Life Lessons Learned In The Valley of the Sun

So here I am.  Sitting on my roof.  At midnight.  Watching a full moon set over the mountain.  Drinking a PBR.  And chewing Copenhagen.  Wearing $130 yoga pants.  Tying on a MacBook Pro.  The eternal walking contradiction.

And I’m thinking that I’ve learned a few things in the Valley of the Sun.  And that I’m going to miss this place. 

I’ve learned what I want in a place.  And a person.  And life.  I went on a hike today (go figure) and sitting in a glaciated valley, on the shore of a Forest Service Jeep turquoise alpine lake, with pristine pines and grumpy rock outcroppings surrounding me, I felt home.  Finally.  I never thought I’d be able to get out of small-town Ohio and do this.  I didn’t think I had it in me to say fuck you to the path that had been preordained for me from birth.  But I did.  And here I am.  I have learned, this summer in particular, that I want authenticity, and honesty, and happiness, and love.  And that I no idea what those words mean.  Nor do I put much trust in words.  As one who deals in words, I know how shifty they can be.  But At least I know that I want a clear blue sky, and a cold beer, and someone to hold me at night, and a friend’s shoulder to cry on, and a buddy to laugh with.  And to make a difference to someone. 

I learned that no one can be trusted.  But that everyone should be loved.  My mom raised me to believe in the good within everyone.  And I took that to heart.  I have this pernicious tendency to fall madly in love with everyone I meet.  A lot like Maverick.  Maybe that’s why he and I get along so well.  But I digress.  And through several dead ends.  And a couple of ugly situations.  And one new chance.  I’ve learned that while everyone should be loved, not everyone should be immediately and inextricably fallen in love with.  Jumping head first off a cliff is a lot of fun.  Jumping head first off the cliff of in-love is also a lot of fun.  And really dangerous.  I’ve learned to take it slow.  Give it a chance.  And ride the ride for all its worth.

I learned who the good people are.  They are the one who rescue you in the middle of the street, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a fight.  They are the one who listen to you sob about issues that have nothing to do with them but that you just needed to tell to someone.  And keep it a secret.  They are the ones who don’t judge you through each new “I-swear-this-is-the-One” guy you meet.  They are the ones who teach you to fish while drinking red wine.  They are the ones who drink beer on the roof with you.  They are the ones who cry with you in 101.  They are the ones who jump naked into an alpine lake with you just because.  They are the ones who don’t take bullshit.  And give you lots of bullshit.  And call you out on your bullshit.  And love you anyway.  They are the ones turn out not to be snakes. 

I learned that I can’t settle down.  And there’s always the naysayers who say that you have to.  Or that you will someday.  Or that you’ll grow out of it.  Or that it’s just a phase. Or that back when they were my age (whether that was two years ago or fifty years ago) they did the same thing.  And I’d like to know when this magical time is that I’m expected to settle down with a husband, 2.5 children, a Golden Retriever and a respectable house.  When I settle down it’s going to be on my terms, like everything else I do.  It’ll be with a man who has the wanderlust as much as me.  And wants rippin’ skier, mountain babies.  And with a cabin in the mountains, a house on the beach and an apartment in Johannesburg.  And somehow I’ll get there.  By taking the roundabout, crazy-winding, tangential, long-way-around path that I always take.  Sorry Dad, I know that kills you.  But I promise I’ll be alright.

But as usual in my life, it’s time to get going.  And time to move on.  Because there’s a too vast world out there.  Vaulting us on to the next great venture beneath the skies.  And that’s why my car is always stuffed full of shit in the trunk.  I’ve always got hiking shoes.  And a yoga mat.  A wine key.  And high heels.  A sleeping bag and a backpack.  Sweat pants.  And shorts.  And a map.  And I’m always ready to pick up a leave when things get too heavy, or too boring, or too dull.  Or when the wanderlust bites me and tells me it’s time to go and see what’s over the next rise and around the next bend.  And I’ll miss the old places and the old people like hell.  And they’ll always have a place in my heart.  But what I’ve really learned is that I will find those people and those places everywhere.  Because everyone has a little bit of everything in them.  And everyone is worth knowing.  And worth loving.  And I’ve got lots of places to see.  And beers to drink.  And strange foods to eat.  And people to love.  And leave.  And meet again at the end of this crazy journey we call life.

I love you all.  Good luck out there.

Knights In Shining Xterras

What’s it all about?

We keep trying to answer that question.  And amidst angry screams, and bruises, and mean words I figured it out.  I wasn’t focused on the asshole who wouldn’t leave me alone.  Instead I was focused on the fact that they came.  My friends really came and saved me.

Cue the superhero music and the galloping horses.  I found my own knights in shining armor.  Apparently, they really do exist. 

Or at least knights in shining, silver Xterras do exist.  But in the future, I’d be much happier if they showed up with great fanfare, shining swords, galloping white horses and maybe a tight, Spandex superhero cape or two.  But I guess I’ll settle for a dirty SUV.

And that’s why it’s here in this petit hamlet of mountain-towness, that I learned that they (whoever the ambiguous, ubiquitous “they” might be) are right when they say that you always find out who your friends are.  Friends are not so self-involved that they can’t even pick you up from the hospital.  Friends are not so cruel that they think nothing of sharing personal tidbits with an entire city.  Friends don’t tell you that you’re beautiful and wonderful, while following with the fine print that this is true only insofar as you play their game by their rules.

Real friends play your game even when they don’t want to.  They are civil to the assholes you choose to date.  They roll their eyes patiently at each harebrained scheme you cook up. Even better, they come along with you when you execute it.  They walk, or rather carry, you home when you’ve had too much to drink and are a crying hot mess blubbering about past loves and future lovers.  They tell you when you’re being a bitch, they tell you when your clothes make you look like a five-dollar whore.  They tell you when the most recent love of your life is actually a lying asshole.  And they stand by you when you stubbornly ignore their advice.  And no matter what, they ride in and sweep you off your feet when you least expect it.  When you’re most lost.  And when you desperately need a knight in shining armor.  And that’s what it’s all about.

Life Lessons I've Learned From Buck Hunter

People here in Ketchum don’t fuck around when they shoot their simulated wildlife.  These are no small-time Buck Hunter virgins.  Nope.  They hold national, if not international records for shooting animated elk, sheep, goats, deer, moose, antelope, caribou and assorted smaller wildlife.

Now I’m no novice to Buck Hunter.  I’ve been shooting video game wildlife since high school, when we used to sneak into the dive-bar cop hangout Cork N’ Bottle and drink cheap beer and shoot mountain goats.  And for years now I’ve wanted to dress up as the Buck Hunter chicks for Halloween. 

One time, while nursing an overpriced martini at a trendy bar where men wear designer jeans and women where, well, pretty much nothing, I complained, “I’d rather be drinking PBR and playing Buck Hunter right now.  In fact, I’d take PBR and Buck Hunter any day over this crap.”  And besides being a kick-ass drinking game, Buck Hunter teaches from valuable life lessons with its hot hunter chicks and plastic guns.

Don’t shoot the cows.  If you shoot the bitches your tour is over.  And to make it worse, the game informs not just you, but the entire gathered bar crowd of your inferiority and mediocrity at shooting simulated wildlife.  It scream, in big, bold letters, “YOU SHOT A COW!”  In other words, you dumb fuck.  Way to suck at this game.  Moral of the story, don’t fuck with women.  If you fuck with a woman, your tour is over.  And then the whole bar knows that you suck at the game.

If It’s Tourist Season Then Why Can’t We Shoot ‘Em?  Anyone who has lived in a resort town for more than one season has asked this question at least once.  There is nothing like the onslaught of white-tennis-shoe-wearing, khaki-short-sporting, camera-clicking, direction-asking, fanny-pack-donning, get-the-fuck-outta my bar/coffee shop/restaurant/ski slope/river section/wave break tourists to make one contemplate this question.  And a tourist in designer jeans with a wallet full of quarters who thinks that he is entitled, even allowed, to engage in this game, our game - don’t even get me started.  Which is why Sarah brought this up the other night.  She decided, “There should be a tourist shooting level.  And it should take place in Sun Valley.  And all the tourists should be wearing fanny packs.”  And we raised our glasses and toasted to that.

Drinking Is Key To Life.  I mean key to Buck Hunter.  Well, anyway.  Now I’m no expert.  And I don’t claim that this holds true for everyone.  But I’ve found that sober Buck Hunter is a lot more difficult than tipsy Buck Hunter.  And that tipsy Buck Hunter is a lot less fun and rowdy than drunk Buck Hunter.  And blackout Buck Hunter.  There are no words.

Don’t Think Just Shoot.  To really kick this game’s ass, you can’t think too hard.  You just have to pull the trigger and shoot some shit.  Oh, yeah, and don’t forget not to shoot the bitches.  Lesson learned here?  Go with your gut and don’t think too hard.  Important life advice.

Anger Is A Good Thing.  In moderation at least.  Think about it.  How are you supposed to blow holes in simulated wildlife if you’re sitting there gingerly clutching the gun and cringing each time a poor, little bucky-wucky goes down?  You’re not.  You have to get pissed.  You have to want to GET IT DONE. Some of my best games have happened when I was really ready to fuck some shit up.  And thankfully, animated wildlife served as a great outlet for this sentiment (Sarah – Bad Billys last summer).  But this is where moderation comes in.  You can’t get so pissed that, upon eliminating a cow and ending the tour, you slam the gun through the screen, pour your beer on that hot blond chick who turned you down and punch a hole through the bathroom door.  That’s no good.  And now the game is steaming and smoking and ruined for everyone.  Moderation is key.  Just like in life.

So there you have it.  The benefits of playing a game of Buck Hunter while drinking cheap beer.  There are life lessons are learned from this pursuit of happiness (and drunkenness).  What life lessons have you ever learned drinking a $300 bottle of champagne and sitting at a too-hip-to-handle, overpriced martini bar engaged in a pointless conversation about some pointless celebrity with a pointless man who has nothing better to do than stare at your tits and talk about himself in between checking his Crackberry for emails (or more likely for Facebook updates about himself)?  None.  But Buck Hunter.  Well Buck Hunter might just be the Socrates of our generation.

Booze and Babes In The Valley of The Sun

I’m in the middle of a three-week bender that would make Hunter S. Thompson proud.

I left Cleveland.  Arrived in Idaho.  Took a shot to welcome myself to town.  And then I took a few more shots.  And that’s how I got here.

Being the new girl in a small town, especially a booze and adrenaline-fueled mountain, is a lot like being the new kid in high school.  Except with more booze and more boys.  The one to ten ratio of bangable girls to truck-driving, tobacco-chewing, gun-shooting mountain further contributes to the new-girl-in-high-school sense of standing out like a sore thumb.  And since they all know each other, and they all know every other girl in town, and they all know which combinations of their friends and their girl friends have slept together, the heralded arrival of a new girl who hasn’t slept with some combination of best friends and roommates is usually trumpeted with glad tidings of great joy, much rejoicing, boisterous fanfare and endless rounds of shots.  Lots and lots of cheap whiskey, tequila and Red Bull. 

You walk into the bar and the music stops, the conversation ceases, the heads turn and one solitary bottle clangs to the floor.  Who’s the new kid in school?  The generally consensus is, “Hey there’s a new girl.  Let’s buy shots.”  And then, once you get to know each other it’s, “Hey there’s our new friend.  Let’s buy shots.”  And after that it’s, “Hey it was sunny today. Let’s buy shots.”  You get the picture. Which is how I’ve managed to work myself into a nasty little pattern of staying up too late drinking more tequila than I care to drink, waking up early, nursing my hangover with huevos rancheros, taking a three-hour nap, working, having “just one” post-work beer, deciding that it would be ok if I went our for “just one” drink at the bar, finding myself taking “just one more” shot at the Cellar, stopping by Whiskeys for “just one minute,” crawling into bed around 3 AM smelling like a booze and barroom and then repeating it all over again the next day.  Tomorrow I’ll take the night off.  Really.  I swear.

If its one thing mountain towns do well, it’s suck you in.  They’re like that crazy friend everyone has who can get you to dance on the stage at the Sapphire strip club in Vegas, jump off cliffs at Lake Cumberland, dance on tables in Cancun, huck the 30-footer, dance on the bar at Coyote Ugly (I’m seeing a pattern here) and take body shots on a lazy Tuesday night.  You always play by their insane rules because they’re so damn convincing, and handsome and fun.

And that’s how people end up on thirty-year mountain town benders.  They wake up one bluebird morning, rub their eyes and wonder how the fuck they got here.  It’s like Rip Van Winkle, mountain bender edition.  Confused, they say, “Last thing I remember, I was here for one summer (or one winter – take your pick).  And then we took a bunch of shots.  And now I’m here.  Whoa.  What a trip.”  And  when you’re a local in a mountain town your life really is others vacation.  Which gets dangerous when you’re constantly surrounded by a bunch of loud Texans, sexy Miamians or snobby new Yorkers all drinking it down.  You forget that they’re on vacation.  And your not.  And can’t help but join them.  Somehow you get sucked in.  And before you know it, everyone’s buying you shots.  And you’re buying everyone else shots.  And before you know it you end up blacked out and passed out in a boat somewhere. 

And it always seems to be worse when you’re they new kid.  One friend, upon arriving back in town, just gave up and just kept a running tab going at the bar for several days.  Rumor has it they were going to set up a cot in the kitchen for her to sleep on so she didn’t have to waste precious drinking time and drinking money going home each night. 

After awhile you forget that in the so-called “real world” outside your mountain town, people don’t drink every night of the week (really?), don’t spend their days skiing mountains tourists pay $98 to ski (suckers) and don’t believe that a daily 3 PM beer is as important as three square meals, eight hours of sleep and eight glasses of water (but isn’t beer the top triangle on the food pyramid?). 

So go ahead and point and laugh.  Call it frivolous.  Call it immature.  Call it not the real world.  Call it a snow globe.  I’m going to keep on doing it while I can.  I work hard, pull strings, hustle, or some combination thereof, to make it all work.  So if you’ll excuse me I’ve got to go now.  I’ve got a cold beer and a shot waiting for me.  I’ve got a lot of work to do to keep this bender rolling.

Author's Note:  Special thanks to Sarah for this title.

My Roommate Is A 400-Pound Fat Bitch...And She's Hungry

Bears suck as roommates.  They eat all the food.  Especially the really yummy junk food.  They leave the refrigerator door open.  And they never pay rent. 

The first time it happened I blamed it on the dog.  I thought Maverick had gotten into the trash. Hamburger buns were awry.  Peaches were akimbo.  Sugar was askew. 

“I think there was a bear in the house last night.”  Trent is from Texas.  And nothing against Texans, but they tend to exaggerate.  Everything’s bigger in Texas.  Including the stories.  I decided leave the mess for Maverick’s mom Sarah.

The next night I woke up to Sarah pounding on our connecting wall.  Rolling over to check my phone – it was just past 3 AM - I did the I’m-drunk-from-sleep stumble over to her room. 

“Are you crazy?  Shut the door.  The bear is upstairs.”

Maverick, guard dog that he is, seemed oblivious to the fact that a 400-pound bear was making short work of our food upstairs in the kitchen.

“I called the police.  They are sending a game warden.”

Shotgun-toting Kevin the game warden showed up. He was everything I’d ever hoped a game warden would be.  He looked like the Brawny man before he got old and started wearing flannel.  He was all broad shoulders, rippling pecs and mountain man swagger. Bear season was probably the most exciting part of working for the Aspen Police Department.  Unless Charlie Sheen shows up for a good, old-fashioned domestic dispute, things are pretty quiet. Kevin seemed stoked to be dealing with something besides drunk Argentineans at Eric’s stealing bottles of vodka from behind the bar.

“Damn bear got away.”  He seemed genuinely disappointed not to have gotten a round of rubber bullets off.  “It was a mom and two cubs though.”  Bear 1.  Kevin 0.

This is bad shit.  Never fuck with a mother bear and her cubs.  The world knows no fury like a pissed of mom.  Kevin gave us his card and told us to lock our doors.  This would be great advice if our doors had locks. Unfortunately, our pad was a refurbed meth house that was built by a bunch of stoned out ski patrollers from Aspen Mountain.  It was straight out of How To Be A Ski Bum 101.  Step 1: procure ramshackle house of questionable structural stability with no locks.  If the Big Bad Wolf huffed and puffed our house would be toast.   Besides, no in Aspen locks their doors.

And so the next night rolled around.  I heard some shuffling upstairs and decided that the cooking of drunk food had commenced.  And then there was the crash.  Knives this time I think.  Bolt upright and very alert now I started shaking the boyfriend in the bed next to me.

“Get up.  Get up.  Get up.  Get up.  There’s a bear in the house.”

I had explained the previous night already but I’m not sure he really believed me.  He believed me now.  We set off the car alarms, set the dog to barking and started shouting at the bear to go away.  Get the fuck out. 

We stacked the porch furniture, living room furniture, old furniture we found in the storage space and the terracotta planters in the front of the door is discourage further bear entry.  Or at least, we hoped, the crashing of said furniture would alert us to the bear’s impending entry and allow us ample time to remove the bear from the kitchen before she and her greedy, fat-kid cubs ate the rest of our Ben and Jerrys Cherry Garcia. 

It didn’t work.  How a 400-pound, hungry, fat bitch had the patience or dexterity to maneuver around the furniture maze without knocking down a single item continues to baffle me to this day. 

The casualties continued to mount in this war against Hungry Fat Bitch.  She and her snot-faced cubs visited twice a night for four nights. That’s eight times, five hundred dollars worth of food, one destroyed dog door, and a gnarly scratch on the wall. It was cute for awhile.  Then it stopped being cute.  To this day we find souvenirs.  While icing an ACL injury with a bag of frozen corn, my roommate picked bear drool and black hairs off of the bag six months later.  There is a muddy bear print that hangs out on the back of our sofa.  Grocery store exchanges for the next four months went something like this.

“Do we have hamburger buns?”

“Well we did.  But I think the bear ate ‘em.”  

Next summer Trent is bringing his big guns back from Texas.  Loaded down with rubber bullets to, “Fuck some bear’s shit up.”  Watch out bear.  The world knows no fury like a pissed off Texan with big guns.

Words of wisdom living on our refrigerator...