Cocktails, Vermont style

For those who need a recap, when the babe and I go to Vermont, we stay with the babe's old roommate who now lives in a group house with 3 other girls. To call it a "group house" doesn't entirely cover it - it's more like a family than anything else. It reminds me of a house filled with sisters who truly enjoy each other. Among them, they have a friend group that seems to cover the majority of the people in Burlington. They're known for their weekly or bi-weekly potlucks, with a potluck email list with over 100 people. For Thanksgiving this year, they hosted a potluck with about forty people. They've even been featured in the local paper for their amazing potlucks.

So when we come visit, there's often a potluck or gathering. I've written about at least one of these gatherings before. This time, they did something a little different - a little outside the Burlington hippy norm - and hosted a cocktail party. Complete with pina coladas, Vermont maple moo-moos, and party dresses.

Some of the best things about last night's party (and hence, Burlington):

1. There were two guys wearing dresses. And owning it.

2. The Burlington-ers were delighted with themselves to be hippies having a cocktail party.

3. Almost everyone brought along desserts because even though it wasn't billed as a potluck, Burlington-ers are born potluckers.

4. Underneath most of the party dresses, there were leggings or wool tights.

5. My lack of a party dress was not a problem. One of the gals delightfully outfitted me in an 80s style blue party dress and knee-high red boots.

6. We all stood in lines - girls and guys - and learned a Bollywood dance, which was amazing.

7. The Bollywood dance party turned into an 80s dance party thanks to Pandora's 80s Dance Party station.

8. Which turned into a Pandora TLC station party. And nobody there wanted no scrubs.

9. After-party breakfast this morning included amazing breakfast quesadillas - the perfect hangover breakfast.

As always, Vermont delivers.

Gear ain't enough

The babe and I head to Vermont tomorrow for the long weekend. If you're acquainted with me or my blog, you know I adore Vermont and all of our friends there. I should be super excited that we're heading up there in about 24 hours, but for the last week, the excitement just hasn't been there.

Today I kept thinking what is going on here? I love it there. I love them all. Why am I feeling this resistance, hesitancy,...dread? Is there dread? What is that about?

Oh, I remember. It's about this. And this. And this.

You guessed it. We're going skiing again.

I've actually been really excited about it. I got ski gloves, goggles, and ski socks for Christmas. I borrowed bibs from a friend. I talked up my pizza slicing prowess.

But there's this gnawing feeling in my stomach, and this little voice in my head.
Remember when you went careening down the mountain screaming like a little girl? Can't wait to see that again. Mwahahahahaha.
It's actually sort of a big voice now.

It's not that I don't want to do it. I do. I want to do it enough so that I can really be good at it. I really do want to. It's just that right now, the desire is taking a backseat to the fear.

Vermont, Part IV

I've grown a bit tired of this story, but I promised. So here it is.

Last time in Vermont: (In)Sanity Gal finished her first day of "skiing" and did not die.

So two days later we went to another mountain. I had developed a full-blown cold by now, and I really wasn't feeling up to it. Maybe I should've just passed on the ski day, but I didn't want to leave Vermont without trying it one more time.

And so I got out of the car and tromped over to the rental area to get some skis while the babe and our friend J got themselves set up. I was cranky and tired and just wanted to mope about it on the bunny slope. Of course, the babe was all nice and supportive and trying to help me enjoy the day. The nerve.

The plan was to learn to get back up again after falling since that had clearly caused me quite a bit of trouble previously. So, I laid myself down on the snow and flopped up and down pretending that the things the babe was telling me to do were helping me figure out how to get up. It wasn't working. I would watch her do it, seemingly effortlessly. And then I would try. Heeve....heeeve...heeeeve...heeeeeeeeve....Flop. I either slid or fell. It wasn't helping my mood.

Our friend J had been checking out one of the slopes to see if it was going to work for me. Nobody wanted a repeat of my prior venture onto the big slopes. I was thinking I might not want any venture at all. But success can do amazing things. And J was the key to my success at that particular moment. I don't think I could tell you right now how she taught me how to get up. But somehow she did; something about the way she described it made sense. And howdy doody whaddayaknow, I getting up off the ground. Fall. Get up. Fall. Get up. Fall. Get up. Over and over again. It was amazing!

I kind of wanted to just stay on the bunny slope and fall and get up over and over again.

That's a lie. Duh. I was pumped about my newfound skill and itching to get on a slope again.

And that's what I did. Right after I fell flat on my back while getting off the chair lift. Something about not having my skis on the ground when the chair moved from under my butt. Lesson learned.

I'm delighted to tell you that the rest of the story was fairly uneventful. The babe and J skiied one in front and one behind while I pizza slice turned my way down that giant, beautiful slope. It was gorgeous and amazing. Sliding over the snow was such a delightful feeling. And I was so so so very proud of myself. One of my favorite ways to be. ;)

I was so happy, in fact, that I went up and did it a second time. By. My. Self.

I left Vermont a skiier. Or at least a pizza slice turner.

Hopefully I'll do it again soon, lest I forget how to do it and have to do this whole story all over again.

Vermont, Part III

Previously, in Vermont: (In)Sanity Gal learned to ski like a 3-year old.

So head to the big slope we did. I had heard rumors about a chairlift that let you off half-way up so that beginners could have a step up from the bunny slope. As we glided overhead, each passing stretch of slope filled me with a greater sense of doom. What the hell kind of beginners were they talking about?! As I slid off the chairlift (without falling - I saved that for later) and turned to survey the slope, I realized with terror that they certainly weren't talking about my type of beginner. No. Definitely not.

I was standing on the slope frantically hoping that I might suddenly become violently ill or have a heart attack (which seemed like a distinct possibility) or develop a temporary inability to move my legs - anything to keep from having to go down the giant swath of snow in front of me. It appeared to have no end. The babe was talking to me, I think - seriously, who can be expected to listen to instructions when they're about to die?

It appeared that there was nothing to do but throw myself down this giant white death machine and hope that later the babe would write a beautiful story about my last days on Earth. I don't remember starting to ski. I think there was screaming and flailing of arms, and then I did what I can only imagine was a truly stunning somersault, landing squarely on my hip. Execution: 7. Creativity: 8.5!

Immediate tears. Who knew snow was so hard? Maybe if I don't try to get up, they'll just carry me down on a stretcher. But then the babe was there, looking all concerned and asking me if I was crying. No, of course not.... Ok fine. Yes. But I was clearly itching for that final star to finish out my membership application for Masochists of the World. So, with the babe's help, I got up. I know. I should've just gone for the stretcher. Pride is a terrible, terrible thing. My New Year's Resolution is to rid myself of it entirely.

Much to my dismay, I was standing up and about to start "skiing." Again. The babe was saying something about pizza, which I thought was weird since we had just had lunch. But whatever. And we're off! She's screaming behind me. "TURN LEFT....NOW!" "AND NOW RIGHT!" And I'm going - leeeeeeefffft, riiiiiiiiight, leeeeeefff-ayaaaaaaaa. Screaming. Flailing of arms. Small, agile infant children darting out of the way. Falling.

But wait.

Something isn't quite right here.

Am I in Heaven?

I've fallen and yet I'm flying. On my butt. Weird.

Holy lord. Yep, I fell on my ass, but my skis were still flat on the snow. I invented a new sport. Ass skiing. And I was amazing at it. Amazing in that really fast and unable to stop kind of way.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!! PEOPLE AHEAD! PEOPLE AHEAD!

A tiny little sane voice inside told me to roll over. And I did. And I stopped. And no one died. Which, at this point, I was finding pretty shocking.

What's even more shocking is that I wasn't at the bottom of the slope yet. I KNOW! What the hell kind of sport is this?

The double shocker: Apparently I got up and did it again. I don't remember that part, but somehow we made it to the bottom. And we left the mountain.

And I swear to you that I was possessed by an Abominable Ski Demon when I said in the car on the way home, "I do really want to go again before we leave."

Stay tuned for Vermont, Part IV.

Vermont, Part II

Some people don't know the definition of the word "beginner."

Thus it was that I found myself in an adult beginners ski lesson with people who had not yet "perfected their left turns," whereas I had never actually seen skis in real life. They're long. And unwielldy. It took my instructor a little bit of time to realize that I encompassed the true spirit of the word "beginner" as applied to skiing. I think he got clued in while I was frantically crawling on the ground trying to get out of the way of the next person on the rope tow. For the fourth time. He was a slow learner. After that, he stayed close by so that he could lift me up every 3-4 minutes since I was exceptional at falling but not so great at getting up again.

After the lesson, I felt very comfortable skiing down the bunny slope. And by skiing, I mean careening in an uncontrolled fashion down a hill of snow and falling onto the ground to avoid running into a small child. So that was good.

Lucky for me, I met a very nice man who, apparently concerned for my safety and wellbeing, gave me some tips.
1. Bend you knees.
2. Learn how to stop.

Learning how to stop made a big difference, as you might imagine. Somehow my instructor had forgotten to mention this amazing thing called pizza slice. (For the non-skiiers out there, that's when you put the front tips of your skis close together and spread the back tips out so that it looks like a wedge.) With my newfound knowledge, I ventured slowly down the hill, stopping every 5 seconds or so just to make sure that I could. The nice man waited at the bottom and cheered me on as I skiied down next to his 3-year old nephew. Sweet.

Lunch break!

After lunch, the babe came out on the bunny slope with me and taught me some more - like how to step away from the rope tow without falling, how to more effectively pizza slice, and how to pizza slice turn. It was like a new world! Pizza slice turn riiiiiight and pizza slice turn leeeeefft, and riiiiiight, and leeeeefft. I was owning that bunny slope! Owning it, I say.

We decided a real slope was the obvious next step...


Stay tuned for Vermont, Part III :)