My First Time Skiing

Last weekend, I braved the 3,600-foot mountain that is Mt. Snow, VT, and went skiing for the first time in my life. For starters, I had a helluva time deciding whether to board or ski. The majority of my friends board. And my snowboarding ex spent a good year ramming into my brain the fact that a skier is nothing more than a "two-plank fruit-booter." I did not know what that meant, but he said it with such disdain that I resolved never to boot fruit. Ever. But when J recently invited me on a winter-wonderland getaway, I was faced with two options: To ski or to ride? Skiing looked doable. Riding looked like a combination of skateboarding, surfing and breaking my neck. But it wasn't the falling that scared me. It's just that I know me, and I knew that if I tried to place both feet on one stationary board, I would get insanely frustrated with my inability to stay off my ass. And seeing that I vividly recall eating pavement in 10th grade thanks to a skateboard, along with the fact that I'm about as coordinated as Screech Powers... well, my choice was clear.

We arrive at Amazing Planet! late Friday night. Gotta love a farm that contains an exclamation point in the name. The next day, I slip into a pair of hand-me-down ski pants, a purple coat borrowed from J and a pair of too-big ski gloves courtesy of S. Mismatched gear and all, I. Look. Awesome. While my experienced boarding friends scatter, I schlep to the ski school alone, where I wait in line behind a bunch of 5-year-olds. After 10 minutes, a woman kindly points me in the direction of the "adult school." Oh. There I meet my instructor Joe, who spends the first 20 minutes instructing my group on where to place our lift tickets. Note that my group consists of five people: a guy about my age who wouldn't stop talking about how great of a skier his girlfriend is, a 13-year-old girl, an older man missing a few teeth, and an excessively made-up blonde woman straight out of the Housewives of New Jersey.

Random Texts From Meagan

My New York friend Meagan is the Queen of Random Texts. We might go a week without speaking, and I'll be watching Law & Order one night, when lo and behold, my Blackberry begins to buzz, only to reveal one of these gems.

Dec. 12, 8:23pm
How much garlic bread is too much for one person to consume? :-)

Dec. 14, 7:37pm
Why is food so good? Heehee

Dec. 30, 11:20pm
Would it be wrong if I had Stove Top for a snack?

Jan. 1, 2:57pm
OMG. Bad things happening to my stomach.

Jan. 7, 10:35pm
My computer is being a bitch.

Jan. 25, 10:15pm
Can you just be in charge of making sure I shower tomorrow? It's been two days. :-)

Jan. 26, 4:59pm
The guy in front of me at Blockbuster just called it "Blockbusters." Um, this isn't like, Ghost Busters. Then he goes, "Are you hiring? I work for a competitor — Game Stop. Is that OK?" Dude, it's not freakin' Goldman Sachs. I'm pretty sure you didn't sign a non-compete agreement.

The New York Dentist

My dentist is a condescending arse who wears way too much purple and has a peculiar fetish for mouth guards. He is convinced I need a root canal, yet the man has no proof. He refuses to set my appointments prior to 1pm because I was 10 minutes late one morning roughly four years ago. I'm always scared to go into his office. He's a one-man show with no receptionist and no assistant. This is weird. I could easily disappear into the abyss of his purple-swathed office, never to return and no one would be the wiser.

Case in point: On Saturday, I stroll in at 12:55pm for two fillings. He sharply demands that I sit down and straps a lavender slobber catchall around my neck. And so the drilling, poking, prodding (torture, essentially) ensues sandwiched between caustic commands to "Sit still," and "Don't move your head," followed by my personal favorite, "Good girl." (Oh, gee! Can I have a dog biscuit, too? No? OK, I'll settle for another wad of cotton while I choke on my saliva.) Meanwhile, I can't help but think that I'd kill for an inspirational ceiling poster or something to serve as a distraction. When it's all said and done, he hands me a travel toothpaste to add to my growing collection of tiny tubes of Colgate. Sad to say I never get a toothbrush. The dentists in the Midwest would hook me up (toothbrush, floss, the whole nine yards). But not this guy. I then bolt before he can give me his usual laundry list of reasons as to why I should spend $500 on a night guard. Thanks, but no thanks.

Dating in New York

10:52pm, text message exchange with a friend.

Me: So, how was your date?
Friend: Fine. It was just fine. He's super nice. And cute. And brought us a bottle of red for the waiter to make sangria 'cause I said I like sangria. I just don't want him to take my dress off.
Me: That's OK, honey. He doesn't have to.
Friend: Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go out with him again.

Laundry list of amazing qualities. Perfection on paper. But we repeatedly find ourselves saying, "Ehh. I'd rather sit at home with my dog eating Greek yogurt while watching another episode of The Bachelor." I wish I had an answer. I do. But I can't help but think — it's no wonder that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda were single well into their 30s. Then again, Carrie was neurotic, Samantha was a slut, Charlotte a prude and Miranda, well... poor Miranda.

NYC (otherwise known as Cougar Town)

It was a typical girls' night out with J and M: Cheese, chocolate and wine at The Melting Pot. Then J suggested heading to a nearby sports bar to catch the Florida football game. So we took it down a notch and headed to a spot that is notorious for hosting a crowd of barely-out-of-college yuppies and Jersey Shore meatheads. The upside? Affordable beer on tap and enough widescreen TVs to fill Giants stadium. Upon our arrival, a squat thirtysomething chats us up. I will call him Homeboy. Homeboy has been sitting on the same barstool for roughly six hours and is clearly incoherent. We indulge him while he regales us with tales of his dog (complete with photos!), that he affectionately refers to as "bitch."

Meanwhile, a group of five frat guys come in. Note that three of them are at least 6'5". I can't stop staring, for two reasons. 1. Tall Really Tall Guys generally don't travel in packs. 2. I was growing annoyed with Homeboy and was pretending to watch the game. The RTGs were blocking my view. RTG #1 sees me bobbing and weaving around his torso. We start chatting. I don't remember what we discussed, as he then began to high-five every female that walked past. I think he enjoyed watching the girls jump to slap his hand. Homeboy is now awkwardly standing up, as RTG #1 introduces himself. I think the RTGs think he is our friend. RTG #2 starts chatting to M and I. J is still politely feigning interest in whatever Homeboy is babbling about...