I had a phili cheesesteak for dinner last night, made with gooey, weird, fluorescent-orange cheese sauce and it was AWESOME.
What made it even better was that I was in this quirky old mining town in the mountains with two amazing women. They are two of my very best friends from Summit County, a place up in the mountains where I lived for three years, working for a ski resort. You have to be a special brand of crazy to be able to call that place your home, which I think inherently bonds the people who do end up there. It's a safe place, in that you don't have to lock your doors. It's a dangerous place, in that, the majority of the time, most of the drivers on the (snow-and-ice-laden) roads are either a) drunk b) driving without a license c) driving without insurance or d) all of the above. There are wild parties and reckless skiing and intimate moments over alcohol-tinged hot chocolate. Friendships are made, bones are broken, and shit happens every .036 seconds.
I have some great memories from that time in my life, and these two women were a huge part of that. These days, we are all a little calmer. There are now serious boyfriends, babies (that'd be M, not me), careers, home ownership, and thoughts of moving beyond good ol' Summit County. But it is fun to reminisce, and marvel at the fact that we've all made it as far as we have, fairly unscathed. Relatively speaking.
Wine was consumed, sobering ensued, and I drove home.
Where The Funausaurus was waiting, sprawled under a blanket on the couch, watching South Park. Mmm, Kenny. There's something wickedly delicious about a kid with a severe muttering problem who dies gruesome deaths over and over again. And The Funasaurus looked SO comfy, and I was SO exhausted, having driven for 50 minutes after a heavy dinner, much cabernet, and good conversation, that I did-not-pass-go-nor-collect-$200-(though-I-probably-would-have-detoured-for-that-had-there-been-an-actual-$200-for-me-to-collect) and collapsed on the blanketed Funausaurus. I do not remember actually touching him, so much as just launching myself at him WWF-style, because I think I was already asleep by the time contact was made.
He woke me up a while later, something about his lower body being completely asleep and concern over circulation issues, WHATEVER, and I was very grumpy about the whole thing, but I made it upstairs into the bed, and had a good night's sleep.
There really should be more nights like that. If only I didn't have to wake up to go to work in the morning. Why doesn't somebody pay me to drink cabernet and have pseudo-intellectual conversations and sleep in until noon, already? Let's go, folks.
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2 comments:
honestly. The reason that we're friends? Is basically the title of this post.
I used to live in Woodland Park. I had a friend who worked at A Basin driving a snow cat. Usually stoned, and at night. He had great stories, and taught me one of my favorite words, tourons. (Tourists + morons).
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