Hello Reader(s)!
Welcome to the fabulously entertaining, tremendously witty, marvelously informative, stupendously productive corner of the the world wide web that is my blog. You'll pardon my conceit. Yes, you will.
I've been up to quite a few things lately, so this will be a rather long post. Ah, ah, ah!...you're here, and here you'll stay until the remainder of this obnoxiously long entry comes to a close. Good manners and fine breeding prevents you from exiting this page without first fulfilling your obligatory duty. Now, now, we've been through this before. Chin up, wipe your eyes. There's a stout-hearted chap/chapess. And so, I begin.
Several weeks ago, the Ouatu Family graciously took me, and two other girls and a guy on a ski trip to Big Bear. Being my typically pestiferous self, I brought along my snowboard, the only person in the entire group who went snowboarding. It was a total blast getting to know the girls. The snowboarding was AWESOME! As an added bonus, it snowed the whole day we were up there! Naturally, I have no pictures. It was a wonderful time, full of fun and fellowship. Thank you Ouatu Family! The night before, I had gone to get my bindings adjusted. Now, I had received my board from my uncle around the age of 13. He's never been very particular, so I doubt the board was new when he bought it. Luckily, he had average size feet, so with three or four thick wool socks my feet fit quite nicely into the boots. Plus, I didn't have to spend a cent on new bindings. Bottom line, my board is an antique.
Anyway, I come in to the shop, greet the guy behind the counter, and unzip my case to pull out my board. He took a look at it, raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He asked me what was wrong, and I told him I'd like my stance to be wider, and would he please angle my ramp/disk thingie more to the right. As he's adjusting my board, some guy from behind him reaches over to grab something and spots my snowboard.
"DUDE, that board is like, ten years old man!" (To a snowboarder who spends his yearly salary on new gear, this amount of time is unfathomable.) He looks at me in amazement before leaving. Just then two other guys walk in; they also see my board.
"Hey! You guys are still renting step-in bindings, or is that a personal board?" The guy behind the counter dropped my board like a hot coal.
"Oh n-no," he stammered, "it's her personal board." The friend of the guy who asked the question gave me a little smile.
"That board is ANCIENT! Really, really old. You should try *insert the name of some ridiculously expensive brand name bindings, the cost of which could feed a small country, or Jimmy, for a week here*; these guys hooked me up last year." The man had a Spanish accent, because HE WAS FROM CHILE! Like, by what authority do people from Chile give advice on snowboards and bindings to Californians? Do they even HAVE snow in Chile?? Yeah, I was steamed, because they made fun of my totally awesome board, that I knew they were all secretly jealous of anyway. Only not. Whatever.
While we were going up the lift, Johnny and Andrew entertained me by relating the plot of a film they had seen. A mild horror movie about three men who go up the mountain on the lift just before the park closes...leaving them stranded near the top. They all freeze to death, and movie concludes with the image of a frozen hand, eerily rising from the fog. Charming. Precisely the sort of story one wants to hear as one embarks on the very first run of the day. Nothing like some twisted fiction to put a spring in your step. Consequently, they let me know that the probability of something like that ever happening is very low, and of course it could never happen in real life. Alas, the damage was done. We had a great time skiing/snowboarding together. (At least I did, I don't know about them, they were stuck with me.) Without exception,(except me) all snowboarders are arrogant, selfish, boisterous creatures. Imagine, if you can, the presumption, the nerve, the amount of pride it must take to plop oneself in the middle of the slope, without regard for anyone else. Next time I see one of those punks I'm going to let loose what I've restrained for 10 years: "Hey you! Yeah, I'm talking to the walking Burton advertisement! Get out of my way before I run you and your precious beanie over!" Ooh, that'll feel good. I can hardly wait for next year.
A few days after I came back, I went snowboarding with Florin at Mountain High. (If you don't know who he is, he's the man renting a room from us, and I've known him for 16 years.) Somehow, Florin and I got separated. It was getting close to ten 'o clock, the time the park closes, when I decided to take one last run down the mountain. I got into the lift, meant for 4 people, by myself. That's always fun. When the attendants aren't looking, I turn sideways and prop my board up against the back of the chair so that I'm lying down. It's a ridiculously comfortable position. The attendants will yell, scream, and generally make pests of themselves if you do that when they're looking. Try it when you're out of their sight range. Speaking of which, visibility was 30 feet, max. Less than that at the top. The fog was so thick you could cut it. The scene: I'm merrily enjoying my ride up the mountain, when suddenly, the lift stops. Ah, no big deal, it's stopped before. But it doesn't start up again! Two minutes go by...nothing. Four minutes...nothing. Six minutes in, and I hear a faint shout: a rude variation of "Hey! What's going on?" after that, nothing. Eight minutes in, I've switched out of my cozy lounge and into the much more appropriate sitting-on-a-lift fetal position. I began calculating the distance from the lift to the ground, when sheer terror overwhelmed me. All I could think about was a frozen hand! THANKS FOR NOTHING ANDREW AND JOHNNY!
*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~***
And now, I suppose I must explain the title of this blog post, before you die of curiosity. It's a rather boring tale, so keep your hopes down where they belong. I wear almost exactly the same clothes for every single volleyball class. My outfit includes a hideous pair of stretchy purple bell bottoms, and an over sized purple t-shirt. Bell bottoms used to be quite popular with hippies, though they at least had the good sense to make use of denim. Somehow a crazed lunatic got ahold of some stretchy cotton, made a pair of bell bottoms, and forced my mother, at gunpoint, to buy them. Waste not want not, so I'm wearing them. First day of Volleyball class. This skinny, Hispanic boy wanted to get my attention. The ball was flying towards me, and I had no idea. Brilliance has a way of striking people at opportune moments.
"Hey! Purple Girl!" he shouted. That got my attention, I assumed the position I vaguely remembered Jonathan teaching me, and sent the ball flying across the net. Victory!
Moving right along, my friend and I had a test for CIS(Computer Information Science). I scored 54/55, and she 51/55. The statistics show that in a class of 30 people, the first 3 people who stand up will receive D's. Numbers 4-11 receive A's. And all the rest get C's, with a few scattered F's. As everyone knows, all the information garnered from sources like the Internet, and statistics, is infallible. Does your humble self care to contest this fact? Smart cookie. :)
Unfortunately, dear reader, the randomness has petered out and our time has drawn to a close. Halt. Mind you be polite and let me finish before you run out of the room in a frenzy of delight. Ha ha. You are now my prisoner. I will finish with a quote I found very amusing, to celebrate the joyous occasion commemorating the completion of my Algebra 2 class. Which, by the way, I'm very confident I'll get an A in.
Anyone who cannot cope with mathematics is not fully human. At best he is a tolerable subhuman who has learned to wear shoes, bathe, and not make messes in the house. ~Robert Heinlein, Time Enough for Love
Apparently, I am a tolerable subhuman who still makes messes in the house. :)
