Free kigos!

I saw this thing to get a free pair of kigos.

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Amanda Palmer...

In a way I've been feeling a bit lost.  I haven't blogged in ages, but some stories aren't right for facebook.  Some stories aren't to be told to everyone.  But some stories need to be recorded.  And that's when I missed my blog.

Amanda Palmer is on TED Talks and has some interesting things to say about the music industry but more to the point of artists asking for money. And that interested me as an artist who makes no money, who can never figure out how to sell, or to ask people for money.

At one  point she talks about when she used to make money being a living statue.  And living in Boston I actually remember when she used to be the eight foot bride... I didn't know who she was, but I would give money when I could because I love living statues and street artists.   I feel lucky to live in a place that we have street artists brightening the city landscape.

But I also remember her offering the flower and not being able to figure out what to do next.  I didn't want to take her flower, not knowing if she had more flowers to give, not understanding if it was a prop she needed.  It was uncomfortable.   That intense eye contact she gave when gave her money actually seemed challenging and threatening to me. I felt like I might have missed the point of the exercise, it made me hesitant to give money again, it made me feel small.  So the next time I'd see her I'd try to sneak the money in without her noticing.  Sometimes she would be looking up at the sky or at a child, or at another performer.  But she always caught me, and I'd slink away without comment.

My few interactions with Amanda Palmer, not even knowing it was "Amanda Fucking Palmer" left me feeling uneasy.

A while back a friend of mine who went to high school with Amanda Palmer posted this compassionate look at internet bullying.  Again Amanda Palmer brought up some good points and she showed a lot of compassion for the people out there getting bullied, and poor Amanda Todd.  But for some reason it left me feeling uneasy too.  It bother's me that I can't figure out why I don't connect well with Amanda Palmer.

What I’ve learned from Pinterest or kittens and heels don’t mix…

What I’ve learned from Pinterest or kittens and heels don’t mix…

Yeah I haven’t written anything in ages, apologies, etc. Moving on. 

I have a Pinterest account, it’s fun, it’s free it wastes time and it’s a great way to organize images that I want to keep in my head.  If you don’t have one and you want one just ask, I’ll invite you.  It’s by invitation only but you an invite as many people as you want.  That makes it semi exclusive.  I wasn’t expecting to learn much from my Pinterest experience, but that’s where I was wrong!

I learned that cats and kittens amuse me.  No really they do, if you look at my board “Stuff that amuses me” it’s full of cats.  Cats are funny. My favorite is the one with cat giving the kitten the exorcism.  Because add irreverence to cats and you’ve really tickled my funny bone.  

I also have a board that is devoted to shoes. Like many women I love shoes.  I love all sorts of shoes, beautiful shoes, fancy shoes, practical shoes, boots, flats, heals and Fluevogs.  

That’s one of the things that Pinterest reminds me, that I will never be rich.  Even if by some stroke of luck I made it big and had a zillion dollars, it wouldn’t last long because I would buy Fluevogs.  Because they are my favorite type of shoes.  They are beautiful practical shoes.  They have practical heals.   I’m a practical gal, I can’t spend my limited means on Fluevogs but if I had an excess of money, I might be excessive in my Fluevog collection. 

I’ve also been reminded that I don’t like stiletto heels.  There I’ve said it.  Hate me if you must.  There is a whole school of thought about stilettos and female empowerment. 

The stiletto heel came about in the 40’s and became popular in the 50’s quickly becoming part of the erotic culture.   It waned in popularity and revived in the 70’s and the 80’s.  And was all but abandoned in the 90’s when comfort was the rage. But they came back with a vengeance.  Some women view them as a source of empowerment, because they give you height (easier to compete with men when you’re as tall as they are) and even mastering the difficulty in walking in stilettos is empowering to them.  It shows not only can you do what men do, but you can do it walking on point sticks for heels.

I have several, no, make that many pairs of high heel shoes.  Sacked heals, heals with wider bases.  I love them. They are pretty, they make me feel tall.  When I wear them  I see the word from a different view.  I get wanting to wear high heels.  But I don’t wear them all of the time.  These are special occasion shoes.  I don’t think you should were high heals all of the time.  It’s bad for your feet and joints, it can shorten your tendons, it can make it harder to wear flats which can make it harder to be active.   

So why do I hate stilettos?  Mostly it’s because they  are impractical. They are hard to walk in, even short distances; they are easy to tip in.  We don’t generally land on that small heel perfectly; they wear unevenly and become even harder to walk in.  You can’t walk on grass in them and they dent floors. 

All of these drawbacks make them an ugly shoe to me.  It doesn’t empower women in my mind.  It’s silly.  Why not gain all of that height with a more solid heel?  What’s the point in limiting the surfaces you can walk on?  Why put yourself in a position of instability? 

Of course now we have super stilettos, the combination of the platform shoe and the stiletto.  Once labeled “stripper shoes”  now they are encourage for teenagers as young as thirteen and fourteen.  All of the stability of a stiletto with the added height of a stilt walker.  Sigh… Stilettos have become ugly to me.  And I wish we had more practical options for beautiful shoes.  That cost a little less than Fluevogs I so admire.

Where am I going with this?

Right combining two of my favorite Pinterest boards about cats and shoes can be paired with great success:

I’m not as fond of the heel of these but overall shoe is adorable:

Very effective combinations of kittens and shoes. As  are these combinations:

So kittens and shoes go together like peanut butter and jelly!

But kittens and heels together?  Hell no!  As much as I dislike stilettos and super stilettos, it is the kittenheel that I LOATHE and DESPISE most of all. 

Lets take the tiny platform of a stiletto heel but take out all of the glamour, the height, the erotic appeal, and  make the kitten heel.  A shoe that is slightly better for your feet but still, tippy, uncomfortable, and unattractive.  I hate kitten heels above all else.   You still can’t walk on the grass in them, you still can’t walk very far in them. 

I guess this pair is okay, there is always an exception to the rules.

So there you have it.  Kittens and heels don’t mix, and that’s what I learned from pinterest.

News from The Hundred Acres Woods...

My cousin Steve and his wife Lindsay are having a baby.  Actually my cousin Chris and his wife Jill are having a baby too, and my cousin Matt and his wife Erin are having a baby too.

It was Lindsay's shower today. I made them a gift, being desperately poor.  I used things I had at home, paper, Styrofoam  glue, flour, water, acrylic paint, ink... knowing Lindsay was decorating with Winnie the Pooh.  I came up with these.

I never take any pictures...

I never take any pictures of the biggest event in my calender year.  The annual Shea Tiki Party.   It is an extravaganza days in the making.  It took us the greater part of three days to set up this party.  And this year I managed to take a few pictures before the party began.

Hippos love to swim

Animals love yoga!

No seriously they do!  Or yogis love animals.

A lot of the yoga poses that we do have animal names because they were inspired by animals.

Although seriously I have no idea why it's called "camel pose"  As you can see the camel looks no more comfortable than I do in that pose.

Happy Birthday dear ol dad!

Dear ol’ Dad Happy Birthday!  

Another year and this one has been a doozy.  I don’t know about you Shea boys you seem to have something against the month of April and think about your daughter’s birthdays.  I know that life isn’t fair, it keeps getting proven over and over at great cost to all of us.  Having Chardie taken away was just cruel.  He was my favorite uncle, he was my friend, and he believed in me in way that most people don’t.  This was another devastating loss.  And I know I will be shockingly fine, shocking soon and I will get to the new normal faster than I can imagine, I can’t help but wallow in the loss right now.

Chardie was a rock for us when you died.  For all of us.  But we used to always say that he was our last and best link to you.  I have not exaggerated when I’ve said we have been devastated.  The loss is palpable. 

I had just been talking about him about the afterlife too.  And my conflicting views on Christianity, death, and the afterlife.  Which I suppose in some way I must believe in because I keep writing these letters to you.  But really is that why I right them?  Is it really for you or is it just an exercise in summing up a year for myself?  Does it matter which I believe, and which I hope.  You know that changes sometimes.  I had been talking to Brian about it.  He believes.  He believes in heaven and hell and all of the trimmings.  I don’t know what I believe.  I would say I’m in the firm camp that I swear there ain’t no heaven and I pray there ain’t no hell.  But I guess in the end I might be hoping for the sweet oblivion.  Still up in the air on that one.    But at the time… Brian had me so scared I almost couldn’t sleep at night. 

Beth and I started a new project, blogging the bible.  I can practically hear you rolling your eyes.    I really can.  I’m hoping this little exercise will help me scrape some of the catholic off of me.    I doubt that you’d appreciate that one.  But you might like the way we are going about it.  Actually reading the bible, the new testament, has been eye opening.  It calls to a larger debate on the holy scripture, the church and the nicey nice ideas about JC, I mean Jesus.  We are almost through the gospels, and he really runs the gambit on being a real sweetheart and genuine jack ass.  I’m sure you would have enjoyed a likely debate about it.

And skiing… I finally made it down a black diamond trail!  Of course not without terrible… terrible… consequences.  But the point is I made it down.  In one piece.  Well, physically anyway.  You can read all about my adventure in my story, The Monster on the Mountain.   FYI I am the monster on the  mountain. 

Beth is pregnant which is very exciting of course.  We are all thrilled.  But no one is more thrilled than Brian who has pledged to be the best uncle ever and would love to mover to Portland to take that title.  I’m excited too but… this just changes everything.  And I guess part of me suddenly recognizes what I’ll never be ready for, and what I’ll never have.  It’s okay in some ways it’s good.  Best to get these feelings over with now.  I am really happy for Beth and John.  They will be great parents.   I’m sorry that you’ll miss out on that.  

I’ve been cooking.  Oh you’d hate this, I’ve been experimenting with asian cookery.  From Saag Paneer with home made cheese, that I made myself, to scallion pancakes which I love and experiment constantly with the filling, to pan steamed dumplings, and glutinous rice balls and coconut sticky rice.  Drunken noodles too.   I know you hated Chinese food, but dad, the things I’ve been making have been delicious.  And crepes, you might enjoy my foray into the world of crepes and popovers.   Its good spicy food.

 I often wonder if you’d like any of the food Beth and I love so much.  The Indian food… or Ethiopian.  I don’t know that you would like the raw beef, diced and gently warmed in spicy butter.  I’m a vampire and I absolutely love it. 

We had a tornado in Massachusetts.  Not like the one when you were a kid.  This one was awful though tearing down hundreds of buildings in the Springfield area and killing three people.  It was a strange time.  I was with a group of people who… I don’t know how to say it. We’ll just say we have different views of warnings.

I’m at the Shea’e right now.  I’m so comfortable here.  I love it.  But I still feel like I am waiting for Chardie.  It’s sweet though, Dan texts me now and again. It makes me feel better.  I suppose when someone dies, you take comfort in the people they were closest too.   Love is a community. 

I managed to get some closure on your funeral at Chardie’s funeral.  I gave a eulogy, I helped right his obituary, I scanned pictures for people.  I always regretted not speaking at your funeral.  I hated your obituary.  At a time that everything had felt person, none of that had felt personal .  This time it did.  Here’s what I read.

Hullo Favorite Uncle!  Hello Dear Uncle!  Hello Fine Uncle!

We used to greet each other by title, not name.  He did that, I would call him Uncle, he would call me niecy… Hullo Niecy! Or if he needed a favor “My Favorite Niece”.  Chardie was everybody’s favorite uncle with the best laugh.  It might not have been the classical “Lilt of Irish laughter” but it was one of the greatest laughs this world has ever known.  He laughed loudly and often, and I hope someday the same will be said for all of us.

Years ago, I gave him a father’s day card.  I had been missing my own dad, and he was the closest thing I had to a father.   So I carefully picked out a card to express exactly how I was feeling.  Hallmark makes some truly wonderful cards.  I think this one had a cat on it but it was the message that really touched my heart.  It expressed everything I wanted to say to my most favorite uncle “You’re so much like a father to me, I even roll my eyes when you talk”  Chardie just laughed and gave me a big bear hug, and said it was perfect.  He might have called me a creepo.  He had a really loving way of delivering a goofy insult.

There are so many things I want to say about my uncle, so many stories to tell, so many memories I have.  Silly things really, singing karaoke with him, or when I broke my little toe and he me drove into Boston.  He handed me a little money, because I was a little short on funds…  I asked him if it was to buy a new toe?  He shook his head and smiled, “It’s for drinks, silly, to ease the pain” He was generous and brilliant man that way!

I tried to figure out some story or gesture that would capture the essence of Chard.  His daughter Ryan, was quick to help, and Erin agreed that this was something that needed to be included.  And some of you might remember him doing this.

Psst sizzle!  Hot stuff!  A specific but familiar gesture followed.

And you know he really was hot stuff.

I'm sure you would have gone a little more sincere, or eloquent in the situation.  But I wanted people to know that I was talking about Chard.  Beth's was more touching, with better deliver.  I was a little autopiloted on mine.  I thought I might break with the opening line, if I could get through that I could get through the rest of it.

And as for your remaining brother, he who must not be named.  There is a lot of argument about how you would have felt about things.  I ended up drawing a hard line and saying I am done.  He no longer had his brother’s to protect him.  I’m sorry he went down that bad path, and I’m sure he misses you and Chard very much.

Mom’s garden’s is getting crazy.  You’d be proud of her.  So many flowers, it looks like paradise. Right now there are enormous peonies, and oriental poppies in bloom.  I’ve been helping, but mom is the real artist in that endeavor I just provide a little labor.

Brian ran a marathon yesterday he looks fantastic, we are so proud of him.  And Beth moved still in Portland but renting a house.  I just made popovers which turned out terribly and wrote my chapter of the bible project.  This will be my fourth year of yoga this month.  I love it.  I’m still not very good at it, but I’ve learned that’s not what it’s about.  I used to wait for the day I could do an asana, or do it better, but I don’t do that as much.   I’m trying  more in lie generally but in skiing in particular to practice of reach a state of “effortless effort” prayatna shaithilya. 

Oh I completed another online advent calendar for Christmas.  If I were smart, I’d start next year’s right now.  But I’m not that bright.  Or disciplined.

Anyway, that’s the update, I’ll probably start writing a letter to Chardie every year too.  Try not to be jealous.  I love you.  I miss you.   And if there is an afterlife… which at Chardie’s funeral, I very clearly heard Chardie say something to be, in my head, I can’t vouch that this was him talking… it could have just be my brain trying to comfort me but I heard this You know, you where wrong about everything Katie.  It was wonderful.”  So if there is an afterlife, I kind of hope it went down like the final scene in Shawshank Redemption.  Somewhere on the beach you’d look up and Chardie would be walking towards you.  With a big smile of recognition, you would call out “brother”.  I think I might watch too many movies.

I love you dad.  I miss you.  Happy birthday!

Who's arfaid of the bible?

Okay so I started this wacky bible project with Beth.  The idea being that we read the bible, well, the new testament anyway, and give a modern everyday girl’s opinion on what’s going on.   Based on David Plotz book Good Book. So far we are going through the bible with a fine tooth comb figuring out what’s happening.   Then we’ll edit that down.  If you want to read our notes on it it’s over here.

But this project has managed to alarm almost everyone I know.  They don’t come out and say it, but you can almost see it in their eyes.  Religion, and here in America Christianity should not be messed around with.  I have the nonbelievers who sincerely fear me being corrupted into believing in the bible.  And I have the believers, who are sincerely afraid that I’m going to hell.   Everyone wonders why we are doing this.   Is this about your uncle dying?

No it’s not, it’s just a pet project that we sat on for years.  I have had a rocky relationship with the religion I grew up with.  I grew up Catholic, I had free thinking liberal parents that encourage me to think for myself.  My mom is a strong feminist, this was all a source of great conflict for me.  Somewhere along the way, as teen I decided that I didn’t really believe in any of it.  And I really haven’t changed that opinion. 

But as much I try to wash away the religion I grew up with, it clings to me.  I never made a clean break.  I fall in the firm camp of swearing there is no heaven and praying there no hell.  I’m still afraid of god, the devil, churches…  

So why am I doing this?

I’ve never read the whole New Testament.  I thought that this was a go way of going through and actually forming an opinion on the matter.   I don’t know what I’ll find. 

But I’ll tell you what I don’t think I’ll find, the answer to the biggest question I had when I was a practicing Catholic, you know as a kid.  How does Jesus dying a gruesome death save us from our sins?  Priests and nuns alike would tell me that was the “mystery of faith” or that it was my leap of faith.  I maintain that it never made any sense.    And that I wasn’t so sure I wanted to worship a god that thought that was the answer.

    

So far, it’s been a lot of fun really looking at what is says and how it was written, but it can be torture too.  It’s old, it’s poorly written, it’s repetitive, the pronouns are a confusing jumble and thats just one gospel.    It’s a big jumble of stuff, so it makes it interesting, and boring.  I’ve had chapters I really enjoyed, (Matthew Chapter 14) and others I barely made it through (I’m looking at you parables).  We’ll see where it leads me in the end.  

File this under "What if?"

In my family we are all story tellers.  We get it from both of my parents.  Mom is a natural storyteller, she is a teacher, she knows stories.  She knows how to build a dramatic crescendo, and has amazing comic timing.  Dad, he was a bit of a lyric storyteller.  He delighted in language, rolled it around in his mouth a bit, savored it.  He told his stories in at a lolling easy pace.  He took his time with stories.  If you're going to tell a story tell it right.  He would build up to what seemed to be the end of the tale and roll forward to deliver subtle, nuanced, wicked deadpan punchlines. He loved to tell a good story.  


But we all do. So that's why I wrote this down.


It's a story about something that really happened.  But more than that it's the idea of what could have happened, what would have made a better story.  Because really it's not much of a story, it's just the perfect beginning for something better.  Something that didn't actually happen.  And it's winter so naturally it's about skiing.

If I ever meet anyone it will probably be on a chairlift. I think its because I like the anonymity of the chairlift.  You can't really see people in the cold.  I mean it's not that you are snow blind, or people turn invisible.  But everyone is bundled up in the cold. Hats, gloves, bulky coats, scarves, helmets, buffs, goggles, balaclavas... you may see a mouth or eyes through tinted lenses but you don't really see people.  You listen to them. Their voices, accents... you notice these things.   And you notice what people talk about.  Standard conversation starts off with the weather, the conditions... things you've seen on the mountain that day.  It's all very superficial but because you are trapped together for a while you may as well talk.  You can ride up with friends or strangers, but I like to talk to everyone.  Boys, girls, men, women, everyone is a potential buddy on the lift.  The world is a little smaller when you are sitting together floating up the mountainside. Today I got tangled up with a snowboarder getting off the lift.  And after it happened I thought this would be a great "How we met" story.  My parents met in the unemployment line... great story.   So I had been chatting with this guy on the lift.  It was a quad but there were only three of us, he was in the middle.  I was on the left.  We talked about snow conditions, he talked about how his snowboard was three seasons old, I said that was as long as I'd been skiing.  It was all very congenial and pleasant.   As we prepared to get off the lift he told me to have a good run.  We stood up and I could feel something was off with my right ski.  I felt too close to his snowboard, maybe I was on his snowboard.  He had leaned in on me a little, I turned  and looked up at him.  Our faces where inches apart, he was pressed against my shoulder for balance. We shared a moment of confusion not sure why we were in this position.  He laughed "Sorry" leaning right to snowboard away.  "It's okay."  and I leaned on my left ski to ski away.  And that's when I felt my right ski get pulled out from under me.  It kept pulling.  I called out "You have my ski!" I shifted my weight onto the right ski and ended up next to him.  "I was trying to lean towards you so you wouldn't fall." he rushed... "I don't know what..." I looked down at my ski, the tail was over his snowboard, I couldn't  pull it away.  And that's when I saw it.  The buckle of his open binding had caught the brake of my right ski.  "You're caught on my brake." I told him with a smile. He grinned, leaned over and unhooked the buckle. "I didn't know what had happened!" I laughed "It was our magnetic personalities that drew us together!" In a perfect world, that's where the story would end, or rather begin.  That would be how we met.  We would have skied and snowboarded down Tenth Mountain,  Maybe meet up in the lift line again, maybe at the bar.  When people would ask us years later how we met, we'd laugh and laugh about it.   But that's not what happened.  What happened was he followed up my line about magnetic personalities with a line to his girlfriend who had been on the lift with us.  He said "Sorry honey, I'm attached!"   I smiled at her and said "I'm sorry.. I tried to steal him but he'd rather be with you"  And we parted ways.  He wasn't someone I was particularly interested in.  But I couldn't help think, that it would have made a great story about how we first met.

I am a fan...

I've never seen an author appreciate his fans like Patrick Rothfuss does. You might remember Patrick Rothfuss from such posts as By The Way and  I'm not in love with you.  I have been a little obsessive about him for the last couple of years.  He wrote The Name of the Wind and The Wise Man's Fear.  I have written love letters to these books, I have given them as gifts, I have lent them out fully knowing I'll never get them back.

And now I've met the man behind these books.  He's so unbelievably sweet to his fans.  It's almost as if he remembers what it is to be a fan.  Oh wait, that's because he does.  He's big enough to draw a crowd of hundreds, but small enough to still be in awe of his idols.  He treats his fans as I imagine he would like to be treated as a fan.  So simple... so wonderful.  He treated us all, all two hundred plus of us, as individual people that he wanted to meet.  He posed for pictures, and laughed, and laughed, laughed, and smiled and looked appreciatively at everyone.  He accepted gifts, and shares stories and listens graciously, and answers questions. It was lovely.  It made you feel special even though he treated everyone that way.

His Q& A was great.  He refused to talk about the new book for fear of spoiling it for the people who hadn't finished it yet.  I didn't have any questions.  What could I possibly ask?  My only questions are for the future book.  Things that I wouldn't really want answered... things I'm speculating.  My comments would only be that I love this or I love that.  

He did answer that his favorite season of Buffy was season two which has long been my favorite season.  I've argued that one to death.  That pleased me to no end.  

He read one of his college advice columns on having pets in a dorm room.  I'd tell you about the guinea pigs but, I'd be laughing too hard to type, and I don't want the damn PETA people coming down on me for retelling this story.  

He sang to us which was sweet.  It's not often that you get serenaded by and author.  It was a pretty song by Jonathan Coulton  called I crush Everything.  He sang it acapella and in his self described wheezing baritone it sounded terribly sad and mournful and lovely.  About a giant squid.  Very brave of him, and wonderful.

He answered questions about how he writes, he uses a computer with some sort of special clicky keyboard that authors and nerds might prefer.  Something IBM and another M in there somewhere.  Right.  He doesn't write his daily ideas down in little notebooks or record them in dictaphones, he just waits for the ideas to come back to him.  He doesn't listen to music while he writes, he thinks that is weird.  He doesn't drink beer, but I think he doesn't drink at all.  Or not often.  Or not as often as me.  

I did get a book signed by him.  Oh no wait.  I got four books signed by him.  I had three books just sitting around my house.  I forget one at my mom's.  I bought a hardcover of The Name of the Wind.  I know that was kind of bad.  But hear me out.  I had too.  I'm giving away my two paperback copies of the Name of the Wind.  So I needed to pick up another one. And I have the hardcover of The Wise Man's Fear so... whatever. Don't judge me! 

I waited a little over three hours in line to have these books signed.  I was on the tail end of thing, but there was at least another hour and half or two hours after me. I had got there an hour early too.  I had been there a long time by the time I got up to have things signed.  

I shifted my books from hand to table and gave a little inadvertent sigh.  He looked up and smiled wearily at me "I hear that, hello".

"Hello" I answered. as I stepped a little closer.  I knew I didn't have time.  I had something I need to say.  I wanted to get my story out before he started talking.  

Which sound bad but you have to figure it like this.  He's an author, I obsess over his books and blog and everything.  I get to hear his words all the time.  He never hears a word I say.  Maybe he doesn't want too.  But this was my one shot to tell him my story.  

So I launched into my story "I didn't want to buy your book.  I didn't want to read it... I was forced.  I haven't read fantasy in years, I was done with that.  I didn't want to read it."  

He looked up and nodded with sympathy.  As if he was saying of course you wouldn't want to read my book.  Why would you?

I rambled on with a little more passion than I had intended "A store clerk, made me buy it, he walked me to the register, he escorted me to the door so I couldn't sneak back and return it."

Pat nodded again looking even more sympathetic.  "That's awful" he said "they really shouldn't..."

"I was stuck with it.  I opened it on the train and I read about a page and a half and I stopped and I reread it and thought..."my voice shifted, filled with awe "this is different.  It was wonderful,  it was like coming home, it was amazing."

He looked surprised at that.  He might have forgotten that I was actually a fan and waited hours just to sign my books.  Pat looked uncomfortable with my compliments, much more so than he had with my saying I didn't want to read his book.  But he smiled cheerfully and handed me my books.  "Yeah, I have fans who love my books, I call them Zealots, they talk about my book all the time and then there are the Missionaries.  And they want to force everyone to read my book... and that's not as uhm..."

I fumbled with my bags and gave him a sly side look and smile.  "I might have bought a dozen of your books and distributes them" I offered shyly. This was an exaggeration of course.  I had bought at least 8 copies of his book and lent them out and given them to people.

His eyes went wide and his smile grew bright.  He burst out laughing and pointed at me "You're a Missionary!" he accused me throwing his his head back laughing. 

"Sorry!" I shrugged and walked off smiling, feeling pleased with myself and only slightly embarrassed.  

It's terrible being a fan of someone.  It's almost worse meeting them.  But I came out unscathed this time.  I'm just lucky he's so easily amused.

The Monster on the Mountain...

Oh wait that's me.  

Well, we knew it couldn't last didn't we.  It was bound to happen.  I'd get into a situation that would push me over the edge.  

Unfortunately it happened Thursday.  Unfortunately it happened on the day I skied better than I ever had. Unfortunately ski patrol showed up.  Unfortunately the more people watching me, the more people helping me, the more pressure I feel and the harder I freeze.  Unfortunately this left me feeling angry, and ashamed.

I am still so ashamed.

Which is very unfortunate because I went down my first Black Diamond trail!

I should be proud.

But no.. wait, there was that hysterical crying jag first.  There was the ski lesson, with the one eyed man, the other students who all did fine.  It doesn't matter that I'm a better skier, they always do better.  I didn't love this instructor, who did remind me of a friendly pirate, with his eye patch.  He talked too much about training for Giant Slalom.  

I always tell my instructors that I'm afraid of the steeps.  But mostly that just mean they keep me on Ralph's Run or Challenger, or Hitchcock.  I've been skiing down those three trails for two years... I need new trails.  So sure I decided this time I wasn't going to tell my teacher anything about the way I ski.  Okay maybe that was a mistake.   Maybe I should warn more people of my fear, no make that terror of the slopes before I actually become... "The Terror of the Slopes"

Anyway, we went down Ralph's Run, great, great, everyone did well, we went down Challenger, great, great, and then we went to summit.  I asked if we were going down Conifer.  No, he was thinking of Smith Walton. 

It couldn't get any better than that!  I was telling myself earlier that day that this would be the day I take on Smith Walton.  I had stared up Smith Walton earlier and it looked steep.  It looked really steep.  It looked so steep that it might kill me.  It looked down on my with it's steep cold gaze and l look back up at it and thought, maybe today.  And here was a teacher willing to take us down it!

And it started off great!  We started going down, it's pretty flat at the top.  We got to the pitch and I looked over.  It was steep, it was really steep but I was okay.  We started down, I was skiing great, I was at the end of the line of our skiers and.... Maria the girl in front of me wiped  out.

I don't do well when people fall.  I don't like it.  It makes me feel my mortality.  It makes me realize that but for the grace of god that could be me.  Which isn't actually true.  I can ski, I don't usually fall, I have to believe that's some of my ability, not just luck.  But she fell and on this dizzyingly steep slope...  I... could... hardly... breath.

She skidded down the hill about 30 feet leaving a ski about 15 feet above her.   I stopped horrified.  I saw her ski and thought I should help so I went to get the ski and froze.  I just froze.  I knew I couldn't carry the ski on this steep.  I wondered if I could push it down....  but I was frozen, the snow in front of me was the bad snow.   I couldn't make a turn there.   I was frozen.  

Now if you've ever skied with me you might know about my very peculiar fear of "bad snow".  What is "bad snow"? I can't even begin to tell you, it's hard to define.  It's like art or pornography, my best definition is the least satisfying... you know it when you see it.  And like art or pornography not everyone can see the same "bad snow" that I see.

I watched Maria getting up, she had a little trouble but just then ski patrol came down.  He helped her with her skis and I just stood there trembling with fear.  I couldn't move.  And knowing that the class was waiting for me was adding pressure.  Maria took a moment to point me out to ski patrol.  Which added pressure.  At this point I'm at my mental breaking point.

Ski patrol walked back up to me.  I was frozen.  I could not move, and it was fear and pressure holding me in trembling stillness.

I should never have have stopped.  I had been fine.  I knew that if Maria hadn't fallen I would have followed all the way down.  But I was stuck now staring at the bad snow.

Ski patrol was friendly, very buddy buddy.  He asks me name, but I couldn't talk I was too busy trembling and crying.  He asked me my name again.  Good lord I didn't want him to know my name.  I'm embarrassed enough! But I thought I should tell him my name. It took me three tries before I finally  spit it out.  He asked me if this was my first time at Wachusett.

And here's where it get's bad.  

I know that they couldn't possibly believe me about this.  I know that within their rules and bylaws they, my instructor and ski patrol couldn't have left me there.  But honest to god, what I really needed, was to be left alone for 5 minutes so I could get a grip in my own time and make a couple of ugly wedge turns down the mountain and be on my way.  I know they couldn't do that.  But by golly it's what I really needed. 

So when he asked me if was my first time at Wachusett...  I suddenly was not only terrified but angry. I felt trapped, in this situation,  like a small but vicious animal with it's foot in a snare.  I felt like he'd better be careful because I would bite him in the face.  Not only to hurt him but to maim him.  I would bight him in the face. I know he's trying to be help me but I could feel a lecture coming on, like you don't belong on this trail.  What were you thinking coming down this trail.

Yeah, well no shit!  I am frozen in place and in hysterics.  I am guessing this isn't my trail.

I managed to bite out  "I come here all the time!  I never ski outside of my skill level.  I am in a class."   And I ratted out out my teacher at the bottom of the steep pointing angrily.  He asked me to side slip towards him.  I slashed out with my claws and maimed him!  No I didn't nor did I side slip towards him.  I walked me skies down to him.  Because I was too scared to side slip.

I know it would have been irresponsible for him to leave me but I needed the pressure to alleviate.  I needed people not to be staring, not to have expectations. I needed space,  he was right next to me.  I felt panicky, I wanted to ski forward and make a turn.  He was too close.  I didn't like it.   I begged him to leave.  He couldn't leave me there, but he was too close for me to move.

A pair of beginners began some ugly wedge turns down the steep.  I cringed.  The last thing I wanted to see was some other people getting hurt on this slope.  One of the girls snowplowed her way across the trail and stopped at the edge leaving herself no room to turn.  This was my old classic folly.  I used to do it all the time.  And then there was her friend who was trying to ski down sitting on her skies like a sled.  Ski Patrol had to rush off to deal with them.  My instructor hiked up to deal with me.

Again, I begged him to just leave me there. I could do it.  I would.  No that wasn't an option.  He was desperate to get me down.  He told me to side slip.  I burst out with a "No I've never been comfortable with that"  which partially true.  I'd never been great at side slipping.  

In frustration he answered "You should have told me that before!"  I sniffed and gave him a changing look.  "No, you shouldn't have." he amended.  

I wouldn't side slip.  I was dug in at this point.  I was embarrassed, ashamed, scared,  crying, shaking, stubbornly dug in.  It wasn't pretty, and I was a monster.  He wanted me take my poles from me.  I've never skied without poles...  I wasn't taught that way.  I grabbed my poles back angrily, no those are my poles.  I glared.  

"Okay okay, grab onto my poles" he said. I did.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I'm going to lead you down" he answered.

"No, too scary." I said matter of factly as I let go.  I've never been lead on a trail, and I sure as hell wasn't going to learn that lesson on the steepest slope on the mountain.  He moved his skis closer to me and I backed up unevenly.  I slid a little and fell to my side gently.  

"Fine, lets turn you around"  

This was a good idea.  I would have my back to the "bad snow" I would see good snow.  But because my instructor was trying physically help me I was getting more tense and upset.  I need to be in control on my skis.  I have a really hard time relinquishing that control and his physical manipulations where throwing me off.  After a struggle with my tight hips and the steep slope and me sliding when I turn I was facing the other side.  

He wanted to brace my skis with his so I could stand up.  But I wasn't comfortable with that.  Again he would be in control of my skis, using his, and I couldn't live with that.  I needed to be in control.  My control would get me down the slope.  He could not do that for me.  And I glared at him and moved my skis away from his.  He moved my ski to be going a little more uphill, I moved it back and sniffed and glared again.  I pushed off the side of the hill and stood up, I looked at him, He started telling me something, what to do, but I looked ahead, leaned forward and skied off.  I made one wedge turned, and three skidded parallel turns to the group.  I heard my instruction calling out encouragement.  Good girl!  Nice!  

But I was done with instruction.  I was done with Smith Walton.  I was done with my foray into the world of Black Diamonds.  My pride was bruised and battered.  I was worn out... I was done.

Maria in her kindness said "You did great" 

I snapped "I don't want to talk about it"  I had turned away from the group, to wipe my eyes and blow my nose.  The instructor came over and made another grab for my poles.  Again I glared at him furiously "What are you doing?" I blurted out pulling my poles out of his hands.

He looked confused, almost apologetic "I was just going to hold your poles for you so you could use both hands..."  He trailed off.  No doubt silenced by the death look I was giving him.  I was embarrassed and ashamed, and sad, and angry and hurt, but still proud somehow.  I still wanted what I had craved the entire time I was stuck up there.  I wanted to have moment alone without eyes on me to compose myself to wipe my tear and blow my nose in peace.  

"We'll go when you are ready" he said.

"I'm ready" I answered.  I wasn't ready, I really needed to blow my nose and take a few deep breaths, but I wouldn't have the group wait any more.  

"I want you behind me, if you are ready, if you are okay." he said.

"Fine, I'm fine" I said.

At the bottom of the first steep of Smith Walton, there is a second small steep, maybe steeper than the big steep.  I looked at it with a dismissive glance.  The instructor called out to make wedge turns.  But I remember thinking and possibly saying fuck that.  I skied parallel down the the small hill.  We stopped again.

Again my instructor told me he wanted me to follow him.  But I was done with all that.  I just wanted to ski down and be done with this once and for all.  So when he started  down I didn't so much follow.  I took off skiing with a fast angry messy style still in control always in control with harsh angry skidded turns speeding along and rushing my turns. It was all very alien to what he had seen me do before.  He yelled for me to round my turns, and I tried to a little.  But I didn't care I just wanted to get down the hill.  

At one point I wasn't sure when I was supposed to stop.  This would be because I had skied ahead of him.  He was trying to set a pace for us.  But I had passed him. If you've ever seen me ski that thought would shock you.  Because I ski very slowly normally.  I was so angry with myself for freezing that way, for getting so emotional, for being such a monster, for thinking "I will bite you in the face".  I skied with an angry determination.  Maria skied up next to me.  "I just stopped" I explained.  "I didn't know where we are supposed to stop."  I skied off again and the group followed.  

We got down to the connection by the little terrain park  and the instructor ushered us through.  "More familiar ground" he explained  

"I'm fine"  I said for what felt like the millionth time.

"Okay" he said.

We skied down to the waffle house.  And that's when things got really bad for me.  That when all of the emotion crept up.  The looks of pity form the group.  A group of skiers who don't ski as well as I do but handle their fear better.   And me emotionally wrecked hanging onto my shredded pride, and already looking back to the summit lift.  

"You all did great"  our instructor said "All of you" he looked at me, and my eyes welled up again.  "Don't think that I don't know how hard it was to do what you did"  I blew my nose, more tears because something made me believe that.  "I feel like I owe you something" he said to me.

"You don't owe me anything."  I said darkly.  The last thing I wanted right now was pity.  I wanted something all together different.  I wanted something that felt like a mixture of revenge and redemption.  This I wanted for myself. 

"I want to give you a lesson" he said "On me, this was my fault, I feel like I owe you a lesson."  I objected  but he handed me his card. "No I do, just call this number, tell them I said if was okay, we'll set up a lesson"  

Now I've been coveting a private lesson for ages.  I am desperately poor so a free lesson is a real temptation however I could get it.  But wait... that's not the end of the story.  

"Now going inside" he tells me "have something to drink, have some sugar. And call that number."  

So I didn't go inside and have a drink.  I decided what I needed more than hydration or sugar, was that mix of revenge/redemption.  I was going to go down Smith Walton again.  Right now.  Before I had time to reconsider.  While my blood still burned with all of those emotions.  

So I got in the lift line and made my way up to summit.  I talked to the people on the lift with me.  I asked if everybody was having fun today.  Oh yeah, how about you?  Couldn't be better I lied.  I figured I needed to be confident.  

I skied down to Smith Walton, and made my way to the steep.  I didn't even stop at the top, I just flowed over the edge make a couple of ugly turns before a settled into  slightly better turns and made my way all the way down.  I couldn't resist raising my arms triumphantly as I made my way back to the lift. I did it!  I knew I could do it.

And I went back up and I did it again.  Because I needed to to know that I could do it.  That I could have done it if she hadn't fallen, if I hadn't stopped.  This times my turns where better, not great, not even good but better.  That's the hardest trail on the mountain, so now I know I can ski down anything on the mountain.  

So that's how I became the Monster on the Mountain in all of it's horrific and gory detail.  And I'm left to debate whether to tell my next ski instructor that I have trouble on the steeps or not.  The good news is I went down my first black diamond trail!  The bad news is like every step of my skiing experience, there were tears and terror and hysteria.