Confessions of Cannonball the Klutz
A Classic Melissa Story: For Your Enjoyment
Remember when I was locked in my apartment and I made a crack about “Classic Melissa Stories?” Well, my friend Maren got on Facebook today and referred to me as Cannon Ball. And Kim was curious as to why (she’s a writer and therefore it’s her job to inquire about such things), so I promised to tell the story here.
Hope you’re ready.
Before I get started, there are a few things you’ve got to know.
As I mentioned, I’ve got this friend Maren. I’ve known her so long I was actually a guest at her first birthday party. And I get to call her Mollie, cause I’m that special. She’s family. In fact, her whole family is my family.
Although you wouldn’t know that to look at us. She’s tall, blond and Nordic. Which I am not, in spite of my thing for Sweden. She’s also very sweet, which is another thing I am not. (True story: My uncle, this one right here, once asked, “Mollie is so sweet and you’re such a bitch. How are you two friends?” I thanked him for the compliment and told him I often wondered the same thing. I then proceeded to send him this video.)
Another difference: Mollie and the members of her family love to ski (told you, Nordic). And for some reason, when I was a kid, they used to drag me along with them. I’m telling you, these people are saints.
I don’t have the best track record when it comes to traveling with them. There was the time at the zoo I fell off the stepping stones into a small lake. And there was the time I got sick in the back seat of their Volvo after a trip to an amusement park. Mollie’s father Rick had a gym bag in the trunk of his car, and on more than one occasion had to dress me in one of his extra t-shirts. Yet, these people continued to include me on their family outings.
Including their ski trips.
Now, you’ve got to understand that I’ve got a problem with heights and going down hills. I fall more often than President Ford. So skiing? Not a talent. Ice-skating, I love, cause it’s flat. I’ve even got my own skates. Jumping off a fishing boat into the Mediterranean and snorkeling? Count me in! But being at the top of a hill and looking down makes me dizzy and disoriented. (Another true story: On my first hike in Israel, on our way down a mountain, my hot classmate from Argentina had to take hold of both of my hands to help me keep my balance. So you see, there are times vertigo can pay off.)
But back to the story, and the point.
So I was on a ski trip with Mollie and Family. I was in fourth grade. They suggested that I wait while they went down a hill to take care of some lift ticket business. But I was ten, and got bored after a while, and the hill didn’t seem that steep, so I went for it.
According to Robinson Family Mythology, people were way impressed. Off I went, at full speed, with my poles in the air. I must have looked like a professional ski jumper.
But there were two itsy-bitsy details that gave me away as a fraudulent skier.
I didn’t have a clue what to do with my poles. And I had no idea how to stop.
Also according to mythology, I was chanting, “RickRickRickRick” as if there was some way he’d be able to save me.
Just to put it out there, these are all details Rick feels compelled to share with company whenever I’m around.
Anyway, I clearly survived, or I wouldn’t be here telling you this story now. But I did fall. Flat on my back. And I scratched my hand with one of the polls.
And that, the story goes, is how I earned the name Cannonball.
The End.
Oh, wait. I lied. Not the end. I’m only sharing this next part because if I don’t, you know Rick will. Another time (and yes, there was another time. I know. Hard to believe, right? Told you, these people are saints.) we were skiing, there was a lift like this. I was afraid to get off, so I was pulled into the air, and I left the people behind me sort of stuck.
Not my proudest moment.
Well, there you have it.
Obviously, I love and adore you all, or I wouldn’t have shared this.
Love,
Cannonball
P.S. Yes, I’m from California. Please don’t ask if we have snow there. I promise you, we do.
Posted in Classic Mel, Mel's Favorite Posts
October 12th, 2009 at 4:28 pm
Wonderful! Thanks for sharing this story! If you ever come out to visit me, I assure you, even though I’m a fantastic ski instructor, I will NOT take you up skiing. Promise. Cross my heart.
October 12th, 2009 at 4:51 pm
Some of my husband’s college friends decided to teach him how to ski by taking him up the black diamond slope first. Good friends, huh? One trip down and he was done, grateful to reach the bottom with his life. It wasn’t until I dragged him up a slope that he consented to try again. We started on the bunny slope
October 12th, 2009 at 4:56 pm
Kim, I’m sure you’re fantastic! Maybe I’ll tag along and stay in the lodge with a good book? Funny, Mollie just emailed me that she’s not going to take me skiing again, ever.
Was it something I said?
But I want to assure all of you that I WANTED to join them.
Karen, what friends those were! And you can tell your husband that there’s absolutely nothing wrong with the bunny slope. . .
October 12th, 2009 at 8:45 pm
You are braver (or crazier) than I am. I’ve lived within a 20 minute drive of ski resorts my entire life and I’ve NEVER been skiing. Ever. Of course I’ve spent most of my life hating the snow too, that might have something to do with it.
October 13th, 2009 at 9:35 am
It’s kinda like you have your own waterslide story, isn’t it?
Love the other stories as well–you’ve lived a very interesting life to date!
October 13th, 2009 at 5:00 pm
Oh that’s sweet, but the cannon ball thing doesn’t hold a candle to the wonder that is the waterslide story.
Yeah, life’s been interesting so far, which is probably why I’ve been so tired. *yawns*
October 13th, 2009 at 5:01 pm
And Cynthia, in my opinion, you are a very wise woman!
October 14th, 2009 at 6:47 pm
How funny. That sounds exactly like how I skied when I had no idea what I was doing. Except I made sure I had a ton of padding (aka warm clothing) on before I went barreling down those slopes. I kind of miss being fearless, though maybe ‘stupid’ is a more accurate description for how I approached some things in my teens.
October 19th, 2009 at 3:43 pm
Can I call you Mel? because I think we are kindred spirits. I have my own classic stories, but mine always involve me losing something. *Forgive me for hijacking the comments section for a moment.*
About three weeks ago I lost my mail key. Now of course I only lost it when MY World Would END IF I DON’T have my mail key. I searched and searched.
I called and talk to family members with angst. I cleaned the house from top to bottom. Like you could eat off my toilet seat kind of clean. Could not find the key. It got to the point where my father volunteered to pay for a new lock–that cost $30 bucks and takes a week to get the new keys–I’d pretty much given up.
Now I did mention I lose EVERYTHING? So, the next to go were the only house keys I could find. At this point I was reduced to curse words and ill will towards myself. I go to the laundry basket to start the search. I yank out a pair of PJs–that have no pockets whatsoever–and my mail key goes flying in the air. Lands on the floor with a clink. More curse words, because of course that’s where it would have been this whole time. Wrapped in some PJs that don’t even have freaking pockets.
Sidenote: Found my house keys in a crate where I keep my movies.
October 19th, 2009 at 3:57 pm
Mel! Definitely kindred spirits!
I haven’t yet bought one of those key alarm things, but I’m tempted. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve lost my keys at work? Usually it means I’ve left them on a hook on the back of the bathroom door, since I’m always washing my hands (those kids sneeze all over the keyboards. . .). And I lose them at home too. Always.
I’m glad everything worked out w/ your mailbox. LOVED your story!
October 19th, 2009 at 5:55 pm
Cannon Ball huh. I kind of like that. See you in the forums );-D
October 20th, 2009 at 4:28 pm
Mac! Thank you so much for stopping by! Yes, see you on the forums.