the pieces of my life

Now that Pie is asleep, and Doodles is steadfastly holding out till 9 p.m., I can tell you about my last trip to Whistler. All those images of Vancouver and Whistler in the coverage of the Olympic Opening Ceremonies (not the ceremonies, mind you; we’re still in the “coverage” of the opening) really make me miss the West Coast. So beautiful. I miss the mountains and the rain (yes, really, the rain) and the lack of snow (although I understand that this winter has proven Seattle to be snowy). The coverage showed the Peace Arch and I spent a lot of time, sitting in my car, looking at that Peace Arch, cursing the freakin’ traffic at the border. [Quick side note: the remake of “We Are the World” is on, and save Babs and Michael Jackson, why don’t I recognize half of the people singing?]

Anyway, I was in Whistler. I was on a date. With this guy I had just started dating. We went on a mountain biking weekend with a bunch of his friends. Advice to you guys: Don’t go on a mountain biking date with a guy you only started dating. I wasn’t sure I liked him, I wasn’t sure I liked his friends, I was pretty sure I didn’t like mountain biking.

I had never been mountain biking before, and now that I’m a sporty gal, I realize that what we did wasn’t really mountain biking. It was flying. Down a hill. On a rented two-wheel vehicle of death. The bumpy dirt path went straight down, and I rode my brakes the entire way. Not so fun. And really not so fun when my date when flying over his handlebars, lay on the ground in a bloody mess, with two chipped front teeth. We’d been dating for about three weeks. What was I supposed to do? Be the concerned girlfriend? I wasn’t sure I could call myself a girlfriend. Brush it off, like, “Hey, it’s all cool”? Did I coo? Get all worked up? Talk about stress! I decided the guy wasn’t worth the hassle. I didn’t need a bleeder. Besides, he was arrogant as all get out. At least Whistler was beautiful and the Bellinis I drank for the first (and last) time helped numb the pain of it all.

You know what? Sometimes I still think he isn’t worth the hassle. But in for a penny, in for a pound, so I guess I’ll just keep him.

(Happy Valentine’s Day, Adam!)

I’ve been suckered. It’s 7:59 p.m. and I’ve got two incredibly sleepy children next to me. But I made the mistake earlier of saying, “Hey, the Olympic opening ceremonies are on at 7:30. If you guys want to stay up late, you can watch it.” They, of course, took me up on the offer, and we started watching.

Before we began, I said to Adam, “Did you hear about the luger?” “No,” he said. “Look it up. But don’t say anything. I don’t want it a topic of discussion.” What was I thinking? Doodles and I had a huge battle when I turned off the TV when Tom Brokaw said, “The footage you are about to see about the death of Georgian luge slider Nodar Kumaritashvili is graphic.” We had no choice but to explain to them about the accident. Pie keeps asking over and over, “So he went off the quarters?” “The course.” “So he died?” “Yes, he died.” “How did he die?”

Let me move on by saying the (male) sportscaster is interviewing snowboarder Shaun White. Me: “Man, I wish I had a head of hair like him.”
Pie: “Him? That’s a guy?”
Me: “Yeah.”
Pie: “How do you know?”
Me: “I just know.”
Pie: “Are those two people [Sean and the sportscaster] married?”
Me: “No.”

So all this is happening, and I finally say to Adam, “What time, exactly, do these opening ceremonies start? I thought it was 7:30.”

He does a little zing zing on his computer and then laughs at me. “Coverage of the opening ceremonies start at 7:30. But the opening ceremonies don’t start till 9.”

Try telling my kids, “Nevermind! I was wrong!” So instead I have two already tired kids trying their best to make it up till 9. It’s not going to happen. But they’re giving it their all, although I predict Pie will be out in about 2.73 minutes.

5. 4. 3. 2. 1. No, the ceremonies haven’t started. But Pie wins the gold medal in sleep. One down, one to go!