Andrea Chacos

I grew up in the densely packed, humid East Coast with frizzy hair that looked similar to the Broncos running back, Phillip Lindsay. I moved to Colorado right after college and never looked back.

I boarded a flight smelling faintly of Pine Sol and headed on a two-week trip leaving my family at home. Admittedly, I was skeptical what would become of my impeccably tidy home upon my return. I knew the kids would be OK, but that my home would take a beating. Obviously, the latter had me hesitant to leave.

How to mix the perfect FAC 2 parts exasperation, stress, fatigue or need — depending on market availability 3 parts personality 1 part flair (for decoration purposes only) Dash of organization Pinch location 1-16 oz. beverage of choice Mix well and measure for taste. Enjoy responsibly.

My behavior on the road is akin to an overtired trucker, swilling an extra-large fountain soda from an oversized straw while snacking on bags of whatever will keep me awake.

I was a conservative traveler when I first put on a backpack 25 years ago and trekked through Europe with my husband. We were awkward and clumsy. We’d break a sweat stuffing luggage into overhead bins and break our backs wearing expedition-sized backpacks.

I yearn to have meaningful moments with my family, especially when we can just focus on fun. This summer I’m stumped.

Over 14 years ago, I started work at a bustling startup. Now I’m about to get the ax.

I easily accept the dog’s limitations, because without opposable thumbs or command of the English language, some chores and conversation are just beyond Jenny’s capabilities. I have a harder time accepting my children’s limitations though.

At this point, some parent walks outside and tells me where my kids are and points to where my dog took an unsupervised poop.

"Want to go on a hike or ski the best powder we've had in years? Want to go to the movies or go out to dinner? Want to get a massage or go bowling?" Lately, the replies I give are all the same. "Meh, maybe another time."

A small, manila envelope recently toppled out of my mailbox. This was not from Amazon Prime nor any other large retailer and didn't shake like a 250-piece Lego set. I was momentarily mystified and eager to open the contents inside.

Let's get in the Delorean and power up the flux capacitor. Someone has to go back in time and be Donald Trump's mother so we can help divert the train wreck we're living today.

Once upon a time when I was a twenty-something, I was a first-chair, hike-the-bowl and pack-my-own-lunch kind of skier.

As she learned how to navigate the mores and behaviors of being identified as a girl, my daughter started to share some of her own observations about equity and discrimination. We encouraged our sons to consider the privileges offered American boys.

In second grade I was placed in a remedial reading class. It was the kind of class where you're carted down the hall with some other awkward kids into a tiny, stinky makeshift classroom that was obviously once a storage closet.

Without sounding too soiled about the holiday season, I can't wait until I can rip the entire month of December off my wall calendar.

Championing a cause is rarely easy, popular and certainly never welcome with friends or family that don't agree with your ideology.

At some point, we all start to sound just like our parents when it comes to the importance of music education.

The middle-aged, white man plays tricks in my head. Sometimes I want to be one, and sometimes I don't.

Jim Gaw ’64 and Mark Clark have a special, secret sauce.