May 12, 2007


Hey, y’all, IT’S ME, Hotclue! YEAH! Did you miss me? I have to apologize for leaving all the blogwork to Beth for a while, although I see she semi-replaced me with her pesky cat Sarge, who is probably at this moment sneaking one more bite from Beth’s Mother’s Day flowers. (Oh, before I forget, Happy Mother’s Day, y’all!)

I keep thinking Sarge is going to start upchucking on the dining room table, where the flowers are sitting, any minute now but so far no go. The little devil has toughened her stomach to an unbelievable degree over the past couple of years by garbaging down copious amounts of sofa stuffing, curtain threads, paint flakes from the dining room wall, Beemer’s food, and God knows what all else.

I wish she had eaten my skis, but more about that in a minute.

Sorry about my absence, but I had to get away. Beth has this terrible habit of every morning reading the NY Times and the Washington Post. I wish she’d quit that. She reads all that stuff, including letters to the editors and all the comments readers can post on WA PO (hello again to afraidofme, the literary lunatic), and the more she reads, the less I feel like writing anything even halfway fun or uplifting. In fact, the world news lately is so bad that while she sits there reading, I just want to go soak my head in a bucket of kerosene or something. I’m gonna have to find a way to make her stop that. I’m not fond of the smell of kerosene and it might dry out my hair.

I have to make one social comment though, before I tell you about my ski trip to St. Moritz, which was, I gotta tell you, a disaster of international proportions.

PARIS HILTON, GET OVER YOURSELF. Here’s the answer to your current drunk driving problems, you irresponsible, narcissistic idiot. Have your equally idiotic rich mother buy you your own country, where you can drive drunk, run over people at will, bitch about cops hitting on you, hey, whatever you want. THEN, and ONLY then, you get to make up your own laws and break them whenever you feel like it.

Meantime, you’re living in the USA, doing God knows what, and We Have Laws. One of them is, if you drive while you’re drunk you get tossed in the slammer no matter what your name is. SURPRISE! YES! That’s really, truly the way it works! Our laws don’t care how cute you are or which designer duds you’re wearing today. You do the crime, you do the time. So shut up and enjoy your time with your cellmate.

Personally, I hope she weighs at least four hundred pounds, has a Black Belt in Karate, sings Country Western as well as Rap 24/7, and has a huge halitosis and underarm odor problem. 45 days of that MIGHT wake you up.

Okay, enough of Paris. On to more important personalities’ pecadillos. Mine.

First off, I had fibbed a little and told Count Babbalallapaloozo I knew how to ski. Well, I’d read about it and seen people skiing, and after all, how hard could it be? You start off at the top of a hill, which guarantees you’re going to wind up at the bottom, due to mathematics or physics something like that. You’re standing ON two long boards which are curved at the front so you can’t stub your toe, or it looks that way in the movies. And you have a couple of sticks to hold in your hands and prop you up so you can’t fall sideways. So like I said, how hard can it be?

Well, first, due to my little indescretionary fib (move over, Paris), the Count said we could skip the bunny hill and try Mogul Skiing. I agreed because I have a real thing about bunnies. I love them, and the idea of skiing over one really turns me off. So I was happy. Mogul it would be.

I was all set with my new ski outfit, which I’d bought in Chicago before I left. Leopardskin pants, hot pink jacket with white fur around the hood. Sorta kinda matched one of my nightie sets, how cute is that! We checked in, got dressed, and headed for the ski slopes and the instructor the Count had hired, just in case.

Now here’s the first thing they tell you: To make a turn over a bump, start with a good traverse stance and begin skiing.


I look down at the sticks I’m holding. They don’t look like traverse rods to me. But I figure that’s what they’re telling me anyhow, so figuring I don’t need more instruction, I grab a good hold onto my traverse rods and off I go. I hear screaming in the background but hey, I’m still standing, sort of. Still moving downhill anyway. I’m doing fine, right? I ignore the Count’s shreiks. I figure he’s just jealous because I caught on so fast.

I see a bump ahead. Many bumps. Many, many, many bumps.


Oh, God.

No, I’m not having an orgasm. I just don’t know where to go next.

There is no place to go next. Except straight toward many, many, many bumps.

I hit the first bump. I go straight into it. The damn curves on these skis don’t work. I go over it, sort of, but not how I think I’m supposed to. I go head first. My traverse rods go somewhere else. I don’t know where my skis are.

Two minutes later I hear the instructor, now standing over me, giving me the next part of the instructions. To wit: “Hots, when you get near the bump, you’re supposed to bend your hips and apply pressure on your outside ski. At the time when you’re passing over the top of the bump, you plant your ski pole on the bump’s edge in order to give support as you extend your legs, direct your skis in the new path and turning over the bump. At this point, you are already on the other side of the bump. You finish the turn by shifting your weight and applying pressure on your downhill ski.”

All that, while I’m lying, face still IN the snow, wondering what the hell happened. He repeats his instructions. I hear the Count laughing and saying something about having to go back to the lodge and change his pants. I pull my head out of the snow, try to get up and while I’m doing all that, not so successfully, I’m muttering under my breath. “Bend my hips which way? Which ski is my outside ski?”

More laughter. Oh, yeah, guys. I’m almost upside down in this godforsaken place and you’re laughing. Good job.

“And why are you telling me NOW that I was supposed to go OVER the bump? How the hell was I supposed to do THAT?” You can tell when I’m upset, I start speaking in capital letters.

The Count is still doubled over, giggling. “Mi amore, is anything broken? Tee hee.”

“Extend my legs WHERE, dammit? Direct my skis in WHAT new path?” I’m highly pissed now.

“Well, you see, my dear…” This is the instructor speaking now. The Count seems to be out of breath or something. His face is purple and tears are running down his cheeks.

“I heard what you said! Finish the turn by shifting WHICH way?” I scream. “Can you at least tell me THAT, since you left so much out?”

Naturally, I’ve completely forgotten I left before he could finish. Not that it would have helped much.

“And WHICH ski is my damn DOWNHILL ski? I thought they were BOTH downhill skis! How could I GO any other way than DOWN?”

At least I got that part right.


It didn’t take long to get back to the lodge. As if I weren’t humiliated enough, I had only gone eight feet. I crawled back up while they did some cute little X-mark things with their skis and poles, showing off like the clods they were, but to give them credit, they did it beside me, not ahead of me, as I crawled. The Count always maintains such impeccable manners.

We spent the rest of the trip watching the skiiers from the comfort and safety of the bar, which sits directly behind a huge floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, which sits directly in front of a wall-sized picture window. At least I know for sure what a picture window is.

When I opened my suitcase back here at home this morning I found a book on skiing, with many pictures. Many, many, many pictures.

I’m not sure whether the Count slipped it in there, or the ski lodge management team, all of whom manned the doors to the ski slopes to make sure I didn’t get out the rest of the time we were there.

Hey, it’s good to be back. Come back again soon, you hear me? We all love YOU, you KNOW we do!

Hotclue Herself, with a little help occasionally from Beth Anderson and Sarge the Terrible.

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9 Responses | TrackBack URL | Comments Feed

  1. Well Hotclue, I don’t know where to begin! Paris Hilton in jail – more ‘Simple Life’ espisodes coming! And at the rate Nicole Ritchie is losing weight, she could slip through the bars!! Yes the Hilton family is strange. See what happens when you have too much money?? I’m waiting to see if Bill Gates’ kid restores my faith in rich people not needing to be shot.
    Skiing Hotclue! I have friends that ski, but I don’t. The bar is where I would have been the entire time. Now that you’ve learned your lesson (or have you??), stick to the yachts. Have you tried water skiing?


  2. Happy Mother’s Day! Sarge the Terrible? – Huh! Gotya beat Sarge! Through the years I’ve munched on wooden doors, ripped up the screens on the windows and french door, eaten holes in that foo foo headboard in Kristen’s room, not to mention all the doggie beds I’ve ripped to shreds. Oh, and don’t forget the time I totally destroyed my people’s down comforter – they still sweep up feathers every now and again! Most recently, I bent the bars back on my kennel in an effort to escape – the door no longer closes, so I am once again free to run about the house while my people are at work. I’ve got them trained, that’s for sure. Yeah, they get mad and yell from time to time, but I’m so damned loveable and cuddley, they don’t stay mad long. So, top that curtain shredder! They may call you Sarge the Terrible, but in reality – DOGS RULE! So, perhaps the next time Hotclue is away and can’t blog, I should be the one to take over. Just let me know, not much to do around here during the week. Hey, don’t tell Barb or Chris, but I know all the passwords to their computer accounts, so no problem! Always ready and willing to lend a paw. Hey, come to think of it, maybe we should call a truce and join forces. What do you say? Love, Danali


  3. Hey, Yasmine, water skiing is a great idea. And as for Paris and all the rest of that crowd, I’d be happy if they’d just wear underwear when they moon people. I don’t think it’s so much a case of being rich as a case of extreme stupidity most of the time, often on the part of their parents. I doubt Bill Gates would put up with ten minutes of that crap, plus he’s smart enough not to move to Hollywood, where anything goes. Thanks for stopping by! Come back again soon.
    Love, Hots


  4. Hey, Danali, Sarge here, even though this is Hotclue’s week on the bubble.

    You’re on, Danali. Next time I’m up I’ll interview you, how’s that sound? I ask questions, send them to you, you email the answers back.

    Meantime, come on up and see me soon, life is boring around here and I spend most of my time sleeping. Oh, wait, that’s what cats are supposed to do, right? Guess I’m doing my thing the right way anyhow, no matter what Beth says.

    Gotta go now, there are still 29 of her tulips left to torment and maul, although not so many of the leaves anymore, snicker snicker.

    Love to you and your family. Give ’em a big tail curl hug for me, and oh, you forgot to mention something while you were bragging. I hear you also turned on their blender and left it running all afternoon. Shame, shame. I gotta teach you EVERYTHING? You’re supposed to turn it on the minute they leave so it gets to run longer!

    Sarge The Terrible, who gets her diabolical mind from the woman who calls herself, among all her other names, “MummieMummie” like in, “Ooooh, my sweet widdle teeny weeny baby Sargie, Mummiemummie wufs you!”

    Cheesh, i wish Beth would stop the stupid baby talk. But we gotta humer ’em, don’t we, if we want those treats. Ta Ta!


  5. I can’t say anything for laughing so hard. You are the BEST!


  6. That’s the best comment I could ever get. Thank you, Sloane!


  7. I am enjoying your blog, Hotclue. I can’t say I have ever tried to ski with those long board things on my feet. I usually just jump and go. And end up with a tree in my face. Will you teach ol’ Henri to ski sometime?

    Henri de Montmorency
    The Ghostest with the Mostest


  8. Ah, Henri, thank you for your kind words! But are you not a close friend of my long time lover, Count Babbalallapaloozo, or have I mistaken you for someone else? I’m afraid he’d be very put out if I started giving skiing lessons to anyone but him. He’s barely forgiven me for my teen indiscretion with Kinky Friedman before the last election, which Kinky unfortunately lost. I hope I wasn’t the cause of it.
    Come back soon, you never know what peccadillos I’m going to get into. Cheers, Hotclue Herself


  9. Actually, that should have been teeny indiscretion, not teen indiscretion. Dang this new keyboard!
    Cheers, H H


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