Spent the weekend at Trolley’s house with Wheaties, Aaron, and Nick. The car ride took about three hours, squeezed into the back of his compact Jetta. I would have called shotgun but I doubt anyone would have respected it; Nick and Aaron had priority as the biggest guys. I made a playlist for the ride there, and it was good for the first half. The problem with such playlists is that they’re usually meant for summer in the open air, not night time winter rides. A lot of songs end up being inappropriate.
Trolley’s place is a 350 acre farm, on a long road that’s actually named after his family. Definitely a place with personality and an amazing view of the open countryside. Heat is turned up by throwing more logs in the furnace. His cat Femo is more vocal than Dolly and always cries for attention. She’ll quickly turn belly up if you scratch her the right way, and doesn’t like to wander more than an arms-length away.
The first party was at the cabin, which is a small hunting lodge a 10 minute walk away, also owned by the Trolley’s. That’s when I remembered that I’m really bad at parties with lots of drunk people. Drunk people who I don’t know scare me. A lot. I never know what the hell they’re going to do. At one point, two people put on boxing gloves and started beating the shit out of each other in this tiny cabin, which must be about 196 square feet. The second party was at the house, and much lower key. People started jumping into the hot tub and out the window then rolling around in the snow. I didn’t drink the first day (aside from a swig from a bottle of Fireball, which actually isn’t bad), but ended up buying some alcohol for the next.
One of the days was spent on a hill on some private property. We set up a jump to do some freestyle board riding, and broke out the modified GT Snowracers and toboggans.
A great time.
