HUMOR: Ski Targhee, Lose Weight, Bond with Loved Ones

My current spouse put a tray of vegetables in the downstairs fridge last Friday night. The same fridge that I use to keep my man things cold…beer, clam dip, Tabasco, horseradish, pepperoni sticks and an emergency bottle of Crown in the freezer in case I run out of beer when entertaining my “guests”. I tried to explain that “vegetables on a tray do not belong in the man fridge sweetie” but the Mrs. reminded me of my New Year resolutions to quit smoking, lose weight, and stop shoveling all the dog **** in our kennel over the fence and into the neighbor’s back yard every time they leave town for the weekend. So far I’ve managed to quit smoking.

When it comes to my weight it’s not like I have to waddle when I make my way into the Blue Wave for the “Blue Wave Special” (THE best burger in Idaho Falls BTW), but I’m probably not the guy you’re going to want to see stuffing his oversized carry-on in the bin above you, cramming his laptop under the seat in front of him and plopping down next to you in the middle seat back in coach. [AUTHORS NOTE: When flying coach no cares where you are going, how many kids you have, where you went to school or how long you have worked for the Franklin Day-Planner Corporation schlepping Franklin Day-Planners. For the sake of all miserable downtrodden business travelers everywhere, just keep your yapper shut, drink your Ginger ale and eat your ******* dry roasted peanuts. Not all of us are on vacation!]

Anyhoo, later that night I found myself rummaging through the kitchen cupboards looking for a late night snack (because I didn’t feel feminine enough to be eating vegetables on a tray) when I noticed two complimentary lift tickets to Targhee laying on the counter that my current spouse had secured through one of her many social networks. I love Targhee, short lift lines, great powder, and no pompous dinks from Jackson bragging about how “sick” their last run was. Screw the vegetables on a tray, I’d much rather lose weight by having fun skiing, getting some much needed fresh air and exercise, and enjoying the Trap bar with some killer IPA, kick-a** live music and a healthy serving of fried bar food. The next morning plans were made to ski Targhee the following day, watch the AFC championship up there and drive back to IF during the first half of the NFC game. All that was needed for plan execution was a way to carry our gear in the RAV-4 (my trusty Dodge has yet to be replaced), secure the rental of skis / boots / poles to carry in the RAV-4 and of course, the heartbreaking delivery of the news to the dogs that they would not be attending any weekend outdoor activities.

We headed down to Idaho Mountain Trading to get skis and such. As usual, they were knowledgeable, helpful and friendly. I explained to the gal getting us outfitted that in my day I was a strong novice skier and although I still look good paralleling down a green run into the lodge, my formidable girth has kept me away from anything with black on the placard for several years. The Mrs. glared at me with a “have you been drinking and if not why are you babbling about your self-perceived ski knowledge to someone who obviously does this for a living” look. The girl helping me just gave me a warm smile and an “oh that’s nice” comment, but reflecting back I’m sure she was thinking “just keep your yapper shut, drink your Ginger ale and eat your ******* dry roasted peanuts. Not all of us are on vacation!” I really need to heed my own advice once in a while.

The drive up was wonderful. We managed to get all our stuff crammed into the RAV, load up the iPod with our favorite tunes and trick the dogs into thinking we were just going out front to shovel snow so they wouldn’t chew up the furniture and pee on the kitchen garbage can while we were gone. The dogs don’t get mad when we don’t take them with us, they get even. The roads were good, we saw a flock of wild turkeys (the gobble, gobble type not the drinking type) just outside Swan Valley right before the Fall Creek bridge, and got the adrenaline flowing by listening to classic Reverend Horton Heat most of the way there. We hit the parking lot at 9:15 a.m. ready to make that mountain our b*tch. But then reality set in.

It turns out that my current spouse is not a skier. She does not claim to be a skier. In fact, after this trip she will never be a skier. In my mind the best way to learn anything is to jump in both feet first and figure it out as you go, however the Mrs. has the polar opposite view of that philosophy. I discovered this about half way down Chief Joseph after her 300th fall when she announced at the top of her lungs that she hated this **** and I was an a**hole for taking her to the top when I knew she couldn’t ski. Women skiing by gave me the cold stare of death, one little girl asked her parents “Who is that awful man and why is he trying to kill that poor lady?” Even the guys shook their heads in disbelief at my utter disregard for beginning skier etiquette. “Put your hands like you’re holding a cafeteria tray” I yelled, “pizza wedge/ French fries, pizza wedge/ French fries”……“because that’s how you turn damn it!” I tried to give her words of encouragement, “Good Lord honey, everybody can ski this run, you’re embarrassing me” and “You’re a grown woman, stop crying and ski for God’s sake”. It was fortunate for me that my natural athletic ability kicked in and I was able to partially dodge the pole she hurled directly at my head with the skill of a Zulu warrior, otherwise I believe she would have blinded me. Back at the bar, my current spouse confessed after several beers that it was indeed her intent to put that pole directly into my eye socket. The beer and wings were great, the game was exciting, and the atmosphere at the Trap was a hoot. I had to do a bit of explaining as to the cause of the dime sized gash in my cheek at work on Monday. The skiing? Well…. I had fun, kinda.

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