallacy. Psychologically and physiologically, eating less and moving more usually develops into a little affliction I like to call “nearly passing out in the middle of the gym” and later, “going home and eating whatever is in the fridge in hopes of feeling human again.”

Simply put, it doesn’t work. From my personal experience (which you can read about in “The Renovation” on page 55), getting healthy and fit comes down to what you eat…and how you move…and how much sleep you get…how much water you drink…sugar intake…emotional strength…food habits…and so on. I think that’s where becoming a more healthful person is a challenge: It’s not always simple and it’s never easy. And it’s a truly autonomous effort.

It’s like the whole world wants us to be fat. Most restaurants have little care for nutrition and portion size; though, of course there are exceptions. Unhealthy, processed food is often cheaper and more accessible.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s the American way.

Last month, Congress and the Obama administration debated “pizza as a vegetable”—a win for 10-year-olds
everywhere.

The debacle surrounds the final version of a spending bill that erodes school lunch standards the U.S. Department of Agriculture proposed earlier this year. The USDA set out to strengthen nutritional standards for students’ subsidized meals—the first update in 15 years. The bill included reducing salt and starchy vegetables, such as potatoes and corn, as well as developing a maximum calorie allowance for meals.

But special interest groups intervened to save the mighty potato from prohibition. Schools worried standards would become an unfunded mandate—increasing their food budgets without extra funds. Some small government types complained about infringement on personal liberties.

Congress eventually blocked specific parts of the bill: nixing the standards that would limit starchy vegetables and salt as well as the requirement that half of grains and breads come from whole grains.

Legislators also found fault in the USDA’s proposed limit to how much tomato paste counts as a vegetable serving. Because schools are required to serve a minimum number of vegetables, the USDA hoped to make a half-cup of tomato paste equate to a serving of vegetables for soups, pasta sauces, chili and so on. The rule would disqualify pizza as a vegetable, and that just wouldn’t work, would it?

Pizza is a true comfort food, ingratiated into our psyches and souls as children. Remember the thick hunks of dough and cheese on bright colored lunch trays, heavy and hot? Giggles of girlish enthusiasm confirmed it was, in fact, Pizza Day. Delicious, atrocious Pizza Day.

We can wax neurotic all day about special interests’ influences on policy, and the influence it and the government have on our lives. But I think it really comes down to the fact that no one is looking out for our individual health or the health of our families. No one but us.

Forget occupying Wall Street. Occupy the stores, shops and sites that support local craftspeople, artists, makers and creatives.

There already seems to be an artistic uprising, ready to take down “the man” and the man’s crappy taste in décor, jewelry, fashion and furnishings. But it’s happening as silently as a knitter.

I like to think of it as “The Etsy Revolution.”

Etsy.com was started in 2005 by a carpenter and artist who wanted to create a marketplace for his and others’ handmade wares. Six years later, Etsy has become more than just an Amazon-like website for discounted stuff. It’s a world of inspiration and creativity, an unending stream of new ideas and vintage collections, and a gathering place for artists and artisans and those who love them. It supports the people whose skills are not supported by chain stores and big boxes, by the over-crowded Internet and by our societal affliction for things that are mass-produced and machine-made.

Etsy has more than 1 million members, 25 million unique views per month and done more than $224 million in sales so far this year.

I find lovely things on Etsy, gifts especially, and it’s a remarkable place to go when you have question marks on your shopping list. Then you realize when you get the box in the mail—usually beautifully wrapped by the creator’s gorgeous detailing and a hand-written note—that you are dealing with real people.

You can even search geographically and purchase items from friends, neighbors and locals.

The one downfall is that you miss out on buying from local shops and ensuring that your sales tax dollars make their way into your city’s coffers, thusly supporting city services that you use and need. You also miss out on the human contact and the oh-so important customer experience that comes with shopping in person.

Of course, there are stores that sell products and crafts from local companies and artists (You’ll see many of them in our Locavore’s Gift Guide).

You can also visit artisan markets, such as the Firefly Handmade Holiday Market Dec. 9–11 at Boulder Museum of Contemporary Art or the Fancy Tiger Crafts Holiday Fair at Sherman Events Center, 1770 Sherman St. in Denver Dec. 2–3. Both of these exhibit and market the work of
Colorado’s artisans, crafters and very, very small-business owners. These events are so special and rare. It’s such a delicate way to revolt against the rut of blind buying and wanton consumerism.

What’s happening across the country is an important and viable reaction to our current economic and political situation. I like people who take advantage of the First Amendment. But I also like the idea of having the 99 percent impact the 1 percent by shopping at locally owned shops and buying locally made products, buoying our creative class and finding value in human-made products.

It’s time for a retail revolution.

By the time the roads open, the Chinook winds will have scoured the thigh-deep powder from the ski runs and tossed it into precarious wind slabs and cornices on leeward faces making back country ski outings as safe as letting your blind grandma pick up the kids in the Hummer.

Or not.

Seasonal snow predictions and forecasts are, for good reason, impossible to conjure with any kind of precision. You might as well try to guess which big name personality will slather barbecue sauce on his or her foot and swallow it whole (doh! Hank Williams, Jr.!). But I can pretty much guarantee you we would definitely be looking at an epic winter had I not purchased my pass. I’m just sayin’…

I try to spread my voodoo weather superstitions around to better my odds. The one time in the last 20 years I didn’t get a pass it was a banner season. Yes, 1995: The year the Fourth of July saw a 90-inch base and a snowstorm (!!) at A-Basin. The ski area was forced to close on Labor Day weekend so its 1994-95 ski passes would expire (and to do some required lift maintenance) before the start of the new season.

Since then, I’ve never failed to equip myself with some sort of pass. But that doesn’t mean I don’t tap into some folklore and wives tales to get a peek down the road at what dumps may await.

Sure, there are the Wolly Bear caterpillars that have varying widths of black hair, signifying varying intensities of winter. I never paid them much heed until I found one that was almost totally black, with only a touch of reddish hair on each end.

I took it as a sure sign of pending dumpage, blew off buying much-needed tires for my Ford and sprung instead for new Technica ski boots. It’s amazing the mix of confidence and terror that stem from putting studs into nearly bald truck tires.

There are other signs, too. Thick skins on onions and copious clusters of berries on the raspberry bushes that signal deep and long-lasting snows to come. I also watch my chickens and geese closely for signs of extra-dense plumage, which can only mean a heavy winter awaits.

But then the nerd in me takes over and I get hold of The Man: ENSO (short for El Niño/ Southern Oscillation) Diagnostic Discussion produced by the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA.gov). They’re calling for another winter of La Niña conditions (negative sea surface temperature anomalies across the eastern half of the equatorial Pacific Ocean) similar to last year. In short, it’s no time to welch on the ski pass because we could be skiing from October to July. Again.

Wing Commander Ripper, do you copy? Over.

Candidates swoop in and out of my life like a political version of speed dating. My calendar looks like California freeway traffic. And I eventually realize I’ve spent more time in coffee shops, my choice location for candidate interviews, than my office or home.

As I write, I’m clearly avoiding the intimidating stack of notes on my desk from interviews I’ve done with about 60 candidates—from the Longmont mayor to Boulder Valley School District Board of Education hopefuls to Westminster council incumbents. They eagerly waits to be pillaged, layer after  layer of scribble. Soon they will be sorted and examined. Candidate profiles will be written, and endorsements will be made.

And in the end, after all the time and energy, we’ll probably break some hearts. So often in politics, especially when endorsements are involved, the ire that some readers and candidates discharge into my voicemail and email is awe-inspiring and vicious.

Last year, for example, a small group of Longmont democrats took it upon themselves to bombard me with bullying emails after we endorsed—gasp!—a republican. One woman said she would call advertisers and inform them of our “hard turn to the right.” Then again, I also received pointed letters to the editor from conservatives astonished at how few republicans and Tea Party candidates we had endorsed.

Yet, there is a part of me that loves elections. Especially municipal elections, when Average Joe and Jane turn on their winning smiles, purchase buttons in bulk and dabble in city policy. For the most part, they are good-intentioned, mild-mannered folks who care about the happenings of their community. They have ideas, they just want to sustain the awesomeness, they are doing it for the children. As opposed to many candidates at the state or federal level, these people run on positive platforms of open space, urban chickens and mall redevelopment.

Louisville, for example, is the closest thing to Mayberry there is. Actually, I think Mayberry probably holds more contentious elections. Here, every single candidate said his or her priority was to “keep Louisville special.” Several couldn’t think of one recent council decision with which they disagreed. “It’s about sustaining the positive momentum we have here,” one candidate said.

That’s not to take anything away from the city council elections in Boulder, which always has its share of activist and one-issue candidates, or Longmont, which is practically a partisan race. These elections bring excitement and urgency to traditionally low-turnout years.

I consider myself lucky. I get a front-row seat to politics and policy. I have the opportunity to sit down with 60 or so candidates and talk shop, pepper them with questions and engage them in conversation about important issues. No Facebook page, blog or candidate forum can help you get to know a candidate like a one-on-one; thusly, door-to-door campaigning is often key for winning local elections.

Because of that access, I feel confident that whether you agree with our endorsements or not, YS’s election guide offers an opportunity to get to know the candidates who don’t happen to come to your door or those who don’t make the daily newspaper headlines. Don’t forget to send your endorsement letters to editorial@yellowscene.com.

Does he catch a Frisbee with fighter jet speed and dexterity? No, but he is an affectionate companion, has personality to spare, is a good listener and a loyal friend.

But I felt guilty having to leave him at home all day while I was at work. Sure, he has a half-acre yard to run around all day and honey bees to bite at. But I thought he needed a friend, another dog with which he could run and play and share the day.

So it was with this idea in my mind that I contacted a border collie rescue group. They introduced me to Chadd—he came with a name to which I added a “d” to better reflect his unrelenting enthusiasm and drastic attention deficit issues. Chadd was 5 when I adopted him, about the same age as Bart, and he loves playing catch with a Frisbee. That is until something else—a goose, passing cyclist or car—catches his attention.

If I had it to do over again—and I knew then what I know now—I can’t say I would make the same decision. Chadd is a kind and loving dog, don’t get me wrong. If he would just look up when I throw the Frisbee, he would be catching 1,000. And I’m pretty sure he’s living the good life out on my farm, herding the geese around the yard, running in the fields and going for swims in the creek across the street.

To get a reality check, I consulted Brett Endes, a “canine counselor” in Longmont. He said my intentions were good but a dog is fine hanging out all day by him or herself, as long as I am present (throwing a Frisbee, interacting, going for walks) with them when I’m home. Which I am.

“If things aren’t going well while you are around, you’re not giving them any quality time while you are home, that’s where things can go wrong,” Endes said.

But it’s been a rocky road with Chadd, and is to this day. Chadd has a tendency to do his business in the house, on the carpet, as opposed to outside on the yard. It’s not a regular thing; I’ll just find his mess some random morning or at night before heading to bed. This led to him getting put in his kennel at night, which pretty much solved the problem. But it was nice to have him hang out in my room and, on cold nights, on the bed.

I’m not sure if he has some issues from his past owners (I don’t know about any abuse or other traumatic problems), but he can be highly skittish. Like when he sees the fur brush or when I fill the kiddie pool for his bath. Chadd tends to bark and snap at Bart when they go running through the yard to bark at a passing car with a dog hanging out the window. But again, not always.

I try to use Bart as the example because he just takes it all in stride; the brushing, the baths. Bart has never had an “accident” in the house. Although he did chomp a chicken once, which he ended up wearing for several days. That solved that.

Chadd remains the problem child who wants to bite the brush that grooms him. At Endes’ suggestion, I’ll continue to work with him and play catch and enjoy his help in rounding up the birds. But after talking with Endes and seeing what the results are, I would not recommend adopting a second dog as a friend to the first. Better to focus your attention on one furry friend at a time.

Media is my enabler in an addiction of delicious proportions. Unlike our food editor, Lacy Boggs, who has made me gifts of jams, jellies, pestos and baked goods, I am not necessarily drawn to the foodie culture to make myself a better, more skilled domestic goddess. I’ve never pickled my own onion or cucumber; though, I have thought about it with much aplomb. I don’t grow my own veggies, and I’m a slave to the recipe. It’s less about applying the techniques or concepts in my own kitchen—though, I’m often inspired enough to mentally plan a trip to Chicago or Spain—and more about the thrill of the countdown, the fantasy of flavor and indulgence, and the connection to the saints of the stovetop.

The celebritization of the chef is an outcome of our society’s love of both celebrities and food. Chefs surely have the egos to handle it, and the entertainment potential of competitive cooking, baking and eating is endless.

And truly, isn’t food porn so much better than actual porn?

Two years ago, I saw John Besh in an Austin, Texas, restaurant, calmly eating brunch like a totally normal person. I went giddy like a schoolgirl, and I literally said out loud, “Oh my God, it’s John Besh.” Of course, no one in my party knew who the hell I was talking about. I assured them: the handsome man sitting 15 feet from us was, in fact, a celebrity chef. A few months later, I saw Hosea Rosenberg eating dinner at Salt. As I walked by him, I frantically thought, “Play it cool, Andra. Just play it cool,” and then I spent the evening detailing the
escapades of Top Chef’s fifth season to my boyfriend of just one month, who surprisingly didn’t break up with me on the spot.

So, it was only a matter of time before we brought celebrity chefs to YS. Every year, we’ve focused two or three issues on food, but I realized that while I love seeing our pages full of food images and recipes, I want to know more about the people behind the food. So, here’s the plan: Every year, we’ll pick a theme for our Chef Issue and we will highlight local chefs who exemplify that theme. In this edition, we’ve selected six chefs throughout Boulder County who take advantage of local farms, farmers markets and artisanal food products while creating their menus and dishes; the issue also highlights  the local farms that chefs frequent.

In some ways, I hope the issue helps to humanize chefs a little more, making them, their food and cooking in general more accessible to our readers. Then again, I like the idea of continuing and localizing chefdom. A celebration of the chef is a celebration of the potential power and impact of food. As Anthony Bourdain said, “Life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living.”

At the time—my senior year of college—I wasn’t really enthused by the prospect of having a professor point out my writing flaws to an entire classroom or wrathfully question my editorial judgment in allowing an over-the-top sex columnist in the college newspaper. I often wondered in my head—and aloud to classmates—why he would put his students in unbearably awkward situations, why he would get so angry when we let him down, and why he made us work hard to get every detail right.

I cursed him some days and loved to brag about him on others. I often think about him and wonder if he’d be proud. Or maybe he’d just remind me of all the trouble I caused him, how much grief I gave him. That’s one thing I know, I likely made his life as difficult as he made mine.

George Ramos, a three-time Pulitzer Prize-winning LA Times reporter and the former head of the Cal Poly San Luis Obispo journalism department, was found dead in his Central Coast home in late July. He was only 63. As soon as reports of his passing hit news sites throughout California, my college friends began posting links to stories on Facebook and sending me emails with subjects lines that read “So sad.” A Facebook page dedicated to his memory was up the day after.

It all seemed to hit me like a slow-motion punch—the kind in the final scene of a boxing movie, with beads of sweat and saliva angelically soaring out of frame and the fighter’s jaw unhurriedly dislocating.

Surely, I thought, this could not be. George, as he asked us to call him, was indestructible. He had covered the LA riots after the Rodney King verdict and the 1992 Northridge earthquake, risking his life to share the stories of those most hurt. He co-edited a 26-part series on Latinos in Southern California, which received the Pulitzer gold medal for meritorious public service, the granddaddy of journalistic awards.

Before that, he served in Vietnam as a U.S. Army first lieutenant in the field artillery. And after decades as a reporter, George went into academia and became a poignant figure in the lives of many students. He made us more passionate journalists and stronger people.

The news of his death came as I was working on the Smart Issue. These sort of issues always give me hope for younger generations; while social media and technology may turn them into funny, little cyber-creatures, there are so many schools developing programs that will positively shape young minds, and there are so many kids who are already spectacular people. What’s harder to assess and to highlight is the individual role teachers play in our lives and the lives of our children. The difference between a “good” teacher and an “OK” teacher is vast, and it’s a difference measured in not just test scores but in student passion and achievement.

When I think about the teachers who made a difference in my life—not just in school but those mentors who continue to force lessons upon me—it was never the “easy” teachers who I remember, never the teachers who let us watch Rudy during freshman biology, never the teachers who stood by and let me fail with a sympathetic smile and a pat on the head. Instead, especially today, I’m remembering most the one who scared me to death but brought out the fight in me.

George Ramos will leave several legacies—as a reporter, as an LA native, as a Latino. But I’ll remember him as a teacher.

Before you dig in, I want to acknowledge that a neighborhood is more than the sum of its parts (homes, schools and speed bumps). It should be judged by its proximity to the nearest Vic’s about as much as a woman should be judged by her collection of purses. Having a Whole Foods, a wine shop and a bagel place just around the corner is a perk, but a neighborhood it does not make.

More so, it is the spirit created by the people who call it home. It’s the essence of the neighborhood and the connection between the homes and the people within them. I know, sounds like a pageant speech.

But there is something so indescribably nostalgic and sacred about the idea of the neighborhood: a sense you get when you pull up in the moving van and neighbors offer a hand. It’s that feeling you have on a Sunday afternoon, watering the front lawn and an ice cream truck chortles by; on your morning run when the streets are empty; and when you look out the window to see your kids racing down the street on their bikes.

It’s the vital yet silent relationship we have with our homes and neighbors.

This spring, I was reading the newspaper in a downtown Longmont coffee shop—the one in my neighborhood. I was minding my own business when a men got my attention.

“’Scuse me,” one said. “Are you a local?”

He didn’t let me answer. Eyes sparkling, he awkwardly continued. “This is the best place to live in the country.”

It wasn’t really a question, yet he and his friend looked at me for approval. The men were on a day trip from Denver. They were scouting out America’s No. 1 Place to Live, he told me. Their wives were joining them later, for dinner and maybe drinks, in America’s No. 1 Place to Live. They loved the downtown, very sweet, just as they had heard. Of course it is. How else would it be in America’s No. 1  Place to Live?

“Longmont wasn’t named the No. 1 place to live,” I interrupted. “It was Louisville.”

Disappointment instantly shrouded their faces. Their jaws hung low and slack. Their cheeks blushed enough for me to realize that I had ruined their afternoon plans—if not the entire weekend. One got on the phone and called his wife, telling her they had come to the wrong place. The other turned back to me, clutching his car keys.

“Where’s Louisville?”

In minutes, they walked out the door, leaving Longmont in their dust.

I got on my bike and rode home, past immaculate historic homes with big yards shaded by big trees and front porches bigger than my bedroom. My neighbors were setting up for an afternoon barbecue. Another was taking care of the small garden she so artfully tends. Kids down the street were climbing the big oak out front. All was indescribably well and perfectly pleasant.

It was a nice moment to linger in.

Let the visitors have their maps, day trips to the ’burbs and magazine lists. I’ll take my neighborhood any day.