After setting off around noon for the three hour drive to Galena, we finally made it into town about thirty minutes before the sun checked out. My dad had researched a nice restaurant called, lamely, "Fried Green Tomatoes." Now, the restaurant was pretty nice, no 4-stars or anything, but doesn't that name just sound like a diner? I am aware of the film and all that, though besides the name there was no other striking resemblance to that at all. The fried green tomatoes, incidentally, were delicious, though my pasta tasted like what I used to make in my college apartment... not difficult at all and way too much oil. Michelle didn't like what she got and my mom hated her fettucine alfredo and wouldn't shut the fuck up about it. When she was in the bathroom and the waiter came around clearing our plates, he asked if we wanted dessert and my dad cut him off to point to my mom's plate and loudly proclaim, "That was REALLY bland!" The waiter was very taken aback and said that she should have said something when he came around earlier and asked how everything was. Then, my mom said "Great!" like everyone does. My dad said he told him about the pasta "in case the cook left something out." We got dessert (white chocolate mousse cheesecake, which Michelle pretty much demolished) and then the bill, with the fettucine alfredo taken off, generously. We made up for it in the tip. But still, who does that?
I've been really short with my mom lately, mainly because she deserves it and is a bitch most of the time. I'm also trying to change her for the better, and am getting no help. It's like trying to move mountains. We all have our problems with her, individually and collectively, but when I say something to her about them, they all turn on me. They act like they like the status quo Julie to her face, yet behind her back they complain about her as much as I do. It's a nightmare folding back into their mold after being gone for four years. Summers, breaks, and weekends home had their frustrations, but now its constant fighting.
Skiing was really nice. We got to the mountain around 6 and began. My mom, who doesn't ski, went to the "lodge" which wasn't nice and sat and read and graded papers... on a Saturday night. The three of us began slow, Michelle sore and tense from joining Track two days earlier and running the timed mile on her first day. Every time on the chair lift we would go over my old nemesis, the mountain that almost killed me, I would look down and offer a sneer. On one of our lifts, Michelle sat next to a Chinese man with a heavy accent who asked where she was from. She told him and returned the question. In an answer that only someone who is "from" multiple places would stumble on, he fumbled about what she meant by "from" and then finally said "Peoria." Michelle laughed and then asked him how hard snowboarding was if you're used to skiing. We reached the top of the hill and were preparing to disembark, Michelle thanked him for not making the trip awkward by knocking him down as we moved away from the end of the lift.
My dad and Michelle gave up after two hours, my sister because of her aches and pains and my dad because he developed a little blister on his toe. I think he just didn't want Michelle to be left alone returning her skis and all that since she is a teenage girl and my mom was all the way in the "lodge." So I skied a few more runs and then resigned too. We went to meet my mom and then went to our favorite Galena Irish bar/hotel/spa which is a strange combination. We were there last year and it must have been hilarious to watch my dad and I skate over the frozen rain covered ground between our hotel and the bar. They were right next door, but it took us fifteen minutes. We'd fall, get up and try again. Many times. This time the bar was packed and there were no open tables, so we went to Culver's instead for ice cream. I always forget how much I like frozen custard. Mmmmm, good.
This weekend flew by. Gotta love night-skiing.
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