ALTERNATIVE FACTS: I AM AN AVID SKIER

(This family looks nice here.)

If I don’t get to at least 10 of these with at least 1 million followers, I am going to go absolute apeshit, then get a tasteful spray tan, then shake my fists and scream obscenities at the Mainstream Media or my dog who I’ve nominated as my press secretary (with her net worth, checkered past and various conflicts of interest, she is a total shoo-in). If widely protested, a sizable wall of stacked ham could also be in your future. 

To put in plain: keep reading and following if you know what’s good for you. 

Consider this #1 of my alternative facts. The idea of chewing on falsehoods from my own life came to me during a short bout of insomnia I had about a week ago, in the wee hours of dark and desperate isolation, and despite my best and worst efforts to put fingers to keys, I’m finally turning the idea into a post. Now that 999,998-ish of you are fast asleep, I’ll forge ahead. 

#

A 44-year-old woman shuffles into a cafeteria-style ski lodge called Ivan’s. She’d like to say the crick in her back stems from several wicked runs down the grownup hill (they’re hills in Michigan, folks), but it’s only the result of carrying her laptop bag in an awkward position. She may or may not have circled the parking lot like a borderline rabid seagull in search of a decent nesting place to write and grab a beer. 

(Yes, I know seagulls can’t go rabid. Or can they? Learn more in alternative fact #7.) 

The woman is on a trip celebrating her 19th anniversary with her husband, the real skier. In fact, he’s schussed many slopes since his childhood. Although she sometimes wishes otherwise, the woman has only shushed the slopes. Because goddamn it, something that snow-dappled and picturesque should be tranquil. 

And wow, there he goes again. 

The woman halts her typing, and through the salt-coated window, spots his blue coat descending toward her with grace and precision. Boy, does he look like he’s having an amazing time schussing. 

What is the opposite of carpe diem? Pooh-pooh? Whatever the phrase, there are some things you simply decide to avoid at a certain age. There’s a 99 percent chance skiing is one of those things for this 44-year-old woman. 

First there’s the falling and severing your ACL (anterior cruciate ligament) or your BHCL (butthole closing larynx). Trust me, a BHCL tear is a bonafide medical risk after you turn 40. 

That said, the woman said she’d never run out of doors. Yet somehow she’s managed to shuffle and hobble her way through eight half-marathons and counting. So perhaps there’s hope left for her, and perhaps a severed BHCL isn’t so horrible after all.

(These look neat here.)

Skiing is an admirable and enviable activity, one that can spread joy across a family and a lifetime. Plus, it’s postcard pretty in winter, whether you’re atop Schuss Mountain in Northern Michigan or the Swiss Alps in, wait for it ... Switzerland. 

For all ye avid skiers (and snowboarders) out there, the woman salutes you with a cup of spiked hot cocoa in hand. She also bids you the fairest of fare-thee-wells. 

Seriously, so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, good night. Gotta run.  

Really, goodbye. She insists you take leave. A band called Risqué is on the verge of sound check at the lodge, and well, this woman also known as me is ready to stare down salacious (as long as it doesn’t involve schussing or gratuitous nudity). 

Be-Smirked in 2017

You’re looking at a photo of my profile. My chin rests on not my own hands, but the hands of a friend. In the background, another friend looks on, laughing. 

I’m a true-blue introvert, but there are times when I can’t resist hamming it up. I’ve never been at ease with the idea or practice of selfies either, so if you’re going to visit this blog, you’d better get used to things like snapshots of my head glued to a paint stick, or nestled within the hairy arms of a stranger or friend. (Not that I’m suggesting Dan’s arms are too hairy. They are supple. Like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, which you shouldn't eat under any circumstance.)

And while you're at it, prepare for loads of bad clipart, too. (For good clipart, visit your local craft store. Just not Hobby Lobby. Because, well, they’re a bunch of sanctimonious, macrame-ing pricks.) 

The point is, I try not to take things too seriously, or maybe even when I am taking things too seriously, I make every attempt to pause. Then mock myself. Then laugh. I find laughter has a way of soothing, even if the giggles are fleeting or sometimes wildly inappropriate. 

Given the state of our nation, and in three painfully short days, the imminent doom of the planet, it’s becoming more difficult to locate the funny bone or pinpoint the silver lining. Despite our present and (insert sobbing) future reality, I’ve decided I’ve no choice but to keep panicking and snarking on. 

"Be more positive!" 

Somebody I know said optimism was their New Year’s Resolution for 2017. I’m sad to say I can’t remember who. If you’re the awesome “who,” and you happen to be reading this, don’t be shy. Speak up. Shout it from the rooftop or your cubicle near-ish the rooftop. Because if nothing else, your goal impacted and motivated me, a gal who typically resolves to avoid resolutions. 

If Obama can embody hope, so can I. Or I can at least believe I can. For around four-thousand three-hundred and twenty minutes ... or two-hundred fifty-nine thousand two-hundred seconds. (Thanks, Google. And oh, Thank You, Obama. No joke.) 

Laughter probably isn’t more curative than penicillin, but I’m going to do my best to deliver frequent doses of it here anyway. If I fail, I figure I fail striking my best pose: be-smirked. 

And be-smirked is so much better than besmirched. (Really. Look it up.) 

Here you go. You're welcome.