It Was the Best of Times. It Was the Blurst of Times.

I’m officially wiped.  Kay Nou — The Road Production just got back from three days at a ski resort about an hour from home.

Reviews were mixed.

Okay.  There were times during this trip when I wanted to leave my present life behind and jump a freight train.  My new life as a hobo — I can picture it now: eating beans out of a can; seeing the industrial side of glamorous places like Sandusky and East St. Louis; comradery at its most meaningful level — until Ratso steals my bundle, then I shank him on a railroad siding.  Not so bad, right?

Anyway.  Instead of focusing on the lows, here are some highs:

  • Running Girl and I snuck out for a moonlight ski last night.  Although it was icy as hell (terrible simile), it was wonderful to spend some time alone with my girlfriend.  She was also fresh off her lesson, and anxious to try out her new moves.  Even though we were totally exhausted, it was one of the best hours I have spent in a long while.
  • Catching the first lift of the day.  So, that’s what it’s like to ski perfect conditions, eh?  They call it “skiing corduroy.”  That’s what the surface of a freshly-groomed slope resembles.  It rocks the Casbah and the surrounding Arab neighborhood.
  • The Teens

    Skiing my black diamond slopes as much and as hard as I desired.  I don’t get this opportunity very often.  We caught the nice weather following a dump of about a foot of fresh snow on the hills.  There was enough powder to really make the experience enjoyable.

  • A bottle of wine with RG.  A lot of good beer.  Both in the room and at restaurants.  I really like this part of vaykay.
  • Bright, blue skies.  I don’t care how cold it is.  This is tonic that fights the blues.  It just so happened that the mornings started off at about 0 degrees and the days then warmed up to just about freezing.  I took off my helmet on the lifts and let the bright, late February sun shine off the top of my chromus domus.  I’m sure it was blinding to skiers without tinted googles.  F- them!
  • It's not all bad.

    Riding the lifts with Subway Dude and The Fashionista.  I find that this is one of the most underrated parts of skiing.  The best conversations take place on the lifts.  You’re forced to conversate.  There’s nothing else to do.  No texting or phone calls — usually too cold, plus the fear of dropping the phone.  With my teenagers, we form insider jokes that can last for years.  They claim to be way too cool for their decidedly unhip dad.  However, I’m banking that they’ll be talking about the goofy jokes I used to crack when I am worm food — or in the years when I will need assistance just to cut the cheese.  Personally, I hope the latter condition never develops.  I’d prefer to beef it on the slopes at the ripe, old age of 80.  Just bury me outside the slope-side bar with my butt sticking high out of the ground — you can rest your skis there while enjoying a libation.

  • Having Running Girl come back from her lesson all hopped up on empowerment.  Now she’s a little more into my sport.  The funny thing is — she is parroting back to me the same skiing tips I have been instructing her on for a long time.  Funny that when I brought this up, she claimed that I had never mentioned any of them to her.  Thank goodness for The Fashionista.  She privately confirmed that the instructor delivered my advice — just a in way more digestible and teacher-like manner.  I can dig that.
  • And then there’s Island Boy.  I’ll tell you what — he is challenging.  You all hopefully saw the cardboard cutouts of skis that we worked with him on earlier this week.    Yeah, forget all that nonsense.  He’s not going with that.  Stopping is just not his thing right now.  Good behavior was not his thing during this trip either.  But, we are here to accentuate the poz.  So:
  1. He got way comfortable with his equipment.  He wore his helmet night and day.  He refused to take it off at times.  That’s good, right?
  2. I skied with him between my skis.  I held out my poles parallel to the ground.  In this manner, we put in some serious piste-time.  I also took him up to the very highest slopes and skied down with him, one slow turn after another.  In this way, he got to see what the rest of the fam sees when we disappear up over the treeline.  I hope that I whetted his appetite for something more than the magic carpet (moving conveyor belt to get the most nubie skiers to the top of the bunny hill) and the baby lift.
  3. Speaking of lifts — no mishaps.  IB gets on.  IB gets off.  That’s cash money right there.
  4. At the top of the Magic Carpet.

    Okay, I saved the best for last.  This afternoon, Subway Dude and I got tired of skiing down hill with a pole between us and IB hanging on to it.  IB certainly had fun doing this.  But, this does nothing toward teaching him how to ski.  The three of us then moseyed back to the magic carpet area.  We started this game where IB would get on and ride the carpet by hisself.  At the top, SD would make sure that IB was pointing downhill, and that his ski tips were not crossed.  Then, this native of Haiti, a tropical land where snow never falls, would take off on his own.  I stood at the bottom of the hill waving to him.  Here’s the best part: I would run left and right at the base, while taunting him to run into me.  Just like that, Island Boy started turning.  And he got really good at it.  Sure, he still can’t stop.  That’s why I was there.  I caught him 100% of the time.  And IB had a huge smile on his punim 100% of the time.  This served to erase all the times that I wanted to put him through the wall of our upgraded hotel suite.

As they say at the end of the hokey-pokey → “That’s what it’s all about.”

About the title of this post, can you name The Simpsons episode I got it from?

— The Major

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One response to this post.

  1. Posted by lisa on February 24, 2011 at 10:32 pm

    Sounds like an amazing trip!

    Reply

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