January 10, 2011 · 3:44 PM

Avalanche

As I predicted, our Whistler Winter Wonderland turned out to be just that: full of wonder.  It was the single most beautiful weather I have ever seen in my dozen trips north, and I don’t think a day passed when I didn’t say, “No, SERIOUSLY look at this WEATHER,” to whomever was standing next to me.

It was crystal-blue skies every single day, and there were mounds and mounds of snow covering every inch of the mountains, trees and village.  Each night as we walked from the condo to the village, it was like walking into a Christmas card.  The stars were more brilliant than seemed possible, and the lights from the town were as luminous as a chorus of candles.

None of this entered my mind, however, at about 3PM on New Years Eve.  Laura, Mike and I had spent a glorious day skiing, and all of a sudden, I was done.  Not just “I’m a little cold, let’s head back,” but “If I don’t get off this mountain in the next five minutes HEADS WILL ROLL,” kind of done.

There is no logical explanation for this.  Despite not being a very good skier (blue routes always, never black diamonds), I almost always enjoy myself.  I love the views, the activity, the adrenaline.  What I do not love is realizing that I am exhausted and I still have 45 minutes of skiing to get me home.

That’s the thing about Whister/Blackcomb.  The mountains are so enormous that even if you decide you are done for the day, you still have to get from the top to the bottom, which is no small feat.  It’s not like at Crystal or Steven’s Pass, where one minute you’re at the peak and the next minute you’re drinking hot chocolate.

The real tragedy in my exhaustion is that Mike was just hitting his stride.  He was snowboarding faster and more skillfully than he had been all day, so my constant breaks and whining nearly caused him to shove me into the first gondola that passed, saying, “Please, take her with you.”

As I watched him move deftly down the slopes, it occurred to me that most of us ski on a bell curve.  The day starts out shoddily; you’re out of practice, a little fearful, and moving slowly.  Then you warm up and gain confidence, and the curve moves upward.  The peak of the curve happens when you are flying down the hill, completely ecstatic, vowing that you will do this every weekend for the entire winter.  A few hours later, the curve descends sharply as you realize you are extremely tired, freezing your hands off, and you vow never to participate in this masochistic sport again.

There is nothing wrong with the bell curve, as long as you accept it as fact.  As soon as you accept it, then all you have to do is be sure to finish your day just after the peak but before the curve dives into the depths.  This was my problem.

Laura could not have been more accommodating.

“Babe, this is totally normal.  When you’re done, you’re DONE.  I have been there.”

But she wasn’t there in that moment, which only made me feel worse.  And Mike was Pollyanna on vacation, so I officially felt like Demon Debbie Downer.

Did recognizing that I was the jerk of the group cause me to snap out of it?  No!  It only enraged me more.

Thus, legs trembling from the effort, I made each little turn down each little hill with the resentment of a woman scorned.  I mentally scrolled through all of the sources of my anger:  I hated my freezing fingers, I hated Whistler for existing, I hated myself for not being a better skier, I hated whoever invented the idea of putting sticks on their feet to get down a mountain, I hated my friends for daring to enjoy themselves, and I especially hated the fact that I was sweating from the effort.

And even though some tiny logical part of my brain was screaming, “Get a grip, lady!” the rest of my brain couldn’t hear it due to all the other voices hollering the hate.

The reason there is a tiny uplift in the bell curve after the base of the plunge is because the moment I was off the slopes, I was the happiest woman in the world.  Not only did I not die while skiing, but I no longer hate anything or anybody!

Luckily I had Mike around throughout the remainder of the day to remind me of my miserable attitude.  But did I care?  Not really — I was done skiing!  And hindsight is always a deceiver; it wasn’t long before I was saying aloud, “Maybe we should go again tomorrow.  I mean, that was great, right?”

Riiiiight.

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December 27, 2010 · 3:29 PM

The Lights Are Turned Way (WAY) Down Low…

I wonder if I’m the only one watching the torrential snowstorm in New York City, the one where all transportation has ceased, cars are 90% buried and snowflake-churning wind is accosting overly-bundled walkers, and thinking “I’m jealous.”

Perhaps I have this feeling because as I sat around the Christmas tree with my family and unwrapped presents two days ago, the only weather gracing the landscape out the window were raindrops. 

Raindrops in spring, yes.  Raindrops on roses, yes.  Raindrops on Christmas morning, no.

Despite having spent the last 13 years in Seattle Christmases, my first 13 were spent in mostly pristine white on the East Coast.  And once you’ve had it, it’s hard for anything else to satisfy.

I’ll admit, it’s nice being able to head home after Christmas dinner and not have to attach tire chains.  But it’s even nicer getting snowed in and not being able to go home.  In my opinion, anyway.

Maybe this is all the more irritating because our Christmas two years ago was a virtual snow heaven.  Giant white cottonballs fell from the sky all day that Christmas, so much so that our power went out.  Being the careful Northwesterners that my parents are, they had a generator for backup.  However, this generator only kept certain things running, like heat, and a few appliances.  The one appliance not included?  The oven.

It didn’t take long for us to realize that no oven meant no Christmas prime rib.  We called our neighbors who had invested in the Generator 10X 3000 (I’m inventing this name, but it may as well have been), which had enough power to light the Space Needle.  They generously decided they could spare some wattage to cook us a Christmas meal.

That meal proved so enjoyable, a delight born of a near-disaster, that we have continued the tradition with them every year since (minus the power-outage; no need to reenact exact details).

Thanks to La Nina, this year is of a decidedly different climate.  I don’t think it’s dropped below 45 degrees in weeks. 

Which is why it didn’t take long for us to say “yes” when our dear friend, Laura, and her parents invited us to their condo in Whistler for New Year’s.  Guaranteed snowflakes that fall on my nose and eyelashes!

It’s possible that no amount of snow this year could compare with our Olympic trip to Whistler last year, but who cares?  In fact, this year will be so much sweeter in different ways because we won’t be racing around to events and trying to catch medal ceremonies.  This year we can just walk through the Village, sip hot cocoa in woodsy lodges, and soak in the hottub after a day on the slopes.

In other words, enjoy walking in a winter wonderland.

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December 14, 2010 · 11:28 AM

On Eating My Words

Despite being one of the thriftiest people on Earth, I abhor shopping at Ross. 

And TJ Maxx.

And Nordstrom Rack.

And any place that requires an inordinate amount of “digging” to find what I need.  One would think that a cheap-o like me would call TJ Maxx my mecca, but one would be forgetting that my need for organization will always, always trump my frugality.

I have needed structure and order for as long as I can remember.  Not an obsessive compulsive, lock-and-unlock-the-door-six-times type, but enough that walking into a store with rows and rows of clothes makes me want to turn around and flee.

Did I mention my other disorder, commitment-phobia?  When it takes decades to make seemingly insignificant decisions (which boot?  Black or brown?  Knee-length or ankle?), it becomes nearly impossible to make decisions if nothing is in its proper place.  How do I know if I’ve seen all of my paralyzing options if they are strewn down an aisle?

Last week, however, I had to make a concession:  I was throwing a party, I needed decor, and I needed it cheap. 

And I knew exactly what this meant.

I Binged all the thrift stores I could think of, and was a little embarrassed to find so many of them in such close proximity to my home.  How did I not realize they were there before? 

Anyway.

I walked into Ross and braced myself for feeling like a arachnophobe in a store full of spiders.  But as I made my way to the back of the store I saw the rows upon rows of glass vases — exactly what I was looking for.  I bent over to pick one up to check its price tag, and nearly dropped it to its death on the tile floor — $4.99!  Was I hallucinating?  Is this a joke?  Or is this Merry Christmas to me?

I quickly stashed every last one of them in my cart, totally convinced that I had just snagged the deal of the year and surely 15 angry women would be coming around the corner to claim their vases too. 

Jingle Bell Rock tinged in the background as I had these paranoid thoughts.  No angry women.  Just Jingle Bell Rock.

I hurried around the rest of the store convinced I was going to find a hundred other things I couldn’t live without, but sadly, Ross only had one treasure to offer me that day (or any day).

My next stop was Tuesday Morning, which was so chaotic and out-of-order that I almost reconsidered before making it past the front door.  I walked down two aisles and saw that their glass vases were $9.99 — apparently not all discount stores are created equal.  I felt a surge of pride at my wise Ross choice.

And even though Michael’s isn’t a discount store, it is decidedly crafty, and I had hopes it would be cheap.  It was not.  Not only did they not have anything I could use, but they had things I couldn’t use that were overpriced.  I moved on quickly.

Twenty minutes later I was standing in Target because I couldn’t think of any more discount stores.  Target had exactly the ornaments and ribbon I was looking for, but I realized that I felt like a failure for paying full price.  And since I was in a such a panic about not being able to find more things I needed, I bought twice the ornaments necessary, grossly overestimating the size of my glass vases.

When I got home and started putting the vases and ornaments together, I realized that the vases were filthy.  They were completely covered in dust and I spent 15 minutes hand washing each one.  At first I was irritated, but that feeling quickly dissipated each time I turned a vase over to clean the base and saw the price tag.  Yes, I thought to myself, I am willing to spend 15 minutes for $4.99 vases.  Who wouldn’t?

I feel like I owe an apology to discount stores everywhere: Why do I judge you when you are so good to me?

The decorations worked really well, and I was thrilled with the look.  In fact, I got several compliments on them throughout the evening, and now I am going to use them to decorate our home for Christmas.

I am secretly hoping that someone comes to my house and asks about my vases.  I am looking for an opportunity to sound exactly like the radio commercial, “I got it at Ross!”

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