We’ll take a cup of kindness yet…

Happy 2016! As always, I like to start the New Year off with a thank you to everyone who participated in Nathan Bransford’s Hooray for Heifer drive (you know who you are). Over the years, we’ve been able to help him raise more than $10,000 for people around the world… one farm animal at a time. In the past we donated honey bees and ducks, but this time I mixed it up a bit and purchased part of a goat. I’m hopeful it was the sweet part (like the big eyes, soft ears and warm heart). If not, then I apologize in advance that it ate your bed and shit on your roof (or vice-versa). And yes, that really happens. I’m from Appalachia, I know these things.

As for New Year’s resolutions, I think I’m going to pass this time around. They never seem to work for me. In fact, I would argue that they have the opposite effect. Honestly, when I make them, it’s like I go out of my way to find things to do simply to avoid what I’m actually supposed to be doing. THAT’S RIGHT WORLD, SUCK IT! NO ONE TELLS ME WHAT TO DO. NOT EVEN ME!

Note to self: Update your will. Your passive-aggressive unwillingness to run means that you will probably stroke out and die at forty-five. Worse yet, because you refuse to commit to a regular writing schedule, your readers won’t even know you’re dead. They’ll think it’s “just been a while” since you posted something to mkromd.

With that, I’m off to plan this year’s ski trip; and, wait for it, instead of heading out West or back East, we’re going to stay in the Mid-West. That’s right, TB and I have been cordially invited to Mount Bohemia in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. They had her at “extreme skiing just south of Canada” and me at “you have to sleep in a yert.” Like Marx said, “To each what they need. From each what they can provide.” Besides, I ask you… how bad could it be? Lots of people have group slept… in a tent… on the side of a mountain… that’s covered in four feet of snow.

We're like urban sherpas... She's welcome.  

Talk to you later (unless I don’t because I died, which could happen because I refuse to get on a treadmill or because Bigfoot is real and attacked us/stole our beer. In said case, find my phone. I promise you there will be photos. THE TRUTH IS OUT THERE). 

Ain’t no mountain high enough...

Three kids, two women, one minivan, no haters, and that’s where this story begins… kind of. First, let me apologize for dropping the blogging ball… yet again. Between the trip to Appalachia for my mom’s birthday in March, the ski trip out West with TB and her kids in April, and my beautiful step-daughter wrapping up her Freshman year of college in May, life has been insane, which, for us, seems to be par for the course. Seriously, I no longer think I’m going crazy with everything on my plate, I think I am crazy. I just go sane from time-to-time. You’re welcome.

At any rate, Winter Park was AWESOME… for the most part. Stay with me here, I swear I’ll try to bring it full circle. The skiing was incredible. We hit almost every mountain (except Cirque) until Vasquez Ridge hit my nephew right back. True story: We were off the beaten path in some powder stashes, when TB’s son took a jump, landed it, and went head over ass over snowboard. We initially thought it was nothing, since he was coherent and mobile. It wasn’t until he screamed and collapsed that we realized something was clearly amiss. After getting him down the hill to the medic station, we learned that he had damaged his ureter (the tube from your kidney to your bladder) and had to be ambulanced to Denver.

I’m pleased to report that he’s absolutely fine. In fact, he was back on the slopes just hours after he was discharged, which only proves my point that seventeen year olds not only believe they’re invincible, they actually are. Not kidding, at forty-three, I’ve injured myself yawning and decided to stay in bed simply to avoid further bodily harm. Like they say, “An ounce of prevention is probably why I have several pounds of ass that I can’t get rid of.”

Anyway, while TB was in the hospital in Denver, I had the other two kids at Winter Park. In other words, I needed to make a contingency plan to get them back to the Mid-West, should she need to stay in Colorado with her oldest. Now, before I say anything else, let me say this, “HUGE SHOUT OUT TO ENTERPRISE RENT-A-CAR IN AURORA, CO. You have a customer for life.” Why? Not only were they super friendly when we picked up the car on the way to Winter Park; they were beyond cool when I called and explained what happened and why I might need another vehicle. Not only did I get the same guy who helped us the first time, he totally remembered us. I shit you not, that sweet twenty-something college kid said, “Yeah, the lesbians! Three kids, two women, one minivan, no haters. Of course I can help you out. That sucks about your son. I hope he’s OK.” All I could say was, “Thanks, man! Book it on my wife’s account.” Turns out we didn’t need it, but it’s better to be prepared for an emergency that never happens, than not be prepared for one that does.

Later that night, when we knew everything was OK, I told TB what happened. After ten minutes of laughing until we cried, she said, “You know, I wish we were lesbians, just so we could piss off homophobes.” Now, frankly speaking, I think the moral here is three-fold: One, hate is not a family value. Two, don’t surround yourself with people who think it is. Three, if you’re going to pass yourself off as someone’s wife, you better know her birthday, last four digits of her Social Security number and height. However, if they ask you for her weight, lie. That way the person on the other end of the phone knows your relationship is legit. #EnterpriseIsForLovers, #StraightButNotNarrow, #IhaveNoIdeaHowHashtagsWork

Talk to you later.

Black diamonds are a girl’s best friend

That’s right, this year’s ski trip is planned, and the winner is Winter Park. Unfortunately though, that means the loser is me, since Mary Jane is going to KICK.MY.ASS. This is a mountain whose motto is, “No Pain. No Jane.” And they mean it. With an elevation of 11,700 feet and a 1,766-foot vertical drop, she hits like a girl… on the Women's US Olympic boxing team.

However, before I can tell you the rest of the story, I feel the need to explain something first: The term vertical drop refers to the distance between the summit and the base, measured straight down. And, while 1,766 feet doesn’t sound all that intimidating, trust me on this one–it is. Sixty percent of Mary Jane is expert terrain. In other words, there will be bumps, trees, grade and stupidity… but not necessarily in that order.

At any rate, I guess what I’m trying to say is that if I’m going to survive this, I need to bring my A-game, which is just funny. Because, if you know me, then you know that I didn’t even have an A-game when I skied competitively in high school and college. At best I was a B minus... graded on a curve. At forty-three, now I just bring my F-game, as in “What the F was I thinking?”

That being said, I’m not going to lie, I’m crazy excited (with the emphasis on excited not crazy). I’ve never done Winter Park, but TB has, and she loves it. Me? I love the fact that Mary Jane is named after the local mining camp madam who bought the land in the late 1800s. And, just so we’re all on the same page, I’m not judging. Like I told TB, “If you had to pick between your dignity and your own mountain, what would you call the resort?” Exactly.

With that, I’m off to work out. Talk to you later.

Do these skis make my ass look fast?

Sorry for the month-long blogging hiatus. Life has been crazy, not in an I-use-Crayola-markers-for-makeup kind of way, but crazy nonetheless. Thankfully however, I’m blessed with great friends who know exactly when to stage an intervention. Enter this year’s ski trip; but, as always, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

Growing up, I was lucky enough to spend my summers in Virginia horse country at my Aunt and Uncle’s house. And, while it’s true that I never learned to ride, I did learn that my grandmother raised her daughters who raised their daughters the right way: Never rely on a husband or a trust fund, because you never know when either one might run out. Don’t get me wrong, I wish I could have been a trophy wife with a drinking problem. It just wasn’t in the cards. I love doughnuts, I hate doctors, and I’m a complete misanthrope. Other than that, I’d have fucking nailed it.

In any case, the point is that, like everyone in that part of the world, my cousins had horses and rode competitively. They did dressage, but some of their friends did cross-country and show jumping, and some of them did all three, which is also known as eventing. If you’ve never seen it, you should. It’s basically the equestrian world’s equivalent of a triathlon. Personally, I can’t figure out how they do it. I can barely master a horse that eats quarters instead of hay and goes in circles… electronically. But I love the idea of riding, especially three-day eventing because they actually say things like, “my comfort zone is crotch height.” Yes, really. It allows them to use their bodies as human tape measures when gauging a jump.

Now, just to make sure we’re on the same page, God help all of us if I ever decide to take up that sport; because, at forty-two, I’m pretty sure boob height is rapidly approaching crotch height, and no one wants to have that conversation with me, especially at a competition sponsored by Rolex. Seriously. You should simply trust me when I tell you that would be out of everyone’s comfort zone, particularly since I’m not above using hand gestures if I feel like there’s ambiguity and my safety is on the line.

Anyway, I also love that eventers will tell you they do it, “three ways in three days.” Otherwise stated, they do one event each day: dressage, cross-country and show jumping. So what does all of that have to do with this post? Well, nothing and everything, so stay with me. We’re almost there.

You see, every year I take a ski trip out west; and this time, since it was just TB and me, we decided to get multi-mountain passes for Keystone, Arapahoe Basin and Breckenridge. The idea was to hit Keystone’s Outback and do some tree skiing on day one, head over to A Basin on day two for Pallavicini, one of Colorado’s steepest runs, and then wrap up with a day of moguls off the South Side of Peak 10 at Breck. Three days. Three ways: Trees, pitch and bumps.

Honestly though, for two women in their forties, I would tell you that we held our own… OK, that's a lie. TB held her own because she stills run marathons. Given that I only run my mouth and errands, on the last day, my legs were simply shot. But, because I'm an idiot, I agreed to head over to Peak 9, which has extremely tight ungroomed mogul runs, and it was a mistake.

So, there we are... on a run called Devil’s Crotch… and I’m looking more like something from Rosemary’s Baby than Warren Miller… when I hear TB say, “Stop fighting the mountain and start working with it.” Which, in her defense, is very Zen; but, in my defense, may not be altogether accurate… because I feel like I’d be a biter and a hair-puller in a fight (I have no empirical evidence to support this theory, but I’m pretty sure I’m right)... and I decide, “You know what, I’ll do it.” So I sit into it… and I’m hauling… and it feels really good… until I hit the biggest mogul of my life… and it hits me right back.

I *might* have peed myself, but I’m not really sure, since I don’t actually know how long I laid there, but I can tell you this: When you come to, and your ass is near your armpit, you’re not only out of your comfort zone in any sport, you’re out of your league. On the up-note, when I got home and called my mother to tell her about the trip, she said, “At least the only thing that died was your dignity.”

Talk to you later.

When hell freezes over, I'll ski that too...

For those of you who know me, you know that every year I take one big ski trip out West, and this year we hit Breckenridge, Colorado. The skiing was awesome, and - for the record, I'm pleased to report that a good time was had by all… but only because those involved are good sports who know that God hates me and plan accordingly. Thankfully though, these same people occasionally forget that God practices guilt-by-association and smites them as well. No wonder TB once said, “I don’t buy into your bad ideas because I have hope they’ll work out. They never do. I buy in because I’m convinced that I have a medical condition which produces amnesia and deja vu at the same time.”

In her defense, the argument has merit.

However, in my defense, if you have EVER read mkromd, then you know that ANYONE who lets me plan ANYTHING should expect it to go poorly, and ANYONE who lets me handle EVERYTHING is simply looking for trouble. So while the involved parties claim to be “victims” of my bad luck (who have said more than once that they would sooner see hell freeze over than let me organize another vacation), they let me do this one, so they have no one to blame but themselves.

You see, I’m all about a bargain. No really, it’s true. I will spend $125 every five weeks to highlight my hair, but I cannot stomach paying more than $200 for airfare. I simply can’t. So when I found tickets for $150 each, I jumped. Perhaps I should have looked before I leaped… because the airport was almost HALF way to Colorado… which I found out the night before… as I was confirming our departure and arrival times. Yes, I drove six hours to Gary, Indiana to catch a four hour flight to Denver.

We are now - officially - the only thing other than the Jackson Five to come out of that city.

Anyway, once we landed at DIA, we had to pick up our rental car - a Ford Explorer for the low-low cost of $450 a week. Do you know how much most SUVs cost to rent during peak ski season in the Rockies? About $850. Turns out, you get what you pay for. I won’t tell you the vendor I used, but I will say that they only have three shuttles from the airport to their very remote facility: one in the morning, one in the afternoon, and one in the evening – ergo the cost savings. And, since we arrived at dusk, we waited for two hours in ten below weather to catch the shuttle to get our car. And the worst was yet to come…

We had to group sleep.

No, you read that right. We had to GROUP SLEEP… with people we did not know. What started out as a great deal ended up like a Kafka novel. In the spirit of full disclosure, the hotel ad went something like this: buy three nights – get the fourth night free. Unfortunately, the fine print ALSO said, “This suite has a shared living space.” I have three words for you – WTF! Seriously:
• No one ever reads the documentation, EVER.
• Two, even if you DO read the documentation, who knows to watch out for that?
• And three… W.T.F!

That’s all I can say. In fact, it was so far out of my scope of reality as an option that when we got to our room and opened the door and people were in there, I apologized because I thought there had been a misunderstanding. Nope, that non-negotiable, non-refundable package was all ours. But we made it work. That said, in the future, if I ever get to organize another trip, hell really might freeze over. And that's OK, because I'd ski that, too!

Talk to you next week.

I've had a wonderful time... but this isn't it.

Have you seen the movie, "It's Complicated" with Meryl Streep? It's about a divorced woman who starts sleeping with her ex-husband (Alec Baldwin) and ends up falling for (and almost losing) a really great guy (Steve Martin) in the process. If you haven't seen it, you should. It's hilarious. Because honestly... while Sarah Jessica Parker may be the poster child for single girls having sex in the city, Meryl Streep is a champion for divorced, middle-aged women being horrified by it in the burbs.

At any rate, I love romantic comedies, but I especially loved this one. Not only is it well done, but it answers the question that all of us want to know after ending any bad relationship, "Did we do the right thing? Were they a catch or not?" I think it's normal to wonder, I just think it's more important to remember what we say in Appalachia, "Simply because you can catch something doesn't make it good. Loads of people catch Syphilis, that doesn't mean you want it for life."

That said, I genuinely have *no* idea why Southwestern Pennsylvanians have a colloquialism about venereal disease.

However... I do understand why we say, "You can never go home again." Heraclitus said it thousands of years before us. He just said it more eloquently, "No man stands in the same river twice. The man is not the same, and neither is the water." And who am I to argue with him… especially when he’s right. You get older. You get wiser. Hell, you get back fat, but you are not the same person - and neither is anyone else. And just like Meryl Streep, this year my best friend and I painfully discovered that nostalgia isn't what it used to be.

You see, every winter, TB and I take an annual ski trip out West. We're pretty hard-core skiers who have been lucky enough to do some of the best resorts in the world. And this year, we decided to head to Colorado again. Now, even though I went to college out West and spent more than one Spring Break at Keystone, I’d not skied that specific mountain for almost 20 years, and it was interesting to see how much both of us had changed. We’ve both gotten much bigger, we both make more money, and neither of us seems to attract college kids anymore. In other words… we’ve grown up. And that’s not necessarily a bad thing. At thirty-eight, I no longer party like a rock star, smoke like a chimney, or swear like a sailor… which is good. Unfortunately, I also no longer ski like I’m in a Warren Miller movie or believe that bathing suits are optional. In fact, not only are they required, they’re required to have a skirt.
Anyway... every year on these trips, we try something we've never done before, something to make us believe that we're still young and fun: dogsled racing, ziplining, indoor sky diving, etc. And this year we tried snow biking, a sport which is only popular with people who don’t believe that skiing and snowboarding are lethal enough.
So there we were, at the top of a mountain, signing waivers... when I heard myself say, "Self... how bad could it be?" And instead of saying, "Bad, really-really bad," I heard Mae West instead, "When choosing between two evils, try the one you’ve never tried before." So instead of skiing. We did it. We went snow biking, and we had a BLAST! That said, I will tell you, I stood at the top of a snow-covered mountain... on a bike that had skis for tires... a flag on the back for visability... and a bucket on the handlebars for my gear... and I thought to myself, “Oh sweet Jesus... I'm going to die and go to hell in the handbasket on the front of this damn thing. The irony.”

But that's not the point.

The point is that Meryl Streep's character heard Mae West, too, "Try the guy you've never tried before..." because relationships are like snow biking, and I don't mean that your crotch hurts if you hit a bump. I mean that, if you only do what you know, you can miss out on a having a truly wonderful time.

Talk to you next week.