Some Things Just Really PISS Me Off.

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OK.  First, if you’re one of my students, go read something else.  And if you keep reading this after that warning, I don’t want to hear about it on the evaluations.  I’m a living, breathing, irritable human being, just like your dad.  Or your mom, or grandparent.  Pick the crankiest person in your family, and sometimes I’m like that.  The following has nothing to do with you.

The rest of you people, I’m pissed off, and I don’t care who knows.  Actually, that’s not true.  I want some people to know.  In particular, I want the guys who have received $1,560 from us so far to know how pissed off I am.

I live in a Victorian row-house.  It’s old mill-worker housing. And, first, let me tell you, Back In The Day, mill-workers were treated WAY the hell better than they are now.  Now they are lucky to 1) have a job at all, 2) have minimal health benefits, and 3) make $0.03 more than the minimum wage.  Back in 1895, they got a four-story 2,300 square foot row house with wide-plant hardwood floors, molding on all windows, doors, and apertures on the ground floor, plumbing on the second and third floors, and a small garden plot out back.  Plus, evidently, a living wage.

So, as long as I’m feeling totally pissed off, let me start with how pissed off I am that 1) there is no more industrial manufacturing to absorb the talents of the non-college-bound, and 2) what there is, wouldn’t pay for an 800-square-foot mobile home, let alone a house that will stand, in good condition, for over 100 years.  Blow me, captains of industry, you greedy, selfish, incompetent bastards, you.

Hmm.  Back to the topic at hand, if I can remember what that was.  OH YEAH.  The mountains of “frozen stuff” (thank you, Herb Stevens, The Skiing Weatherman, for that Technical Term) that we have been “experiencing” all day long here.  My Home Mountain, which I am obviously NOT at (curse the eyes of every living thing) was predicted, by NOAA, Wundergound, and Weather.com to experience a similar attack of “Frozen stuff” but instead got six inches of powder AND spent all day long posting status updates to Facebook about how stupefyingly awesome the conditions have been all day long.

This, by the way, is a fine sample of the smug propaganda they’ve been tossing at us all day, the bastards:

This, by the way, I recognize perfectly well as clips from Cascade/Canyon and Ridge, the runs I bomb down on a regular basis, damn their eyes.

I drive a low-slung sports car, and I love it.  But it does not handle well in marginal conditions, and three to four inches of “frozen stuff” on the driving surfaces definitely counts as “marginal conditions”.  So all day long I’ve been getting tortured by the Mass Media.  I mean, we have not had a decent snowfall here since fucking Halloween.  (Students, I meant it when I said “stop reading now”. I’m going to cuss and keep cussing.  This is not setting a Good Example for you.).  And here we are getting one, and I am stuck in Northampton, looking out at inches of “frozen stuff” accumulating on my drive and sidewalks, and there is no fucking way  that I can get up to my totally free lift ticket (‘cuz I am a season pass holder) in Vermont on not just the first big snow day but an actual powder day at my ski hill?

Just with that, I want to go out back and shoot myself in the head out of Pure Misery.  AND, on top of it all, every time I look at one of Mount Snow’s Powder Pictures or videos, and think “SHIT! I haven’t been skiing in a WEEK!” (OK, I’ve been sick as a dog, but that doesn’t really matter) I can hear a whimpering noise downstairs.

You know what that is?

It’s my powder skis, the Rossi S7Ws, the Smokin’ Hot Goth Girl Freestyle TwinTips.  The coolest pair of skis ever invented.

And you know what they’ve been doing all day?

Where I can hear them?

They’ve been crying.

Yes. My skis know that there is a Classic New England Powder Day (aka, any day with a 6″ snowfall), happening less than an hour and a half way, and with a free lift ticket, and they can’t go to the party.

Life sucks, dudes.

And for those of you who are thinking “If missing out on a Pow Day means that life sucks, you must have had one freaking easy life, you pussy” I say this:

Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.  My brother died when a drunk driver ran into him, and it took him four years to die.  While I was in grad school.  And I raised this kid, he used to follow me around the house and call me “mommy”.  When I was ten.  And,  bitches, it starts with the fact that I was raising a sibling at ten years old.  And it moves on from there.What I know about a hard, dismal life would fill eight Hallmark movies.  Maybe ten.

I have earned the right to be all pissed off about missing out on a Powder Day.  It is mine.  Anyone want to come argue that point with me, you’re welcome.  The beer is on you, though.  I own the definition of the concept of “life sucks”.  So when I say “life sucks” you can take that shit to the bank.

So I start out from a point of being tormented by this Prime Ski Day that I have to miss out on.  AND I’ve missed out on two more.  Why? Because I was sick. If wordpress was any good, I’d have access to an emoticon of a detonating hand grenade, or a scruffy dog vomiting into your favorite shoes.

AND ON TOP OF THAT the bitches that I have been paying $520 per month to since November, when we have NOT had any snow – the freakish and inconvenient Halloween Blizzard aside – did not show up today.

That’s right.  There’s inches of 100% Totally Pointless Frozen Stuff coating our driveway and sidewalk right now, the $1,560 in advance fixed-contract payments notwithstanding.

It’s like pouring salt into an open wound, I tell you.

I just had to snag the neighbor’s snow shovel to dig out my damned car.  Why?  Because I am expecting a Visitation from the Farrier of the Gods for Huey tomorrow morning, 8am.  And I have to show up early, because the new batch of hay has given him the runs, so I’m going to have to go wash my horse’s butt at 7:30 AM tomorrow, when any God Fearing Citizen would be out getting ready to lay First Tracks on an ocean of virgin corduroy. And I have no confidence whatsoever that the Frozen Stuff won’t…freeze…overnight.  The NWS forecast notwithstanding, because, dammit, they predicted Frozen Stuff for my Ski Hill all day, and they got POWDER.

Fuck.  Do you know how often a New England ski area gets a Pow Day?

Let me tell you.  All that ski porn with the big untouched expanses, and some dude blowing their way slow-mo down the hill with only the tops of 80-foot-tall trees exposed, and huge spurts of white ejecting into the atmosphere with every turn, all set to Trance Music?

That shit is NOT filmed in New England, bitches.

The films that don’t make it – some guy carving with the World’s Loudest Scraping Sound like a steak knife schmearing a pat of butter onto the top of a brick, while kicking up 2 inches of white spray?

That is what is filmed in New England.

For us?  A Pow Day is one in which more than 4″ of snow fall, even if it’s the swankiest, rock-hard frozen concrete you ever saw in your life.

We’re Hard Core skiers.  We’re technical  skiers.  We ski on ice, bitches.  Take your soft, fluffy white stuff, and blow me with it.

We don’t know the meaning of the word “powder” here.  We are hard-fucking-core here.  You take your soft, fluffy, mile-wide ski run, and stick it where the sun is always shining.

Us?  We’ll be running the 10-foot-wide glacier with life-threatening drop-0ffs on either side, and we’ll be doing it happily, you soft pussies. AND we’ll be calling it a “green” run.

So when we say Powder Day?  Unlike life for you wusses in British Columbia, and Utah, and the Rocky Mountains, this is something  really special.

And I’ve been listening to my skis cry downstairs, all day, and not able to do a damned thing about it.

AND my drive and sidewalk is covered with three inches of slush and ice.

Fuck that.  I’ve got the Farrier of the Gods coming at 8am, and I’m hoping to whip up to Jiminy Peak for a Snow Fix and get back in time for an appointment at 4pm.  I  do not have time to screw around with people who are happy to suck up $1,500 buck and then sit on their asses when a winter storm comes.

I’m not an accountant for No Reason, buckos.  I pay the bills.  And you want to see money?  You make me happy.  And what makes me happy?

Well, having the next blast of snow and high winds hold off until approximately 5:15 tomorrow, so I’ll be home and snug.

What else?

Having the Snow Minions show up to to the damn job I’ve been paying them for for three months.

I don’t care if the sleet weighs a ton.  That is what you are getting paid for.  If it was easy why would be paying over $500 per month?

Get on there.  Work.

And Weather Gods?  Hold off on the high winds and snow, if you know what’s good for you.

After all, isn’t it Written? “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, sayeth the Lori”  Yeah, yeah, I know.  It’s a misprint.  Really, it’s The Lori, all the way through.  And if you don’t believe me, feel free to come by and argue the point in person.  I’m in the mood for it.

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About Lori Holder-Webb

I'm a Southern Woman by birth and a Texan Woman by upbringing...and yet I find myself living in New England and married to a New York City boy. Up here we use the same currency as we do at home, and I don't need to travel with a passport, but the commonalities pretty much end there. The language is different, the jokes are different, the people are different, and the weather and terrain sure are different too. I moved away from Texas in 2002, and ever since then, I've been the stranger in the strange land... I've had some questions about the name of the blog - if you were not alive, or living abroad or under a rock, or in grad school during the late 1980s, Oldsmobile attempted to shuck its stodgy image with a series of commercials intended to bring brand appeal to the younger generation: this car, they said, is not your father's Oldsmobile. If you have a morbid curiosity, hit YouTube for William Shatner Oldsmobile...it will take you right there.

One response »

  1. I’ve known you for a long damned time. I have no doubt that it’s a misprint. You are one of the last people on this planet I’d want pissed at me. I’m pretty sure that God is calling His customer service department right now to see what kind of appeasement they can offer you for this outrage.

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