Hello again. Two days until the ski resorts close, the wind is whipping up a blizzard that would make the most beastly January day cower in humiliation. March came in like a lion, went out like a lion, and April has pretty much beat the snot out of the lion and imposed it's own bi-polar personality on us.

So I bought skis the other day. Quite proud of my frugality, I was, as I bought the whole set-up. Skis, boots, poles, bindings, for mere fractions of full price. Well, the bindings were free, thanks to a friend. But for now, I must babble on about my new toyage leaning in all their shiny-sharp, gloriously waxed, unscratched glory against the garage wall. Just my size(that would be rather smallish), blue and white, for a fifth of their original price. A shiny black pair of boots, just my size, for a forth of their original price. A ten dollar pair of poles, next to last in stock. And a used-hard, put away wet pair of bindings.

The last day I was out was a powder day, so I loaded up my snowboard and my new skis. There are a few non-negotiable rules for a ski resort on a powder day. Ditch your riding/skiing partner if your wait at the bottom is more than five minutes. Forgive your skiing/riding partner for ditching you, leaving you wondering if they are lost, maimed, or otherwise dead in the trees as you shiver just outside the rope maze and they dismount at the top. Forgive them for choosing powder over other things more or less necessary or fun, like food, sleep or sex. Accept that you are still desirable to your significant other, just not as much so as billions of tiny ice crystals are at the moment. Never ride in someone else's line. Haste makes angry fellow skiers/riders. And finally, stick to what you know best. There will be many days of crud, wherein you can perfect your style and learn a new sport, but today, this powder day, do what you love. So I rode the day away, carving through bottomless pits between scooped-out bumps, ducking tree branches, having the ones I failed to duck dump their loads of snow down my neck and back. Lunch was an orange and a cold can of lentil soup, gulped while standing beside the trash can. Rind and tin can thrown away, spoon tucked into my pocket, I hit the powder again, and finally, at three-thirty, when the back side closed, and the last of the powder was shredded and piled up, I dragged my jello-knees back to the jeep, exchanged board for the skiis I had been looking forward to all day, clomped clumsily back to the lift, and mentally prepared myself for an evening of night-skiing. One run of razor-sharp turns on brand-new edges, poles the right size for once (the rental shop never could give me poles that weren't too long), I slid to a dramatic hocky stop in front of the lift line... and looked around me with the same confusion several other skiiers were expressing. Roped off maze, doors to the gondola shed shut, stationary chairs and gondola cabins, lights off... they were closed. At four in the afternoon. Come to find out, my information that it would be the last night for night skiing was faulty. The last night had already come and gone. I trudged my self and my shiny new boots back to the jeep.

Bobby D. wasnt joking when he told me to enjoy that day, because it would be my last. I have been too busy since then to even take my gear along with me when I leave in the mornings. There were two days in the last week, late in the afternoon, that I was able to sneak away for a whole two hours with my cross-country skis. I think recent shoulder aches are coming from the fact that I do not own cross-country ski poles so I have to use regular ski poles. But by the time I got to buying poles, even spending twenty more dollars seemed outrageous, in spite of all the deals I had been getting on gear. I dug a pair of long (but not long enough) poles out of lost and found to complete the set-up. XC poles should be about shoulder height, to allow you to plant them and pull yourself forward efficiently, with adjustable wrist straps, because by looping the straps around your wrist, then through your palm, and holding them along with the pole handle, you can save your hands from having to squeeze the handles with every step. But in spite of being improperly poled, I have watched miles of trail slide under my 178cm yellow and black skinny skis, have sprawled four ways from Sunday while experimenting with skating (a whole new ballgame when one's heels are free), have gotten a few light, satisfying sunburns, wrapped myself around small trees while discovering that a skinny, straight ski does not turn anything like a short, shaped ski, and sat down and "dragged anchor" to stop when the trails were too narrow to allow me to snowplow. It has been a month of learning new things. Alpine skiing, XC skiing, and one can always stand to improve skills in juggling- work, play, wifely duties, and friendly engagements.

Much later... Curtains hemmed for a friend, bread baked, vegetarian chili cooked and consumed. Next time you make chili, try this. Fresh tomatoes, fresh red and yellow peppers, fresh garlic, a whole onion, a big slosh of butternut squash soup, cocoa powder, chili powder, cumin, oregano, pepper sauce, and picante sauce... water it all down, cook it til the onions start to get clear, add a palmful of flour to thicken it up, let it simmer while you mash the sweet potatoes that you have had boiling while you cut all those veggies, slap a big spoonful of mashed sweet potato into your bowl, and slop a ladle-full of chili over that, and eat it in the living room. Chili is living room food. After all, how much of a formal production can one make of a one-dish meal?

It is day number eight for Mr. B without Mountain Dew. In fact, day number eight without sugar or caffeine at all. His mild hypoglycemia finally asserted itself enough to make his daily life miserable and exercise next to impossible, so he has decided to sacrifice his only vice in the hopes that this summer will be an energetic one for him. In a week, maybe he will be past the withdrawals enough to be able to tell us if he feels like a new man.