Hello from the land of the crazies. For those of you who want to take another peek at what I have been up tp lately, I have updated my artwork blog, at www.mountainartist.blogspot.com. Just a few more paintings you may or may not have seen before.

B surprised me the other evening, as I was preparing for bed, by telling me we had the next day off. I had thought our days off were done until March. The next morning we hiked up to Keystone's outback bowls in search of some powder. The news only gave Keystone about five inches of freshies, but in the Outback, there were pockets a foot deep. It actually was the first day this winter of powder deep enough to hit above the knee as one carved through it. I actually felt little poofs of marshmallow whiteness hitting my shoulders as I sliced through it. It was exhilerating, and of course, in the thrill of it all, floating through silent, snow-ghost trees, I went a little too far. I did not find myself out of the ski area boundary, never ducked a rope, but i did find myself in some very dense, unpatrolled, unmaintained forest, choked with brush, criss-crossed with fallen logs, snow undisturbed all winter, layers of crusts which swallowed my board like quicksand. Several times, I had to dig myself out from three feet of dense snow and lift my board to the surface so I could move again. All this while poor B was waiting for me at the designated meeting place. I finally found myself on a run... that I did not recognise. Looked more like a road. It was a road. By my calculations, I was maybe a quarter mile from a lift, so I started walking. Changed my mind, and turned around and walked the other direction. It was a good second-guess, because after walking about twenty minutes, I rounded a corner and found myself at the Northpeak "beach". I slept well last night. Inspite of a crazy, screaming game of dice which last until perhaps one in the morning downstairs. But not everyone expended the effort that I did on not being completely lost.

This evening, it is just us. It seems quiet. Just the five of us, who call summit county our permanent residence. This last week, we have had come through our front door, at one time or another, seven souls that call elsewhere home. My parents were here for a few days, and my grandparents, one evening, and Theron and Heather, my cousins from Michigan, and Craig, one of our friends from Kansas. I have tried to juggle work and play all week, resulting in getting too little done of either, and am feeling the lingering effects of sleep deprivation.

I have included three photos with this post, that I feel sum up the week rather nicely.
The first one is just how bitterly cold it got here. If I can shift my attention from my numb hands on the stearing wheel for long enough on sub-zero mornings, and look around me on my way to work, there is something so breathtaking about the way the steam rises from the blue river, it's icy water so much warmer than the air, and crystallises on the bushes along it's banks. True, I nearly turned into a human popsicle taking pictures of it, since I had to park at the hardware store, cross the street on foot, and wade through a snowbank to take pictures of it, but looking at them reminds me that winter isn't all bad, just kinda chilly. And hazardous for drivers.

The second one is of my very own mother, fresh off a three and a half mile run down Schoolmarm, Keystone's well-known beginner's run. She's figured out how to switch those edges, that part was easy to teach her. But convincing her to point that thing downhill, well, that's another discussion altogether. She's cautious. But I had fun, we got to spend lots of time together, something that's rare these days.

And what is a weekend snowboarding with friends without the bloopers? Yes, I know my legs would not win any prizes on a good day. But now, I have express instructions not to wear anything but long pants until they are a pink again. The third photo is a prime example of what can happen when one introduces iron into an already iffy mix of snow, flesh, and wax-coated fiberglass. Not my first jib, but definitely my worst crash on one. I have a vague memory of pulling my face out of the snow and staring in shock at the red paint slashed across the front of my snowpants, paint that used to be on the metal surface of the rail, and wondering if that had hurt as badly as my mind told me it should have. Then, of course, my mind began receiving 911 calls from my shins and the mental switchboard began sparking and I took my chastened self back to my parent's condo to survey the damage.

That's the week in a nutshell. Cold weather, warm food, family, fun, and of course, the inevitable consequences of doing something stupid.

B. has been faithfully working out this whole time. I must admit, I have fallen off the wagon. (I used that phrase the other day, and one of the extras we had in our house, I can't remember which one, not familiar with the cliche', made the observation, "I'm not sure what that means, but knowing you, I can see how it could happen!" They probably had a point.) After spending my evenings lately limping from the couch to the kitchen, and back again, I am feeling a bit overfed and underworked. It's amazing how, after only a few days of overeating, things begin to fit much more snugly. And it takes nearly three times the amount of time, with diet and excersize, to get them back to their normal fit. My newish Gel Asics have been ignored so much lately, they have ceased to call out very loudly from the confines of my smelly gym bag. We may be friends again, after they have stopped punishing me everytime I lace them up. They always make me feel as though I am doing all the work the first few times I come crawling back to them.

Day before yesterday, I finally dragged B out to Keystone for the third time this season. The first time, he made a run, then one of the group we were riding with fell broke his arm and B spent the rest of the day at the medical center with him. The second time was at night, and we had fun, but everybody but B and me got really cold, so we took them home after four runs. And day before yesterday, we had the day off, but B, with his overdeveloped sense of responsibility, made four runs, then came home and rotated tires, changed oil, fixed broken chairs from our units, did everything but fun, day-off things. Athough he did have a point when I pointed this out to him, and he scowled and asked, just when he was supposed to do these things, if not on a day off? We're trying to take one day a week off while it's "slow", only ten or so cleans and checkins a day, instead of the mad rush we get in to when it climbs to over twenty. But after next week, our spring break rush kicks off, first with Valentines day, then President's Day, then March. It feels like we are still in the middle of drawing that relieved breath of last April. Where did our year go? Why are Marches only spaced eleven months apart? The one part of our job that burns out property managers faster than many other professions is the fact that one spends an entire winter becoming incrementally more stressed out and busy, and when one thinks one cannot handle anymore, then March hits. If we could have March first, while we were fresh, then the rest of the year, this would be a pretty cushy job.

But it was fun, even though he whined about the snow conditions. It was just the two of us, always a rare treat. Don't get the idea that we resent the fact that there are ALWAYS people around. If they weren't, we would hardly know what to do with ourselves. Like I say, they are probably the reason we do not have kids yet. But, they are ALWAYS there, which means they witness the good, the bad and the ugly of our relationship. We are the recipients of advice that runs the spectrum from "get a clue", to "get a life," to "get a therapist," to "get a room". We have learned to pretty much carry on as we normally would, in spite of having an audience. The only thing we lack, it was suggested the other day, is a crew of makeup artists and a bevy of camera men.

The residents, full and part time, of our suburban abode, are every bit as disfunctional as the worst, most lame, most faky-dramatic reality show on TV- that, incidentally, we never watch. Perhaps because we do not feed off of voyeurism, or perhaps because we do not secretly wish that we were young, and packed into tight spaces, with no elder, moral accountability... because we already are. We generate our own adrenaline rushes, our own stinging one-liners, our own inedible piles of disgusting muck, which we attempt to eat anyway. (It's called condo-kill, and it comes in many forms. To the rich, it may be a delicacy. To us, it's a dare. Caviar, pate', cheeses in all stages of molding rottenness... plus, the ongoing gamble about the things we actually hope will be edible, and not kill us. Deli meat? sniff it, nibble it, wait a day... if all remains intact in the bowelular regions, recommend it to the rest of the household. Dairy products? It all comes down to personal preference. If there are fingerprints in the cheese, ya may want to shave off the outside layer. As for pickles and peanut butter, well, do as we say, not as we do. Two things that are notorious for double-dipping, for sticking one's fingers in after performing a host of disgusting activities (you may have to spend a few weeks with us to gain a complete understanding of what these things might emcompass), but both are so well-loved around here, that one sometimes just closes a mental door on all the whatifs, and carries home an opened jar of said wonderfullness.)

When one lives in a housefull of twenty-somethings (with one eighteen year old we still try to protect), nothing is sacred. No subject is off limits, although one must honor a raised hand, and a horrified, "Enough! Don't want to know!" One also knows to shut up when one realises that everyone else has fallen silent, and is interupted in the middle of a particular enlightening monologue with, "Thank you for sharing that with us."

And one does not simply clean house as one would with a house full of children. Or cook, or do laundry. One must clear all decisions with the other (as many as) eight people who also share the space you have just designated as the spot the toaster is to live. Or whatever it is that you have just moved to a new spot. Rest assured it will mess with somebody's system, not that you knew they even had a system until you messed with it. Asking for permission to use the washing machine is a popularity builder, especially if you agree to wait while someone else does their last two loads, "cause this is the fourth day in these jeans, and they'll fall off if I try to wear them tomorrow, too." As is using the knock-off brands of condo-kill laundry soap, to leave the gentler brands for those with sensitive skin. As is emptying the lint filter when you are done, and shoveling the driveway when it snows, or sweeping the floor. Nobody actually does these things, so when they turn up done, it sometimes gets blamed on the cleaning fairies, or the elves that live under the couch.

In parting, I have one bit of advice about living with a crowd. Do not, under any circumstances, announce more of your intentions than you absolutely have to. In particular, do not announce that you are dieting. You might think that nobody will notice, but with as many as sixteen eyes belonging to as many as eight people, somebody will always see the Nutella on your toast, the peanut butter on your apple, the Hersheys Kiss you thought you were sneaking. There will be as many as eight diet police hanging on your every move. And if you try to justify just why you turned down a third slice of pizza, everybody will call you a bony little winch, and tell you to shut up before they tie your skinny self in a knot. It's just not worth it.