A Bloody DelightLocal Restaurant Review:

Sweet Fang BakeryBy Leah Byrd of the Vampyre Times

The moment you walk into Sweet Fang Bakery, you’re greeted by the aroma of fresh blood and sweet pastry.  The owner and pastry chef, JoBeth Jamison, is a genius with red blends and has developed her own line of both natural and synthetic jams and syrups. “They’re secret clan recipes that have been passed down for millennia,” said Jamison with a sly grin.

With a carefully curated menu of both fresh and aged blood types, Sweet Fang Bakery offers a refined assortment of treats worth killing for. The towering croquembouche with caramelized B positive is the obvious showstopper, and few are able to resist the temptation of the red velvet cupcake with the surprise filling, but the cranberry scones with O negative clotted cream are what will keep you coming back again and again.

The Sweet Fang Bakery is a local hot-spot and a bloody delight (pun intended), and the perfect place to bring your out-of-town friends and family. Just be sure to get in line early or you might miss out on the half-priced lattes with steamed plasma. 

Bibbity bobbity boo!

I have not posted in OVER A MONTH because sometimes when your heart is heavy, it is hard to be insightful and poignant.

So forget ALL of that!

In the spirit of Halloween, my fellow talented writer friends have put together small business review for ghouls and goblins. If you are looking for writers prompts for your Littles these are a lot of fun and funny. Here is day one- Enjoy!

Taking Ogreship: By JoBeth Jamison

Need a fix? This week’s highlighted Ogre-owned business, The Pits, promises to deliver on every Ogre auto repair—gigantic or small, foot or fart powered.

Owner and operator Tracy Skochil, a Triple Onion-certified mechanic, started her career following in her mother’s and father’s stompsteps in MonsCar pit crews and fast became one of the sport’s most valuable assets.“I’ve always just been a sponge for the way things work,” says Skochil. “And for Grawp’s Pumpkin Eyeball Ale—I soak that up by the barrel every fall,” she chuckles.

Skochil ultimately transitioned into the role of world-renowned crew and engine consultant, which inadvertently led to her become THE mechanic to the stars. (Shrek and Fiona now refer to her as their “Motor Queen” since Skochil achieved what they were told was impossible: a full restoration of their iconic 1576 Zweibel Princess Coach after their notoriously wild child Bink drove it into the Royal Tar Pits last year.)

But Skochil’s own notoriety has never been her comfort zone. After a while she began to miss her Forest of Illusion roots. Despite the sparkle of her luxury-cargo-plane-set life, Skochil says, “I’m a swamp girl, through and through. I was never not going to come back here and be part of the community I love.”

She recently bought the dilapidated Humbaba estate in neighboring Cedar Forest and turned one of the out buildings into her retirement plan: The Pits, where she and her parents now work together full time. From Toyogres to Mercedes Bones, Chevrolegs to Caniballacs, Hyundeyes, to Infiniteeth, Bulkwagens, and more, The Pits promises superior service with that one-of-a-kind, superstar-swamp-ogress, Skochil Family flare—without the flashbulbs

Dear Friends, Family and Supporters of our Cause,

If you are receiving this email or reading this blog, website or tweet, its because you are engaged with us and for that we thank you.

Thank you.

This week marks International Mitochondrial Awareness Week. This week also marks ten years of Miracles for Mito as a nonprofit. Happy ten years to us! Today I was driving into Boulder from Denver. There is a point as you approach Boulder that you can see Long’s Peak, the Flatrions, Twin Peaks….it is really an amazing view.

I reflected on our ten years, Miracles for Mito’s mission to establish a presence in Colorado and felt a little teary. We have lived a lot of life in ten years. We have said goodbye to Littles we loved fiercely, we have raised over $1MM to the Mitochondrial Clinic at Childrens Hospital Colorado and we have established ourselves as a Mito presence on the Front Range.

There is still a lot of work to do. But in 2020, a year for the history books, we have raised $84,000 for our Mitochondrial Clinic at Anschutz campus. This significant, consistent funding has presented multiple opportunities for trials in 2021. The clinic is currently in negotiations for these trials.

In a Spring and Summer of lockdowns, Miracles for Mito shipped Ubiquinol and gift cards across the nation. We now have the bandwidth to ship supplements beyond the Front Range. Please let us know if you know a family that needs help, regardless of their location.

And our amazing nurse MaryBeth Hollinger, provides coast to coast support for Mito families facing the challenge of a rare disease during a pandemic. The support group meetings she conducts twice a week are a cornerstone of support for so many.

Family grants, gift cards, a registered nurse facilitating support group calls, COQ10 for whomever needs it. Miracles for Mito is there for our families.

Is there more to be done? Always.

Do we need your help more than ever? Absolutely.

But just like climbing one of our 14’ers in Colorado, it is one foot in front of the other, every little step makes a difference; tenacity, perseverance with a touch of exhaustion will get us there.  

Thank you for all you do. Please follow us on Facebook and Instagram this week as we celebrate advocacy and awareness. Thank you for ten years. Let’s dare to dream where the next ten will take us: http://www.miraclesformito.org.

Yours for a Cure,

Heather and Maria

I was 30. Before I was married. Before my children. Before I knew the words Mitochondrial Disease.

At 30 I could give you a list of all my worries but looking back, I had a pretty charmed life.

I was consulting for KPMG and I was scheduled to start my new gig on September 11th in Liberty Corner, New Jersey. I flew into Newark the night before, cursed dark New Jersey roads…..why is it so woodsy here????? And reported to my new project at 8:50 on September 11th.

I sat in the lobby waiting for my new manager, sipping my Starbucks, and watching CNN. You know how the rest of the day went.

But it was different because it was close. Liberty Corner is a commuter town. People had loved ones in Tower One and Two. I watched the day unravel. I watched loved ones search for each other, unable to get through, worried and frantic.

At noon they told me I should go home and come back tomorrow. But I had no home. I had room 311 in a boutique hotel of quaint and tiny Liberty Corner. And so I sat and watched and cried and fretted.

I couldn’t fly home for ten days and so I embraced a very sad community. I went to church and prayed. I went to the coffee shop. A firemans boot sat on the counter to collect funds for families. I ate scones, drank lattes, cried some more and tossed dollars into the boot.

On Friday, I went into the city to find solace with dear friends. The subway line under the Towers had just opened. It smelled of burnt oil. Smoke still stood in the subway air. Grand Central was a living Memorial of those missing. I’ve experienced a lot of personal loss in my life. The image of poster after poster of missing loved ones is still crystal clear.

I vote Democrat. I always have. But I was so proud of our republican president. He was strong, uniting, compassionate. For as hard as it was to be so far away from family; I have always been honored to bear witness to the healing of that community.

2,977 souls were lost that day. 19 years later, we honor those lives.

Would we be as good today? As we approach almost 200,000 lives from a pandemic we refused to acknowledge for months, would we be as good? Would we blame each other? Would we turn? Would we unite?

I don’t know that we would unite in the way we did 19 years ago. I can give many examples why I think that but many of you know where I stand on current issues. To say my why would only increase the divide. You know. I know.

It took buildings crashing down for us to unite. 2,977 souls and the ripple in the world that their void left. But it also took empathetic, compassionate rhetoric to reinforce that our neighbor was not to blame, blue or red was not to blame…………It was 19 men following a leader who made it his life’s work to destroy what we believe in.

I traveled often after 911, for a while on a weekly basis. As I took off shoes, belts, endured countless, very ‘personal’ pat downs, I would think about what I heard often in the security line, “Well the terrorists already won.”

I never thought that. I always thought that we all were doing the very best we could to make sure we all got to our places, with our loves, as safely as possible.

I hope we can back there someday. That we all do our very best to make sure we get to our places, with our loves, as safely as possible.

It’s all any of us ever want.

Peace and blessings to you on this day.

In March the world shut down.

Our trip to Europe was cancelled. Work trips were put on hold. Ski resorts were closed. We hunkered down and I continued to write in my gratitude journal.

“I am grateful.”

I am grateful for a job, a house, stability, my health, my husband…..the list…..I focused on the list.

And this worked for a while. I held my gratitude like a shield against all that was going on in the world.

But it didn’t get any better. In fact, it got worse. Politics got worse, the summer got worse, we got angry, divided, Spring turned into Summer. Summer turned into July.

Stupid July.

July was ugly. My gratitude shield was a puny piece of aluminium…..pew….pew….pew….

I called up my therapist- we hadn’t talked in a year.

“I am so sad. I feel so extended but I’m not. I live with one person, 24/7 and I love him but he’s loud and he farts…..a lot. I should be grateful for all I have but I’m so stinkin sad. I have lost friends. Everything I have held true seems to be false. I struggle. I should be more, I should be better, able to rise above the petty. I cannot.”

I waited for her to tell me I was broken. My pain was exaggerated and she could prescribe something to fix me.

Because we live in a world where we have an instant solution for what causes us pain; a pill, blame, rage….But instead she said to me, “With everything going on, everything. If you aren’t a little depressed about these events, you might not be in touch with what is going on in the world.”

Thank you…..thank you lovely therapist for this acknowledgment; that maybe it is the world that is broken and not me.

I talked to her today. “I am joy starved,” I said. Not just a laugh or a moment but a full on group Powow WAAAAHHOOOOO joy.

“I miss it.”

“What makes you happy?” she asked, “even for a moment?”

“This,” I said, “talking to you, swimming, yoga, moments with friends, reading, slow mornings with Hubs.”

“Your homework,” she smiled, “your homework is to remember these small moments. Take a second or two, remember the air, the smells, how you felt. Remember these moments. Hold them for a precious second and then move on. We can be enveloped in the bad. Hold the good.”

We are all trying.

Trying so hard.

I don’t think things will get easier. I think the next couple months will be very challenging. I invite you all to share what is good. Hold it in just a second longer. We are there….I am rooting for you….I am rooting for me….we are all rooting for us all.

This is not our life. This is just our life right now.

I used to be a tad more open minded to other opinions.

I still try to be but I find it harder.

And if you find me difficult and unrelatable, I get it. It’s not you. Really, it’s not you. It’s me.

And perhaps it’s the company I keep. Nothing is worse than a tribe of special needs parents reminding you that health is important, wearing a mask is important….nothing ruins your mojo more than special needs parents who have to run home to oxygen, suctioning, feeding tubes and bottles of purel. Special needs parents are not very sexy.

And bereaved parents?

Get. Out. Of. Town.

Never, ever talk statistics about how many children could die of COVID to a bereaved parent. To a bereaved parent, we beat the odds. Anything can happen. Don’t try to rationalize life and death based on what you saw on Fox News; especially if its not yours.

When was the last time you attended a funeral and sat in front of a baby casket? Never?

Then count yourself lucky and STFP.

Am I angry? Hell yeah.

Stop talking about things you think you know and I hope you never ever know.

But really. It’s not you. It’s me.

Of course I seem scared to you. My stories are your worst nightmare. The outlier to your statistics.

But I am not scared.

I was scared when my daughter seized for the first time. After the 20th time, it was old hat.

Cause it is what is it is.

I was scared when she caught MRSA multiple times and it took two weeks to get a bacterial infection under control. I was scared when I was sent home with two IV antibiotics to be administered two hours around the clock through her PIC line.

I was scared when I performed CPR for the first time. I hope I never have to perform it again.

But hey.

It is what it is.

160,000 dead in five months. But its not your Mother, your Father, your Brother, your Child.

Is it?

So you can ignore it.

It is what it is.

Until it’s yours.

I missed a birthday yesterday. It’s an important one so I will send a cake.

30 years ago the American Disabilities Act was passed. 30 years ago a law was created stating that you could not discriminate against those who had epilepsy, you could not refuse to serve someone in a wheel chair, you could not deny employment to someone because they had a hearing aid.

What is crazy to me is that before 1990 you could.

I was 19 in 1990. Selfishly, I cannot say I remember this historic date. And as a somewhat blue leaning voter…….I say thank you George H.W Bush. Good-on-ya.

This was the Capital Crawl on March 13, 1990. They could not walk, so they climbed up the Capital stairs.

Crawled. Because their legs did not work. And because their legs did not work, they faced discrimination……only 30 years ago.

Crawled. Because there was no other way up.

Four months later, Bush signed the ADA act, a bill written by Tony Coelho, a California Democrat who suffered a head injury at 16 that evolved into Epilepsy. In college, when he wanted to become a priest, he was told he could not because according to Canon Law, people with Epilepsy were possessed by the Devil.

This was in 1960. Apparently 60 years ago you could still be possessed by the devil.

30 years ago, I had no idea the impact this law would make on my life. I will always be grateful for ramps, accessible buildings, wide doors, individualized services vs institutionalization, access to education……my ADA friends are nodding their head and saying ‘yes…..but we have such a long way to go’

As a mama who changed her daughter on the floor of a non ADA accessible bathroom, yes, this is just the tip of the iceberg.

You can have 1,000 ramps but you cannot change attitudes…..or those who still park in handicapped spots 😦 And today, in hearing a Westminster Colorado teacher refer to his special needs students as ‘retarded’, yes we have a long way to go.

And it goes without saying that those in undeserved communities struggle for these ADA rights more than anyone.

But despite the work that needs to be done, despite partisan conflicts over funding and the fight that parents face every year, with every IEP, there was once upon a time when we all came together and did good.

It wasn’t that long ago.

And it should be celebrated…..

Happy Birthday American Disabilities Act. Thank you for paving the way.

Last night Hubs and I opened a bottle of wine and toasted to the end of our July.

“Well”, he said, “We’ve had worse Julys.”

This is funny…and sad. I dread July. This one month marks the births and deaths of both kiddos…..all wrapped up in a poopy 31 days. Kinda like Baskin Robbins 31 flavors of ice cream. But awful. And no sprinkles.

I have never hidden the difficulty of this month. Not only for me but in trying to honor my Hubs. Here is how our July usually goes………

Me: “This month is awful and hard and I need to surround myself with as many people who support my cause as possible.”

Hubs: “This month is awful and hard and I need to surround myself with me. And maybe my wife….if she is not surrounded by other people. But she usually is….so just me.”

July is the month we lost both Jack and Samantha. It is also the month that our team of 60 get together and climb 180 miles for a cause embedded in my soul. My grief has always been diluted by my miles, and my sweat, and your hugs, and cowbell.

I missed my diluted version of July.

Full concentrate grief July is a lot to manage.

Grief is a hard thing to anticipate. Something that seemed okay last year can sting the next. And on the flip side, an issue that was so important last July can be forgotten. That’s the crazy thing about grief.

And the statement above? Only applies to you. Everyone else can be having their very own Grief showdown…..and you might not even know it until its high noon and you’re standing in front of the General store.

I do think we all survived….by the hair of our chinny chin chins (which might be longer because of work-from-home policies?) but we did survive. The magnitude of how hard the weekend was just reminds me….be kind, if it doesn’t matter let it go, Love your Loves, and be cognizant of another’s battle. We are all missing our people. Give Grace.

And with that, Adios July 2020, you Mother F#cker.

Ghostbusters Two was released in 1989 and it did okay according to Rotten Tomatoes.

It was not the original Ghostbusters- the Staypuff Marshmellow Man made no appearance, the tone was a little more somber and there was Vigo.

Vigo the Destroyer, a cruel leader from the 1500’s who comes to life in a painting and tries to possess a baby named Oscar so that he can rule again in the 21st century.

I do have a point to this post….but first, I have to do this…..because it’s my blog and I find it hilarious…..

Uncanny! Hold please while I chuckle for a second.

I’m sorry. According to polls, I have offended about 30% of you. But it’s my blog and you can walk away. Vigo the destroyer was really not the point of all of this.

Instead I would like to talk about Psychomagnatheric Slimeflow. Stupid movies pop in my head all the time. In this stupid movie, the sewers of NYC are flowing with this negative slime. This slime gives Vigo power and starts to take a community down.

Psychomagnatheric Slimeflow has infiltrated our country.

I talk to my friends, my family and my tribe. We talk about gratitude, being thankful and fortunate….we do this at a social distance with cute masks.

But underneath, for all of us, is an undercurrent. An undercurrent that feeds uncertainty and anger.

“Do I send my kids to school or see my Grandma?”

“Will I find a job?”

“Will I be able to feed my family this month?”

We live with an undercurrent of uncertainty. It makes us quick to respond, quick to anger, quick to draw conculsions.

I had a bad weekend. It was a double-decker Psychomagnatheric Slimeflow Sundae.

A friend asked what I was doing for self-care. I love this question.

Ask this question. Ask it often to your tribe that you can’t always see.

What are you doing to take care of yourself?

Because that is all I can do……that is all you can do. Take care of yourself.

“I am swimming.” I answered unexpectedly. I get in cold, clean, crystal, chlorinated water and I listen to my breath. I do it again when I have the opportunity. That is my antivenom. What is yours?

I have felt the Psychomagnatheric Slimeflow creep into my veins, my house, my tribe. I have been short with others and been on the receiving end.

Do not discredit what this undercurrent can do at the same time, do not discredit your ability to rise above it; recognize it, protect yourself, move on.

And never, ever cross the streams.

I woke up at 5:00 this morning- wide awake, listening to the Starlings dance on the roof and watched the sun slowly iluminate Longs Peak.

June 30th always wakes me with a jolt, a collective FU(K, a deep sigh and a muddled plan to get through the day.

It’s hard to relive one of your saddest days. Grief freezes time and memories into smells, sounds and snippets as vivid as film. As the day goes on, the edge wears off. I become distracted and the day passes. But the morning of June 30th is my time. My time to remember my Jack. My time to remember how a day started with such promise and how it ended.

15 years of this June 30th- some years are better some years are worst. But today will always be a deep stain on the rest of 365 days. And today, as July-eve begins, so does a collective month of bittersweet anniversaries.

And I am not on my ‘A’ game this year.

This year I am tired.

Four months of unknowns and quarantines, and riots and a bad economy and a pandemic that keeps raging; I am not going into July as my best self. I’m showing up disheveled, a bit anxious and fully aware that the tribe I lean into during this time might be feeling the same way. I have lost my big girl pants and kick ass boots.

And I am tired of rationalizing the last four months knowing that we are still in the thick of it. I am so tired of fighting for my joy. I’m tried of drinking the kumbacha and marveling at how great my coffee tastes in the morning.

And you know what? My homemade masks are really the worst ever. My husband asked me the other day if we could please just buy some.

Fine.

Quitter.

I will be back. I’ll be back in some annoying joyful way…..give me about 10 hours, a glass of wine and access to our Courage Classic pictures.

This morning? Screw it. This morning I will lie in the suck for a bit.