One of Lucie’s Brighter Ideas…..Not!!!

OK, People, so whoever said that wisdom comes with age?


I never did, that’s for damn sure!


Life in draught-stricken Northern CA., lately, has been “drier than popcorn farts and warmer than 2 rabbits screwin’ in a wool sock”, as my Uncle Tony likes to say.


So, the Princess and I decided that a trip to see family in the flyover state of fry sauce and minivans (a.k.a. Utah) was in order and stupidly decide that snowshoeing and skiing is a perfect choice for two, menopausal women sportin’ fluffy midriffs.


After all, we haven’t snowshoed in a month of Sundays and I haven’t skied in forever and a day, but far be it for me to stop the infamous “Lucy and Ethel twosome” from pursuing outside activities to keep them fit and feeling alive.


So, the Princess, my brothers, their wives and my sister all joined me and a family friend on the beautiful slopes of Brighton Ski Resort for a day of outdoor fun and family bonding.




Yep. That’s how it started out, anyhow.


Had I known that this “bonding” would have involved a ski trip down “Hell’s Alley” and some serious negotiations with The Man, himself, I would have opted for another way to “bond”.


Far be it for me, though, to be labeled a “poor sport” or worse yet, a “candy ass”.


We get to the resort bright and early in the morning with the Princess in tow, so she can hang out at the lodge and play “ski bunny” for the day, and four of the seven of us head out to hit the slopes and start some kick-ass skiing for the day.


The last thing I remember telling my brother, sister-in-law and sister before sliding off the intermediate chair lift was,

“Don’t lose me. This is my first run of the day and I don’t know where the hell I’m going!”


(My fat, dimpled knees and Buddha belly are shaking like a teenager after a six-pack of Red Bull, as I’m eye-balling the ginormous slope that lay in front of me, and I begin to wonder if this is gonna be the LAST of my bucket list items that gets checked off, and not my FIRST!)




Guess my belly and knees took too long to look at the slope, because the next thing I know, my brother and sister-in-law are swooshing their way out of sight and I never see them again until lunchtime.



My sister, Carmela (who also hasn’t skied in a month of Sundays) and I, cautiously start our way down the mountain and somehow end up on a slope that has one too many moguls on it to be an intermediate trail.


Being the older (and, of course, wiser!) sister that I am, I suggest we stop and look at our map to see if there’s a “trail for old ladies”.




The Last Exit for Paradise and Senior Citizens was about 50 yards behind us, and unless we wanted to be doing some heavy duty mountain climbing with our skis on, we’d best “put on our big boy pants”, ‘cuz we had some serious moguls to “whup”.


I look at the map one more time, while trying to stop my knees from wobbling so violently, and yell to my sister (who’s behind me) that we’re on a trail called, “Oh My, Oh My,” and I’m aptly thinking, “Oh Sh-T! Oh Sh-T!”


If I’m reading the slope correctly (and map!), I do believe we’re on a black diamond (expert) trail.


Carmela, being one of my Mother’s brighter children, looks down the mountain and astutely replies, “No sh-t, Sherlock! Ya think maybe the name of the trail would have given you the FIRST clue?!”


Have I told you that my family (and in-laws) all has a keen sense of humor like mine?


Most of us have been to therapy for such humor and paid handsomely for it, but far be it for us not to relapse, on occasion, during certain stressful situations.


I continue looking down the mountain and quickly conclude that this is one of those “each man for himself” kind of moments and decide my Buddha butt and I are taking the “coward’s way down”.


So, I point my skis down the slope, take off down the side of the moguls and end up on my butt in a cloud of snow that frightens the bejeebers outta my sister and sends me into 3 quick “Hail Mary’s” and an “Our Father” praying that Jesus sends us help in the form of a ski angel.


Thankfully, my sister didn’t arrive at the same (each man for himself) conclusion and comes to assist my snow-entombed, Buddha butt.



We miraculously get off the diamond trail and are skiing on an intermediate one, when I stop for a minute to catch my breath, and happen to look up just in time to see that my sister has inadvertently stopped at the bottom of a snow boarder’s jump.




Before I can mutter a word of warning to her, I see a snow boarder come flying like a bat outta hell (over her head) from behind her!


Suddenly, as I’m witnessing what I think is my sister’s last stand, everything goes into slow motion and I think: “Oh my God! My sister just got stamped “Return to Sender” and is headed for the infamous “Pine Condo Estates”!


Thankfully, she doesn’t have time to react, and the guy hits the jump and goes whizzing past her, missing her by inches.




We’re not even down the mountain on our first run of the day and both of us almost go home feet first.


At this point, I’m thinkin’, “Screw the 100 bucks it cost me today to check off this bucket list item! I’m finding the Princess and sucking down some hot toddies for the rest of the morning, until my family catches up with me for lunch!”


Playing ski bunny with the Princess and sipping hot cocoa (laced with Bailey’s Irish Cream) sounds good to me and my banged-up, bruised, Buddha butt.


Try not to do anything stupid today, People, and God willing, I’ll catch ya next week for another adventure looking at life from my shoes!





Lucie and the Bermuda Triangle of Zits!

Exercising, as many of you know, is not high on my list of fun activities to do during the week.


So, when medical professionals politely (but strongly) suggested to me and my Buddha Belly that we needed to start a daily exercise routine of some kind, I acquiesced and decided that walking would be a better alternative to, say, belly dancing for Seniors with Miss Bedelia on Wednesdays, or wheelchair racing for crusty curmudgeons with Mr. Karl on Thursdays.


After all, I still have one working knee left and one foot that, for all practical purposes, is able to fit in my shoe with only one orthotic and a little coaxing from my trusty Mickey Mouse shoehorn.


And walking, unlike other activities, is free, can be done most anywhere (including a mall), requires no special equipment, requires neither the companionship of man nor beast, and is truly good “therapy” for both mind and body.


So why do I (Miss Buddha Belly herself) hate it so much?


I don’t seem to mind snarfing down those extra helpings of rigatoni and garlic bread, and I haven’t seen anyone twisting my arm lately to eat the See’s candy that I somehow need after inhaling said plate of pasta; so what, pray tell, bothers me so much about taking my daily, neighborhood walk today?


It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’ve got the Bermuda Triangle on my face in the form of two chin zits and a cold sore on my upper lip the size of all Texas, now would it?


Or could it possibly be that when I’m not in a blue rubber rain suit and barn boots, I’m wearing a pair of ratty sweatpants decorated with paint stains and an old college sweatshirt that is badly in need of a recycle bin? Most everyone else I run into while walking in the morning look like they’re straight outta the “Stepford Wives” and quite stylin’ in their Spandex and Nike running shoes.


(And yes, People, I’ve tried to look stylish myself, don’t ’cha know, but Nike doesn’t make a running shoe that accommodates old lady orthotics. And Spandex IS NOT meant for those of us sportin’ Buddha Bellies or post-menopausal buttocks. I’m not saying there aren’t those among us who haven’t shared that little look with others, just  saying, “I’m not one of those women who wants my belly, booty and bazoomas bouncing around in Spandex for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see, ya know?”)


I might have the occasional dental drool crusted on the front of my shirt or a lotion goober or two glued on my pant leg, and maybe even a little nose snot escaped on my lip every once in a blue moon, but damn, I draw the line when it comes to flappin’ bellies and bubble butts in under-sized Spandex!


A girl’s gotta have a modicum of modesty and humility, ya know?


I may be old and a tad fluffy in the midriff area, but far be it for anyone to tell me that my Spandex-enclosed belly or buttocks is offending anyone!


(It’s not a site my neighbors are going to be seeing anytime too soon. I’ve already got a reputation for being a bit of a “character.” I sure as heck don’t need “Spandex Buddha – Momma” to be added to my list of otherwise colorful descriptions, thank you very much!)




Anyhow, I’m really disgusted with the fact that I’ve got this ugly, monstrous cold sore in the middle of my upper lip, and I’m asking God how the hell I (a verifiable Ross Dept. store Senior citizen) got not one, but TWO ample-sized zits on my chin, when I look up to see one of my “Stepford Wife” neighbors carrying one of those white plastic, 10-gallon kitchen bags (the kind many of us use for our kitchen trash bin) to use for her dainty, little 3 lb. Yorky.


And it hits me!


I’m not the only one outta my bubble this morning who’s lookin’ a tad silly.


At least I’m not walking around the neighborhood with a big ass 10-gallon plastic bag flapping in the breeze to pick up little “Fifi’s” poo!


Thank you, Lord! I needed that moment of silliness.


Think I’ll stick with my Bermuda Triangle of zits and cold sores today, thank you very much.


Go out and have a grand day today, People! And remember: Life in our shoes may not always be easy, but if we take the time to look (really hard!), it’s usually silly…Catch ya next week for another adventure looking at life in my shoes.