Unrelated to anything but the title:
You know why I fucking hate Angelina Jolie so much? She's so goddamn sexy and tall and rich and has those fucking huge lips and shit. She also can take a relatively shitty movie and act circles around the paltry dialogue and questionable plotline.
But my jeep is so much more fucking awesome than hers.
I also hate the fucking snow. Actually, that's not quite right. I love the snow, I just hate its habit of coming twelve hours late. Like it's some sort of diva or something - as if the whole entire party revolves around the snow. As if.
Ok, well, it does, because I snowboarded again Saturday.
1. I still love it. The sport is cool, the equipment is cool, the people who do it are cool. So hense, I'm cool. Right??
But I fear it will be much like my relationship with golf. I'll never be able to completely satisfy it in bed; but we will still have a wildly passionate, on-again, off-again affair which will leave me alternately devestated and elated; and nearly always sore and exhausted and hungover.
2. The Lad did marvelously at it - ready to learn turning at aged six! He went up the lift and all of it and came out nappy-haired and overjoyed. He wants to get a cool helmet and board and start doing jumps. A child's confidence does a mother's heart good. I got to tell my class - "Yea! That's my little boy over there!" He was doing so well, and he's still little enough to yell, "Hi Mommy! Look what I can do!" I about fucking bawled right there on the bunny hill.
3. I saw improvement, enough to impress even PHF. (An aside - ha, thought you were going to get off without one, did you? - It's rather amusing to have my own skier following behind, blocking traffic when I, uh, take a breather. He yells encouragements at the occassional fall and tells me when I do good. It's like having a personal cheerleading bodyguard - and a cute one at that. PHF is everything I'm not on skis. He is graceful, beautiful, perfectly parallel, his limbs work in concert; he is fricking eloquent. The sport speaks through him. It's really quite annoying.)
4. I spent not necessarily less time on the ground than last time, but much more by design rather than by accident. Strategic falling, I'll call it. I'm pretty good at edging stops and controlling my speed (not that I go very fast, you understand) and now I'm working on turning. I plan on not blowing money on lessons (though it's the same price as a lift and rentals) again (if ever) until next fall.
5. It nearly goes without saying, but the beer at the end of the day was pretty damn good, too.
Not so good points:
1. When PHF bought new goggles, our day topped out at over 300 bucks. For one day. Lift tickets are highway robbery, I tell ya. But, yes, dear, I know, you really did need new ones. Those scratches were annoying.
2. The snow pretty well sucked. It was that sticky, slushy manmade shit that catches an edge of my board and sends me flyin'. Ok, that didn't happen. But it sucked. And guess what it did all fucking night and through the day TODAY???!! Yah. That's right. Six fucking inches.
3. The mountain kicked my ass Saturday (figuratively). I'm in pretty good shape so it must be the altitude. Yeah, that's it. At 9000 feet there's no frickin' air.
Ok, no. It's not that high for me, I live at altitude, for crissake. I think (I hope) it's because I spent more time actually doing it instead of sitting on my ass wondering how I was going to get back down the mountain. I was done whupped, my lungs straining, my legs taxed, my ass red with exertion and for other reasons as well... which leads to point number 4...
4. The mountain kicked my ass Saturday (literally). My. Ass. Hurts. Not the tailbone this time; it was over on the cheekside, left to be exact. The Fall happened when I was nearly at the bottom, very close; tired but gutsy enough to take a turn. The Fall caused me to land on my ass and back. I would have lost equipment in The Fall, had it not been strapped onto me. The Fall was annoying because I almost made it through the day with a happy, intact ass.
It soooo huoots! Like, if I put on jeans and they are the slightest tight (I loathe baggy jeans) and I say, move, my ass hurts. Or if I sit in the back of my jeep on the ride home, my ass hurts. Or if I yell at my kid too loud my ass hurts. Or if I bend over to pick something up, my ass hurts.
I'm still waiting on the appearance of the bruise and I'll keep you updated; as I know you all are facinated by the status of my ass.
I won't take your lack of comments personally; we can all just yell out in a collective silent e-cry: FUCK YOU BLOGGER!!!