Here’s a little trivia question for you fine folk: How many ski resorts are in our little nation of Vermont?
If you answered “What’s skiing?” or “Where is Vermont?,” feel free to stop reading pronto-like. If your answer “Twenty, you dingleberry. Like, duh.” I’d say we have a winner! Come and claim your prizes — a handful of my business cards and some of the lesser tchotchkes that populate my desk.
That’s right, friends. There are 20 alpine ski areas in Vermont and with a little luck and a lot of snow, I’m going to snowboard at all of them this year. Like in one season. (Ok, before all the Mad River folks get their ski bibs in a twist, I know I can’t ride at your mountain. But don’t worry — I learned how to ski over sick sheets of ice years ago at Hidden Valley Resort in Western Pennsylvania, so I can schuss with the best of them.)
Yay for snow and silly challenges and dumb stickers on helmets!
Forget getting a season pass at Sugarbush or Jay Peak. That’s so borrrr-ring. You ride the same trails over and over again, or in my case, you tumble down the same trails again and again. I’m all about mixing it up a bit. Variety is the spice of life or some pap like that.
Dear best friends 4-eva,
Yesterday, I began my new job at Seven Days as a staff writer. Since most of the three of you have been clamoring for a blow by blow, I’m going to give it to you. Be forewarned, though. A summary of my day could be a bit soporific. Or freaking terrific. Whatevs.
So I woke up at 7:30 a.m., bright and early, so as to give myself enough time to get ready without being rushed. But two hours to get beautiful just wasn’t enough. After I walked the Ween and had some breakfast, my neighbors informed me that my car had been egged. I thought they might be the secret egging culprits since the night before I was skulking around their backyard/geodesic dome construction site looking for a ladder and I made lots of noise. But no, it wasn’t them. Turns out they got egged, too. They advised me that I needed to wash my car stat, since egg goop could strip the paint off a car once it hardened. Great. That’s an awesome way to start my first day at my new gig.
Read on, sucka!
Today is sort of a sad day for me. I woke up not being able to hear out of my right ear. It’s like half of my head is stuck in a bouncy ball you get from those big bins at the grocery store and every time I speak it sounds like two swords clashing together. (I’m mixing my figures of speech, I know). I’m blaming it on allergies. I know by admitting that I have allergies, I’m admitting to a massive constitutional weakness, but I’m just going to have to own it. I am weak, and I have allergies.
Anyway, I’m also a little misty because today is my last day at the Free Press. I have worked here for three and a half years. I started on Dec. 5, 2005, after spending nearly two years in a dusty backwater known as Auburn, NY. The paper for which I wrote was affectionately known as The Shitizen by the town’s intelligentsia, which consisted of a mayor with wooden planks for teeth and the three old ladies who played pinochle at the senior center every day. There I wrote about quilting, farming, quilting, mud bog racing, quilting and cats getting stuck in trees. It was a good learning experience.