I'm on Vacation! And a Segregationist!
My fears:
1. Death
2. Breaking every (oh hell, any) bone in my body
3. Seeing my children hurt
4. Crowds
5. Heights (specifically, ski lifts)
So clearly the first order of business on vacation should be for me to go skiing with papa and my children. Husbandrinka was enjoying a cartlige tear, that lucky bastard, so he couldn't come with us.
Backstory:
The last time that I'd skied was in 1995. I still have the ski suit, a one-piece number that is very Austin Powers (I've never seen the movie, so I'm using Austin Powers to mean "dated loser"). So papa says, "you can wear your old suit" and I say "of course I can't wear my old ski suit. The last time that I had it on, I was twenty five years old and had a body of an eighteen year old. Now I'm forty one with a Haagen Dasz addiction and a body of a Jerry Springer guest." But he won't back down, and then mama gets in the mix and says "I wearing that ski outfit other day, it fit me and I am in sixties." So I avoid the obvious question of why my non-skiing mama was wearing my ski suit and go into my room to wrestle with the one piece monster. I get it up over my hips and as long as I don't inhale, and don't mind walking around with my zipper open for full frontal ventilation, I'm fine. The problem arises when I try to pull the suit over to upper torso. Of course "problem" is not in my vocabulary because my glass half full (of shit) personality absolutely forbids it, so I tie the suit arms around my waist, and parade into the living room.
"You were right, it fits!"
"I knew it!" mama cries before she sees me, "I knew you didn't gain as much weight as I thought you did." And then she sees me and her expression changes into something that I'm fairly certain that Hitchkock wanted to elicit from Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower scene. "My God," she gasps, "what happened to you?" Which I don't know about you, but that's the kind of start to a vacation that makes me want to run screaming and fall at my boss' feet so as to avoid vacationing again.
"I tell you what happened to her," papa ministers from the couch. "It is called caloric intoxication and the whole coutry is suffering."
I am, of course, looking for a noose at this point.
"What is in that pocket?" mama points to the buldge on my side.
"That is called fat," my father preaches to the chorus.
"Oh, please," I reach into my pocket and dangle the moth-eater packets in front of them.
"This is tragedy" my parents wail as I fill my sagging pockets with rocks and walk towards the pond.
The Day:
I am completely terrified of dying.
And of breaking something/everything.
I'm afraid of getting stuck on a ski lift.
I'm afraid of the ski lift being weighed down by my ass, and plunging down.
Oh yeah, I'm also afraid of my children getting hurt.
I look smoking hot as a walking sausage in mama's ski pants.
I buy a ski lift ticket and ask if I can get a paramedic to come up with me.
The cheap-ass antisemites don't offer this service.
I ski, I don't die.
I don't even fall.
I'm feeling very gold medalist.
My seven year old son tells me that I do too much pizza and not enough french fries.
I assume that he's dropping junior acid and plan to have The Talk with him, but my daughter then explains that "pizza"=snow plowing and french fries=parallel skiing.
My seven year old son asks me why I'm such a slow poke.
I start to explain but he zooms by and I am talking to myself.
My daughter tells me that she's sick of the baby slopes and wants to do a more fun run.
I tell her that at my age, I shouldn't take too many risks.
Sixty three year old papa agrees to take my daughter on an more advanced slope.
I start to relax and enjoy my run.
Something rushes past me.
What the fuck is that?
Snow boarders? When I skied last, we didn't know what snow boarders.
WHAT KIND OF SICK FUCKS DO THIS?
My knees hurt just looking at them.
"It's a thrill" one of them tell me as we wait for the lift.
I can't believe that they're allowed to take the lift with the normal skiers.
It's called a ski lift, not a snow boarding lift.
As a matter of fact, the whole mountain is a ski mountain, not a snow boarding mountain.
And you know what would be a bigger thrill yet?
If they snow boarded with a stick of dynamite in their mouth,
And a game of Russian Roulette waiting for them at the foot of the mountain.
Hell, have bareback sex with dubious strangers, it's all the rage.
BUT STOP SNEAKING UP BEHIND AN AGING SAUSAGE ON SKIES FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 15 YEARS, you freaks.
By my fifth run, I'm a segregationist. I plan to devote my life to making sure that skiers and and snow boarders have different mountains to ski/snow board down.
But first, I must have some hot chocolate. Irishized, preferably.
1. Death
2. Breaking every (oh hell, any) bone in my body
3. Seeing my children hurt
4. Crowds
5. Heights (specifically, ski lifts)
So clearly the first order of business on vacation should be for me to go skiing with papa and my children. Husbandrinka was enjoying a cartlige tear, that lucky bastard, so he couldn't come with us.
Backstory:
The last time that I'd skied was in 1995. I still have the ski suit, a one-piece number that is very Austin Powers (I've never seen the movie, so I'm using Austin Powers to mean "dated loser"). So papa says, "you can wear your old suit" and I say "of course I can't wear my old ski suit. The last time that I had it on, I was twenty five years old and had a body of an eighteen year old. Now I'm forty one with a Haagen Dasz addiction and a body of a Jerry Springer guest." But he won't back down, and then mama gets in the mix and says "I wearing that ski outfit other day, it fit me and I am in sixties." So I avoid the obvious question of why my non-skiing mama was wearing my ski suit and go into my room to wrestle with the one piece monster. I get it up over my hips and as long as I don't inhale, and don't mind walking around with my zipper open for full frontal ventilation, I'm fine. The problem arises when I try to pull the suit over to upper torso. Of course "problem" is not in my vocabulary because my glass half full (of shit) personality absolutely forbids it, so I tie the suit arms around my waist, and parade into the living room.
"You were right, it fits!"
"I knew it!" mama cries before she sees me, "I knew you didn't gain as much weight as I thought you did." And then she sees me and her expression changes into something that I'm fairly certain that Hitchkock wanted to elicit from Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower scene. "My God," she gasps, "what happened to you?" Which I don't know about you, but that's the kind of start to a vacation that makes me want to run screaming and fall at my boss' feet so as to avoid vacationing again.
"I tell you what happened to her," papa ministers from the couch. "It is called caloric intoxication and the whole coutry is suffering."
I am, of course, looking for a noose at this point.
"What is in that pocket?" mama points to the buldge on my side.
"That is called fat," my father preaches to the chorus.
"Oh, please," I reach into my pocket and dangle the moth-eater packets in front of them.
"This is tragedy" my parents wail as I fill my sagging pockets with rocks and walk towards the pond.
The Day:
I am completely terrified of dying.
And of breaking something/everything.
I'm afraid of getting stuck on a ski lift.
I'm afraid of the ski lift being weighed down by my ass, and plunging down.
Oh yeah, I'm also afraid of my children getting hurt.
I look smoking hot as a walking sausage in mama's ski pants.
I buy a ski lift ticket and ask if I can get a paramedic to come up with me.
The cheap-ass antisemites don't offer this service.
I ski, I don't die.
I don't even fall.
I'm feeling very gold medalist.
My seven year old son tells me that I do too much pizza and not enough french fries.
I assume that he's dropping junior acid and plan to have The Talk with him, but my daughter then explains that "pizza"=snow plowing and french fries=parallel skiing.
My seven year old son asks me why I'm such a slow poke.
I start to explain but he zooms by and I am talking to myself.
My daughter tells me that she's sick of the baby slopes and wants to do a more fun run.
I tell her that at my age, I shouldn't take too many risks.
Sixty three year old papa agrees to take my daughter on an more advanced slope.
I start to relax and enjoy my run.
Something rushes past me.
What the fuck is that?
Snow boarders? When I skied last, we didn't know what snow boarders.
WHAT KIND OF SICK FUCKS DO THIS?
My knees hurt just looking at them.
"It's a thrill" one of them tell me as we wait for the lift.
I can't believe that they're allowed to take the lift with the normal skiers.
It's called a ski lift, not a snow boarding lift.
As a matter of fact, the whole mountain is a ski mountain, not a snow boarding mountain.
And you know what would be a bigger thrill yet?
If they snow boarded with a stick of dynamite in their mouth,
And a game of Russian Roulette waiting for them at the foot of the mountain.
Hell, have bareback sex with dubious strangers, it's all the rage.
BUT STOP SNEAKING UP BEHIND AN AGING SAUSAGE ON SKIES FOR THE FIRST TIME IN 15 YEARS, you freaks.
By my fifth run, I'm a segregationist. I plan to devote my life to making sure that skiers and and snow boarders have different mountains to ski/snow board down.
But first, I must have some hot chocolate. Irishized, preferably.
Labels: Everyone is insane, Fun with mama and papa
posted by Marinka at
12:01 AM
40 Comments:
I"m half with the fly off the mountain in shrieking wild wonder crew, and half with the WHAT KIND OF SICK FUCKS DO THIS crew. Irish coffee sounds fanfuckingtastic about now.
You know, parallel skiing is easier when you're not crammed into the ski-suit, but anyway...
...I still don't quite understand. You mean your mum was, for some unfathomable reason, rummaging around in your wardrobe and trying on your old ski-suit?
These family posts really crack me up.
Oh, and in the end did you actually ski with 'full frontal ventilation'!? (As opposed to some sort of makeshift closure).
Full Frontal Ventilation...Lol.
I enjoy reading this story..Love it.Have a nice day.;D Did you enjoy your vacation??=)
The last time I skied, there were no snow boarders either. I never thought about how that worked as far as sharing the lift, or even going all the way down the mountain. I see your point, it just doesn't seem right!
Oh Hell YES those bastard snowboarders with that crunchy rushing noise that suddenly erupts behind you with no warning aaaaah. This aging sausage just threw herself to the floor whenever she heard one approaching.
Courage Marinka.
I despise skiing. It's uncomfortable, fucking cold and I hate the lack of control. And you can fall on a bunny slope and DIE? No thank you.
We have similar issues when water skiing. Except you have to do that in a bathing suit. Which means your fat is globbing and hanging out around the elastic. And that totally fucks with your self-esteem. But just when you are able to stand up behind the boat (dragging as it always seems to me), some young punks come flying by on jet skis. Or on a raft being pulled by a boat.
I'm totally with you on the segregation issues. Call me if I can help.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
I'm with you on the snowboarder segregation cause. Those little shits go zinging by so fast that I don't even see them, I just hear them laughing at me right after they use me for a speedbump.
OMG you are too funny! I use to live in Utah and Alta ski resort is one of the only ski resorts left that does not allow boarders its so great. Have fun!
Photos please. Of you in your ski-suit.
what about Nicki? Are you keeping her warm?
and
p.s. Austin Powers is my fashion guru.
I bought one of those jumpsuits on my honeymoon in Italy in the 80's, a very fashionable teal. Thank God I grew out of it!
My kids still laugh about the time I ordered Irish Whiskey-decaf, after skiing. I have a one track mind. Blame it on the altitude.
I can handle the snowboarders speeding by me. Never been hit by one. What bothers me is the meetings they have in the MIDDLE of the slope. They just plop down and chat. And they fall. A lot. I think that is what initiates meetings.
Most of my skiing is done in the "pizza" position also, and it is a challenge to get around multiple knots of snowboarders dotting the slope.
Oh, and the one piece snowsuit? Mine is reversable: hot pink on one side, purple on the other. Makes it easy for my kids to see me. And the ski patrol.
LMAO!! You're too friggin' funny, Marinka. I tried skiing once, and I never will again. Hypothermia and the too-damn-slick-surface do not mix well with me.
Skiing without snowboard bareback sex is like frozen yogurt without chocolate sprinkles.
Any excuse to get out of the sausage suit, right?
Just make sure to check ID first...under all that nylon poof, some of those fellas are *young.*
...A.
I am so afraid to ski it's unbelievable. I just know I will break my leg on my first trip down the mountain.
I quite literally lol on this one, at your expense. Your parents calling you a fatty was, well, funny, as well as your comparison of you in a ski suit to a sausage.
I avoid skiing for many of the same reasons you do.
if it makes you feel better, i know a middle-aged, hot-shot snowboarder who fell on his ass and broke his back. he ended up in bed for months. guess he's not whizzing past any law-abiding, god-loving, good-hearted skiers anymore, is he?
It sounds like you are really enjoying your vacation.
I agree there should be two separate mountains for skiers and snow boarders. I thinking it must have been about 15 years since I last skied too. I am wondering how many people actually ski anymore. All I ever hear about is snow boarders now. I'm glad you survived the ordeal. By the way, if it makes you feel any better, I am 100% postive I cannot get one leg into my stretch ski pants anymore!!!
I would like some Irishized coffee as well please. And I haven't even been skiing; it's just been one of those mornings.
Hilarious imagery and story!
Freaking hilarious! I don't ski, so I can't commiserate. But if it is any consolation, I think everybody looks like a sausage in a snow suit.
Marinka you are a legend, hopefully not a broken one after those dangerous sports!
...It'd be like that scene from Rear window all over again!
I grew up in the Catsklls. Everyone skied. Except me.
It is cold. It hurts. It is uses muscles. It is cold. The whole sausage issue. It is cold. Those snow boarding-knuckle-draggers. It is cold.
Just give me a steaming warm mug of something alcoholic in the lodge to look at the hot guys coming in off the mountain.
THAT is what skiing is all about, baby.
I tried skiing once. I made it up the bunny slope on the tow rope. Which was the only vertical moment of the whole exercise. How the fuck are you supposed to stand up when your ankles are welded into position?
I tried skiing once. I made it up the bunny slope on the tow rope. Which was the only vertical moment of the whole exercise. How the fuck are you supposed to stand up when your ankles are welded into position?
The noose and the rocks were for them, right? Because they totally deserved it. Or you could save it for the snow boarders.
You do know the winter Olympics will be in Russia soon. I think you'd better start your segregationist campaign right nowski.
I can't help myself. I crack up at Papa and Mama . . .
Oh I am so signng your petition to segregate the mountain!
I chuckled the entire time I read this post. I supposed if you were able to get that hot chocolate the Irish way the day ended happily.
Oh my goodness. This is one of the funniest posts I've ever read. I simply hate, hate, hate skiing. I feel like an out of control freak. I haven't skiied since 1990 wiht an ex-boyfriend in Colorado.
He said he didn't appreciate my using the F-word on the slopes
We took a family ski trip this winter. I stayed in the lodge and read. My family can't figure out why snowboarders take it upon themselves to sit down and hang out in the middle of the slopes. Weirdos.
From one aging sausage to another...
the last time I skied, they had to pry my hands from the side of the ski lift where I had gripped onto it for dear life, closed my eyes and prayed my death would be painless
here's my issue with the Marinka blog, not enough pictures of Marinka in sausage ski suit. That is all.
Never ski California, A. We have no snow B. When the machines make snow, the mountains are covered w/ boarders.
I'm all for segregationalist mountains, especially if they have separate slopes for those of us who don't want to have to compare ourselves to the 20-somethings who would be too small to fit into our old ski suits.
At this:
And you know what would be a bigger thrill yet?
If they snow boarded with a stick of dynamite in their mouth,
I laughed out loud. The big, loud squawking kind of belly laugh you can only do on your own couch without anyone giving you a funny look.
Thanks for that.
P.S. Try Frangelico in the cocoa.
I tried skiing once. I really saw no point to hurling myself uncontrollably down a mountain side in the freezing cold to land on my ass in the snow when there are nice drinks and a fire back at the lodge. I applaud your efforts though. Cheers!
Marinka, I want you to write a book. No, I NEED you to write a book. With plenty of lines like these: 'And then she sees me and her expression changes into something that I'm fairly certain that Hitchkock wanted to elicit from Janet Leigh in the Psycho shower scene. "My God," she gasps, "what happened to you?"'
My stomach hurts from laughing.
jesus, are you still out of town?
And you have confirmed all my worst suspicions of what a ski vacation will be like at my advanced age. Thank you for showing me the light so that I can be spared the "doin' the pizza in a sausage suit"-routine. Phew!
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