Steamboat: I want to go to there

Before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first:

• The opposite of Progress is Congress, as in the US House of Representatives.
• No TV show will ever be as funny as 30ROCK, and I speak for every woman when I say, “I love you Tina Fey. Thank God life gives you Lemons sometimes.”
• Just because someone LOOKS like they’re tweaking out on meth… doesn’t mean they are, so don’t judge a book by its cover.

With that, once again – my travel karma was… par for the course. Half of our party couldn’t go; we flew in during a white-out; we flew back the day that Sequestration was scheduled to take effect; and - as usual, my face got so wind and sun burnt that it swelled, freckled and peeled. No, you read that right. My skin was actually flaking off.  

Seriously, if the journey of a hundred trillion cells begins with a single nibble, Hannibal Lector or someone on bath salts would have looked at me like a Tootsie-Roll pop and pondered exactly how many licks it would take to get to the center of me. Also…

I had to explain to someone that I was not on meth.

And, as there’s no polite or tactful way to explain what happened, I’m just going to say it. On the way home from Denver, I was at the airport, in the bathroom, near the sink area, BY MYSELF, when my cheeks and chin honestly felt like they were on fire. And I don’t mean a little itch. I mean the kind of itch that you should only scratch at home. Armed with nothing more than Chapstick, brown paper-towels and the sleeve of my Polar Fleece, I began a rub-fest that would send a Labrador Retriever to Nirvana. 

It went something like this:

• I rinsed my face with cold water.
• Dried it with the sleeve of my silky, soft Burton ski shell.
• Put Chapstick on a brown paper towel and proceeded to wax myself like a car.

Now, when you’re in said moment, you don’t pay attention to your surroundings. In fact, I would argue you’re so lost in total and complete bliss that you have absolutely no idea people are watching you. 

Turns out, one man’s heaven can be another man’s hell. Who knew?

Between the vigorous buffing I was doing and the low moan sounds I was making, the women who, unbeknownst to me, began flooding the bathroom, seemed to have one-of-two reactions:

• Don’t make eye contact with the Junkie at sink two, or
• I’ll have what she’s having.

Now, because I hate awkward and I always feel the need to explain myself, I turned to the person staring at me and said, “I swear I’m not scratching my face off because I’m on meth. I have a really bad sunburn and my DNA has been flaking off everywhere all day. You would NOT want to see this sink under a black light.” Sometimes I wish I would actually listen to the little voice in my head that says, “Please stop talking.” 

The GOOD news is that Steamboat was amazing. It was awesome spring skiing at its best. And, though I usually love doing different resorts every year, I may have lost my heart to Steamboat. To quote Tina Fey in 30ROCK, “I want to go to there.” Talk to you later.

There is much power in the art of being present

So last week, I got an e-mail from my cousin which said, “Thought this might make you laugh.” And it did. However, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first… My cousin is an industrial hygienist. She is that person who works with or for the Environmental Protection Agency and ensures that buildings don’t have asbestos, wells don’t have arsenic, and people properly dispose of chemicals and bio-hazardous waste. She is, hands-down, one of the smartest, funniest, warmest human beings I have ever known – and I would love her to bits even if she weren’t my cousin… though I’m so very grateful that she is. But I digress.

The point is that, a few days ago, she got a call from someone who needed to throw away a great deal of electronics. Now, due to the havoc that batteries wreak on the environment, that type of equipment has to be disposed of properly, so she told the person, “Here is my address. When you get to my office, call me. I’ll come downstairs and take you to the facility best equipped to help you.” Sure enough, ten minutes later, she got a call… headed to the parking lot… saw the van… opened the passenger side door… picked a flier off the seat… sat down… buckled up… read the flier which said, “ASPIRE HIGHER,”… commented, “to what are we aspiring…” then looked up only to see an Amish woman in a bonnet staring at her… wondering what the hell my cousin was doing in her vehicle.

In the woman’s defense, my cousin attended John’s Hopkins and should know better than to simply climb into a stranger’s car and begin quizzing them... In my cousin’s defense, she and I have the exact same miserable luck. In fact, this summer, when she was in France for Bastille Day, she walked into a patisserie and said, “WOW, they have penis bread.” When everyone stopped their conversations and stared at her, she chose to clarify, “I don’t mean that it’s MADE of penises. I mean that the bread is shaped like penises. They look yummy. I’ll take two.”

The saddest part of that whole story is that it’s true. Actually, scratch that. The saddest part of that story was my reply, which is also true. Here it goes, “Dear Cousin – Don’t feel bad. A while ago, I ran to one of the stores in town to get some stuff so I could work on my house. Of course I couldn’t just make it easy on myself and go to Wal-Mart. Nooooo. I hate Big Box stores. So, instead, I went ACROSS town to a small mom-and-pop shop that’s been in business for over fifty years. Granted, it’s not in the best district, but I genuinely believe it’s important to shop local and I really like the owners. Naturally, as soon as I got there, it began pouring rain and (as usual) I was madly texting my best friend. Anyway, after running through the rain while replying to messages, I got to the store, opened the door, shook myself off and loudly announced, “OH MY GOD I AM SOAKING WET,” only to look up and see A GIANT WALL OF FAKE PENISES.

Yes… they had built a porn store next to the other store. And no… because I wasn’t PAYING SHIT FOR ATTENTION, I actually didn’t notice and bee-lined into the wrong establishment. When I tried to explain that I had clearly made a mistake, the man behind the counter said, “It’s TOTALLY OK. Lots of middle-aged women shop here. They’re our biggest customers. That’s why we put the dicks right up front. So they can get in and out.” 

Not knowing whether to applaud his double entendre or scream in horror, I did the mature thing and simply RAN BACK TO MY CAR. After slathering my entire body with hand sanitizer, I called my best friend who said, “DO NOT LEAVE! We have to get a gag gift for so-and-so.” 

I assured her that I was not going back inside, and that if she wanted ME to help HER get smut, then we were going to do it the old fashioned way… with two bottles of wine, an anonymous  Visa gift card, and her husband’s Amazon account. You would not believe the, “If you like that, you’re going to love this” recommendations. I bought an inflatable sheep… because let’s be honest - you never know when you might need something like that and I’ve found that it’s way better to be prepared for an emergency that never happens than to not be prepared for one that does. Love you.”

The only thing my cousin replied was, “You win.” But if that’s the case, why doesn’t it really feel like victory?  Talk to you later.

I kayak therefore I am

Humor me. What do the following things have in common: an ex-boyfriend from high school/college… kayaking… writing… male pattern baldness… and Facebook.

Before I tell you, there’s a very real part of me that wants each of you to post your guess. However, there’s also a little voice in the back of my head saying, “That first voice is the one that got you sold for sheep in Italy (which is a completely true story). DO NOT LISTEN TO IT. Instead, keep in mind that some of these people actually know you and are armed with information about your life that you do not want shared via the Internet (you know who you are). Control the message and cut to the chase.”

So this is me getting to the point… kind-of… because, before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first. My name is mkromd, and I am a Facebook idiot. No really, it’s true. I don’t know how to post private comments, play games, or subscribe to feeds. I know how to “like” things and “poke” people. Seriously. Given all that, you can imagine my shock when a guy I dated twenty years ago found and friended me. 

Now, to be clear, he’s not just any guy. He was the first guy I ever actually cared about, as well as being the first guy to ever break my heart. And as I sat there, debating whether or not to accept his request, my friend (a large, beautiful, twenty-four year old, African American man who played college football) walked into my office,  so I asked him what he would do, and I swear to God, this is what he said, “Oh HELLLLL no. This is exactly why I don’t have a Facebook account. My wife thinks that I only slept with ten women before we got married. I don’t know why she thinks that. I never told her that, but she does, and who am I to kick a gift horse in the mouth. I don’t need girls from my past finding me, or - worse yet, finding her. Let it go.” 

But I couldn’t and alas… I succumbed to the temptation. Honestly, I didn’t care if he was married and happy. In fact, I wanted him to be. I also simply hoped that he would be bald. So I accepted… and I was vindicated… because he is… which, oddly enough, is a good thing. If he hadn’t been, I would have posted, “Oh no… Damn it. Are you working a twelve step program for creepy porn addicts and need to make amends?”

For the record - he was never a porn addict… but he is a college professor on the East coast now… and a lot of his students are linked to his page… and that would almost have made up for prom… almost. But I digress.

The point is that we started chatting, and honestly - I have NO idea what we saw in each other. He still whitewater kayaks like we did in high school and college; whereas I simply paddle in, sleep on the beach, and paddle out... He’s bald, while I – however - have hair… He grew up to be an English Professor who is writing the way too serious all-American novel; whilst I am a hack-blogger who hopes to get published one day… He looks like Mr. Clean, and I am lucky enough to use shampoo every morning because I need to - not simply because I miss it… He’s still pretty athletic and built like the Hulk; whereas I exploded out of my dress two weeks ago because I ate three doughnuts in a meeting (also a true story). He’s… what’s the word… bald? And I’m… well, not. Well, not yet anyway. Karma is a bitch. So, as much as I’m enjoying this… and I am... I have to stop or he and I will finally have something in common… other than the fact that our lives worked out perfectly and we’re both happily married to the people we were meant to find.

Talk to you later.

Powder to the People

I once read that if more people skied, there’d be less war. And, as crazy as that sounds, I believe it. In fact, just last week alone, we went to Steamboat and broke into someone’s condo, and no one was even mad about it let alone hostile. However… before I can tell you that part of the story, I have to tell you this part first.

You see, even though I lived out West and have been fortunate enough to ski most of the major resorts in North America, I’d never done Steamboat, which was definitely a mistake on my part. Now, I love it - and not just for the elevation or the powder, but because of the culture. Sure, Aspen gets the X Games, but Steamboat is becoming the new Mecca for winter biathletes, people who participate in a sport that combines cross-country skiing with target shooting. To quote the guy in the gear shop, “folks trudge through the snow, stop, shoot a gun, and keep going.” It’s like Chicago… with mountains. 

That said, please don’t get me wrong. I do NOT cross country ski. I wouldn’t even do it if I lived in a smaller country. I downhill, period… but I also digress. The point is that the locals there love their mountains, and I cannot blame them. I would move tomorrow if the stars aligned. As for breaking and entering, this time it wasn’t my fault. 

Unlike previous years, DB and I took the kids and met his mom, his sister, and her family at the resort. And, because they aren’t cheap, the four of them flew directly into Hayden and arrived at 3:00 PM as scheduled. However, because I am, we flew into Denver, got into the rental car, and hit a blizzard on the way to Steamboat. After a six hour drive… through the mountains… in a white out... we made it to the main lodging office, checked in, got the keys, and headed to the condo. Sadly, it wasn’t ours. No really. They gave us the keys to someone else’s condominium. 

Luckily, they weren’t home. We know because we walked through each and every room trying to figure out why we were given a dirty condo that was filled with Jesus art… until finally, after fifteen minutes, I called the concierge who profusely apologized and told me, “Whoa, you’re not in unit 32. You’re in unit 23. Sorry man, my bad.” 

You know, ever since that night, I’ve caught myself wondering what those poor people thought when they got back to their condo. Did they think that someone gently broke in and took something, and did they spend the rest of their vacation trying to figure out what it was? Honestly, I almost took a six pack of beer just to give them some peace of mind. That way it wouldn’t have been so… random. That way they could’ve opened their fridge and screamed, “What asshole steals someone’s beer?” And it would have been over for them. But I didn’t give them that closure, and now they just have to wonder… forever. On the up note, I didn’t break in and leave anything on the counter just to fuck with them either, so they should thank me! 

At any rate, after all of that, we went back to the front desk, got new keys, went to our own condo, then met up with DB’s family. I’m pleased to announce that a fabulous time was had by all. The white out was worth it because the powder was to die for, and trust me about Steamboat. It’s amazing.