The funny thing about being surrounded by people in gorilla suits is that after just a few minutes, it seems normal. People are talking to one another, making phone calls, taking photos, drinking water, but they just happen to be a little hairier than usual.

That observation startled me as I stood with my boyfriend in gorilla suits of our own, two of 1,061 gorilla-suited-people who gathered in Denver on Halloween to break a world record and raise money for the Mountain Gorilla Conservation Fund. By running a 5K in a gorilla suit.

When Patrick suggested the run, I thought it sounded like a fabulous idea. Who hasn’t secretly wanted to wear a gorilla suit at one point or another, just for the experience? (Don’t lie to yourself.) Plus, besides saving mountain gorillas, registering meant I’d get a gorilla suit FOR LIFE. No more Halloween costume questions, ever.

We picked up our gorilla suits and bought some cheap hippie-ish accessories to distinguish ourselves from the other thousand gorilla suits who’d be wandering the streets of Denver. Once we put on the glasses, headbands, and chains with peace signs, we looked eerily like aging, hairy, naked hippies.

So we gathered to run, and to my surprise, the best part of the event had nothing to do with the race or the world record. It happened while we milled about in the street while we waited for officials to tally the number of gorillas and tell us we had broken the world record for number of people in gorilla suits in one place. One side of the street was lined with buildings with restaurants in the first floor, topped by several levels of apartments.

I looked up and saw a man staring out of a second-story apartment window. He looked a little sleepy, and was wearing a classic silk bathrobe: striped, with polka-dot lapels. He looked out the window with a bemused expression, the kind I imagine anyone would have while having the internal debate about whether seeing 1,000 gorillas in the street means it’s the kind of morning when one should go back to bed.

A few minutes later, I looked up again and the man had returned with a camera. He smiled as he snapped a few pictures of the crowd, which must have looked pretty impressive from above. There were gorilla cops, gorilla brides, gorilla Denver Nuggets, and even a gorilla Statue of Liberty.

As we waited, the race officials announced that we had officially broken the world record. (Shattered it, really – the previous record had been a little over 600 gorillas in London.) The crowd started cheering, and then grunting like gorillas. The man at the window had come back again, this time with a cup of coffee, and was visibly laughing as he watched all of us celebrating.

I can’t imagine what he thought was going on, other than some kind of gorilla apocalypse scenario. But watching him sit and drink in our ridiculous revelry with that kind of sense of humor (and fantastic bathrobe) was a highlight of an already out-of-the-ordinary day. We do strange, funny things, and sometimes the best response you can get from someone is simply delight at the unexpected.

Dear Baby Oz,

Just over two months ago you were born into this place we call Earth. This crazy mixed up place called Earth. I had the opportunity to visit you two days after you were born, and it was life changing. As soon as your father so gently placed you in my arms I knew you were going to be in my life for a long time. As I gazed at you in awe, all I could do was love you. I loved your 10 fingers and 10 toes and your pouty little mouth. I loved that you had a clean slate, and that your whole future awaits you with uncertainty.

More than anything, precious boy, I loved that I knew you were fashioned out of the most amazing, unending love. I look at your face, and find myself being reminded of how good God really is. He delicately put you together, and will continue to watch over you. At this moment in life, you don’t really have a lot of concerns, but that doesn’t change the fact that you have a God who created you perfectly.

As you get older precious Baby Oz, you will find that sometimes worries come into our life. I hope you remember that just as God watches over you know, He will continue to take care of you through all the storms of life. You remind me of this every day.

I hope your remember, Oz, that you will always have the greatest network of support within your family and friends. If you have a bad day, bad week or bad year, look to those closest to you. We so often forget that they are the ones that know us best. While we might not always tell you the easiest things to hear, we will tell you the truth. I work with high school students who don’t come from the best of places. Most of their parents are abusive in some form, are non-existent or encourage their children to get pregnant rather than graduate. You have caught an easy break though, kid. You were born to two loving parents, who wanted you in their lives more than anything. Two parents who will do anything for you, and who want the very best for you. Your parents also come with a phenomenal group of friends who welcome you with open arms.

Thank you, Oz, for restoring my soul after a long day with 80 tenth-grade punks (whom I love dearly). Just like you, all these kids need is love. And now, more than ever, after they have been faced with the harsh realities of this world, they still need just as much love as I feel for you. You have reminded me that even in the midst of their gang activities, fist fights and lack of ability to do anything that involves the word trabajo, I must find some way to love them. To let them know that they too have the greatest network of support.

So my precious baby boy, I can’t wait to watch you grow. To grow into what we all know you will become-perfect in your own special and unique way. I pray that you go boldy into this world. That you chase all your wildest dreams, that you give this life your best and that you always know how much you are loved.

Love,

Aunt Amy

P.S. I hope your mom doesn’t mind. I’m not really your aunt; I just like to call myself that. It makes me feel important in your life.

When I received a jury duty summons, I thought I’d put in a day, two at most, before being dismissed. But in a matter of hours, I was chosen as Juror Number Three for a three-week trial (which I can not talk about, because I’ve been sworn to privacy. Don’t ask me questions!).

The 16-person jury (12 plus four alternates) was compiled from four rounds of group questioning. We were all in the court room together, listening to everyone answer the same questions. We knew eachother’s jobs (or lack thereof), where we lived (for how long; if we rented or owned), if we had any children, if we or anyone close to us had been charged with a crime or been a victim of one. Those lawyers really get to the good stuff.

We actually ran out of potential jurors on the second day day, so a new group had to be called in for the next day. The last five jurors were picked from the new pool while the rest of us waited in another room. It was weird when they joined us. We knew nothing about them. They were louder. One of them took my favorite chair. We were a jury divided.

One woman remarked that we were going to be family for the next three weeks. I didn’t quite like the sound of that. (Were we supposed to hug and share special life details? What did she even mean?!) Our room, which is basically our second home, is a bit pitiful. The magazines are from 2008. There’s a water pitcher, but we don’t know who refills it or how often. We can’t bring lunch, because there’s no fridge, microwave or place to eat in the courthouse. We discussed bringing in a grill and having a nice BBQ, but the court officer told us to not leave any valuables in the room. That’s Jerry, always looking out for us.

Sixteen of us share one bathroom, which makes it impossible for the five-minute bathroom break the judge gives us to actually be completed in five minutes. (But that doesn’t matter so much because the lawyers and judge always take five times longer than they say they will.) We pretend not to hear each other use the bathroom, though that’s impossible. One woman runs the water while she’s in there. I appreciate that, even though others probably find that wasteful.

When we’re not in court, we’re either waiting in our jury room or waiting in a hallway on another floor to be taken to the jury room. There’s a lot of waiting. But we’re never told why. At first we all kept to ourselves — reading, listening to iPods, napping (maybe that’s just me…), staring at the wall — because the one thing we all have in common is the one thing that we’re not allowed to talk about. But after 45 minutes of waiting turned into a couple hours, and we were all still just sitting there, we warmed up to one another. I suggested someone bring Twister, just so we can see the reaction from Court Officer Jerry upon entering the room to find right hands on red, left feet on green. I also thought it’d be awesome if the jurors performed a skit at the end so the judge, jurors and other court officers could see how they acted. Sometimes we take bets on how long we’ll have to wait. Regardless of the guess, we usually wait at least 15 minutes longer.

After spending so much time with the same people in confined spaces, I started trying to find celebrity counterparts. There’s John Locke (the character from Lost who started out as a self-appointed leader). Julia Stiles (slightly angsty). Ossie Davis (a kind, quiet man from Barbados with gentle eyes who always holds the door open for me). Jim from The Office (who not only looks like him but is equally funny). Kristi Yamaguchi (who has enough clips in her hair to prevent it from moving during a double-axel in a tornado).

Before I knew it though, we did start acting like family. People say hello as they trickle in each morning to the third floor benches. One woman shared her debate over honeymoon locations. We heard all about one mom’s preparations for her daughter’s birthday party (and then, the next Monday, how the girls all stayed up until 3 a.m.). And each night, as we all cram into one elevator together, almost half will say goodbye to everyone at some point during the short four-flight ride. We call it our group hug.

For something that so many people try so hard to get out of, I’m actually learning quite a lot. (I just can’t tell you about it.)

You’ll just have to get on your own trial to see for yourself.

Working for the city has some perks. For almost two years now, I have been working as a Record Specialist in the Boulder Police Department. This is not a DJ position, which would for sure be more fun. I am part of a larger team that deals with all public police records that are generated by the officers and detectives.  It is basically an admin job, and at times resembles The Office, but with the added element of scenarios that not even the highest paid Hollywood screenwriter could dream up.  Let’s just say it is a study in the human spirit and behavior… mostly mine. Besides having my own fabulous grey cube and a worn out chair (we actually may get some new ones, which is very exciting) and too many sweets and donuts, the city provides an all-expense-paid bus pass for the city of Boulder. This is actually a pretty cool thing, as buses in Boulder are like the Yellow Cabs in New York.

In the past year or so, I didn’t have much need for the provided pass because Nita and I lived smack in the middle of downtown Boulder and could walk or ride our bikes anywhere. After the recent move, however, we find ourselves on the southern edge of Boulder, which may as well be in a different country as far as Boulderites are concerned.  People in Boulder seem to think anything over 10 minutes by car is a long drive.

Enter the bus.

I am 37 years old and grew up in Santa Monica, Calif., a place where you don’t ride the bus for a number of reasons, some bad, some just because you don’t. In Boulder, it is a part of the culture and is pretty simple… well sort of. I had to sit down and actually research the times, locations and routes of the myriad of stops and starts. This bus timetable was like the worst math word problem I remember having as a kid.  You know the one… with multiple directions and speeds all culminating in one vortex of location that can’t be missed or you are doomed to wait seven more minutes.

The Skip Bus comes by our new place on the sevens (bus lingo for timing). Which is pretty nice and the walk to the bus stop from home is a mere 75 yards. I walked out yesterday feeling like a kid on an adventure and stood in the somewhat cool air with anticipation. When the bus came I was the only one on it for a few minutes and managed to strike up a conversation by asking the simple question, “So, how do I get to 30th from here?”  Well this driver not only answered my question, but for the rest of the ride enlightened me about all the tricks and trades of the routes. He even told me I could catch a “deadhead” back to the depot because I work for the city. Huh?

A deadhead is a bus no longer in service with a one-way route back to the depot. I could, if I wanted, catch a ride on the deadhead, which would drop me off in front of my work as it happens to be next to the bus depot. I think I will reserve this option for the James Bond moment that will for sure appear when it is needed.

I also learned about the airport bus that would only cost me $5 with my pass. Now that’s a bargain.

Anyhow, I hopped off my first bus, The Skip, walked a block and got on the Jump. In Boulder they try to be clever with names like, Bound, Jump, Skip, Hop and Dash. All this does is create more confusion on the matter because I can’t remember what the hell I’m doing… Jumping or Skipping. The Jump dropped me off in front of a Starbucks, which is always a dream come true, and the whole journey took 30 minutes. No stress, no gas, no nasty post environmental guilt.

The ride home was a different story. After 10 p.m., the busses only run on the 30s (see the lingo again?)  which means I froze my ass off twice while waiting for the Bound and the Skip.  Bound for where I don’t know, but it was cold. Not including the third bus, aptly named the Dash, which I boarded by mistake and had to jump off and run back to the Skip that would take me to the final stop of the day. See why this is so confusing?

As I sat pondering the different physical activities I had encountered that actually do coincide with the different bus names, I noticed that the late night buses contain a different crowd. Not a good or bad one, but just an interesting slice of society. The late night workers (including me) — mostly men — some quiet, some chatty all wanting to get home after a long day. The bus is a bit of a contradiction. On one hand I felt responsible and resourceful, kind of like a kid. On the other hand, more so at night, I felt a bit downtrodden. It felt a bit like the March of the Penguins. You know… all the men huddling together trying not to freeze and at the same time holding a big fat egg between two feet and a fat belly hoping it doesn’t roll out and break… ’cause that would be bad.

Don’t get me wrong; I like the bus. I will probably, most likely, maybe take it again today, and maybe I’ll see the same faces and hop, skip and jump to work. But on the way home, I may call Nita for a ride.

Four years ago, I moved in to an apartment with my friends Laura and Raquel. Laura and I had a very good reason for choosing this apartment: We thought the leasing agent was hot.

Laura quickly became friends with the neighbors. I kept hearing about how much fun these people were, especially a few boys from Baldwin City, Kan., who lived across the hall. She told me how they were always offering her food and that they had strung a hammock across the fireplace in their living room. I wasn’t so sure about these boys. They seemed nice enough, but I was more interested in keeping to myself. I was never a social butterfly,  and the idea of meeting new people, especially guys, freaked me out.

The boys’ apartment was also constantly filled. A group of six or seven guys could usually be found hanging out in that apartment. I could never figure out who exactly lived there and what their names were, so I started calling all of them the Baldwin boys.

Then one day, Laura told me about a party the boys were going to at a lake. I was prepared for a night in. After I was promised a paddleboat ride, I gave in and followed Laura across that hall. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.

These boys were entertaining. Friday nights were spent partying with the boys of apartment 310. They played great music, always had a drinking game going and could make me laugh harder than anyone ever could. One party even turned into a dance party. Furniture was moved and we spent hours dancing and body surfing in our small apartment. They were crazy and immature, two things that made me feel like I finally had a place to belong.

During the days, you could always find a Baldwin boy to watch hours of TV, play a game of basketball or take a trip to the store with. I had never felt so comfortable with a group of guys before. It was refreshing.

But the best thing about following Laura across that hall was the chance to watch my best friend fall in love. Having a front row seat to the love story of Laura and Ben has been amazing. From the start, I just knew it was a perfect match. You could always find them cuddling on the couch, teasing each other about silly things or dancing together on Friday nights. Their love was inspiring. Plus, they were both a blast to be around.

Four years after I took that short walk across the hall, I stood at the altar watching Laura and Ben exchange vows. There is nothing better than seeing someone you love so incredibly happy. On the other side of the altar, those boys I had been so reluctant to befriend stood, supporting our friends.

I feel very blessed to have Laura in my life, and I was honored to be a part of her wedding day. And though it took me a while to warm up to the boys across the hall, I can’t imagine life without them.

This year was the first time since living at home with my parents that I have actually handed out candy to trick-or-treaters on Halloween.

In college, I lived in the dorms for two years, and not many parents were willing to send their kids into a building infested with young adults who were drinking and using Halloween as an excuse to wear very little clothing.

My junior year, I actually did transfer to a college closer to home and lived with my parents. But I also had a new boyfriend and going out with him on Halloween definitely took precedence over staying home with my parents watching a scary movie and having to get up every five minutes to answer the door and give bite-size Milky Ways to little Spidermen and princesses.

Senior year I was in my own apartment back in my old college town. Apartment buildings are not conducive to holidays like Halloween, so not much happened that year either.

The following Halloween I was four days away from my wedding. Handing out candy was the last thing on my mind.

Then last Halloween, my husband and I were in Florida celebrating our one-year anniversary.

So I was excited to have a normal Halloween this year, and I found it can be just as magical for adults as it is for kids. As I sat on the swinging bench on our front porch — fire pit keeping me warm and a cup of coffee in my hands — I watched large groups of kids, parents trailing behind them, wander up and down the street. They excitedly showed off their costumes, which was entertaining to watch. They whispered to each other as they came up our driveway, and they giggled and compared candy on their way back down. The moon was full, and the air was barely warm enough for a sweatshirt to keep me warm.

Every time a child came up to our house, I couldn’t help but grin from deep down inside, where I felt happy to be in this moment. No other day of the year allows anyone and everyone to drop by your house to say hello, and no other day of the year gives you permission to pass out ridiculous amounts of candy to make little kids happy. No other day of the year will you find all of your neighbors out for an evening stroll, laughing and talking loud, not worried who hears them and not worried about what time they got home.

Yes, it was fun to dress up as a kid and GET candy. I will always have special memories of going out with my brothers, laughing all the way from house to house, and having an hours-long bartering session in the living room, our candy strewn about in carefully-constructed piles.

But it’s also fun to be on the giving side of Halloween…to see all the costumes, the wide smiles as they find you have their favorite candy, to meet the parents (who are actually around your age now), and to watch it all from from afar.

In fact, I think I like this side better.