Would be Ski Invitee. Glee! (Part II)

20 Feb

Back to falling off that table…

It’s been kind of a long time since I’ve been on a date, what with it being winter and me owning sweatpants, and Tony Two Shoes and my favorite pastime being watching old episodes of 30 Rock on the couch with the cats.

So imagine my surprise when I ended up on one of the most romantic “dates” I’ve ever been on… with a chick…. publicist…. for the Sebastian Hotel.

I’m not entirely sure how it happened. One minute I was standing next to her at the dogsledding track, and the next, a mountain man  with a beard bigger than my entire face was suggesting that I sit in her lap on a cozy dogsled. And he wasn’t the kind of guy you say no to. After dashing through the snow, the two other reporters who’d gone dogsledding, the publicist and I were as frozen as a bunch of BirdsEye corn niblets and wanted to hit the steam room before our spa treatments–only everyone backed out but me and the publicist, whom I’ll call Barbie.

Why not a better pun like snow peas, you ask? Cause this ain't yo blog, sucka.

So Barbie and I  are sitting in the rustic steam room together in our bathing suits, smelling eucalyptus and bitching about men until it’s time for our massages. Strangely, we get called to the treatment area at the same time. Not to worry, that’s only because we are booked in the COUPLES MASSAGE ROOM.

“Yo, this is really weird. I wonder why they set it up like this,” says Barbie.

“Yeah man, if this keeps up, I’m not sure I’m going to be able to respect you in the morning.”

We get our mutual massages, have some oxygen in the relaxation room and head downstairs for dinner, which is a cooking demonstration with the head chef of Block 16. Candle-bedecked tables for two flank the range and counter space.

Bet you can’t guess who gets seated at my table.

After a romantic dinner of wine and some stuff that is not wine, such as pancetta “sand,” raspberry gelee, and roast amazing of duck, the 12 or so people on the trip want to party at the hotel bar. Apparently they also want to PARRRTAYYY at the hotel bar, because no sooner do we get upstairs than they start ordering tequila shots. Normally I have a “no shots after my first three drinks” rule to prevent me from taking my shirt off or eating bull penis, but the date was going so well I just couldn’t say no.

One Bad: “No way guys, I really can’t shoot tequila on a press tri…*takes a shot*”

And then the food and beverage director, who looks like a more adorable version of Ghandi from Clone High, starts dancing.

One Bad: “Oh my gahhhd. People are dancing. I LOVE dancing. Did you know I was a club dancer once? That’s like my favorite thing to tell people in bars. Hahaha I’m going to get up on this 6 inch by two foot wall and dance around now. Tee hee.”

I think the fact that one recognizes inebriation only AFTER getting up on a four foot ledge in heels is one of God’s meaner shenanigans.  Bamboozling drunk people, God?  Really? Don’t you have some disabled orphans to put banana peels in front of or something?

I googled "Disabled orphan banana peel" and THIS is what you give me? Bad form, Google, Bad form.

* inelegantly slides to the floor*

One Bad: “Ha. Yeah. I’m just gonna go dance with these foreign guys over here…”

I was thoroughly prepared to be the hot gossip the next morning for falling off the wall. Fortunately, there was a much bigger drunk on the trip than I, and she proceeded to get so smashfaced that she not ONLY fell off the same ledge I did, she did it without having any control of her muscles and landed partially on her head. She also had to be carried back to her room.

I was saved!

Or, at least, I was until my first morning on skis, which was the next morning.

One Bad: *waiting for ski instructor* “please don’t be attractive, please don’t be attractive, please don’t be attractive, please don’t be attractive.”

Like, THIS would have been bad. Also, maybe good? I don't know, is whipped cream involved?

Ski Instructor: *is at least 60*

One Bad: “Thank you god. I’ll put that toward your making me fall of stuff when I’m drunk tab.”

God: “You’re welcome. Good luck with that hangover.”

–Disclaimer: It wasn’t EXACTLY like that–

Ski Instructor: “Sau, I heya yeur pritty hangova this mornin.”

One Bad: “I… what?”

Ski Instructor: “You’re hungover?” *still in a New Zealand accent.

One Bad: “Goddammit, does everyone know EVERYONE in this village?”

I almost puked twice on the lift to mid-Vail, but I have to say, as far as hangover cures go, skiing is right up there with ’90s drug movie marathons and a juicy bacon, egg and cheese. It’s cold and silent, and you have something to focus your attention on that is not your head. Plus that shussing sound is comforting and no one can fault you for a 4pm bloody mary.

I actually only fell once the whole day, and it was because I got going too fast, freaked out and leaned over my back foot and went down in a puff of snow. By the time I tried it sober the next day, I was completely hooked.

Seriously. Anyone want to go skiing?  I promise I probably won’t book us a couples massage or fall off a table. But maybe we can make out or something? This being a cat lady stuff is getting to me.


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