Continuing our quest to ski ourselves into the poor house and contribute to my daughter's deliquency, we've got a full three-day weekend on tap:
Last I heard from them my parents were in the car somewhere near Bakersfield driving up from southern California (the Grapevine was closed for snow) and should be here in time for dinner (pot roast in crockpot—check). At this point my mother is probably wondering if my father is completely insane. But he's caught the bug—it can't be helped.
Friends are lined up to fill the ski house we've rented. Everyone's got their food and drink assignments. Racks are the on the cars, duffle bags packed. Is there gas in the car? (Remember those Steely Dan lyrics: "Is there gas in the car? Yes, there's gas in the car"?) There will be.
Knee is still sore but feels much better than yesterday. Range of movement much improved. I went back into the ski store yesterday to have one of my boot linings stretched and found that I can indeed buckle my own boot.
And while we're on the subject of skiing and since I'm always on the subject of food, don't you think I need this?
I'm absolutely sure I do.