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February 14, 2006
Wicky Wicky Wack
That title is in reference to those east coast mogul humpers (not you Ellen Barkin) who have not yet made plans to come out here and get down to brass tacks with some of the best times ever spent outdoors. These past few days of skiing, drinking, and skiing some more in Winter Park with my brother - the Lounging Tomato - were some of the greatest of me short life.
Aside from the bizarro hotel we stayed at, which will be parsed at great length once Matt sends me his pictures, the best part was a two-hour lesson I finagled with Nigel of Australia, the jefe of all of the ski instructors who never teaches private lessons anymore. Skor! In ten minutes, he explained to me how to ski on parabolics and, um, basically unleashed all the 7th-grade skillz that had been hiding...somewhere...in the lodge. In their skidz and scrunchies.
As if reupping my ability to barrel down the mountain at giggle-inducing, slighly uncontrolled speeds wasn't enough, Nigel also introduced me to another ski instructor, Rudy, who runs a bar start-up consultantcy.
Nigel? You are my favorite person ever.
Fate? You are one ridickydonkulous mother.
Matt? Well, as for Matt, the boy had several insane back-country experiences, including ski-walking a mile-long catwalk to some crazy steep ungroomed bowl, dodging unexploded artilery shells, and hitting the slopes with Marie on Saturday when it was NEGATIVE FORTY outside.
NEGATIVE FORTY, people. Apparently, temperature is fast joining fate in rearing the ridickydonkulous family.
I'll leave more tales of his lunacy to the Blogmeister Jr. upon his return to NYC. If, in fact, his hands aren't too frozen to type after shoveling his car out at JFK.
Posted by Bree at February 14, 2006 08:17 AM