I’m new to Santa Fe—why wouldn’t I attempt to paint the aspens? Isn’t that what people do? They move to Los Angeles to be actors, writers and musicians; to New York City to be (different kinds of) actors, writers and musicians; and to Santa Fe to be painters. Forget that I’m still learning how to use my camera properly; my assignment is to paint the aspens.

As a longtime 13 Moon calendar advocate formerly obsessed with the Maya(n) calendar, as well as the accompanying lore, allow me to clarify: The end of the Maya(n) calendar (Dec. 21, 2012) is not the end of the world; it is merely the end of three-dimensional existence as we know it. With this in mind, my last day of linear Gregorian cluster-fuckiness here in Santa Fe would look a little something like this:

In response to this guy who got in my face at the grocery store with a diatribe about how I have no right to be a music critic since I’m not a musician myself, I decided to attend the open mic at Second Street Brewery’s Railyard location.

The New Mexico heraldic crest, if it had one, would probably feature Christmas chiles, a West Side Locos tag, hot air balloons and a bolo tie. And don’t forget the Frito pie, surrounded by fleur-de-lis to class it up a little.

I moved to Santa Fe nine years ago. Should I have formally immersed myself in the regional cooking methods? Should I have signed up for a class at the Santa Fe School of Cooking back in 2002?

Pondering a doomsday 2012 scenario, I wondered which Santa Fe offering I would visit if I had only 24 hours to go. Then it hit me: Were I facing inevitable death, I’d want to be as relaxed as possible.

Before tweens and hillbillies started singing that horrid Nickelback anthem, it was the secret dream of most writers to play in a rock ’n’ roll band. Some authors, including Rick Moody, Stephen King and even (alas!) Barbara Kingsolver, have actually nailed semi-regular gigs doing something a step above karaoke.

As anyone who survived the Endless Winter of 2009 knows, short, cold days and long, cold nights require a game plan. And, like most of life’s experiences (falling in love, winning the lottery, surviving the apocalypse), a little self-knowledge goes a long way.

The holidays are a great time to remember those less fortunate—but it seems like everyone chooses the holidays as the time to remember and, the rest of the year, they forget.

I’m an unapologetic omnivore, but a nice sister and daughter. For Thanksgiving this year, my weird, painfully nontraditional, vegetarian family is flying out to Santa Fe. And I’m not going to sequester them, as the guests of honor—who are also traveling 3,000 miles amid holiday hubbub—to side dishes.