Chuck’s best friend: Hey, know what’d be cool? A ski weekend.
Chuck: Plan it. We’re there.
Chuck’s best friend: Why is Mrs. Mullet holding herself and whimpering in the corner?
Mrs. Mullet: Sit down, Chuck’s best friend, and let me tell you a story….
When I was a sophomore in high school, one of my good friends was Karen. Karen was beautiful and mean, which means that only the aesthetically elite had the balls to approach her for a date. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that her attitude and looks incited a lot of jealousy. When a field hockey puck knocked out her front tooth during gym class, girls—and some female teachers—raced to see it, hoping to catch a glimpse of Karen in all her beastliness.
Do you know that that bitch still looked good? She just looked like a hot chick who was missing a tooth. And she knew it. If you can still make the basketball team drool with a gaping black hole in your mouth, you pretty much walk on water.
Oh, how I hated her.
Chuck’s best friend: What does this have to do with skiing?
Mrs. Mullet: Shut it, buttlick. This is my blog. Ahem…
When Karen invited two other friends, Tricia and Liz, and me on a weekend ski trip, I said yes. I had concerns that they were better skiers than I, but Karen assured me we were all at the same level.
We started off on a Green Dot trail to warm up, but it soon became apparent that Karen, Tricia and Liz were mere steps away from the Olympics. (The back flips, tail grabs and 180s kind of gave it away.) Like savvy hunters they were ready to attack and kill the mountain; like a cowering piece of shit, I was ready for a plastic fork and salad bar.
Still, I was determined to stay with them and be cool. We boarded the chairlift.
Karen must have seen the sweat pouring down my face as we headed up the mountain at a 90-degree angle because she assured me that we would stay on Green Dots and go slow until I warmed up.
Karen was a fucking liar.
When we got off the chairlift, there were nothing but Black Diamond trails as far as the eye could see. I had no choice but to attempt one.
In all fairness to my "friends", they waited patiently at the bottom of every vertical hill and yelled instructions. But it’s hard to hear when you’re skiing on your ass and heading for the woods. Or careening towards the Ski School toddlers who have braided together and are not moving even though you are shouting, “I can’t stoooooooooop! Holy shit mooooooooove!”
I’d like to say that I learned my lesson about trusting Karen, but she was convincing and charming, and I fell for her Black-Diamond-is-really-Green-Dot trick again and again.
Was I complete moron?
Yes. But really, she kept promising me that Black Diamonds intersected with Blue Squares that turned into Green Dots and that I kept missing the turn-offs.
Finally I’d had enough. On the next trip up the mountain, I told Karen that after that run, I was heading for the lodge. She apologized and told me that she’d take it extra easy on me because I was frazzled. She felt bad. She knew I was frustrated. I was a good friend.
And that’s when we got off the lift and I saw this:
I’ll give you the abridged version of what happened next: I shouted, “Screw it” and threw myself down the cliff ala John Cusack in Better Off Dead.
That’s when I met Mr. Mogul. If you’re not familiar with moguls, they look like this:
Moguls aren’t meant to be skied on one’s back, but I had no choice: My knees buckled on the first bump and I had to succumb to the ice humps. Thank God I was able to keep my legs closed.
When I finally slid to a stop, it was directly under the chairlift, which was stopped. That’s when the clapping started. Slow at first, and then gaining momentum. Karen, Tricia and Liz swooshed down and asked me if I was dead. The world was spinning, my ears were ringing, but I clearly heard a man yell, “You’re hot!”
I looked up and saw an attractive man leaning out of his seat. The sun glinted off his ski mask. He was just My Type.
He was smiling at Karen.
I haven’t skied since.
Chuck’s best friend: So you’ll take some lessons.
Mrs. Mullet [to Chuck]: Hand me that steak knife.
About me: I'm 42 and added another gherkin to our pickle party of a family. My husband Chuck, our 9-year-old Junior, our 6-year-old Everett, our toddler and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.