Fireball and Tequila: A Blossoming Relationship

Being Fabulous, Ski Adventures, Travel

After containing the savage in me, I noticed the snow was coming down hard. Tomorrow was going to be a great day for a great ski. The room where we were staying had four beds, and was quite warm and cozy. It was the perfect bedroom for our group of girls.

Awake. Tired. You can’t slow down though. You got to keep on, keepin’ on. Alright, that’s ridiculous. We lounged for a while. Made some coffee and spiked it with a little fireball. Warms the insides.

Geared up. Ready to go. Hiked the ski out. Skis on. Down and out. Noon and already feeling the effects of the fireball, we headed up the Blackomb Gondola. Unfortunately for the family that got stuck in the gondola with us, Brynn and I babbled on about the fireball, the night before, and the fun that was to ensue.

Before you deserve the right to apres, however, you have to put in the time. Ski it out.

Not feeling my very best, I was skiing like a newb, and uncharacteristically  threw a tiny tantrum, in which Brynn responded, “You are going to cause an avalanche with that kind of talk.” I laughed. It was true. I was being absurd, and that was certainly not allowed on the slopes. One breath, two breath. Onward and upward.

Down the mountain. Trail after trail. Snow was great. Music running through my veins, we plowed through trees and bowls, powder and ice. Another epic day of skiing. I insisted we hit the chairlift that overlooks the park.

Spotted. A pig? Take two. There below us was a ridiculously amazing individual wearing a pig onesy. I needed to know this person. ASAP. Pop. Off the chairlift we went in hot pursuit of the pig. Brynn was unimpressed, but I happen to have an affinity for complete weirdos, so I was on it. There is nothing like a uniquely eccentric human being.

Unsuccessful, yet not feeling defeated we headed to the ski in. Success. My second day on the slopes and no epic bails to date.

Back at the cabin. Warm and snuggly. Ski boots off and looking quite fancy in our under ski garments, we stripped, grabbed some beers and things got pretty steamy. Nothing like a warm hot tub surrounded by snow. It’s magical really.

After some much deserved rest and relaxation, the girls and I discussed the night’s plan. After a short and seemingly unnecessary conversation, we came to the conclusion that it was going to be a Maxx Fish kind of night. We were going to get weird, and it was going to be a darn good time.

Coincidentally, one of my friends from San Francisco was also living the Whistler dream. Brock was a Stanford graduate and son to one of the greatest writers of all time, he was interesting, a delightful conversationalist and always up for shenanigans. We insisted he join the girls for a night out. He obliged.

The doorbell. It’s Brock. I popped up, overly excited to see the boys. There they were, tequila in hand. The first tequila of the trip. The troops gathered around the dining room table. One shot. Two shot. Three shot. Four? Uh oh.

With tequila flowing through our veins, the harsh bite of the cold was subdued. We all felt invincible. Down the hill we went. Sick of slipping all over the place I opted for my finest Uggs. My fabulous white down jacket I picked up while living in Milan kept me warm to the bone. Or was that the tequila? At that point, there was really no telling.

Into the village we paraded. We were like kids entering Disneyland for the first time. Each night that special feeling overpowered my entire body. I’m not talking about the alcohol. I’m talking about Whistler. The excitement made my body tingle, and every step I took heightened the elation.

If you have ever been in love, you know what it feels like. That tingly butterflies in your stomach feeling. That feeling consumed me, and wouldn’t escape me until the day I stepped back on that dreaded plane for LA.




Whistler: Bringing out the Savage in Me

Being Fabulous, Nightlife, Ski Adventures, Travel, Uncategorized

The comforting smell of coffee and crisp toast overwhelmed the cabin, and I was surprisingly up and about ready to hit the pow. It was that kind of day. White, thick, and bound to be a hell of a lot of fun. Just the way I like it.

The mountain air caressed my face as we rode up the chairlift. Hell yes. The powder looked great and so did we. Some solid Whistler skiing ensued.

Brynn is an extraordinary skier. Before we met at USC she had to make the decision to either ski hard for the rest of her life or go to college. She chose college and golf. I mean, im pretty happy she did. She rocks it on the slopes and I trail behind. I blame it on the boarders.

Let’s be honest now, I could only take a half day. Weak. Im aware. Clearly more squats were needed prior to the slopes. There is nothing like the burn from your first day on the mountain. Can’t win them all.

So, we lost one, but gained a pitcher and a pile of nachos. I’ll take it thanks. Our first Whistler après ski.

Spotted. Everyone who is anyone. Skiers, boarders, and those that dress like they skied all day, but never actually got up the mountain nor even know how to ski. Whatever floats your boat, I guess.

It was going to be the first of many epic nights to come and it was only 4 o’clock. A cute brunette walked up to our table. Adrianna. Adrianna is one of Brynn’s besties from back in the ski days. She’s awesome, so yay for new friends. You’ll find that’s a common theme in this here tale.

A little blonde ball of laughter, full of life and uncontrollable energy. That was me.  After an eventful one of many après skis, Brynn, Adrianna and I stumbled back up to the cabin. If you have ever been skiing you know that ski boots, liquor and an icy hill are not exactly the ideal combination for success. Regardless, we were winning. It’s what we do.

Victory. We made it. Ski boots and all. Crack open the booze. Freshen up. Let’s go. Back down the hill. I was smart this time. Uggs. As we gracefully slid into the village, we contemplated the many choices we had. Savage Beagle, Maxx Fish, Tommy’s. Garfs. Alright, Savage it was.


“Jaeger shots?” asked an unfamiliar, yet fine face, from across the table.

“Absolutely,” I coquettishly smiled back.

The looker made his way to the bar. It was going to be a good night.

“I have a feeling this is going to be a good night guys,” I proclaimed. The girls smiled. “When do you have a bad night?” Brynn lashed back.

“Truth.” I smirked.

The man with the pretty face made his way back over. He lined up the shots, and down the hatchet they went. Feeling nice and toasty inside, we thanked that handsome face and descended into the depths of the Beagle. Hard beats pounded through the place.

“Four vodka sodas please,” I very sweetly asked the bartender. When you are dealing with female bartenders you always want to be on your best behavior. You want the drinks? Time to kiss some bartender ass.

Sipping our signature drinks, we scoped the place. Good people, great stories and even better times. That’s what Whistler is all about.

“Sweet dance moves bro,” I snidely remarked to some flailing human on the platform. He jumped off, looked at me, and said, “well then, you get up there.”

“With pleasure,” I smiled. He smiled. We both knew what was going on.

The girls and I jumped on up. Swinging are hips back and forth, arms flying high, pretty much having the best time in the place, we attracted a lot of attention. We didn’t mind it, but we weren’t about to entertain the masses either. I was no go-go dancer, and wasn’t going to start now.

I jumped down. The looker from before had managed to prey upon me, and snuck up on me from behind. Surprised, I turned around and smiled. A familiar song came on and the vibrations of the bass filled my body. I was happy. I was thrilled. It felt good. I felt free for the first time in months. No computer. No ipad. No worries. The pressure was off. The hustle had slowed to a mere crawl. It was my time. As the beat began to build, I felt this rush inside me. It had begun. Whistler had started to take over. I could feel it in my skin. Freedom. Peace from within.

After experiencing the initial symptoms of  that Whistler ecstasy, I came back around and found Brynn talking to some toque wearing fellow named Ollie. Brynn gave me the “the look.” “The look” in this case meant, lets go back to the cabin, hop in the Jacuzzi and continue this party elsewhere. I obliged. As we ascended the steps to the outside world, I spotted the looker once again. I glanced seductively at him and signaled him to tag along. He obliged.

Victory. We made it. Crack open the brewhahas and lets do this. Laughter filled the cabin. Positive mental attitudes everywhere, no doubt about it. We knew how to throw an after-party.

From the corner of my eye I witnessed a little something, something going on in the corner. Brynn and this Ollie character were slipping away. Apparently, the steaming waters of the jacuzzi looked tempting. I had a feeling that wasn’t going to last. Not only was it far too cold, but we had accidentally found out that Mr. White Toque was balding. Balding is rarely a good look for anyone.

Our Savage guests trickled out, and the looker and I were left upstairs hysterically telling tales of our travels and adventures. A well traveled Aussie, he was funny, educated and ridiculously attractive. Usually you only find them, with at best, 2 out of 3 and attractive is a necessity. I was off to a great start. 3 for 3. Win.

While in the midst of one of my better stories, the toque wearing gentleman wandered inside. He looked defeated and warn.

“I knew it,” I thought to myself.

My phone lights up. It was Brynn. I chuckled. The text read, “sorry for that. I warned him, I didnt know what he was going to find inside, but it just wasn’t happening.” I laughed. Rule numero uno when it comes to guys and life, en generale, really, if you don’t want to, don’t do it. I texted back, “quel domage ;).”

The looker glanced over at the defeated boy, “g’night mate.”

That Aussie accent resonated through me. “Winning,” I thought to myself. A giggle escaped my mouth. As tipsy as we both were, and as much as I wanted to pounce my prey, I protested, and made my way on down to the bedroom, minus one Aussie. Next time. I had to play nice. This wasn’t a trip for good girls, nor was it a girls gone wild kind of trip, it was a “do what you want, but always act like a lady” kind of trip.

Ladylike, fun-loving, and sophisticated with a side of ‘betch’ and scrub. It was the Whistler way.

Whistler: Just the Beginning

Relationships, Ski Adventures, Travel, Uncategorized

White. All white. It was perfect, and tomorrow was bound to be the perfect day for a perfect ski. There was no way I was getting on that shuttle. That shuttle represented a ride back to reality. What fun is reality when you can live the dream?

That’s what I thought.

Drunk and sexually charged, I looked over at the statuesque man that I had met the night before, and who had just somehow managed to make it down the hill with me and all my luggage. He kissed me. I didn’t protest.  He wanted me, I wanted him. What else was supposed to happen? What was assumed to be the end of a 10 day excursion in absolute paradise was actually just the beginning.

10 days ago, I was sitting at LAX, having a Blue Moon and waiting for the effects of the Xanax to slowly take me over. It was the flawless start to what would be an unrivaled trip. In my euphoric state I handed over way too much for my beer and wistfully glided through the airport towards my gate, leather jacket and iPad in hand. After my Xanax, a much-needed beer, and a very strong Americano, I was good to go. While the herd funneled through the gate to the plane, I sat, waiting. I don’t do lines, and I was not about to start now. I watched them all. So eager to get on and wait some more. Not really my style. The final boarding call was announced. I got up. Slowly floated towards the gate and smiled. It’s On.

I only do window seats, so naturally, I had to climb over a burly man and his son to get to it. They were nice though, gracious, courteous, and my goodness they were not short of words. I had never met an 11 year old that was so eager to tell a 24 year old blonde all about his hockey days and whatever else 11 year olds these days do.

Strapped in, and all I wanted was that little stewardess to come by with the good stuff. I was flying high and loving every minute of it.

Landed. Yes. About freaking time. I was 3 beers and a Xanax deep, and had just been beaten in chess by an 11 year old. Awesome. It was time to make the call.

“Guess who just landed?” I asked sarcastically.

“Sweet, how long until you get up here? We’ve got reservations at 8.” That lovely Canadian voice responded.

“Uhhh, like, 2 hours the driver said. Getting on the shuttle now. Im ridiculously hungry, and could kill for a cocktail.” I giggled.

“Well both await. Get here.” Click.

I somehow managed to get my ass on the shuttle, and took prime position in the back. 2 hours and I was there. Whistler. The place where aussies flock like bees to honey and the snow flows like the pitchers of beer we drink at après ski.

2 hours later, and unfortunately, sober, I stumbled out of the shuttle, and was immediately knocked to the ground by some hot blonde. Awesome right? Well, that hot blonde happens to be Brynn. My roommate in college and forever best friend, Brynn and I are the perfect match with complementing qualities and dashingly great looks. Reunited.

Once recovered from the ambush, we headed up that infamous hill to the cabin. It had begun. It was so on.

As it was my first night in Whistler, an epic dinner was in order. Naturally, I spruced up and donned my finest leather boots. Not exactly the greatest idea, since in about 2 hours and a couple cocktails later, I’d be on my ass. In any case, I wore them because they looked good. Such a me thing to do. Beauty over brains right?

The village was white. Glistening. Phenomenal. I was ready for Whistler, but was Whistler ready for me? Anyone who has ever been to Whistler knows that’s a preposterous question. This place flirts with you, lures you in, and then consumes you. It’s like having a crush on the bad boy. Nothing good can come of it, yet it’s too good to let go of. Whistler does something to you. You don’t really know what it is, but you know it’s happening.

After filling myself with mussels, and yes, I’m talking seafood here, and a damn good truffle quail risotto, paired with a lovely chardonnay; Brynn and I took to the streets. And down. Man down. This is where I fall on my ass. I laughed. She laughed. It was hysterical, let’s be honest. It was a Monday, so we knew we were keeping it pretty mellow. There is only so much you can do to prepare for what was to come.

Sleep. Could I? I was already beginning to live the dream. And down. Man down. Eyes closed. Goodnight.