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Column: Making it in Missoula

In keeping with my latest vow of celibacy, I went in search of some wholesome alternative fun last week that didn’t involve ex-love interests or the downtown bar scene. My experiences raised some questions about what exactly is normal in social situations.

The first question: is it normal to be excited to go skiing when the wind chill is supposed to be -20 degrees? Even if it is supposed to be “legendary powder?” My friends were ecstatic about the possibility. I have to admit that either I’m a) not hard-core enough to appreciate the excitement, b) abnormal, or c) simply unaccustomed to constantly wondering if my nose is going to fall off soon.

Regardless, skiing at Lookout Pass on Thursday definitely fulfilled my Alternative Fun policy because there was no risk of running into an ex-love interest. I think there was a grand total of eight people on the mountain.

Upon return from the frigid pass to frigid town, I bounced (or rather, sprinted with every possible inch of my body covered in layers of sweaty polypro) to my next Alternative Fun engagement: dollar sushi night at Nara. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Last night, Big Sis and I peeled ourselves out of our armchairs and deliberated on which invitation to watch the NCAA National Football Championship to accept. We had big plans to accept several, but were too lazy to leave our first venue.

It was the top room of the Iron Horse. It brought back memories; this was where we and most of our friends watched the NCAA National Basketball Championship almost a year ago. Things were largely the same: I was still single, Big Sis’ ex-boyfriends still hung out within ten feet of each other, and Florida was still winning. (That was a rough night for me last year.)

So, in hopes of changing something for the better—and maybe doing so means Florida will lose soon—I’ve decided that I need a new dating strategy. Or maybe just a strategy, period. This decision comes on the heels of last night and several events (below) since I’ve last written. My new strategy is: celibacy. Yep, not even kissing until it’s truly meaningful. The plan is that now I’ll avoid meaningless encounters, embarrassing run-ins, and scary pregnancy dreams. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Winter in Missoula means fewer bikers on the road, leaving only the most courageous to face the icy mud while the rest of us make a run for the bus stop. It means endless holiday parties, mostly raising money for the 900 non-profits and good causes in this town. It means difficulty finding a table in the Old Post because everyone is still a little surprised that the overflow deck space is covered in snow (and because chairs mysteriously disappear on an increasing basis as the night progresses, leaving people standing helplessly at a table with no chairs and hovering expectantly over those with enough luck to find seating).

But mostly, winter in Missoula means skiing. It’s time to move the inner tubes and mountain bike out of the way so you can put your various pairs of skis in the honored spot in the garage for easy access.

Since moving to Missoula, I’ve experienced the phenomenon of never feeling badass enough. This town is a hub of extreme recreation, like Moab or the campgrounds of Joshua Tree. And so, in an attempt to extend my hard-core image (read: I can only climb a 5.8), I learned to ski at Snowbowl, which is notorious for lacking green runs. Hot Fudge would never count anywhere else as a green with that dropoff in the middle.

And, I hate to admit it, but the junior-high girl inside wants the shredder boys to like me. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

To those of you who missed what's being called "the biggest upset of the season", I feel for you. To those of you who've been subjected to my constant replays, stats, and general giddinesss for the last day and half, I make no apologies.

A friend of mine told me last week that I shouldn't be so invested in my sports team. Obviously, he didn't go to UCLA. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Lines out the door of grocery stores with people holding as many cases of cheap beer, chips, and burger buns as possible. You might think an impending natural disaster had been announced, except that everyone is so unusually cheerful at 9:00 am on a Saturday.

Painted faces, a sea of maroon dotted with a spray of yellow, and not a parking place in sight within a mile of downtown.

Fraternity boys relentlessly singing every hour on the hour at the grizzly bear on campus, in a determined attempt to create a bizarre new tradition while onlookers wear highly puzzled looks on their faces.

What inspires this chaos?

GAME DAY. Griz vs. Cats. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Missoulians love to celebrate. We’ll jump at any excuse to wear a costume, have a parade, or check out a society party. Especially when it’s all in the same week.

We start Halloween early, so we can utilize at least two separate costumes. Saturday boasted countless house parties involving mature, adult activities such as apple bobbing, leaf pile jumping, and wrestling. Home brew and cake—apparently half of the population was born at the end of October—were in alarming abundance. The best costume of the night: he was a plug and she was a double outlet.

This was the also the night that our friend Blondie introduced me to her friend with the proclamation to both of us, “You should already be dating each other,” which kicked off some awkward conversation attempts as Blondie watched expectantly. The question that kept popping into my head as I tried to be witty and desirable: will he have any idea who I am when I’m not wearing a funky outfit and giant sunglasses? He, of course, was considerately dressed in carhartts so I could recognize him later. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

One of my girlfriends gave me this movie called Easy (the title of which doesn’t reflect on either of us, as the rest of this week’s column will illustrate). The opening scene consists of messages on a woman’s answering machine that encompass all the ways men seem to use to disentangle themselves from commitment.

“Thanks for last night. I’ll call you next week. Or maybe the next.”
“So I’ll be out of town for the month.”
“You’re great, but I’m just not looking for anything right now.”
“Umm, I have a girlfriend . . .”

And from personal experience, my new favorite line:
“Is this going to change things between us?”
Um, yes, moron. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

Some of you may be wondering, where is Big Sis and her more intelligent, funnier writing? Well, she had things to do, so I took over. Don't worry, she'll be writing next week. Plus, I've got some things to get off my chest.

The challenge to writing an anonymous column about small-town adventures: everyone eventually sees through your pen name.

This weekend, I discovered my cover had been blown. Several times. [more]

Column: Making it in Missoula

“You owe me a beer,” I tell my sister as I return from Operation Idiot. We’re in Charlie B’s, and Big Sis and I are engaged in an experiment/bet about the extent to which men communicate, or whether this particular one just isn’t that bright. Across the bar, Paddler Dude A and Paddler Dude B are now in the midst of taking shots and guffawing loudly with their gang of friends, apparently oblivious to their status as the target of our bet.

Let me back up before this gets too confusing. Here's a key to keep you oriented. (Paddler Dude A: Little Sis’ ex; Paddler Dude B: A’s roommate; Daredevil: Big Sis’ ex) A few months ago, Big Sis and I were celebrating a friend’s birthday at the Old Post, and—as it inevitably happens there—a couple of our ex-love interests were sitting at the next table with another group. Namely, Paddler Dude A and Daredevil.

Paddler Dude B, who is A’s roommate and best friend, approached our table and struck up a conversation. Paddler B and a friend of mine at the table reminisced about their days in high school together (because obviously there weren’t enough confusing connections already), and they ended up dating after that night. Meanwhile, Big Sis and I worried about our ex-love interests having dinner together, possibly talking about us, and generally ensuring an awkward social experience. It turns out there was nothing to worry about, because men apparently don’t talk to each other. And here’s the evidence (you might need to diagram this): [more]

Column: Making it In Missoula

This is the opposite end of the spectrum from Big Sis’ Befriending the Ex. Some people think we’re the same person. My favorite comment: “Are you guys twins?” “No.” “Are you sure?” Anyway, let me set it up for you this week.

Enter: Drummer #2.

The stage: the Kettlehouse (K-hole to regulars).

What’s with all the drummers, you’re thinking? I have no idea. They’re just sexy men who turn out to play drums on the side. [more]

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