'Tis what We just did, indeed.

No need to congratulate Us. It's not like We had any other viable options.

Anyway.

Tim made the mistake of asking me, months ago, "What do you want to do for your 50th birthday?" So, I told him.

"I want to go to Santa Fe."

We've been to Santa Fe many times, both driving from Tucson (when we used to live there) and Boulder. But, we hadn't gone for five years and it was time.

One of our favorite things to do in the New Mexican capital is attend the Santa Fe Opera. So, when I saw it was doing La Traviata with Natalie Dessay as Violetta - and on my bday weekend, to boot - well, how could I resist?

Tim, of course, was thrilled. (As I'm sure most husbands would be.)

But, even he had to admit, it was quite fabulous.

The opera itself is up on a hill, open air and stunning. Unfortunately, this is the best I can do to show you (it's a side view from our seats) because I haven't managed to find some four year-old to show me how to use this camera:

Tim insisted on taking this picture of Your Queen in front of the fountain at the opera house:

The other thing we love doing in Santa Fe is going to a flamenco performance. For years, we were treated to Maria Benitez and her troup, but this was the first year in many they were not going to perform, so instead, we saw Juan Siddi. 'Twas quite good, but the man is really into his props. Now, before you feel too sorry for my long suffering husband, know this: The first time I said I wanted to see flamenco in Santa Fe, he rolled his eyes at the thought of having to suffer through a dance performance. But, being the good sport he is (look, he's married to me), he went. The next time we went to Santa Fe, he was the one who asked, "Can we go to flamenco?"

It's manly stuff.

If you ever go, however, let me make a suggestion (something we learned the hard way one year): Don't sit near the front. When the men do their quick turns, their hair (which always seems to be long and worn loose) flings torrents of sweat. 'Nough said.

Obviously, we love driving trips, so this time, we did a drive we'd never done before, The High Road to Taos. It winds through several small towns and gorgeous scenery, to wit: "The weaving village of Chimayo" as I'd read it's called. Now, there are two ways you can read that description (oh, yes there are - who's the royal, here?). I'm not really craft-oriented, so I figured "the weaving village" meant the road through it weaves - you know, twists and turns and such. Uh... no. Tim found this highly amusing, and took great pleasure in announcing, "Entering Chimayo. Prepare to steady yourself." Hey, it's my birthday, bub.

I had also read that we shouldn't "whiz by" the town of Cordova. I'll spare you how concrete-as-a-sidewalk me interpreted that one.

Although I didn't have my camera for that lovely drive (sorry - but, what do you want from me?), don't say I wasn't thinking of you when I took this picture the next day of Camel Rock:

You can thank me later.

Here's some more scenery - this time, outside Los Alamos (yeah, the nukes place). Who knew it was so gorgeous there? (Fine. You did. I'm so proud.) I mean, why didn't they put all that dangerous stuff in Battle Mountain?

We took another drive to Albuquerque (along Route 6) and were delighted to see a style of architecture that can only be described as "Southwest Art Deco."

What do you think?

North of town, we headed to Petroglyph National Monument. This is the sign that greeted us:

This is how we were shod:

Guess which one of us was the better prepared.

This is the trail that awaited us:

To my credit, I went anyway. (And didn't whine too, too much. Really. No matter what Tim says.)

So, is it any wonder that when my cell phone (which was loosely hooked to my belt loop and on "vibrate") went off, I heard the BZZZZZZZZZ and screamed, thinking it was a rattler. Tim delighted in taking this picture of my humiliation afterwards:

So that we can all forget this particular incident, here are some petroglyph pictures I took especially for you:

(While that's a cat, there were, alas, no poodle petroglyphs.)

Finally, here's a puzzle for ya: At home, we sleep on a "California King" bed (it's narrower and longer). In Sanfa Fe, the hotel had "Eastern King" beds (wider and shorter - Tim's legs stick out). So... why does Colorado, which is closer to California than Santa Fe, have California Kings and Santa Fe, Eastern Kings?

This is the kind of stuff I think about - well, at least I did when I was still 49. We'll have to see what the next half-century holds.