Skiing Adventure Part 2

As an amendment to my first skiing adventure post I'd like to point out that I didn't actually sit in the bar all day and drink. I nursed two beers until the guys were sufficiently worn out then we went to dinner. Sitting at the bar and drinking all day is what people expect you to do if you are at a ski lodge and not skiing.

Sunday was a great skiing day if you are a very experienced skier and you have thighs made of granite. Neither of these descriptions fit me so I waited until Monday to really get my ski on. I knew the foot of snow that had fallen on Sunday would be groomed to perfection on Monday. We went to Black Mountain and I had the best ski day of my life. The snow was groomed and soft. We got there early so the first three runs were fresh tracks. There is nothing like tearing up flawless corduroy, it makes skiing almost effortless. You just glide down the mountain. Michael had ungroomed trails to ski so we were both in downhill heaven.

As the day progressed, though, the snow started getting softer from the sun and skied up to the point where it became work again and my thighs were protesting. Sunday's shenanigans had really taxed my out of shape thighs so any effort put into skiing on Monday was really painful so I started being lazy on the straight-aways and not so steep parts of the mountain. It was during one of these lazy points when a little red squirrel ran right out in front of me. He was so close to my blades! I swerved to avoid him and he darted back the other way and I had to cut back again. It's a wonder I didn't hit a tree.

Swerving to avoid a squirrel in a car is one thing. Maybe hitting the squirrel insted of causing a head on collision is a good idea but can you imagine running over a squirrel in skis? I think picking little bits of squirrel out of the bindings of my blades would have pushed me right over the edge. Therapy would have been necessary. Michael suggested that, since the snow was so soft, if I had hit him I may have just pushed the squirrel down into the snow and just skied right over him and he'd have been fine. I think physics may have something to say about that.

Between dodging hari kari squrrels and giant mounds of softening snow falling out of the trees (I narrowly avoided that too) it's a miricle I survived Monday's ski adventure.

Skiing Adventure Part 1

This weekend we went to New Hampshire to hang out with friends and to, once again, revisit the place where we got married. I can’t get enough of the Shovel Handle! As it happens we also did a little skiing.

A few years ago I made the switch from skis to skiboards (or blades, as I like to call them because I’m extremely hip). They are much easier on the knees and…well, just easier all around actually. You can turn and stop on a dime, I always feel in control and they are so much lighter and less of a pain to carry around. Since I have made the switch I have been exclusively on the blades, foregoing actual skis entirely. This has never been a problem at all since I live and ski in New England where powder days are about as rare as beach days. The blades have usually been kind to me but this Sunday we decided to ski in the middle of a snowstorm. The powder was too thick and too deep. I was miserable on the blades. I took one run and that was that, I had a decision to make. I could either go to the bar and drink for the rest of the day or I could man up and rent skis and have fun like everyone else.

Crap it’s only 10:30am. Bar is closed. Off to the rental shop.

Armed with my husband’s wallet (I’d left mine at the house) and an uncharacteristic spurt of courage, I de-bladed and clomped into the rental shop. The rental shop guys thought I was a total nut case. First off, I only had my husband’s wallet which means that I only had his photo ID. They were nice enough to let that slide. Then there was the poor chap that had to listen to me asking for the shortest skis possible since I’ve been on blades for the last five years and I’m freaked out about getting back into skis. He said, “If I give you too short skis you’ll have the same problem you are having with your blades.” Shush with your logic, rental shop man. He gave me 140s and some poles and sent me on my way. “Don’t break your neck, little lady.”

Michael and Steve are the best skiers I know. In fact, my friend Steve taught me how to ski. They could ski in any sort of conditions so they were taking a run while I was manning up and renting skis. There was no way I was skiing the trails they were on my first day on skis in five years so I looked at a map and decided to head up to the “wild kitten” trail to test my legs. I carried the heavy skis up the hill to the lift and headed up the mountain, on the slowest lift in recorded history, in a snowstorm, first time in skis in a half a decade, by myself. Good times were certain to follow.

I have been on the “wild kitten” before. Hardly anyone goes over there because once you get off the lift (which by the way went pretty smoothly) you have to traverse over to a tunnel (a tunnel that has snow in it which has always mystified me) and then traverse for what seems like a mile over to the easiest trail on the mountain. This was hard in heavy skis and in all that crazy powder, but I persevered and finally got to the down hill part of the trail. Shockingly, I was actually staying upright…sort of. Not only that, I was staying in control, somewhat. I was certainly not going to be hitting any black diamonds but I was doing ok. The snow was so deep there was no sound from the skis on the snow at all. It was showing hard and there was no one on the trail. It was mine to enjoy.

I thought, “Wow, this is so beautiful and peaceful.”

Then I thought, “Wow, I could totally fall and die out here and no one would find me until May.”

I skied the rest of the way down and made remarkable progress with my control. By my final run of the day (which was only two after that one, New England powder is exhausting stuff) I was executing tight little turns and handling the piles of powder with ease. It felt great to be back on skis!

Then I went to the lodge to drink for the rest of the day. Best of both worlds.

NESHDRs

Once a year or so I visit my family in Florida and I drag my husband along. This year my mom scheduled her annual chili cook off while we were there. Yum! She informed me that my dad (yes my mom and step-dad invite my dad and step-mom to their parties and vice versa. Very adult of them, wouldn’t you say?) has been commissioned to bring the hot dogs, presumably for chili dogs. I said, “Oh I’ll bring the rolls.”

New England Style Hot Dog Rolls are the sort that have flat sides for toasting or grilling or what not. Living in Boston I take the presence of these on my supermarket shelves for granted. Can you imagine a lobster roll on anything but a bun you can butter up and grill? Or never having the option for a toasted or grilled roll for your hot dog? Well, welcome to Florida. The land of sunshine, warm weather and rounded hot dog rolls. My dad has always made it perfectly clear that the NESHDRs are unattainable in Florida. When I said I’d bring the NESHDRs from Boston I could practically hear my parents drooling over the phone. My mom actually mentioned it twice to my sister in one day. Sure I’ll bring the rolls. I mean, how hard could it be to transport exceptionally soft white bread products in an airplane, right?

The day of the flight came and Michael had gotten the rolls the day before. I packed the rolls, as my friend Courtney advised, in the top of a canvas bag and planned to carry them on the plane with me. My plan was to store them under the seat in front of me.

Earlier in the week, I’d sent an email to my dad and step dad with my flight info and my step dad emailed me back saying “Hey you’re in first class! Have a Manhattan for me.” Well our flight was at 7:45am and a Manhattan at that hour is a bit boozy, even for me. I was surprised to learn that we were in first class. It wasn’t something that we asked for. We weren't scheduled to be in first class on the way back to Boston. We certainly didn’t use enough miles to be in first class. It’s a mystery, a very comfy mystery.

The bad thing about being in row 1 on a plane is that there is no seat in front of you and you have to store all of your carry-ons and personal items in the overhead bin. No chance I was putting the precious cargo in the overhead bin. The rolls had already survived being carried through the airport by a man whose boarding pass looked like it had been chewed by a lama after ten minutes (seriously how did he mess that thing up so badly in 10 minutes?), no way was I chancing the overhead bin and it’s contents that may shift during flight. The flight attendant was kind enough to put the bag in the closet at the front of the plane, albeit with some funny looks.

We arrived in FLA on Friday and the chili cookout was scheduled for Saturday night. I love that my parents can schedule a cookout for the 10^th of January and not have to worry about potential snow or sub zero temperatures. In fact they were concerned that temperatures would drop to under 65 degrees that night, which would have prompted my parents and their friends to don their winter coats and my sister to actually put on socks.

The rolls made it from the plane to the rental car, to my dad’s pantry, to my mom’s cookout with minimal crushing and no signs of staleness at all. When I brought them into the kitchen my mom broke them apart and put them into a bowl and took them out to the grill for toasting. Buttering each roll seemed absurd as there were thirty-two of them. The bowl came back into the house as quickly as it left, “The grill is full. You’ll have to butter them and cook them on the griddle or else they get eaten as is.”

I did not bring 4 packages of NESHDRs 1,500 miles to have them eaten raw. So, dear readers, I buttered and griddled the crap out of those NESHDRs, all 32 of them. My grandma sat and watched me from the kitchen table and asked, “Are you cooking the rolls?” When I was done and I set them on the buffet table you would have thought I had walked a unicorn in on a leash.
“What are these?”
“Well, I’ve never seen anything like this.”
“Did you cook these?”

Suffice to say that the rolls were a big hit, gone in mere minutes. I think I saw my dad knock over old ladies and small children to get to the plate of rolls. But the joy of introducing Floridians to a delicacy such as the NESHDR comes with a heavy price. I will never again be able to board a Tampa bound plane without NESHDRs in my canvas carry on.

Hint Hint

I went to have my nails done at Brighton Nails in Oak Square after work. Like most places the nail salon is run and attended to by Vietnamese women and as always there was a Buddha shrine in the salon. These little shrines always have a cup of rice and a bowl of water for an offering. Sometimes you'll see fresh fruit or veggies there as well. Today my nail techs were offering the Buddha Weight Watchers brownies. A full box of them, sitting there as pretty as you please in front of the Buddha shrine. I didn't snap a pic of this because 1) it seemed disrespectful and 2) I had forgotten my phone at home and was cameraless. That'll teach me.

Miracle Pants or I Got Splashed By a Cab

Running errands at lunch is always stressful. Trying to squeeze an otherwise enjoyable shopping experience into an hour long, nerve wracking blitz is never fun. Today I had an additional time line other than my hour lunch allotment. I'm leaving for FLA on Friday and I'm nearly out of foundation and moisturizer, both of which cannot be found in Spring Hill. In fact I don't think they sell anything other than St. Ives and Maybelline in Spring Hill and since I've developed this annoying sensitive skin issue I can't cheap out anymore, though I'd really like to spend less than $36 for a tiny thing of moisturizer. But I digress.

Since I have to be a facial product snob now I need to go to Sephora and get the things I need. Sephora is in the Pru Mall and I work the Financial District in downtown Boston. I got on the green line and headed off to run the obstacle course of the Pru at lunchtime. I needed foundation, moisturizer and to return a shirt to the GAP. Eyes on the prize. In and out. No funny business.

But Victoria's Secret was having their Semi Annual sale.

First things first.
Return the shirt to the GAP.
Get moisturizer.
Hit the VS sale.
Head all the way over to the other side of the mall to get the foundation.
Get back on the green line and go back to work.
All in one hour. Yeah right.

I was actually making pretty good time and got everything I needed. VS was the biggest bag I had and it was the cheesey paper bag they give you when you shop at the semi-annual sale not the nice shiny shopping bag for their "regular" customers who pay full price. They crammed all of the nice new, on sale bras and undies into the paper bag and sent me on my cheap girl way. I tried to condense the bags from the other stores in there as well which made for a cheap paper bag busting at the seams.

I speed walked through the mall in my Sorels (which must have been quite a sight) and headed out the mall door toward the Copley T station. As I waited on the middle-of-the-road island to cross the street a cab trying to make the changing light barrelled past and caused the ocean of a puddle of salty slush in front of me to slosh up and take up new residence on my pants. I must admit I let out a yell as it was happening. I saw it coming but too late to move out of the way.

My first thought was, "I wish I had superpowers so I could fly after that cab and pull the driver out and bludgeon him."
My second thought was, "Thank god I'm wearing my miracle pants."

I always wear my miracle pants when it rains. They are a light weight Geoffrey Beene Poly/Rayon/Spandex blend that dry remarkably fast. But wet pants were the least of my worries.

As I got on the T I noticed that my VS cheap paper bag, that branded me as a sale shopper, was wet. Had it been their nice regular bag it would have resisted the water but this one just sucked it right up and threatened to bust through the bottom, spilling my new bras and panties for all the world to see. I grasped the over stuffed, damp paper bag from the bottom and the sides and willed it to stay together until I reached the office. It did.

With my tattered bag and my wet pants I walked back into the office 20 min late from my lunch "hour." I dried my pants under the "excellerator" in the ladies room.

Shopping trip successful. Wet and cold, but successful.

My Cat is Crazier Than Your Cat.

About a week ago my husband informed me that there was a creepy-crawly in the kitchen under the boot tray. By creepy-crawly I mean a House Centipede which looks like this:












If you have never encountered one of these, count yourself lucky. They don't bite or sting. They aren't even especially large but they are about the creepiest things you'll ever see. When I came into the kitchen our cat, Miss. America, was pawing at the boot tray, trying to get the invader. We assumed she apprehended said creepy-crawly because it disappeared. Good riddance. Those friggin things give me the jeebs.

Every day since then Miss. America has been holding vigil at the boot tray. She sits and stares for hours on end at the boot tray and water dish. As I write this she is sitting next to me with an unwavering stare. It's creepy. Almost as creepy as the creepy-crawly. It has gotten to the point that I think our other cat, The Fozz, is dehydrated because she's blocking the downstairs water bowl. There is a water bowl upstairs as well but he's partial to the one downstairs for some weird reason. Same exact bowl. Same exact water. It's just on a different floor and he likes the downstairs water better.

I feel that I have to go into the kitty history a bit here. The Fozz and Miss. America are siblings, feral cats that were rescued from under a friends porch in Somerville. The Fozz seems to have come through the experience ok. He's sociable and pretty chill. He hangs out when guests are here and people marvel at his impressive girth (he's 18lbs of gray feline) and laugh when they watch him try to get through the cat door that seems impossibly small for a cat his size. The Fozz is our normal cat.

Miss. America is the crazy one.

Our friends don't believe that we have two cats because they only see The Fozz. Miss. America stays hidden when we have company. So far she will only show her face for me, my husband and my sons. That's it. When we are around she is a total attention hog. She will relentlessly head-but our hands so we'll pet her to the point that after a half hour of constant petting we have to sit on our hands to get her to go away.

But now all she does is sit by the boot tray, watching, waiting, poised for the attack.

Our neighbors cat is on Prozac. Perhaps that is the answer.

The Fozz
















Miss. America holding vigil.