World Tour: Part 1, Day 13

Back in December I booked our Vermont snowboarding trip with Sugarbush Ski Resort, a place I'd never been to and knew absolutely nothing about, but had wanted to visit for eons. Actually, longer than that.

The photos online look amazing, with mountain front views and ski lifts right outside of the rooms, and warm welcoming spaces with front desk people who sparkle like Fourth of July firecrackers.

And I like Fourth of July firecrackers.

I bought into all of that bullshizzle because everything on the internet is true, just like television, and Charlie Sheen-isms and telling Andrew that, no, of course I didn't mean that thing about his hair looking kind of like the Sol Glo guy's from Coming To America.

(Now you see it, too, don't you?)

Those of you who book online vacations that go down without a hitch, GOOD FOR YOU, you have my envy. If not, than you will understand. You will understand arriving at a so called resort that is actually a glorified motel on a so called mountain that is actually a speed bump a mile away from the lifts and being helped by a so called sparkling front desk person who is actually a _____ (insert the word bitch if you use it, which I don't, but if you do, go ahead and put it in capital letters with fourteen exclamation points and underlined twice), after driving for six hours in ice and snow and nearly losing your life to fifteen thousand four hundred and sixteen cannibalistic maggot flies. And you will understand how that can cause a person to scream on the internet about how

NO ONE SHOULD EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER EVER BOOK A VACATION WITH SUGARBUSH SKI RESORT IN VERMONT.

Instead we got our deposit back, left, and stayed here.

Which meant that we had to drive around for another hour in the dark on an empty gas tank in the middle of the Vermont wilderness in freezing temperatures passing Bear Crossing signs and with no working cell phones or maps or idea of if we were getting any closer to Killington or if we were going to be trapped in the night in the snow and be forced to cut off Andrew's Sol Glo and light it on fire to keep us warm until help arrived with hot cocoa.

But we survived, which can be attributed solely to my determination that if it was my time I wanted to go down in a blaze of glory. Like a war hero. Like learning to snowboard backwards!

World Tour: Part 1, Day 12
World Tour: Part 1, Day 11

World Tour: Part 1, Day 10

World Tour: Part 1, Day 9
World Tour: Part 1, Day 8
World Tour: Part 1, Day 7
World Tour: Part 1, Day 6
World Tour: Part 1, Day 5
World Tour: Part 1, Day 4

World Tour: Part 1, Day 3

World Tour: Part 1, Day 2

World Tour: Part 1, Day 1

For The Tenants Of The Downtown Townhouse

One of the things that I pride myself on is having decent relationships with our tenants, because I know that little things like sending Christmas cookies or upgrading a bathroom or ignoring a second furchild promotes peace and happiness in all of the land.

And I love peace and happiness.

And rent checks. And walls without holes in them.

If you've read here long enough you know about the time that the young women living in The University Townhouse asked me to replace an entire house full of four year old window treatments and I ACTUALLY CONSIDERED IT.

Like I said. Peace and happiness.

I'm not particularly into making friendship bracelets or painting someone else's toenails so a small gesture like fixing your toilet in a timely manner or not raising your rent fifty bucks a year is my way of saying, "Hey, I appreciate you. Let's be friends, but not the sort of friends who talk on the phone at two o'clock in the morning." I'd also like to remind you that I invited each and every one of you to our wedding, save Bob because he smelled like a jock strap. And moved out without paying me over $600 dollars of rent, but probably more because of the jock strap thing.

So you see my point? I try.

You can't always tell, because I don't write about it as often as I used to, but I'm constantly dealing with our rental properties, so much that if I did write about it it would probably surprise you and suck up way too many of my posts. It's mostly little things. Little things that turn into big things that turn into semi biggish little things. Like the condo president who sent me a personal warning letter last week with FOUR EXCLAMATION POINTS!!!! BECAUSE OUR TENANT HAD USED A GUEST PARKING SPOT!!!! FOUR! EXCLAMATION! POINTS!

This is my life.

Anyway. One of those things just hit The Downtown Townhouse's refrigerator in force the other day and I thought that one of your brilliant minds might be able to save me a three thousand dollar trip from the repairman. You know the kind that I'm talking about. The kind where he shakes your hand then shakes the door then shakes his head and says, "No problum, here-uh, Miss-uh. Youz jus gotz a mustard bottle uh rattlin." And then he sticks his hand out for a tip. AFTER YOU PAY THE TRIP CHARGE.

So.

Help a girl out.

There the old fart is in the corner. Right next to us vogue-ing.



GE Profile. Four-ish years old. First owner. Keeps making a sound like it's restarting when the door opens and shuts. Sounds like it might be coming from behind the technician panel where the motherboard is.

Any ideas?

I can offer free mustard and a handshake.

World Tour: Part 1, Day 12

We ended the the first part of The World Tour with ninety six hours of snowboarding in Vermont. Or more accurately, faceplanting in Vermont. If you're more Shawn White than I am, I would be eternally grateful if you would explain to me why I can skydive and hanglide and bull ride and and cliff climb and run through the first few minutes of a Category Three hurricane but I. CAN. NOT. SNOWBOARD. BACKWARDS. It's weird, too, because I picked up the rest of it pretty fast, you know, getting down the hill without an ambulance, turning, stopping, flinging myself to the ground whenever I smelled a Waffle Hut within walking distance. (Side note: God Bless Waffle Huts.) (Second Side Note: Wouldn't that make a fabulous t-shirt?) Anyway. The snowboarding backwards would. not. come. Must've been something wrong with my board.

World Tour: Part 1, Day 11 World Tour: Part 1, Day 10 World Tour: Part 1, Day 9 World Tour: Part 1, Day 8 World Tour: Part 1, Day 7 World Tour: Part 1, Day 6 World Tour: Part 1, Day 5 World Tour: Part 1, Day 4 World Tour: Part 1, Day 3 World Tour: Part 1, Day 2 World Tour: Part 1, Day 1

World Tour: Part 1, Day 11

A number of you asked where we stayed at in Italy. It was a very ooold hotel attached to a church on the outskirts of Ancient Rome, and for some bizarre reason the name of it at this particular moment is escaping me. Anyway, this was the view from our room which we were told was to remain behind the curtains AT ALL TIMES out of respect for Jesus Christ and God and the Pope and the nuns and stuff.



Leave it to me to forget the very first day when I emerged from the shower wearing only a towel.

ON MY HEAD.

Needless to say, I'm sure that God and Jesus and the hotel staff were quite happy to send us on our way back to The States this morning.

The guy who works at the pastry shop across the street, probably not so much.



Anyway.

Here's a photo of us about to get sandwiched between two humungous buses. Right after I took this I dropped my camera and put my hands over my eyes and silently promised God that I would never ever forget to close the curtains again if he wouldn't let me die and why in the world is Ricky Martin driving our Fiat taxi one hundred and sixty kilometers an hour no exaggeration and please don't let me wet myself because I'd hate to be found with soiled underpants and OHMYGAWD I'M NOT WEARING UNDERPANTS RIGHT NOW but I have a really good reason, no really, I actually really do I have to wait to get to Vermont to do my laundry, and anyway, these things are almost like underwear, but not really, unless you count thongs, which is what I wear anyway, so really these are pretty much the same thing and it's better than wearing something dirty, and also if I do die, God, will you make sure that someone deletes this blog?

Please?



In the end, our cab miraculously slid through that tiny little opening I am so not even kidding you.

GOD IS REAL.

I have taken our survival as a sign that He wants me to shower in a Snuggie.


World Tour: Part 1, Day 10
World Tour: Part 1, Day 9
World Tour: Part 1, Day 8
World Tour: Part 1, Day 7
World Tour: Part 1, Day 6
World Tour: Part 1, Day 5
World Tour: Part 1, Day 4
World Tour: Part 1, Day 3
World Tour: Part 1, Day 2
World Tour: Part 1, Day 1

An Explanation + Valentine's Day

First, let me put to rest questions on why we're (most likely) not purchasing The Blue Banana House. Aside from the fact that I have a really inexplicable gut feeling that committing to it would be something disastrous, we're not moving forward because I BELIEVE THAT BUYING IT WOULD BE A DISASTER.

I have to be somewhat vague about the situation since the property is still on the market, but let me give you an, um, example. That's hypothetical. Sort of.

Not really.

Say, for instance, that the house was sold to the previous owner for 1.5 million just a few years ago. And say, just for, you know, the sake of example that they foreclosed on it and that the bank was dividing the property into two parcels and selling each for the price of three hamburgers and a Tonya Harding autograph. Well, LET ME TELL YOU, we were all over getting our raggedy little feet in the door on that shizzle which explains why we jumped through hoops and stood on our heads and let the bank spank us all the way to Italy. Hypothetically, I mean. Except for the spanking. And some other stuff.

Anyway.

Then say someone put an offer in on the land parcel. And it was accepted.

Which essentially takes away our river view and leaves us staring over a practically zero lot line at the ass end of someone else's new construction monstrosity that will most likely have at least twelve months of gawdawful construction noise to go along with it. And half naked construction men which, now that I think about it, is actually okay.

I meant not okay. Andrew, I meant NOT OKAY. Typo. Sorry. Naked men TOTALLY NOT OKAY.

Back to the point. Once you add all of that into the mix, the next thing you know we'd be standing in our front yard crying and wearing t-shirts that say FOR THE LOVE OF HUMANITY, WE WANT OUR TONYA HARDING AUTOGRAPH BACK.

So.

We decided to take a pass.

And that's what happened with that.

Now. That was a long and boring story, but I hope it answers your questions. If anyone is actually still reading this, here are some pictures from Valentine's Day. Which I realize is annoying in itself, but is especially annoying since Valentine's Day was, like, a month ago. I know.

But I don't want to forget that this happened.

So We're Officially Moving

We put an ad online and within nine days we had a signed lease, three back up offers, two parties trying to convince us to sell, and one female stalker. I'D CALL THAT SUCCESS.

So where are we moving to?

Um.

We should totally figure that out.

The Vatican Museums

Holy holiness.

The place might have been beautiful, but the experience was more like a Bon Jovi tour. Tons of hairy people and body odor and line cutters. And the weird vibe that lots of children were conceived there.

Illegitimately.

Okay, so more like a Phish tour.

(A stunning collection of history for sure, but by far our least favorite stop on the entire trip.)

Tom Selleck In Rome

First, before we discuss adventures in facial hair, I realize that I've failed to tell you what's going on with The Blue Banana House. I haven't updated about it, because there are all kinds of calculations and meditations and perspirations going on over the subject, and Andrew recently reminded me that he moved me away from the South Florida rentals to relax and breathe for two seconds. Which is why it would be stupid to admit to a thought process of, Wait a minute, if we're considering The Absolutely Perfectly Ready To Move Into Blue Banana House, why not go beach side for a beater that has enough square footage to keep me stressed out until Obama gets out of office, beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach beach. And as fast as a roof can cave in, I'm up at three o'clock in the morning searching the market from the basement of a hotel giving dirty looks to anyone who comes within twenty feet of my precious Siberian internet connection.

THIS IS WHY I SHOULDN'T TALK ABOUT MY FEELINGS.

Anyway, that's what's going on with that, and now, moving on to Andrew's facial hair. This post is actually proof for posterity, that at one moment Andrew's decision skills rivaled those of Charlie Sheen on a winning day.



Andrew decided not to shave for our entire trip, partly because in real life he's got the kind of corporate mucky muck gig that doesn't really favor this sort of thing and partly just to eff with me. Probably more of the latter.

A little over a week into his experiment, when the beard started getting all Brillo pad-ish and I kept mistaking him for an Irish rabbi, I politely suggested a razor. (Suggested as in encouraged. Encouraged as in demanded. Demanded as in threatened with blunt force trauma.) When he was unfazed by my suggestions I told him that he looked just like a Carrot Top Hell's Angel, minus some leather chaps.

BOOM. There was shaving going on OH THE POWER OF SUGGESTION.

And then there was this. In public.




Even though I glared at him the entire two days it was like this, the unspoken victory was clearly his. WINNING, people.

W-I-N-N-I-N-G

But I still told him he looked like a child molester.