My memory genes I get from my dad

We arrived at Big White about 10 a.m., with me already grumbling about not being able to find my good gloves, and having forgotten my tuke.
The skies were a brilliant cobalt blue, and I'd seen plenty of fresh powder on the drive up, so I thought my day on the hill might actually turn out to be a good one.
"Pass me my boots," I say to Carmen, getting ready to hop out of the van.
"Boots?" she frowned. "Where are they? I don't see them."
Oh, yes. This was turning out to be a GREAT day.
No boots. No tuke. No sleep. And now, with six inches of fresh snow on the ground, I had to trek to the lodge to shell out money for some cheap-ass rentals.
In my flip-flops.
Two soaked socks, $17.83 and 20 minutes later, Carmen, Peter and I finally head through the village to the lift. The two skiers skate on ahead while I fumbled with my bindings - hey, it was my first day of the year, after all - and disappeared into the distance. I half skated, half stumbled, then baled on my ass the first time I put my foot on the board.
Oh, yes. This was turning out to be a GREAT day.
And, in fact, it did. Eventually.
After a morning of Carmen cracking jokes about an unfortunate comment I made in the past - I might have said something to the effect of "I beat off five guys at the bar", trying to sound macho and sounding rather gay - the mid-morning turned great.
The few clouds dissapated, the fog blew off the top of the hill, and the sun began to shine like it was summer. Fresh snow, sunny weather ... I can't figure out why I procrastinated about boarding all this time.
The best part of the day was constantly blowing by Carmen - her cries of "yoouu baaassstaardd...." fading away behind me, and just flatlining it down the hill. Friday, I'm going up again. I mean it. And this time, I'm bringing my boots.