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Monday, 26 February
Sneasons In The Snow

This weekend, as mentioned before, found the wife and I taking a drive up to Cle Elum to spend some quality time with five other friends in the mountains, playing in the snow.

It was completely awesome, of course.

The wife and I were the first to arrive at the TWO-STORY LOG CABIN, which was all-caps rad, as you see. Fireplace! Foosball table! Hot tub! Dart board! Live-in pixie prostitutes! I assume, anyway. Those fucking pixies can hide anywhere, but I know they were there, because that's how great it was.

We had a couple hours before the others arrived, so we set about making the place homey. The wife built a fire and I hauled in sacks of booze, and began dumping cider in the crock pot to heat. I chopped lemons to go in it and threw in a handful of cinnamon sticks; later it would be married with Tuaca and Metaxa, and would cause us all to moan and flop around happily. We also, of course, scouted out the best bedroom to claim. We were first!

When everyone else arrived, we helped them unpack an unholy amount of food, gear, and of course, even more revoltingly improbable amounts of booze: nine bottles of red wine, a couple of bottles of white, vodka, gin (relabeled impishly as "Liquid Valium"), whiskey, beer . . . I'm surprised nobody ended up brandishing a bottle of imported absinthe. "This stuff killed my great uncle!" "Really? Can I have some?"

After warming ourselves with a drink or two, and with the stove, and with several dozen hugs--actors hug like other people hike up their pants--we prepared the night's dinner, which was a bunch of Boboli build-yer-own pizzas. Now, I readily admit that I am a picky eater: I opted for only tomato sauce, meat and cheese. The others . . . did not. In fact, they went fucking nuts: they chopped peppers and mushrooms and tomatoes and artichokes and pancakes and spark plugs and marmot scent glands and hair and toothpaste and a priori concepts and Bosnian military forces and more cheese and dumped all that shit on their pizzas while I stared in horror. It's not healthy to eat that much cheese, people, but they wouldn't listen, and hit me in the face with hot spatulas while they cooked these horrors. WHATEVER.

We played some games that night, but I didn't win any of them, because everyone else fucking CHEATED, so there's no point in talking about that in any detail.

The next day, after rousing ourselves out of bed--can you guess who was last to get up?--and making fun of each others' bedheads, we gradually started to form a plan. We wanted to go do some sledding, dammit. None of us had been sledding in like fifteen years! Say, I'm sure our bodies are going to be down with that! Happily, the Magic Cabin of Snowy Awesomeness came through again: I found four or so little dinky sleddin' things by the side of the house. Clearly made for children and not rampaging adults, we cheerfully picked them up anyway with the certain knowledge that we were going to destroy them.

We also abandoned the idea of going to some fee-based sledding hill or whatever. For one thing, we didn't want to drive--we all drove laughably mountain-unfriendly cars--and for another thing, we didn't want to pay money to anybody for a fucking hill. Pay for a common geographic feature? Fuck that. That'd be like paying for a rainbow or a river or a freeway. We found our own damn hill.

The plastic flimsy sleds proved to be real quitters, and practically exploded under the stress of demented thirtysomethings slamming their girth down onto them. They were like riding potato chips, and we glumly unsped down the hill, shedding shrapnel the entire way. Then we threw those aside and urinated on them contemptuously. Much better were the sled thingies made of that stuff that they use to make beer can cooling sleeves. Not only were they virtually indestructible--except for the one that we broke a slab off of--but we discovered that tandem riding allowed two people to careen down the hill at satisfyingly terrifying speeds that guaranteed a broken bone in the inevitable event of any kind of crash, or so you think, until you remember the one great thing about wiping out in the snow: it's actually really hard to hurt yourself, provided you don't hit something terribly unsnowlike, such as a tree or a fencepost or a wolverine.

If there is something better than sledding, apart from the usual suspects, I don't want to know about it. The snow was cold enough not to melt on us, no matter how much friction our spectacular wipeouts applied--we used to call these sort of falldowns "snow sales" when I was a kid, owing to the astounding amount of gear that ends up lying on the landscape in the aftermath of such crashes. Then we would lie there in the snow laughing our asses off. People managed to take some really excellent action shots of their good friends plowing horrifically into the snow, or simply just screaming by the camera while, well, screaming.

After a while of this, we returned back to the cabin to rest our shrieking joints in the hot tub and consume hot chocolate with brandy, and our friend L. created a masterful baked pasta dish with ziti, hearts of palm, palms of heart, Gary Hart, Hartz Mountain tick medicine, the Hartford Whalers, and discount heart meat. I mean, I assume it was masterful, but I wasn't going to eat that nightmare, so I had hot dogs that I sandwiched with bagel slices. I'm not crazy.

Then we all got loaded (read: I got loaded) and played more games, which I lost, because everyone else fucking cheated again. Also, during a game of Balderdash, nobody voted for my definition of the acronym NAPA as "Next, Another Pussy? Awesome!" Because all of my friends are cheating scum.

Let's do it again, cheating scum, let's do it sooner rather than later. Next time we'll find those sex pixies.

Roam | Skot | 26 Feb, 2007 |

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Comments

So, did you have sex?

Comment number: 012155   Posted by: Kate on February 27, 2007 07:42 AM from IP: 70.231.252.234

Pictures. I want pictures.
Not of the sex, though, thankyouverymuch.

Comment number: 012160   Posted by: el on February 27, 2007 10:42 AM from IP: 156.74.250.7

Damn, I missed actor-hugs and sledding? And marmot scent glands on pizza? Fooey. I want to go next time.

Comment number: 012173   Posted by: IanJ on February 27, 2007 06:47 PM from IP: 64.81.173.48

Good God, how I hate happy childless people.

What's that honey? You need to tell daddy something? You did what to the cat? Why would you do that? And you had an accident in your pants, too? And I should shove my timeouts where?

Yeah, this is just as good as sledding. Fortunately, it does include the same copious amounts of alcohol.

Comment number: 012194   Posted by: JJ on February 28, 2007 06:30 PM from IP: 67.168.63.153

"actors hug like other people hike up their pants"

*snort*

God, I adore you. Mostly.

Comment number: 012208   Posted by: Peggy on March 1, 2007 11:50 AM from IP: 128.95.169.35

Not exactly sex pixies but it's true, these damned creatures are hard to find, observe this poem by AA Milne:

In a corner of the bedroom is a great big curtain,
Someone lives behind it, but I don't know who;
I think it is a Brownie, but I'm not quite certain.
(Nanny isn't certain, too.)

I looked behind the curtain, but he went so quickly -
Brownies never wait to say, "How do you do?"
They wriggle off at once because they're all so tickly
(Nanny says they're tickly too.)

Alan Alexander Milne

Comment number: 012211   Posted by: Edward on March 1, 2007 04:36 PM from IP: 208.36.122.222

Sledding is the bestest ever, hunh? Two words: Ethan Frome.

Comment number: 012213   Posted by: Diablevert on March 1, 2007 08:22 PM from IP: 75.69.47.207

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