Summit Up |

Summit Up

Good morning and welcome to Summit Up, the world’s only daily column that feels like a drunk elephant used us as a cha-cha practice mat.

And we smell about as good, too.

This all began Monday morning. Actually, it began Sunday night. Don’t ask us why, but we decided to have one of those blow-out, rock-star Sunday nights (we know most of you are thinking, “Sunday?” – but when you’re a rock star, every day is like Saturday night). Stayed up too late, had way too much fun, but it’s no big deal. Then we drag our dehydrated selves out of bed Monday morning because we have to drive down to Denver for an early tee time.

Now, let us say right here that we are miserably out of shape. Our physique has the consistency of marshmallow Peeps, but doesn’t taste as good. So, when the rest of the group said, “You know, we don’t need a golf cart. Let’s walk, it’ll be cheaper,” we said, “We’re going to pay for this either way.”

And we are paying for it. Especially after the strap to the golf bag broke on the 15th hole; our arms are an inch longer than they were Monday morning before we left. Our back feels like your car engine sounds when it runs out of oil. We’ve got blisters on our toes and fingers. And our left hip is making a creaking sound (at least we think it is; it’s hard to tell over our whining).

Don’t get us wrong, though, we like feeling like this. We have nothing against exercise. Soreness just reminds you you’re getting stronger. But normally, we like a hot shower to soak in and stretch. We should have taken one when we got home Monday night. Instead, we went to bed – only for a few hours, however, as the rest of the house roused us with quite a commotion.

It seems a pipe somewhere in the wall broke. Or something; we can’t tell because it’s in the wall. But we could tell it was a water pipe, because the basement was quickly filling up with water. There we were, 3:30 in the morning, stumbling around in our boxers playing Crampy the Plumber Goes Swimming. We were able to get the water turned off, and went back to bed figuring, yes, we’re so out of it we might not wake up when our alarm goes off, but the smell of the carpet molding should be powerful enough raise us from our slumber.

Wake we did, sorer than we were three hours before, and our first thought was, “Boy, a shower is going to feel really good.” No sooner did the thought fully form in the noggin’ than we felt the carpet squishing between our toes. The lesson we learned today, boys and girls, is that if you don’t fix the plumbing in the middle of the night, you will not be taking a shower in the morning.

So, if you see us limping up and down Main Street with a brown cloud swirling around us a la Charlie Brown’s pal Pig Pen, you’ll know why.


We wrote last week about our confusion over what to do when someone you’re having a conversation with accidentally spits on you – probably the most embarrassing interpersonal faux-pas since the sliced bread of faux pas, “What’s that hanging from you nose?” Regular reader jadestreet had this to offer:

“As for proper protocol regarding “expectorate’ conversationalists, I’m at a loss. There is a certain segment of the population to whom a bumper sticker would apply: “EPECT EPECTORATION … SPIT HAPPENS.’ I’ve always thought the Arabs had a good idea with veils and absorbent headgear to deal with the explosive syllables in their language. A woman can continue to look demure and interested in spite of a shower of spit. And a man always had a convenient towel handy for such problems.”

He also had to throw in a personal announcement: “And I’m still proud of the Indiana Hoosiers for making it to the finals!”

You, too, can send us your thoughts: summitup@, fax at (970) 668-0755 or just say it and spray it on the voicemail at (970) 668-3998 ext. 237.


It’s Wednesday and we’re out looking for someone to rub ointments and salves on us …

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