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One of my bestest friends got married a few weeks ago, and she graciously asked me to be in her wedding. The ceremony and reception were beautiful, and we had a blast taking fun photos before the celebration began.
I haven’t seen the official photos yet, but I really hope they turn out better than the ones I took in the photo booth with my husband and other bestie:
Sadly, because I’m not drinking right now, I truly have nothing to blame but my own face for this. And possibly my apparent confusion as to how photo booths operate. Yeah, let’s go with that.
I mean, I can take a decent photo when I need to, but I’m not going to claim to be the most photogenic person around. I’ve definitely taken my fair share of unflattering photos. But man, this … this should be deleted from the files immediately. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Then why are you putting it on the Internet?)
BLOWN UP AND SIZED TO FIT THE COVER OF THE OFFICIAL WEDDING ALBUM!
If that doesn’t say “cherished keepsake documenting the happiest day of our lives,” I don’t know what does.
And since wedding season is coming up, I’ll give the engaged folks out there fair warning: If you invite me to yours, there’s at least a .009 percent chance that I’ll make this face again and ruin the whole thing.
Well, I consider the Coca-Cola Polar Bear a celebrity, anyway.
This was at Schweitzer Mountain Resort, which is near Sandpoint, in northern Idaho. My husband saw an actual celebrity there while staying at our friends’ friends’ condo sometime last year:
Yep, Ben Stein, aka the “Bueller” guy. Kind of jealous of that one.
Anyway, when I wasn’t hob-nobbing with the rich and famous, I was hitting the (bunny) slopes, mowing down any and all small children in my path. OK, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. I managed to swerve out of the way before plowing into them. Most of the time. But there were definitely more french fries than pizza this ski trip. Zoe would be proud.
Sometimes, I’m a bad Montanan and forget to go skiing for 15 years. Which is mostly my loss, because it’s one of the few ways to actually enjoy the five-month-long mini Ice Age known as “winter” here.
So, for the first time since an eighth-grade field trip, I decided to unforget how to downhill ski one weekend and took a beginners’ lesson up at the local mountain. I assumed the other people in my lesson would be first-timers — kiddos, mainly — and I planned to totally school these pint-size fools on how to pizza and french-fry.
I got to my lesson though, and it was just some punk-kid instructor, “Landon,” and Zoe, a 7-year-old girl who had apparently been abandoned by the rest of her family so she could learn how to ski while they gallivanted across the mountain.
Now, I’d like to say I schooled Zoe in our lesson. But after “Landon” had trouble hiding his frustration and impatience with her as she struggled to master the basics after our first run, which prompted her to start crying because she missed her mommy … well, that would just seem kind of mean.
Things started out all right. I was pizza-ing and french fry-ing like a pro in no time. Zoe did fine on the bunny hill, and we went up on the lift after just two practice runs.
This is when Zoe fell apart. Her french fries led to speed she just couldn’t handle. Speed she just couldn’t handle led to falling. Falling led her to point her skis down the mountain instead of across it. Pointing her skis down the mountain instead of across it led to her to slide down it instead of pushing herself up. Sliding down the mountain instead of pushing herself up led to her scarf falling off and her coat coming unzipped, which I helped her reassemble after it became clear “Landon” wasn’t going to do a damn thing about it.
(I use quotes not because that wasn’t his real name — it was — but to help convey the appropriate amount of disdain you should feel for him. It’s not that he was mean to her on purpose, per say; more that his tone was better suited for one of his brahs than a first-timer tyke.)
We got to the end of the run, and it was clear “Landon” was not particularly impressed with either of us, and was downright fed up with Zoe and her pizza-french fry issues. So we decided to take a break in the lodge to warm up. We sat down, and I tried to make conversation with Zoe to help her feel more comfortable. (“Hey, want to see a picture of MY BUNNY?!” — my go-to conversation starter with every child I encounter).
This is the point when she burst into tears (which I hope doesn’t reflect poorly on me or Pancake). I ran over to her side of the table, asking what was wrong. She missed her mom, who was God-knows-where on the mountain. Luckily, shortly after she started to cry, an adult she knew (I think) came by and consoled her. “Landon” took this as a cue to head back up on the lift, and that was the last we saw of Zoe on the slopes.
(Moments later, it occurred to me that I may have just let Zoe get kidnapped by a sexual predator. Don’t worry though! I saw her with her family as we were leaving the mountain, and she looked happy as a clam and had apparently moved on from any lingering abandonment issues.)
(It just now occurred to me that the man from earlier could have been some sort of weirdo cult leader who led Zoe away to join him and his cult brethren in the woods, and she’s probably performing some bizarre marmot-sacrifice ritual as I type. Zoe’s family, if you’re reading this: I’m really sorry about the cult thing. I should have seen that coming.)
So, yeah … considering she started crying for her mom and may or may not be sacrificing a marmot in the woods right now, it seems a bit harsh to say I “schooled” Zoe at beginners’ skiing. But I since I didn’t start crying for my mommy, I think it’s fair to say I had the better time.
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I have to publish a post with this code to claim my blog on Bloglovin.’ I think. I’m not great at directions.
Anywho, if you’re still crying over the demise of Google Reader and/or need a way to follow your favoritest blogs, check out Bloglovin’. (It was invented by Swedes!) And be sure to click on the new handy-dandy button to the right so you don’t miss out on any of the squirreliness here! (Shoutout to my one follower so far, whoever you are! You will always be fantabulous in my book.)
I had a massive revelation recently. Out of all the various chores you have to do to keep your house from looking like a hoarder’s, I’ve always loathed vacuuming the most. Mainly because I’m terrified I’m going to run over the cord and get electrocuted and die, and then who would be around to take Pancake’s selfies for her or defend against the rise of the Oxford comma-nistas or remind you when it’s Squirrel Appreciation Day?
I’m 60 percent sure that “don’t run over the vacuum cleaner cord because you’ll get electrocuted” is one of those urban myths perpetuated during childhood, like “mixing Pop Rocks and soda will make your stomach explode” or “if you cross your eyes for too long, they’ll stay like that.” (Sooooooooo … I kinda-sorta seriously believed that one until college. College, people. Good thing “True or false: If you cross your eyes for more than 10 minutes, they’ll stay like that” wasn’t a question on the SAT.)
For some reason, the vacuum cleaner one has managed to stick with me well into adulthood, and we’re practically living in squalor because of it. A few days ago, something deep in my subconscious must have clicked, because it finally dawned on me: The scene in the classic ’80s animated film “The Brave Little Toaster” in which everything’s just going to hell for the talking appliances, and then Kirby the Vacuum eats his cord and dies — DIES — apparently gave me PTSD that’s lasted for 20-plus years.
Unfortunately, I couldn’t find an actual clip of that scene in the movie, so you’ll just have to rely upon the photo above and your trust in me to believe it was absolutely horrifying and a totally legit reason to be afraid of the vacuum cleaner for the rest of your life.
Who else remembers this movie? Did it also scar you for life?
The local paper I work for has a “Young Professional” article in the Business section each Sunday. It features a short profile on a younger working lad or lass in the community, who is typically nominated by the area chamber of commerce. Sometimes we don’t have any submissions though, and a staffer has to step up. And, lucky me, I was The Chosen One this past weekend.
So, really, my Young Professional profile is more of a “we didn’t have any submissions so you have to do it” kind of thing than “an honor,” but I tried to have some fun with it. Check it out if you feel so inclined.