I leave in fourteen hours for a ski week in Taos, New Mexico. Yup, there’s skiing in New Mexico.

I’m all packed. As usual I’m a light packer except for one thing. I have two ski shirts; I will hand wash one and wear the other one. I have one pair of ski pants; not sure when those will get washed. Two pairs of ski socks. One bra. And you knew where this was going, 25 pairs of underwear. I can’t explain it. I had an underwear problem before and now the fact that someone, Captain, will be seeing them everyday, does not make it better.

I will be at 9,000 – 13,000 feet above sea level. Due to the decrease in oxygen, I will need every last bit for skiing and drinking in the hot tub. I will not have enough oxygen left to blog. See you when I’m at sea level.

And take plenty of underwear

A regular asks,

Valentine’s Day is coming. People keep asking me what they should do. You should come see me at the bar. It’ll be romantic.

During my giant-stuffed-yeast internet research the other day. I stumbled on the site giantmicrobes.com. Whatever disease or microscopic thing you’re thinking of, prostate cancer say, they’ve got it in a giant stuffed version:

Prostate cancer, cured by turning it inside out.

And you can get someone special the “Sizzling Hot Heart Burned Box”:

I might ask Captain for athlete’s foot. He’s adorable.

Skiing was a success! It was a little cold, -20 with the wind chill. But the sun was out so it only felt like -15. And what’s the difference between a few negative degrees? My fingers and toes couldn’t feel anything after ten minutes.

The snow was great, no one was on the mountain and it only required multiple hot chocolate breaks and then twice as many bathroom breaks.

The trip was sold out. The bus makes three stops to pick everyone up. Captain and I board the bus at the first stop. A woman sits in front of us at the second stop. Someone else tries to sit with her,

“Is someone sitting here?”

“Well, uh, well…”

“Nevermind.” The guy wanders off to find another seat.

We get to the third stop. The bus is going to be full. People wander to the back of the bus and come back to the front. It’s filling up. A woman is looking around for a seat. I gesture to the seat in front of me and say,

“I don’t think anyone is sitting here.”

The seat-hoarding lady whose stuff is spread across two seats says to the woman who needs a seat,

“Are you sure there aren’t any other empty seats?”

She looks back down the bus as two more guys come forward in need of seats. Three people now need seats. Seat-hoarder lady is not backing down. She points to an empty seat behind me,

“There’s a seat.”

“Someone is sitting there. They’re in the bathroom.”

I offer,

“The trip is sold out.”

Seat-hoarder lady does not move an inch. This is a trip meant for drinking, partying, hot-tubbing and skiing. People sign up to socialize, i.e. sit next to someone nicely on the bus.

The trip leader offers a seat to the woman. Another guy gets to sit next to the beer and one guy is left staring at the seat-hoarding lady. She heaves a sigh and declares,

“I guess I can put some of my stuff in the overhead compartment.”

The guy slides in and puts on his headphones. For the next four hours she pokes and prods him until he takes off his headphones and talks to her.

Two guys are at the bar, one is a regular. They’re staring at a novel. I’m always on the lookout for reading recommendations. I lean over and peer at the title. I ask,

A 34-year-old guy sits down at the bar. He starts lecturing me,

“I love America. What we need are old fashioned heroes. I’m from Vermont. Everyone has a farm up there. And when I say I love America, it’s not like I haven’t traveled. We need to get back to the America from the 1800’s. Do you know what I’m saying?”

“No. And if that’s true, then why aren’t you farming in Vermont?”

“I’m studying architecture. I want to build castles.” He holds up a photo of a tile floor. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“It’s nice.”

“We need classic heroes. I’m all for gay people. My uncle is gay; I live in his apartment building, but they shouldn’t be leading the way.”

I walk away. This guy is nuts. I report to a server what he said. The server replies,

“Ask him how he feels about blacks.”

I head back over and crazy guy asks,

“What do you like to do?”

“I like to write.”

“What do you write?”

“Non-fiction humor.”

“Are you going to write about me?”

“Probably.”

“Women want real men, not sensitive men who eat broccoli.”

“I’m all for broccoli.”

“How old are you?”

“Thirty-one.”

“Oh you’re ticking.”

Google has a surprising number of sexy men eating broccoli.

Two guys sit down at the bar. I serve them. My first mistake. 

My mom asked to go to Portsmouth, NH for her birthday. She thinks she drove through it once long ago and wants to go back. 

We start with a tour of the Smuttynose Brewery. There are thirty people there despite it being the middle of a snow storm. We throw back as many samples of beer as we can before the tour starts. The guy is going on and on about the chemical reactions that create beer. My mom is enthralled. I’m thinking about how much snow the ski areas are getting. I tune in when the guy says,

“And we’re selling giant stuffed yeast in the gift shop on your way out.”

I’m in! I didn’t know I wanted a giant stuffed yeast, but what sounds more adorable than that?

The tour guide talks about the shelf life of beer and mentions a bar that had a keg for four years. My mom whispers,

“Do you have any beer that old at your bar?”

“No.” We do have 14-year-old bottles of wine that were decoration since the place opened and we recently started cooking with them.

We try several more beer samples and turn in our safety goggles, it’s time to go check out Portsmouth.

We stop at a couple shops. I’m reaching my max browsing capacity when one store keeper remarks,

“We’re having a wine tasting upstairs.”

Now that’s what I’m talking about. There’s wine, delicious cheese and then in a circle on every counter are different free samples of olive oil, cheeses and dips. I circle around once trying everything. I pause. No reason not to circle around again. I’m on my third circle, my mom is standing waiting for me. I tell her,

“This is my kind of shopping.”

 As we drive through the town, my mom declares,

“I don’t think this is the place I was thinking of. I think I was thinking of Portland Maine.”

Stuffed yeast

I’m chatting with my bar manager about the upcoming holiday party and what people will be gossiping about. My bar manager tells me,

“There would be a lot of talk if there were a bunch of Jesses there.”

“Wow. A bunch of Jesses. That sounds like way too many.”

“Yeah, one is plenty.”

A couple months ago a guy came to the bar with his buddy. They put a bunch of small plastic animals on the bar. I squealed with delight. The guy said,

“I have a ton of these for work. Do you want one?”

“YES!”

And that is how a small black and white aardvark came to live on the shelf behind the absinthe.

Last night the guy returns. I run for my aardvark. I hold it aloft,

“Look! I still have him.”

“Wow. I’ll bring you more.”

“Thank you!”

“My six-year-old nephew loves them. You remind me of him.”

So ugly and so cute.

Contrary to popular belief, I’m a bartender.

A regular tells me,

“I want to bring my daughter in to meet you. You’re my favorite waitress.”

Thanks.

A few people sit down at the bar. I hand them menus and pour them water. When it looks like they’re ready I return,

“May I get you something to drink?”

“Yes, would you please ask the bartender for a red wine recommendation?”

Soaked to the bone after skiing in the rain, I fill my water bottle with liquor and head for the hot tub. 

Saturday morning everyone who came up with me on the bus takes one ski run and heads to guest services to get a literal rain check. Captain and I look at each other. It’s raining, but it’s warm and there’s no one on the mountain. I tell him,

“I’m up for it if you are.”

We have a week out west coming up and I’m eager to break in all my new pink equipment. We head for the lift. We ski for several hours in the pouring rain. The good news is my jacket is waterproof. Thanks Mom. The bad news is my mittens and pants aren’t. My pants technically are, but the zipper on the inside of my thigh for ventilation, yes it gets hot between my legs, is not waterproof. Within an hour I feel like I’ve wet myself.

By lunch time I’m carrying around at least double my weight in water logged gear. I am loving gazing at my pink skis, but I could just as easily gaze at them from the hot tub. Captain and I head to the bar for lunch. Everyone from our bus has been there since the bar opened. On a serious ski day I’ll only drink milk and water at lunch time, maybe hot chocolate. The bartender asks me,

“What would you like?”

“A hot toddy please.”

“With cider?”

“Whiskey. A double.”

Captain asks,

“How did you know about that?”

My friend on the other side of me declares,

“You know she works in a bar.”

Still soggy, but somewhat dulled to the misery, Captain and I head back out to the mountain. I slip and fall in an ice puddle before I even get my skis on. Captain falls. We take one run and look at each other.

“Hot tub?”

“Hot tub.”

And Captain didn’t even remember his bathing suit, but that’s what underwear is for.

It pours all night. In the morning it stops, the wind picks up and the temps drop to freezing. All the lifts are closed except for one super slow small one and there’s a line. We do one run. People complain about the ice, but there’s ice and then there’s ice. This was ice.

We all head to guest services for a lift ticket voucher. The lady asks,

“Did you do a run?”

“Yes.”

“And what didn’t you like?”

My friend explodes,

“Are you serious? What is there to like?”

Just my new pink ensemble, Captain and the hot tub.

Going skiing! Same trip that I met Captain on a year ago, when all your dreams came true. Talk to you Monday.

Here I’ve been, living my life, thinking mustaches are creepy. I go to a lot of work to keep mine under control. At some point they became trendy.

I know this because I showed up at Captain’s brother’s house and their four-year old was wearing a mustache sweater. No not a sweater made from mustaches, a sweater with a giant mustache on it. I remark,

“Nice mustache sweater.”

His mom replies,

“He saw it in the store and had to have it. He loves anything to do with mustaches.”

Huh.

There’s a Santa figurine on the table. I tell the four-year old,

“I like your Santa.”

“He has a mustache.”

I thought all Santas had mustaches, but it turns out all Santas have beards, but not all have mustaches. If you’re four and/or if you have a mustache obsession, you notice this.

I remark to a coworker,

“Did you know that mustaches are trendy?”

“Yeah, my ten-year old nephew is really into them. He wears a mustache necklace.”

I gave my little sister a bunch of suspenders for Christmas. Also another trend I just clued into. She holds up one pair and squeals,

“It has mustaches on it!”

I was going to blog about mustaches and dishware today, but I’ve been getting requests to blog about New Year’s Eve. Ok, one request. But compared to the no requests I usually get, this is a lot. So back to New Year’s Eve.

Captain picks me up at my place. I’m dressed in a little party dress and I’m lugging my big pink overnight bag, mainly sneakers and my security blanket.

We head into Captain’s condo building. We bump into some of his neighbors. Captain introduces me. The woman exclaims,

“She’s beautiful.”

Thank you and hi I’m right here.

She points at the big pink bag Captain is carrying, his favorite, and asks him,

“What’s in there?”

I pipe up,

“That’s my overnight bag.”

“Oh.”

She seems to be waiting for more details.

We head up to Captain’s place, drink as much champagne as we can and we’re off to Symphony Hall and the dance floor.

We’re supposed to have the buffet dinner there, but we can’t find it. It’s not in the main hall. We head downstairs to an odd, strangely quiet room. I take a couple bites. Not good. I force some more down. I need dancing energy and something to absorb the champagne.

Captain declares,

“This feels like dinner at the nursing home.”

We zip back to the dance floor. It’s packed. There are couples there younger than us. They’re with their parents. We put our new skills to work. Our teacher should’ve been there to tell us what dance to do to what song. Some people knew how to dance, but plenty were doing the junior high sway. We did a combo. A little swaying and a little dancing. I even got some spins in.

Overall a giant success. No one stepped on my feet and I only stepped on one person and it wasn’t Captain. Next year more dance lessons and eat dinner somewhere else.

Captain remarks,

“I’ve done things this year I never thought I’d do.”

And he’s promised to take me to a demolition derby, so then we’ll be even.

I do not have time to blog because I’ve been on a Star Market marathon all over Cambridge for free dishes I didn’t even know I wanted. More on that and mustaches tomorrow.

Last night at work my bar manager and I were complaining about a young guy. He says,

“He’s a twerp.”

I add,

“He has terrible grammar. I don’t like it.”

Wow. Did I just say that?

“I’m old. I’m complaining about grammar.”

“Yup.”

Happy New Year!!! It was great and it was better than last year’s. Which wasn’t hard to do since last year I needed to stay very close to my bed and my bathroom. I was asleep by 10pm.

The day before New Year’s Eve Captain tells me,

“I’m thinking about getting a haircut.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m not sure about the mullet with the suit tomorrow.”

I’m not sure about that either.

I remind him of the book he gave me for Hanukkah: “How Many Women Does it Take to Change a Redneck.” The section on hair care states:

“This may come as a great surprise to most rednecks, but mullets are out. On the positive side, as hairlines rise above the collar, it’s easier to show off your back hair.”

A big beefy guy walks into the bar. He stops in his tracks. He says to me,

“You stopped me in my tracks.”

I smile and wait to see how this is going to go. He continues,

“I have never seen anyone wear Levi’s as well as you.”

“Thank you.”

“If they were white, I’d throw a ring at you.”

He sticks his hand out at me,

“I’m Mark* what’s your name?”

*You know that’s not his real name.

“Jessica.”

My finger with the cut is bandaged up and has a blue rubber finger condom on it to keep it dry. I’ve created a giant blue finger. Mark continues,

“Everything about you is sexy: your pants, your shirt, but not your finger. Your blue finger is not sexy.”

I tell my bar manager. He says,

“He’s right. Your finger isn’t sexy.”

Mark waves me over,

“I’m Mark what’s your name?”

“Jessica.”

“I can get you off your boyfriend.”

“Nope.”

“I’m not drunk. Do you want me to do my ABCs?”

“No.”

“I can do my ABCs I promise.”

“You already introduced yourself twice.”

Sexy finger time.