First Runs of the Season

I went skiing on Sunday. It felt so good to be up in the mountains again. It was a perfect day, not a cloud in the sky, lots of sunshine but still nice and cold, the snow conditions were fabulous, and it did not feel like early season, at all. In any way. Including the crowds. I breathed in the fresh air, strapped on my skis and hustled my way on over to The Line. The Line was enormous and never-ending. The lift ops were doing their job and trying to keep things moving, but it was crowded and the line moved s-l-o-o-o-o-o-w-l-y. Even in the singles line, I waited twenty minutes. (For those of you non-skiers, the singles line is an excellent speed-this-shit-up strategy. It's a separate line that allows you jump on with another group of people to fill chairlift space, so that no seat goes unfilled. Usually the singles line moves much faster than the regular line.)

Anyway. I got in all of about four runs about several hours of line-standing before the princess in me was like, "This blows. I need wine." So I gave up and skied back down to my car.

I met a friend for lunch and saw her baby, as well as some pictures of her baby dressed as in chicken costume for Halloween! That was some funny stuff, and waaaay better than the ol' pumpkin costume most babies seem to appear in.

Then I met two other good friends for extremely large margaritas and gossiping. The traffic on I-70 (oh, I-70, how you plague me) is notoriously horrible coming down from the mountains on Sunday afternoon, so I debated taking a much longer, but much less traffic-y back way home. My friend A goes to this tamale joint on one of the roads I was contemplating taking, and as I love homemade tamales almost as much as I love The Funasaurus, so we spent a good twenty minutes discussing where exactly this little tamale stand was, in the back mountains, and figuring out how to get there (including one phone call to the place itself that included a lot of, "What? WHAT? Directions. I need DIRECTIONS. DIRECCIONES?-type speak) until I finally decided that it was too much of a detour, and as much as I love tamales, it would do me no good at all to get the tamales if I ended up passing out on the long drive home and killing myself (and probably smushing the tamales) before I could get home to taste them.

So I took I-70 and the traffic was bad, but I still made it in less time than the detour would have taken, and I promptly threw myself on the couch to watch Sex and the City reruns for a couple hours before The Funasaurus got home from the Broncos game. Darn old Broncos. What a bizarre game. (I tuned in to watch the last five minutes, so I could feign some knowledge of what went down with my beloved. Unfortunately, the game was even more cooky than usual, so it really did me no good at all.)

Dear Broncos,
When I have such a great weekend, it'd really help me out if you'd not try so hard to lose, already, so that The Funasaurus isn't grumpy when he gets home from the game.
Thanks,
Princess G, who's rocking some serious windburn, today.