I pulled it off

Just wanted to give a quick update on the costume contest. I won Third Place in my category (Best Movie Star). I was beat out from 2nd and 1st by Audrey Hepburn and Charlie Chaplin. That's okay as those two gals were decked out spectacularly. I was happy to get Third as it paid for my costume.

The wig is now off, I'm showered and my face is blessedly clean. Here is one final pic they took of me in full costume just before I won.



The sunglasses are ones my sweet aunt and uncle bought me recently. You can't see it but behind those, my eyelashes were falling off!

Phew...another Halloween done.

pork sausage stuffed into a red casing

So, it's Halloween today, and as I've mentioned on here before, my company goes out all bonkers on this day. Many coworkers dress up and many of them are very creative. I like to dress up but, inevitably, two hours into the day and I'm ready to rip my wig off. Today is no different. I decided to dress as Marilyn Monroe with the wig, tight dress (too tight it turns out...I can't breathe) and makeup. My head itches as does my face. My fake eyelashes are irritating the hell out of my eyes and the girdle slip I'm wearing...well...let's just say, I'm not happy. AND...people keep asking me to sing like Marilyn in a breathy voice. All I know is "Happy Birthday, Mr. President..." followed by a little hiccup laugh or "Diamonds are a girl's best friend..." followed by a little hiccup laugh. You try doing that on command over and over. I'm considering charging them from this point on in the day.


Oh, and to break this costume down for you in cost and effort, here goes:

1. Red, super-tight, cap-sleeved dress = $7.00 (Goodwill - that is THE BEST place to get a costume!) + 10 minutes to squeeze into and countless time lost pulling it down over my belly over and over again!

2. Blond, Marilyn wig = $17.00 (best I could find and that isn't saying much. I had to cut huge chunks out of it as it was way too poofed out!) + 30 minutes to put on with bobby pins and two minutes to burn the minute I can take it off.

3. Fake eyelashes & uber-red lipstick = $6.00 (Sav-on Drugs) + 30 minutes to apply all makeup with 15 of that spent on crappy adhesive glue and poking myself in the eye repeatedly

4. 34D Bra ($8.00 - clearance rack at Target) + 20 minutes to stuff and no I'm not kidding. Creating large breasts that look real is a chore. I damn near left Marilyn a cup size B and said, "to hell with it."

5. Girdle slip ($9.00 - clearance rack at Target) + 5 minutes to put on and 8 hours of sheer torture I'll end up with before I can remove that damn thing...and I still have a belly when in profile view.

6. Long black gloves = $7.00 (Costume Store) + 10 seconds to put on, 5 seconds to take off, 10 seconds to put on again, 5 seconds to take off again, 10 seconds to put on again....to infinity.

7. Fake diamond earrings and necklace = $0, already owned them + 3 minutes to put on, stupid necklace clasp thingy wasn't working right.

8. Small bead-covered purse = $0, already owned it + 2 seconds to stuff it with socks also. If ever there was a day you needed to borrow socks from me, today is it.

9. Black, cap-jacket = $0, already owned it + 3 minute to put on and button. It's darling and new and will look cute with a couple of my skirts this fall...but I digress.

10. Black, open-toed heels = $0, already owned them + 5 seconds to put on and 8 hours of foot-hell as these are not meant to be worn longer than a man can take them off me during...never mind.

Grand Total = $54

Hours it took to get ready = 2

Hours of my life I will never get back = (2+8) 10

The look on my coworkers' faces, the oohs-n-aahs, applauds and genuine laughter = priceless

Yes, for all my sarcasm, it was definitely worth it.

I stuffed that 34D bra with socks and some fake boobies I already owned from back when I was into theatre. It took me 20 minutes to stuff up my boobs, no kidding! Oh, and I'm not posting any full body shots. I saw myself in the pics coworkers are taking of me (so +10 lbs, yay!) and I look like a pork sausage stuffed into a red casing. I have been told that women with large breasts look thinner because their breasts balance out a heavier lower half. I'm here to correct that myth. Large, 34D boobs on me just make me look swollen. Think Anna Nicole Smith in her fat days...yeah, that'd be me. Mercifully, no one has asked me if I'm her. I think I would break into tears and need to be carried out of here. Of course, I may need to be carried out of here anyway as my feet are past the point of having any feeling in them.

I just love Halloween...

Without further ado and for your viewing enjoyment, I give you - Marilyn Monroe (or...er...my Roman-nosed version of her, anyway. I suspect she's turning over in her grave as I type this):

Oh, and here are Marilyn's boobs. Take a good, long last look at 'em, cause I'm going to need those socks for the gym later:

Tonight, I'm hitting the gym and heading straight home. I was asked if I was going to a party after work and told it is a shame I'm not. No, thanks. I've been to my share of costume parties. Alcohol, BO (eventually everyone stinks in costume), people trying to scare you and theme-based food (Swamp-soup, Ghoul-gator, Deadly-Devil'sFood-Cake) just ain't my thang.

I have a ride tomorrow (if it doesn't rain) and that's my treat! But if you are heading out tonight - be safe out there. Lots of drunk idiots will be out driving home from the festivities!

and on another note…Stephen

Today, October 30th, is the day my cousin, Stephen, was born in 1968. I'd like to share some thoughts about my childhood and him.

When JT and I were little girls, the event we got most excited over was visiting our grandmothers three times a year, once in the summer, and once each at Thanksgiving and Christmas. I use the word, event, as it really was a production to go visit them, and usually the entire clan on both sides of the parental barn would show up as well. This meant getting to see aunts, uncles, and best of all, cousins. The four of us would pile into our mother’s Pontiac loaded with pillows, snacks and Elvis Presley 8-tracks (remember those?). Over the 3-hour road trip from Clarksville, TN to the southern tip of Missouri (which seemed like a lifetime to a child), we ate potato chips, slurped down Orange Crush, sang along to Love Me Tender, whined, asked repeatedly “are we there yet?”, begged Dad to pull over so we could pee (he’d bring a roll of TP, so that he could just pull along side the road – something JT and I hated!) and anxiously anticipated our visit with family. We’d visit my father’s mother first (who is still alive and plenty vivacious) and then my mother’s mom (who, sadly, passed away in 1983). JT and I had a little game we played where, as we approached our grandmothers’ houses, we’d sing-song, softly at first and then full volume, “Grandma’s house, Grandma’s house, up the street is Grandma’s house…” until we’d arrive and yell, “Grandma’s house!!!” at ear-splitting level. I’m sure my parents dreaded these road trips, although they’d never admit it to us even as adults.

JT and I loved our grandmothers, aunts and uncles. I could write pages about them and the many memories still vivid to me at my advanced age (well, I feel advanced these days, okay?). But the real prize for JT and me during these visits was the playtime with the cousins…and in particular, one cousin to beat all cousins…Stephen.

Stephen was a quiet, thoughtful boy who always seemed a bit pained even at the time when childhood should have granted him innocent bliss. Up until his teens, he was chubby with short hair, in the back, and long bangs, in the front. When his hazel eyes weren’t obscured by a thick wall of auburn hair, they revealed specks of gold that only truly lit up when he laughed. Even during his formative years, his sense of humor, incredibly dry and sharp, was disarming. Stephen found humor in the mundane and could poke fun at just about anyone or anything. He was never cruel, just often very sarcastic. Always respectful of his elders, he rarely revealed this side of himself when in adult company. Although his humor was often beyond my naïve understanding (until I was in my teens, anyway), I loved it when he’d break into a giggling fit, with his whole upper body shaking in laughter. I’d break into giggles just because he did and I can recall many times when we three children just appeared to be laughing for no good reason. His unique manner was infectious that way, a little risqué to me as a child, if that makes any sense at all.

Needless to say, JT and I favored him over any other cousin and competed fiercely for his attention. JT, a much softer spirit than I, always won. She was so much more like him in temperament and, being three years older than I am and a year older than him, had maturity on her side. I, on the other hand, bullied Stephen with sheer reckless energy and physical intensity, constantly tugging on his arms, bumping into him and trying to hug him – something he never liked, even as an adult. To my relief, he and JT had little choice but to tolerate me as Mom wouldn’t heed JT’s pleas to lock me in the trunk of the car for the duration of these family visits.

The three of us would spend two weeks every summer playing board games, running around Scott City, the tiny southern Missouri town my mother’s mother lived in, chasing fireflies at night and my grandmother’s old dog during the hot summer days. Around the holidays, we would sit at the “kids' table” with our other cousins, stuffing our faces with homemade chicken-n-dumplings, baked ham and piles of fluffy dressing. We’d then listen to vinyl records and suck on mint hard candies until scurried off to bed around midnight (the family visits were the only time JT and I got to stay up so late!). I loved those years and although I’d never wish to be a child again, I wouldn’t mind being transported back into just one of those memories for a brief, precious moment.

One summer, Stephen sprouted up so quickly, he seemed to lose all baby fat and transform almost overnight into a handsome young teen. For years, JT and I played a mean game upon arriving at our grandmothers, called, “spin Stevie-weevie around in circles.” We’d attack him from different sides, grab him by the arms and spin him in circles while yelling, “Stevie-weevie-weevie-weevie!” He feigned utter contempt for the game (although, I’ve always suspected this was his enthusiastic participation) and the last summer we ever ran out to spin him, he easily shook us off and knocked us both to the lawn without so much as taking a step. He didn’t hurt us, but we never tried that again! Stephen had grown up, and over the next six years, he became increasingly withdrawn and less willing to play our childish games. JT had done the same, but given her love of all things magical, would relent from time to time and jump in wholeheartedly. But once Stephen was no longer interested, she, too, left the board games, ghost stories, made up adventures and me behind. I had no choice but to enter my teens and shed the childhood camaraderie we three had for good.

When I turned 20, I decided a move to California was the way to go. I loved acting, had majored in Communications/Drama at a local university and was determined to give it a go in Hollywood. Without going too far into my personal journey, suffice it to say, things didn’t turn out like I planned – an all too common story out here in tinsel town. I’d been living here for a little over a year in 1991 when Stephen decided that he too would move out. Something my sister and I intuited but never mentioned aloud, certainly not to an adult, was that he was gay. Living in the Midwest/south (he grew up in St. Louis), he was surrounded by bigoted homophobes and although I never asked him, I suspect he was quite depressed during his college years. A move to the west was perfect for him and during his 20s, Stephen came into his own. Not that the journey for him was easy. I remember periods when first in Los Angeles that he appeared quite depressed and morose.

Stephen and I were very lucky at that time as we had an aunt and uncle who lived near San Diego whom we loved to visit for a weekend away from the big city. At least once a month, we’d carpool down to their home, a three hour trip each way. During these long drives and weekends away from our busy young lives, I became very close to Stephen. Surprisingly, as a grown man, he wasn’t much different than he was as child. The bangs were gone, but the soulfulness of those deep hazel eyes never disappeared. Like me, he never had a “game face,” and every emotion was telegraphed the moment he experienced it. Over those seven years, I learned who he really was and how to approach him, console him and just let him be himself. I wasn’t perfect at it, but Stephen only ever expressed anger at me once, and when I cried, he was truly pained. No one would have known his sexual orientation as he affected no mannerisms. But his gentle nature belied his age and sex.

Stephen was not only beyond his years, but often found his youth intolerable. He was so sensitive to the world around him, his own experiences and those of others, that I sometimes worried about his mood. We’d discuss news events or family discord and he’d appear genuinely agitated. It wasn’t until later in his twenties, when his friend, Henry, moved out to Los Angeles, that he seemed to relax. It was during the last few years of the 90s that I actually saw him joyful and excited over music, film, art. Always a voracious reader, no topic was off limits for discussion, and Stephen never allowed his emotions to color his words. He could debate passionately but without anger and always with that wonderful, wicked sense of humor fully intact. Throughout the seven years he lived here, he and I became friends, with him being one that I trusted, admired and loved with all my heart.

Stephen passed away on April 13th, 1998. He was 29 and ½ years of age, just six months shy of 30, just on the brink of a new decade, and, I believe, a wonderful period in his life. It was the day after Easter Sunday. He, Henry and I had eaten dinner at Hamburger Hamlet (one of Stephen’s favorite restaurants) the night before. Stephen, as usual, had picked me up from my guest house which was approximately two miles from his apartment, and when he dropped me off after dinner, I said, “Love you, Steveareno.” “Love you too,” a soft smile and slight shrug of his shoulders, a gesture of his that reflected emotion, is my final memory of my cousin.

His body wasn’t discovered until the wee morning hours of April 15th. He was on jury duty that week, and I didn’t expect to see him at the gym in the evenings as I normally would. His employers were not expecting him at work. No one knew he was missing until the courts contacted his employers and my aunt, his mother, tried reaching him on Tuesday night after a call she had left him on Easter evening had gone unanswered. I was in a deep sleep when my cell phone began vibrating wildly on my dresser. Then it stopped. Within minutes, it started again. This went on a few times before I finally got up to answer it. I had three messages. One was from the police department asking me to call them regarding my cousin, the second from one of my mother’s sisters asking me if I had heard from Stephen, and the third from a police officer asking me to call immediately. I called the police with my hands shaking and my throat constricted. I remember thinking, “please just let him be hurt, that’s all…” A kind and tired sounding police officer told me gently that Stephen’s body had been found in his apartment but there was no evidence of foul play. It appeared that he had died of natural causes.

That phone call forever changed my life and the lives of my family. Over the next few weeks, relatives flew to Los Angeles to grieve, straighten up loose ends, cremate his body and hold a memorial, which was packed with mourners, some of whom I never even knew of - coworkers, friends and family gathered to make sense of such a sudden and tragic loss. Stephen died from an enlarged heart, very similar to what happened to the Russian skater, Sergei Grinkov. He had no symptoms, and mercifully, died instantly while folding laundry.

For months, I fantasized that I had for some reason driven to his apartment that morning, found him and was able to revive him. The first year after his death, I played a sick game with the universe. I’d beg for Stephen to be returned in place of an arm or leg, or even both legs. I’d wish that I’d been the one to die young and not him. After all, my mother has two children. Stephen was an only child. His mother has never been the same, and the holidays hold nothing special, really, for many of us in the family. That doesn’t mean we don’t love each other or celebrate life. We just don’t look at things the same. Life isn’t fair for sure, but when a child is taken before a parent is, it lacks all sense and balance. And for me, it was a loss of not only my cousin but a dear friend, a touchstone and someone who’d grown up with JT and me, thus understanding our unique views of this very strange world we live in. I can tell you unequivocally, this world was a better place with him in it.

Today, my favorite cousin and friend would have turned 40 years old and would have been on the brink of a new decade, a time in his life that likely held promise. I’m not sure what
Stephen would have thought about the last decade – 911, the Bush era, the Britney chronicles, our media, the horrendous war in Iraq and recent pending elections – but I’m positive his thoughts on these matters would have been tempered by his wonderful sense of humor. Personally, I’ve come to peace with his death although I still cry when I think of him. I try to laugh, but inevitably a small remnant of that vicious grief one experiences when losing a loved one will bite me without mercy. But I no longer am filled with a sense of dread or offer my limbs to the universe in trade (I suspect Stephen would have laughed at that, by the way). Stephen did and will miss many things in life, both joyful and tragic, including the turmoil our world is in at present. In a very tiny way, I’m relieved that he won’t have to worry, as he was apt to do.

To no one but myself, really, I say, “Love you, Steveareno and I miss you.”

just a breeze....or?

Last night, I went a-riding. I was looking forward to it and assumed the guys would want to bust our regular move, which means nothing too taxing. We normally ride from Herb’s place over to Griffith Park on surface streets, through the park, up Trash-Truck Hill, up Mt. Hollywood canyon past the gate, to the observatory and back down. I was prepared for this, and although I tore my legs down with weights Tuesday night, I figured I could power through last night’s ride effectively. Little did I know that the men wanted to mix things up a bit.

Mark, Jason, Eddie, Herb and I took off from Herb’s curb a little after 6:00pm and followed our usual route starting out, Riverside Drive to Victory Blvd. It was already dark enough for me to turn the HID on. I swear by that light. It’s as bright as a car headlight and worth every penny. Should you ever decide to take up night riding (or if you are thinking a double century is in your future) you must have a good light! Don’t skimp on this item, as buying a HID at a discounted price could mean a compromised battery. You’re better off just parting with your hard earned money from the get-go and getting the latest-n-greatest model. Trust me on this.

As we turned right on Victory Blvd., we were met by Nick, boy-toy-eye-candy-puppy (my nickname for him). This guy is 24 years old and new to cycling. Like all 20-somethings, he believes he’s invincible, and the moment he joined, the pace picked up drastically. Throw a young buck in the mix, and men will amp the speed every time. I was in no mood last night to hammer, and I watched helplessly as they took off on the now pitch-black bike path and quickly became tiny, blinking red lights in the distance. Lucky for me, Herb, my good friend whom I truly appreciate (I even told him that last night a few times while riding in the darkness!), stayed with me. It was eerie riding along the LA River. I love riding at night. The experience is so unique. Every sense is heightened, and as we rode through tunnels, past the awnings on walk-way bridges, and with the cars speeding by within feet of us on the 5 Freeway, I felt as if I was on some strange new ride at an amusement park. Every shape in that kind of overwhelming darkness is exaggerated and the electric towers along the path hung above us like unearthly beasts in the shadows. I was a tad more nervous last night than usual. My eyesight is perfect (for the most part) and I have no issue in daylight, but I’ve always suffered a little with night-blindness, and this makes for dangerous second-guessing on a bike. If there is a moon out, I can manage it, but in pitch-black darkness, sailing forward on gray concrete…scary. I took the speed back a notch. The run out on the bike path was intended to be a “treat” – to stretch our legs and provide more miles - but I thought it more a scary, pre-Halloween “trick.” I tried taking photos but there was no way to capture the lights and strange shapes in the distance that is visible only to the naked eye.

Once we finally caught up to the speedsters, who were waiting at the end of the path, I was hoping for a quick retrieve to catch my breath. Nope. The moment we arrived, the competitors were off without so much as allowing me to turn my bike back in the direction we were headed…and again, they vast became blinking lights in the distance. Sigh. You add a 24 yr old male to the group and the testosterone levels soar beyond containment. Herb, still hanging with the “girl,” was shaking his head as well. What happened to our easy-going night ride? We both chuckled.

Once off the bike path and into the park, I figured the darkness would improve. Nope, even darker and now going where, I wasn’t sure. Eddie decided to up the intensity of the ride, and I misunderstood him when he told me at the beginning of the ride there would be a little more climbing. The same neighborhoods we normally descend, the insanely steep ones where I ride my brakes down the hills to maneuver safely, was what Eddie took us up! I wanted to kill him. There was “only a little more climbing,” but brutally steep! My poor, wasted legs (from the night before) began screaming immediately. Good thing that I can get the upper hand and generally force them to keep moving. It wasn’t until we had winded through those quiet streets with unique homes crammed together like overpriced sardines - (really, these homes are so odd in that you know they cost a fortune, but since there is no room to build out, they build up, creating these three and four story, modern homes mingled with quaint one-story structures. Only in LA!) - and were dumped on the road past the Greek Theatre that my right quad got the better of me. Within just ¼ mile of completing the climb to the Observatory (the back route), I had to stop, unclip and rub my right thigh. Maybe I’ll not work my legs with weights next Tuesday night!



Finally, we arrived at the top by the Observatory. A dense fog smothered the valley below us, so other than a few city lights in the distance, the views were oppressive. The Observatory is always lovely to see at night, and although I still wanted to kill Eddie and the other men (except Herb), I was flying high (endorphin fix, yay!). From there it was a short (but oh so painful, last night) climb up the back of Mt. Hollywood Canyon and a descent down the front. Did I mention how dark out it was? Here is where it went from eerie to creepy. There was a light breeze last night and as we rode through that silent canyon, I could hear rustling in the bushes and what sounded like nonhuman footsteps all around. I imagined creatures from the grave scavenging for any fresh blood they could find, and I kept wishing I could could manuever those pot-holed curves better and faster! I focused on the spectacular city-lights views (around the corners along that road) to take my mind off what could be lurking just within inches outside the circle of light from my HID. Even with the fog, the lights out over the valley were sparkling along the horizon.



At the gate, which we hopped, a decision was made that we’d take Forest Lawn back. I love that route as it reminds me of when I first started night-riding with a group who use to take that street. We hit a nice pace home, and I ended up with close to 28 miles. I was wiped out but happy to have ridden. The combination of the moon-less night and eerie paths and canyons along the way were exhilarating. And, as usual, my lone companion who stuck with me was fantastic company.

Nothing like a good, eerie night ride!

Here are more of the pics I took: http://www.flickr.com/photos/merider/sets/72157607184621643/

afloat in a moat...

Okay, so I’ve provided my views of recent politics and ranted about a certain candidate of late whom I despise, and in the process annoyed at least one of the readers of this blog. Since this particular reader matters to me and one who gave me shelter during my formative years, I will try today to provide a non-political, more upbeat entry.

Not that I’m necessarily cheery this afternoon, but I am excited that I’ll be riding my bike tomorrow night. Yup…that really is all it takes to excite me. Considering I’ve not ridden now for nine days, I’m getting antsy and grumpy. I did not work out at the gym last night and that was a bad call. I will be reporting to the leg machine area this evening and tearing them down, so I’ll have a chance to make up for it.

Last night, I choose instead to drive into Pasadena to return my bike-blingy - the VDO computer. It sucks. Or…er…rather, I suck. I can’t figure out gadgets, and the VDO is a uniquely complicated one. Written on the box it comes in, is a warning that one must RTF (read the f’ng manual) from cover-to-cover before even attempting to turn the damn thing on. I don’t have time to RTF. I simply want a bike computer that turns on and tells me the speed, overall mileage, ride time and altitude. And if it will tell me I’m fabulous, that would be nice, too. But I cannot RTF just to turn it on! Sheesh!

Before I returned the VDO to Performance Bicycles (whom I’ve now decided is my new favorite local bike shop – LBS), I decided to visit Crate N Barrel to get my $180 back for a bookcase I ordered but never took home and assembled. I bought it on an evening that I was in Pasadena at the Melting Pot restaurant for a friend’s birthday party. I had consumed a cocktail but no big meal and was walking around Pasadena to ensure I was perfectly sober to drive. In the process, I ended up perusing CnB and bought the bookcase while still in that rosy state one generally finds oneself after consuming a libation. Therefore, I “drunk shopped,” although I certainly was not technically inebriated. I was foolish enough to believe the 20-something saleslady who convinced me that it would fit in my Nissan. Since there were none in stock except the floor model (already assembled), they placed a back-order for me.

When I arrived two weeks later to pick up the bookcase, suffice it to say, it did not fit, not even close (unless I wanted to strap it to the roof), and I had to leave it at the store. Although Herb and a couple of other very sweet men offered to drive me out in their trucks to pick it up and help me haul it up my steps and into my apartment, I had fallen out of love with it the minute I tried shoving it into my too-small automobile. It just seemed big and clumsy. Besides, I have a bookcase just like it only not as nice. I wanted to upgrade, but really, do I need to spend that money on something I already have? Cocktails are bad, bad for both driving and shopping. Listen to me. Do not drink and shop!

Well, yesterday it had been over a month since I originally tried to pick up the bookcase, and I wanted my money back. After a few brief seconds of frantically digging for the receipt in my trash-truck car (my apartment got cleaned this past weekend, but my vehicle did not and it’s far worse than my apartment ever was in terms of utter destruction), I finally had it in hand and was ready to sweet talk the CnB manager into giving me a full refund without dinging me with a “restock fee.” I’m very good at this sweet-talkin’ thing. I just put on my thick, southern draw and blink a lot. It generally works with men and sometimes with women – although, since they likely rely on a similar method to my own, I am at times caught in my own act. Well, I’m happy to report that the excessive blinking and sugary accent worked last night, but more so because I think I just talked the manager into submission. I also peppered my plea to receive a full refund with, “I love CnB and your service was impeccable. I just think the saleslady who sold me the bookcase thought a four-door Nissan was larger than it actually is.” I reassured them that I’d be returning to purchase future merchandise by the boatload, and that this was so very rare (my returning anything to CnB). I was given back the entire amount I paid and sent on my merry way with little finger waves (which usually means, “tootaloo, and now get the f*ck out”)

With my pocket book a little fatter and a sudden appetite, I decided to head over to an establishment in Pasadena that I only frequent when in a hurry and not wanting any fuss. Its name is Afloat Sushi . It’s an odd place where they put little trays of fresh sushi on wooden, toy boats that float around in a moat along the sushi bar. You choose the sushi you want off of these floating sushi yachts. I like this place as their prices are pretty cheap (for me, anyway, since I eat the less complicated sushi) and fast. So, I popped in there, ate a light dinner and had the joy of watching a mother and daughter fight over their meal. The daughter could have been no older than four, so you can imagine the argument I was privy to – “No! I don’t want it. Ewey, it’s stinky!”


Apparently, children are wiser than us adults and accept that raw fish is really quite ewey. I was rooting for the child and pleased she won. Her mother stopped trying to get her to choose raw fish on rice and, instead, let the girl choose her own.



She chose a plate of cucumber-tomato-orange salad (bliss), a California Roll and some edamame. I would like it noted that the four year old and I had an identical dinner. Smart kid.

Anyway, the rest of my evening was uneventful. I returned the VDO to my LBS successfully (creating an even fatter wallet - Yay!) and drove home to my perfectly spotless apartment. I did snap a pic of the sunset out my car's filthy windshield on the drive home. The pic does it zero justice, of course, but trust me, it was fantastic to the naked eye. That’s one nice thing about the smog out here – it makes for magical sunsets.

you can't make this stuff up

I'm not going to rant about this, as Christopher Hitchens has already summed this up far better than I (or most) could in his blog: http://www.slate.com/id/2203120/

Please read the whole thing. It illustrates perfectly the mind of Sarah Palin and justifies the assertion that she is, in fact, a bimbo...a very scary bimbo who could cause great harm if ever truly in power. Please, please, please...vote Obama.

"I kid you not" - from the blog:

"With Palin, however, the contempt for science may be something a little more sinister than the bluff, empty-headed plain-man's philistinism of McCain. We never get a chance to ask her in detail about these things, but she is known to favor the teaching of creationism in schools (smuggling this crazy idea through customs in the innocent disguise of "teaching the argument," as if there was an argument), and so it is at least probable that she believes all creatures from humans to fruit flies were created just as they are now. This would make DNA or any other kind of research pointless, whether conducted in Paris or not. Projects such as sequencing the DNA of the flu virus, the better to inoculate against it, would not need to be funded. We could all expire happily in the name of God. Gov. Palin also says that she doesn't think humans are responsible for global warming; again, one would like to ask her whether, like some of her co-religionists, she is a "premillenial dispensationalist"—in other words, someone who believes that there is no point in protecting and preserving the natural world, since the end of days will soon be upon us."

She isn't sticking to the program of just "looking pretty," sadly. But she is helping the Democrats more and more as the countdown to election day continues. I'm sure you've heard that she has been clashing with the McCain campaign, butting heads with the Maverick . She's sort of off on her own right-wing mission...hmmm, sounds familiar.

smile, baby, smile

I know. I mentioned not bringing politics into this blog in a prior entry and I meant it back when I wrote it.

But since then, I’ve found myself completely obsessed with the current election. Like the rest of America (the pro-America, real-America…and, you know? - the rest of us), I have been completely inundated with all of the news coverage on our impending presidential election (much of which is just outright smear campaign tactics generated by both sides of the party aisle). And in this current topical climate, it is hard not to find oneself in a pensive mood needing to discuss the state of our country and the precarious, fateful balance it is hanging in.

Therefore, I’m going to discuss it if the need arises, and anyone not wishing to read my little piffling thoughts on the election and politics in general, please exit to the right and have a nice day.

For the rest of you…

I hate this f’ng election. Hate it more so than any other election since I turned 18 years of age (I have always voted and believe that if one does not, one should STFU if he/she does not like the way the country is being lead. Vote, damnit!). Maybe my disdain for this particular round of “snake-oil salesmanship” politics is that it has involved two women, women whom I have polar opposite reactions to and neither whom I like.

I am aware that, being a woman, my visceral reactions to these two female candidates are likely my own attempts at trying to understand the world around me and how I fit into it, and into a society that places such high expectations and strict standards on females (as much or more so than in my mother's era and ones that are generally unattainable for the average gal, like me). The stakes that were and are so high for both of the recent female candidates (Clinton for President and Palin for Vice President) are undoubtedly high for the rest of us women whether we wish to face that fact or go back into our denial of “how [not very] far we’ve come, baby!” I mean, the threat of losing the "right to choose" alone is indication that women have a long battle ahead of them if we ever truly hope to obtain equality in a very unfair world. No, I’m not a feminist. I’m a woman...and I ain’t dumb, Bubba. I know that we gals have an arduous task before us, one that prior generations started, and one that will not likely be completed before I’ve left this strange world for good. So, I can only hope.

I never have liked Hillary Clinton. I did like Bill, even when his cigar went a wandering in areas (allegedly) no cigar had ever been before. But Hillary has always seemed insincere to me. With that said, I have never doubted her abilities as a politician. She’s earned her dues in more ways than one, and I truly felt she could run this country and run it well. I voted for her in the primary election…and then regretted it, wishing instead that I had voted for Obama, not that it made a difference (except on principle for me personally). You likely know enough about her and don’t need long, drawn out reasoning (and opinions) on my part as to what may have put voters off about her. I’ll just confess that this voter was put off when she cried on national television over one state's election results.

I have no issue with crying and do believe women have an edge over their male counterparts in that we can express emotions, strong ones, and still get the job done. We don’t necessarily have to “break heads open” or “take it outside” to deal with conflict. Hell, we are the only ones who spread it and squeeze it, suffering through childbirth…we have earned our right to cry while doing that and just about anything else. But Hillary was running for the most important office a woman can run for and had she gotten it, she’d have made history. The stakes were higher in the recent primary election than any other in the political realm and the last thing…very last thing…she should have done was cry over losing votes to Obama. My own analogy? - when you are a cheetah trying to gain ground in the territory of wolves, you must infiltrate the pack as if you are a wolf. If you become pack leader, then you can let your guard down and meow….or…whatever cheetahs do. But until then, you do not let the wolves see that, as a cheetah, you are so very different than they are. I’m not suggesting that the wolves didn’t know Clinton was a cheetah, but did they, and we, need to see her crying in frustration? No. I still voted for her and if she ever comes up again for office, I will likely vote for her then too. But after Obama won the primary election and became the Democratic candidate for President of the USA ’08, I shifted gears, did some reading (more so than I’ve done before), listened to his speeches and really tried to figure out who he is as a candidate. I now stand firmly behind him and am proud to say I’m voting for him on November 4th. I hope, pray and wish he is elected and dread what will happen if he isn’t.

Which brings me now to the second woman, Governor Sarah Palin…

I’m at a loss here.

I’m not a dumb woman as I mentioned above, but I’m no genius nor would I call myself an intellectual. I’m smart as hell and often make decent choices but I would rather stimulate myself with physical pursuits than with intellectual ones. If I wasn’t so lazy, I’d go back to school, earn a Masters Degree, and likely make more of my life than I have. However, I’ve never had the luxury of using my looks to better my life. I’m attractive and some find me striking (beauty’s in the eye of the beholder, and I’ll never argue with a pair of eyes fixated on me). I think if anything, I’m unique but I'm certainly not getting offers to pose nude or otherwise in any magazine. I’ve had to work hard for what I have in life. Very little has ever just been given to me. In my lifetime, I’ve known so many women who’ve had special privileges granted, doors opened and opportunities placed smack in their laps due to their beauty. I have envied them somewhat, as I’ve seen how much easier their lives can be (and at times, so much harder!). I don’t fault them for using their natural assets (and sometimes enhanced ones too) to get a leg up in a man’s world. So, it surprises me somewhat that I’d despise a woman as much as I do Sarah Palin.

It isn't her fault that she is so striking. And it really isn’t her fault that she was asked to run on the republican ticket. [Let’s cut straight through the dried manure pile, shall we, and admit that other than Palin's belief in the extreme, right-wing ideology, the main reason she was chosen to be McCain’s running mate is her looks? Nothing more, nothing less.] But she is culpable for both accepting the candidacy and then trying to bullshit the rest of us Americans into believing that she is truly qualified. For that, she is to blame and ridicule...and, for this woman, despise. Tina Fey is more the intellectual than Palin, quite honestly, and I’d have more confidence in her as Vice President than I ever would this woman she parodies so well.

So, when someone says that Palin is qualified for the job, I am flabbergasted. Excuse me? Since when? She is someone who has no foreign policy experience, who can hardly pronounce the names of the leaders of other countries, who can’t answer basic questions not only about the role of the US Vice President but the role of others in the US senate…someone who uses sound bites in lieu of thought-out answers to cover up her absolute lack of both knowledge and experience (every interview she gives becomes more and more convoluted with her responses increasingly trite. Pretty soon, she’s just going to bark like a Chihuahua, “Maverick!”, over and over to every question she’s faced with). And her despicable attempts to smear Obama are not only unethical but are delivered with a complete lack of finesse (and, yes, the republicans' shit-slinging at the democratic candidates has been much more egregious than the democrats' mud-slinging back.)

Every time I hear McCain say that Palin is qualified to lead the country at his side, because she “stood up to a member of her own party,” I cringe. THAT qualifies her to serve as Vice President of the United States? She is governor of one of the least populated states in this country and yet she has what it takes to run the country should McCain drop dead on November 5th? Really? Really???

I wonder if McCain starts snorting in laughter the minute the cameras stop rolling and the interviews are over. I wonder if when he said the other day that Palin was the most qualified VP candidate he’s ever known, he was really cracking some off-the-cuff joke for which he expects us all to guffaw and applaud. What crack-cocaine is he smoking and where can I buy it? - Because I’m going to need it if he and that woman are elected to run our battered, depressed and crtically fragile country. I wonder if I’m the only one that thinks this is some sick prank being played on millions of viewers for the sake of an avante-garde experimental documentary on how to spook the masses. It worked already! I’m spooked! Can we now stop the madness?!

I know you’ve read about Palin’s $150,000 clothing purchases, provided by the republican party. I don’t give a crap, personally. In fact, good…let the republicans spend their scarce support funds on dressing the doll up and not have enough to advertise this sick joke any further! I wish they’d go ahead and spend another $150,000 and another after that.

But let’s get real. Governor Palin should really only dress for the part she’s playing and stop trying to fool us all. Might I suggest that the next round of a shopping spree be focused on showcasing her exactly as the republicans intend her to be? - as a woman in this fine country vying for your vote to elect her to serve as Vice President of the United States - something no other woman has done before her...

(Smile, baby, smile...and look pretty…)

DeGeneres says it all

I really admire this comedienne and have always thought of her as classy. In a world of low-brow humor (not to be confused with raunchy, which I love), many comedians target any group across all gender/race/age playing fields to skewer and attack in the name of humor. DeGeneres is not one of them.

I've never given a flying rat's ass what her sexual preference is, but I did admire her courage to "come out" publicly years ago. And I agree wholeheartedly with what she says above.

As a heterosexual woman, I believe that two people who wish to build a life together should be granted the right to do so legally, regardless of their sexuality, race, age, gender, disabilities or economic level. I'm also emphatically against Proposition 8 and implore anyone in the State of CA who can vote to please vote...

NO on Proposition 8.

spinach martini

I was invited to happy hour tonight.

I declined.

Instead, I did as I promised myself this morning that I would do and hit the gym. There, I "tore my legs down." I know some bike geeks who laugh at my using that term, but it is one that I've heard used by every fitness trainer I've ever known (and I've known my share over the years of gym ratting). It merely means that I squatted, front-lunged, grunted, performed step-ups, side-lunges and all types of leg exercises until the muscles in my legs were fatigued. In between all of this weighty business, I used a jump rope to keep my heart rate up and performed plyometrics: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plyometrics. No, those are not fun, but I love the way I feel when it's all done. I skipped working my abs tonight but will make up for it in the morning. I've got to "tear my upper body down" tomorrow at 6:00am.

Now, I'm sipping on a green smoothie, which is kind of ironic. When I was a child, my dear ol' dad use to juice carrots (which I loved and still do) and every once in awhile he'd throw in all other types of veggies just to spice it up. It grossed me out when he'd hand me a cup of carrot-spinach-garlic-beet juice. I mean, come on...there is only so much goodness-in-a-cup a child can handle.

Yet, here I am as an adult knocking back a concoction that would surely repulse most anyone just by looking at it. I call it my spinach martini and it's basically:

1 cup light orange juice

1 cup water

2.5 cups frozen organic spinach

1 small banana

Blend. You can make it with any fruit, really, and often I add an apple, 1/2 cup strawberries and 1/2 cup grapes but that's too much sugar for tonight.

I'm also eating my tuna with fat-free feta cheese

and balsamic vinegar.

I'm turning into my father. Since I've known him, he's eaten spinach and tuna on a regular, and sometimes daily, basis. Just ask my mom. Of course, she'll throw in the many other "too damn healthy" foods he eats and his concoctions that he's made. He use to bake cookies and muffins and breads, throwing in all types of healthy ingredients not called for in the recipes, and...well...since he reads this blog, I'll leave it at "he use to bake."

I don't mind the "too damn healthy" attitude he's always had. Dad's in amazing shape, sailed through a hip operation last year and within a few weeks of it, bought a Trek Hybrid. Then, this past summer when I was home visiting, he bought a Trek road bike and caught up to me one morning when I pedaled off in a huff (I don't know why I even got so mad at him in the first place. He'd simply forgotten his tire pump, and I threw a big, exasperated bitch fit). I'd gotten about three miles ahead of him and was hauling ass. I suddenly felt incredibly guilty and stupid, so I stopped to call him on my cell to see if he was still joining me (I really didn't want to ride without him). Just as I dialed his number, he pulled up on the side of the road behind me, breathing hard but mostly not all that effected by his hammering to catch me. Funniest thing - I was staring at him in shock with my cell phone to my ear when he unclipped from his pedals, reached around in his jersey pocket and pulled his cell phone out to answer my call. It took a minute for both of us to realize that we could put our phones away. The rest of the ride that day was fantastic. He finished his first forty miles with a little over 3,000 feet of climbing (easily) and we toasted with cold beers afterwards.

I love my spinach and tuna eating Dad. I'm raising my martini in salute to him as I type this.

You hear that, Dad? I'm raising my spinach martini to you. ;-)

how is this possible?

http://cbs2.com/local/Rape.Kits.LAPD.2.844755.html

Over 7,000 rape kits unanalyzed by detectives in LA county.

"The California Sexual Assault Victims' DNA Bill of Rights requires law enforcement agencies to inform victims if the evidence in their rape kits is not processed within two years of the crime. The audit found that 5,694 of the unopened kits are more than two years old, and none of those victims have been notified."

And even more reprehensible:

"Of the backlogged cases, 217 have exceeded the 10-year statute of
limitations."

I have been frothing at the mouth of late over the news reports on how CEOs and upper management of failing financial institutions have walked away with 40+ million dollar golden parachute payouts and it seems no one will do a damn thing about it. They are being questioned by the Senate (whoopdedo!) but no other action to punish their blatant use of power to feed their own greedy guts is being reported. I am appalled.

But this current report on how the LAPD has the funds to process rape kits for victims of violent crimes but is not doing it makes my head spin. I sometimes wish the media wouldn't bother reporting these travesties. I know, that's wishing for blissful ignorance and akin to sticking my head in the ground. But merely exposing a grave injustice is not fixing it and what can we, common citizens, do NOW to demand these kits are processed? - certainly the ones that are less than two years old and haven't yet passed the statute of limitations!

Who is culpable and who will step up to ensure that these tests are processed in a timely manner? And if not, who the hell goes to jail for impeding the rights of citizens who've had crimes committed against them for fair investigation and prosecution of those crimes?

Someone(s) should be held accountable and punished for this, in my opinion. At the very least, jobs should be lost, employees replaced. It's all fine and dandy that they are now hiring additional employees in January '09 to handle this backlog, and it's just super-duper that the focus is now on fixing the problem, but what about all those rape victims (5,694 to be exact) whose kits have sat there for over two years who may never see their perpetrators brought to justice?

Oh, and I found this from June: http://www.latimes.com/news/opinion/commentary/la-oe-tofte30-2008jun30,0,7035497.story

It was posted in the Opinion section of LA Times. This problem has been known for at least six months (although most assuredly longer), but clearly no one is rushing to fix it.

Sickening.

Maybe I should make like an ostrich...

evil I tell you

This is what I'm faced with and have been faced with beginning...oh...about two months ago when Halloween fever initially set fire:






















and this:





















and...this:

I'm sure most people sitting on their rear ends in corporate offices across the country have similar bowels filled with similar crap sitting in front of them, so this is nothing news worthy. However, seeing as how I'm trying (really, I am) to be as disciplined as I possibly can, these piles of sugar-fat-bombs lying around annoy the hell out of me.


Yes, I know that I must apply discipline to not eat any of it (and usually I do, although I cannot claim sainthood last week). But please, for the sake of not getting your head ripped off, do not tell me to apply "willpower." Willpower is the biggest bull-#@$% oxymoron I know of. Really. Will? And Power? We as humans and as animals have a natural “will” or urge to eat and there is nothing more powerful than that. After all, a member of the female species of Homo sapiens (that'd be me) has a biological desire to hoard as much body fat storages as she can for future use in childbirth (that would not be me, but I’m hoarding nonetheless). Our natural impulse is to eat and food triggers all kinds of instincts in us (if you don’t believe me, Google it and if you don’t believe Google, take a biology class. I am not full of it!) Since men in our society are often excused for giving in to their biological urges to screw every woman who walks upright, those pigs, then women should be cut a break for wanting to devour every piece of candy put in front of me...um...them, us pigs. That is only fair as far as I’m concerned. Of course, I do believe that women and men can control these urges, but let’s face it…the less temptation there is, the less we little Homo sapiens are going to give in to our urges. We live to screw and eat and if either opportunity is presented...well...

Therefore, since I am merely human and have impulses difficult to control other than applying baloney willpower, I’d really like someone to come remove all the junk from my workplace. Please. Oh, and in case you think I’m a hypocrite or closet face-stuffer, I’m not. I don’t have this type of junk around my apartment. In fact, my cupboards are bare. No crackers, pretzels, cookies, potato chips, ice cream…and absolutely no candy. Hell, I’d eat it all in one sitting (that’s called bingeing and that’s for another day’s blog entry…or not). So, I’m not dumb enough to buy it and keep it within arms reach at home. Nope, I just get to see it, smell it, want it, watch others eat it, listen to those eating it make comments on how delicious it all is, be offered it even though it is within reach and if I really wanted it, I’d have no problem taking it, and ultimately resist it for the nine hours x five days/week = 45 hours that I’m at work. Yay.

So far, today, for the last four hours, I’ve resisted. 'The Pudge' is snickering. 'The Pudge' knows the hell I’m going through and how easy it is for me to slide down that slippery-sugar slope on a pile of smushed Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

'The Pudge' can kiss my lily white wide-load as this was what I shoved in my mouth at lunch:

















And a couple of these (I was too full to eat all those rolls):














Oh, look! I have willpower…
...yeah, that’s it.

bagel fail and how to ride with a corn cob shoved up your...

Maybe there is something in the air this weekend or maybe it’s just me, but today put me in worse of a mood than yesterday…worse. Before I go any further, I must note: it was not Herb’s fault. Yeah, I know. Yesterday I said, and Herb agreed, that everything is his fault, including my fatness. But today, I take that back. Herb can still be blamed for my being fat, but I will not blame him for my bad mood. That’s just not fair.

The bagel ride today did not go as planned. For one thing, two riders joined that normally don’t, and this threw the normal bagelyness vibe off. Both of these riders are great guys and I enjoy riding with them any chance I get, even though both are way too fast for me to even hang on to the dust their wheels create in their spinning wake. However, because I like them both and don’t ride with them often, I catered to what they needed and didn’t simply make an executive decision to keep the bagel ride as it normally is.

I started out riding in the crisp air (I love fall!) with Vance and Shai who said they were on a “recovery ride” and wanted to take it easy. I never quite believe these types of riders when they say that, as I know that they could easily drop me even while “recovering” and their “take it easy” is my “move your ass.” So, I pushed the pace a little from Sherman Oaks to Burbank, where we gathered Herb, who was surprised that I had shown up with my two “recovery ride” riders. We are all friends, so this was a good surprise, but Herb, like me, knew right away that the pace was going to be different than he had assumed. After all, Herb knows that my “move your ass” means his “damn, have to move my ass too.” He’s the biggest sandbagger ever and can easily drop me if he wanted to, but normally we are well matched in pace, especially on the bagel rides, which truly are recovery rides for us both. But today, with Vance and Shai poised at the edge of his driveway, the look in his eyes and comment to the other men, “Good, now Jason will have carrots to chase,” said it all. Already, the ride had changed.

Within minutes, I realized that I had incorrectly informed Herb of timing. He thought we were leaving at 8:00am. I urged him to call Jason to get him there as quickly as possible – i.e. I really wanted to depart by 7:45 to meet up with the large group of bagel riders heading to the Rose Bowl from the original ride start, Alhambra Park. I knew that another couple of riders I hadn’t seen in awhile were joining and I didn’t want to miss them. I was antsy and, although smiling, clearly wanting to take off.

Herb sweetly complied, Jason met us along the route and all was now on track…until Vance, who was hungry and didn’t know the game plan, wanted to stop for the bagel sooner rather than later. Usually, those of us who do this ride from the Burbank end of town continue on past the bagel joint to meet up with the riders coming from Alhambra at the Rose bowl. We then have a bagel on the way back which means more time on the bike and less time just sitting around in stinky spandex. It also means using our energy early on for any climbing and earning our cream cheese. But by stopping earlier in the route to eat a bagel (mind you, not Vance’s fault as I didn’t speak up and he didn't know), we all just sat for over an hour during which time bagels were eaten, the other riders arrived and more bagels were eaten.



By the time we took off from the bagel shop to continue our normal ride, it was much later in the morning (and warmer) than anticipated, and the three of us whose normal ride had been altered were now not as gung-ho. This bothered me the most as it was ultimately my fault for not speaking up. Vance and Shai didn’t know the plan, and Herb and Jason were expecting the normal bagel ride. To top that off, my legs, although not lead today, had lost their initial morning springiness, and my climbing was pathetic for a second day in a row. Oh, #$&*!

Then…then…as luck would have it, my chain popped off just as we hit the descent past Descansco Gardens. Now, I was just perplexed. I’m not use to gear/chain malfunctions and being a PITA female who doesn’t tinker with her derailleur (well, not literally anyway), I just don’t like this, “it may need a little adjustment” thing. What??? It should work perfectly, damnit! That’s a new cassette and chain! I got the chain back on and we were off again. The ride around the upper Pasadena streets, down into the bowl and back up a very steep, butt-kicking hill were uneventful, but my mood had turned from sour to rotten. The endorphins I’d had early in the day were gone, and I knew the chances of them reappearing were nil. As we rounded a side street, Herb made an innocent comment about taking the turn at the light. I told him no. He mentioned it again without realizing my temper, and I snapped the poor man’s ear off. I’ve never snapped in anger at Herb…never. I immediately apologized but I fear I hurt his feelings. It would have hurt mine if he’d done the same and, again, it wasn’t his fault that he was pointing out the obvious!



From there we continued our climbs up Inverness and St. Katherine. On neither canyon did I want to head up at this point with the sun oozing down over me like a hot, wet towel. I grinded and mashed up anyway – yup, in my granny gear – and was grateful to finally unclip at the very top. I bitched all the way up both climbs to Herb’s chagrin I’m sure. He pointed out that I normally love those climbs. I do…but the corn cob shoved firmly up my whats-it was affecting my enjoyment.




As we turned on Mountain Drive in Glendale to take the side streets back into Burbank, my chain slipped from my big ring down to my granny ring without my shifting! You could hear it snap as it fell, and Jason made the “eek” face. Herb suggested that he would fix it, and I told him that I’d just take it my bike shop (who were the ones who messed up the derailleur in the first place during Patsy’s last maintenance visit a little over a month ago). Ouch…that wasn’t nice. I wasn’t thinking. Here was my sweet friend, a man, offering to fix it, and I just brushed his offer aside as if he couldn’t do it. Men and women are so different. My genuine reasoning was this – if Herb tinkered with it again and it didn’t work, then he, my friend, might feel responsible should I complain. Whereas, if I just take it to the shop and they screw it up, I can yell at them! Of course, that’s a female’s perspective. I forget that men like to “fix problems.” So, after hurting his feelings again (he'll say I didn't because he's a man, and they don't admit that kind of thing; but at the very least, he might admit I was a royal PITA today!), I decided to finally shut up. Herb then offered for me to stop by the house for a turkey sandwich while he would tinker some more with the derailleur. This time, I had the sense God gave a lemon and took him up on that offer. He really is such an easy going soul and good friend. I’m lucky as he could have dropped the hammer and left my sorry, corn-cob-filled butt to pedal alone!

The derailleur is not fixed although Herb tinkered - which I truly do appreciate. But I think it’s going to take a lot of tinkering to fix the damn thing. I need to work on patience with the mechanical aspects of my bike for sure. Sometimes, adjustments do need to be made.

And sometimes, one should just sleep in and clean her apartment in lieu of riding! As I type this, I’m looking at the piles of crap lying all over my living room floor (yes, again). Within these piles are laundry - some of it clean and some of it dirty. I guess I’d better hop off of here to do the “sniff test” so that I know what needs to be folded and put away. Or I may just take a nap. A good friend that I haven’t seen in a long time is treating me to dinner at our favorite haunt tonight, and I need to get my mood adjusted. The rest of the mess, sigh, can wait to be straightened some time this coming week…

lead legs day

I was so excited this morning to ride Patsy with her new cassette and chain. I had ridden a tiny bit around Herb’s block last night just to try out the shifting, and it was sweet feeling. I had planned to ride over from my place this morning around 6:45am to join the men on a ride to Griffith Park and the Rose Bowl. Well, those plans went to pot at the first shrill sounding of my alarm clock this morning, and the snooze button on top of it may now very well be broken after I slammed it a couple of times. I was running late (but of course) and rushed out, leaving behind my Road ID. I never ride without it, so I had to drive back to retrieve it. This put me arriving at Herb’s a little later than I had hoped. Lucky for me, Jason, another fellow riding buddy, is always a little late. So, my causing a five minute stall was (somewhat) tolerated by the group of men who were waiting on me when I pulled up to Herb’s driveway. There were Herb, Mark, his friend, Steve, and Ron, a friend of ours visiting from Northern California. Jason joined us just as we took off.



As we pedaled down Herb’s block, I was on a high. I had doped this morning and the B vitamins were raging through my blood. I felt an immediate difference in Patsy’s shifting - so smooth and it feels as if I have more gears! Really I don’t, but it feels this way since switching from a 12/25 cassette to a 12/27 gives me 6% more spinning room. This means, when I’m climbing some nasty 15%+ grade ready to pass out, I’ll not have to drop down into my granny as quickly as I have had to before. Nothing worse than mashing in your granny gear (mashing is the term for riding in a higher gear and pushing through in harder, slower pedal strokes; technically, one should never be mashing in their smallest ring/gear and only spinning). I’ve been cursed with the same bad knees as my Dad (damn genetics!) and since I want to have good knees as I age and have had knee pain before on long climbs, this 6% relief in my gear ratio is critical for me. I’m generally pretty good at spinning and at a high cadence (when I’ve paid attention to cadence, something I don’t do as often as I should).



However, something to consider: just because the gear ratio on my cassette improved overnight does not mean the rider on the bike did. And as luck would have it, today was a “lead legs day.” I call my legs “lead legs” (as in the element, lead) on days when they feel heavy, sluggish and are unable to perform. I felt pretty good, had energy and rode fine during the flat three miles to the first climb – Trash Truck Hill in Griffith Park, which is a bruiser of a climb but doesn’t normally waste me. But as I rode up that long, steady grade, I could feel the heaviness already. Never a good sign when you’ve just started the ride! Damnit. From there it just got worse. We crossed the gate at Mt. Hollywood and began that long, undulating climb. Already, only halfway up it, I was down in my granny gear…mashing. The men dropped me easily, well…except Herb, who hung back with me even though he could have left me with the others (I always tell them when they take off on climbs that they drop me like a badly microwaved potato). I don’t mind being last on a climb and since I am pretty much last 50% of the time, I’m use to it. But today was ridiculous. Fortunately, the views were jaw-dropping with the brightest blue sky and puffy clouds which kept my spirits up.



We finally arrived at the top of Mt. Hollywood after what seemed like hours of climbing. I knew I was in trouble but reminded myself that I was lucky to be out on my bike. I live for the weekends and these rides and was hoping today would be a strong day for me on the hills. As we began descending down the backside of that canyon, I geared up and my chain dropped off the front, hanging to the ground. I stopped without incident but since I never had that happen before, I was a little alarmed. When I got to the bottom, I told Herb. Bless his heart, that man is so patient! Here he changed my cassette out yesterday and now he had to listen to my whining. He mentioned that he’d check the derailleur later and reassured me that this was not unusual.



We took off again and rode up to the Observatory, back down the other side and through the hip Los Feliz neighborhoods. It was here that my chain fell from the big ring down into the middle ring without my switching gears! This did not sit well with my mood. Plus, with one of the steepest climbs of the day under my saddle, I was really fatiguing. This was not how the ride was supposed to go. As we continued on over to the Rose Bowl, taking the long, gradual climb on Verdugo past the hospital, I found myself so far back and just struggling to stay on my bike. The normal endorphin high that hits me around mile 20 was missing and my mood was souring worse. Oh, Lord…I’m a handful – loud, obnoxious and over the top – when in a good mood. But in a bad mood, I’m better off riding solo to save the others from having to listen to it. Herb listened, though, and nodded (that or he had his iPod turned up and just pretended to listen; I wouldn’t put it past him). I told him (jokingly) that the odd quirks in the cassette and my lead legs were all his fault. He agreed. It was. I laughed and asked him if I could blame everything on him. He again agreed and said I could. Therefore, I want it noted: my fatness is all Herb’s fault. Poor guy, he’s so resigned!

After our second steepest climb (Chevy Chase toward Figueroa in the canyons by Descanso Gardens), I was done. As I slugged and snailed up Figueroa, a climb I usually fly up, I decided I’d quit and go back early. I just didn’t have anything left. When I announced this to the group at the top, Mark immediately told me to “man up.” Since I ride with men all the time, I’ve mastered the art of “manning up.” I even tease them that I, too, have balls. They rarely argue, which I’m not sure is such a good thing. Anyway, I put on my game face and continued the ride down into the Rose Bowl. It was a zoo there with the UCLA football game tail-gaters out barbequing. We didn’t stay long and headed back up and out of those canyons.



I was grateful to have the downhill on the way home. In all, we rode 45 miles with over 3,000 feet of climbing, and that climbing was in the first 33 miles of the ride! Ouch! I wanted to kill Mark when I found this out. But he just laughed at me and told me he was toughening me up. Yeah, right - I’m like a dried-out, grisly rump roast at present, I’m so tough. Actually, I’m toast. But the company, as always, was wonderful. It was nice to see Ron and we grabbed post-ride grub immediately following at one of my favorite dives. All in all, a wonderful if not difficult day in the saddle for me.



And…we’re doing a repeat of this ride with a bit of a varied route tomorrow. I’m hoping the lead legs will have disappeared and I can really fly on that new gearing. Sometimes the “little engine that could” just can’t and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it!

More pics are here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/merider/sets/72157608148684386/

Patsy got cassette augmentation

Herb put the new bike blingy on Patsy last night. I can't wait to ride her today!

Herb is the best and such a good friend. Afterwards, he, his sweet wife and I had pizza and a little vino.

I'm tired this morning but excited to try out the extra gearing. I'm in the "give me as many gears as you can" camp. The compact/double compact folks will laugh at me, but what's new? I'm such a "Fred" anyway, I figured 'why not complete the Fredness?' (in case you don't know - a Fred is someone who is a dork on a bike, someone who doesn't have the matching kit, major bike bling and who, apparently, wears a visor on a road cycling helmet. I wear the visor to protect my whitey-white skin from the sun, but I think the OCPs of the world would rather deal with melanoma than dare be caught dead with a visor on their helmets. Pfft!)

I'm off now to get geared up to ride! A small group of us are heading to Griffith Park and then to the canyons around the Rose Bowl. I'm hoping for a good 50 today.

ciao!

little shop of horrors

So, I finally dragged my sorry butt in to see a periodontist about my ever receding gums. They’ve been receding since I was in my early 20s, so this is nothing new. In my quest to never have a cavity as a child, I brushed the hell out of my teeth and apparently in the wrong way. You are supposed to brush gently and in a circular motion (my electric toothbrush does that for me now, so I’ve not had any new recession in years). But who knew this technique back in the 70s? I don’t blame my parents. [Dad, if you read this – it’s not your fault. Tell Mom that it’s not her fault either.] They simply taught me to brush as every other child was taught to brush, and I was particularly enthusiastic about it. So much so, I literally brushed my gums away. Fortunately, my overall oral health is superlative, so my gums – what’s left of them – are in perfect condition. However, I stand to lose a few teeth by age 65 if I do not do something about the areas that have receded to a precarious degree.

Now, do I risk it and figure I’m going to die an untimely death and therefore won’t need my teeth, anyway? Or do I fix the problem now, while I’m still young(ish) and healthy enough to recover quickly? And is there a way to stop the recession altogether?

Apparently, Dr. Wacki (pronounced Wahh-key, not whacky) thinks gum grafts will do the trick: http://www.perio.org/consumer/grafts.htm

He’s the periodontist I met with this morning. Very nice man whose color combinations were impressive (he was wearing a mint green button down silk shirt with a matching, green and black checkered tie). He reassured me that he could halt the recession by cutting skin from my palate and sewing it over the receding gum areas. From what I’ve been told and from what I’ve read, this is a painful procedure. My only other option is to use gum tissue from a donor…a dead donor. As much as I don’t want skin “harvested” (his term, not mine) from the roof of my mouth, I simply cannot fathom having another person's (dead person's) mouth material sewn into mine. Did you ever see The Eye? You know, the movie where Jessica Alba was given an eye transplant and she starts seeing ghosts everywhere? I only ever saw the Japanese version which was very good and very scary. I hear the version with Jessica Alba was terrible, but I digress. The point is that I don’t want to come out of this procedure telling others, “I speak dead people.” So, I would have to go with the “harvesting” method. Ick.

Here is what one of my receding gum areas looks like:

Also, oh yippee-yay! - I have four areas of my gums (that’s eight teeth total) needing this grafting as it turns out, and it will cost $1,600 per area. That’s, um…$6,400 plus $300 for the oral sedative (I refuse to be “put under” with anesthesia as I fear that about as much as I fear swimming in the ocean, plus “going under” would cost $1,000 additional). Combined with the cost of whatever antibiotics and crap they dope me up with, I’m looking at $7,000 smackaroos. I don’t know about you, but I don’t have that kind of smackaroo just lying around. My smackaroos are needed for things like rent, gas, food…sigh. Dr. Wacki did say I could spread this out over four years and do one area per year or two per year (I cannot have the whole mouth done at once as apparently this would leave me with no skin at all on the roof of my mouth). I’d rather get it done in two years and not suffer this torture four times. Wouldn’t you? Well, that or not get it done at all…


My insurance will cover a measly $1,000 of this procedure per year (unless the insurance gods decide to take pity on me for some reason and allot a little more – I won’t know for four weeks). So, in order to afford this gum grafting ordeal, I either have to borrow it from Dad, see if they will let me finance it and make payments or starting hooking on the street corners again. [I’m kidding, Dad, don’t worry. I never hooked on any street corner!]

That or I can just be missing eight teeth at 65. That leaves me like 26 teeth, doesn’t it? That’s enough to chew!

This is how I feel about this whole thing, do you see my enthusiasm?:



This photo made me laugh as it is not only candid but it makes me look like I'm standing in front of one of those mirrors that distorts your features. Only, I'm not...

Oh, last but not least - there is one tiny silver-lined cloud in this horrific tale. I won’t be able to eat solid food for five to seven days after the procedure. I could actually lose weight!

I know, that’s just sick… ;-)

greasy fingers

In case you don't believe that I do my own bike maintenance:



That's Patsy getting a facial recently. On her salon days, I take her chain off, clean it, lube it up…the whole works. My friends Jim and Steve taught me how (men are so worth something!) I actually enjoy it until the chain or a screw falls off, the cussing starts and Patsy almost gets thrown in the trash. No, I'd never really toss her, but I've gotten pretty PO'd doing my own maintenance. That's a Spin Doctor bike rack she's on and it's worth every penny! Herb’s going to put the cassette and new chain on her this Friday. I can’t wait!!!! I’ll be riding a 12/27 with a triple this weekend - ain’t no mountain high enough…

I just wanted to explain why there is always grease beneath my broken, haggard nails. Sigh. I use to be a girly girl. Now, I'm a bike chick. ;-)

what BOO do I do?

Halloween is 17 days away and every year our company goes all out. Decorations are hung, there is a costume contest at an assembly where orange and black cupcakes are served along with tons of other sugary crap and a full hour of children "trick or treating" throughout all three floors of our offices. The company use to hold a full-on department decorating "theme" contest until tempers flared and feelings were hurt at the time of judging. Some winning departments were viewed as having an unfair advantage over others depending on size and willingness of individual employees to play dress-up (it is not mandatory by any means). Over the five years I've been here, my department has dressed/decorated to the following themes:

1. Rock & Roll Stars - we all dressed up as solo artists or bands from the 80s. My boss (at the time) was Robert Palmer and another coworker and I were the back-up girls from the video for Simply Irresistible. She and I wore little black outfits with heels, bright red, vamp lipstick, our hair slicked back and toy guitars around our necks. He then lip sang the song while we did the dance number behind him with blank, supermodel stares (we watched the video several times to master the moves and exact glazed-over look those models had).

2. A haunted graveyard - by far our most elaborate theme. We created a mini graveyard with toy tombstones, fake spiders, rats, ghosts and dry ice. We all then dressed up as ghosts and goblins. We ended up scaring the daylights out of a little boy who couldn't have been older than four. He screamed so loud when one of the employees jumped up from behind a desk made to look like a coffin and yelled "Boo!" that I do believe the child may be traumatized for life. My boss put an end to any scary themes after that.

3. Pancake Boot camp - we were all soldiers at a boot camp where we served fake pancakes. We wore fatigues, combat boots, whistles and war paint. We then marched up and down the halls chanting in unison "I don't know but I've been told, IHOP's pancakes are the gold!" That was my personal favorite since it captured such team spirit (and it was easy to dress for), but we didn't so much as get an honorable mention at the time of judging. So much for team work!

Then, in the last two years, they decided to nix the department themes and instead let each employee dress up as he/she wished to enter a costume contest (we've always had the costume contest, but by getting rid of the department theme, individual creativity flourished). The categories have been: Funniest, Scariest, Best Homemade, Most Colorful, Most Creative, Best TV/Movie Star, Best All Around Sport Figure. I've won three times, once for most colorful:

Gypsy


And twice for scariest:

Ghoul from the graveyard:


Regan, the little girl from The Exorcist:

But this year, I'm at a loss. Personally, I like to create a costume on my own. That's part of the fun. I don't like store bought in the least. So, I'm thinking of maybe dressing up as Marilyn Monroe or Dolly Parton (I would then sing Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend or Working 9-5). The boob stuffage alone would be hysterical considering how itty-bitty-tittied I am. Or, I was thinking of coming dressed as a lightening victim, hair sticking straight up, or vampire victim, neck oozing blood. Hmmm...

I'm not real motivated, but I have to get on it. I'm one of the employees who is expected to dress (given that I always have) and because it's all in good fun, I can't fail this year.

Any suggestions are welcomed!!!!

Powered People Ride through the hills of Solvang

Okay, here is the report I put up on socalbikeforums.com:

"Kar3368 asked me recently if I wanted to join her for an organized ride called the Powered People Ride http://www.goletabike.org/. It starts at the Firestone Winery in Los Olivos, CA, and the route is a unique one through the hills of Solvang and surrounding areas. However, it is nothing like the Solvang Prelude or Solvang Century. The route takes you along Foxen Canyon and other roads that appear on both SKOR rides as well, but it is very different. And, personally, I loved it!

But let me start with Karen’s and my fun little evening the night before. I arrived at the Days Inn in Beullton around 5:30pm on Saturday. I’m still nursing a cold, so I was a little run down but game for just about anything (as I typically am). Karen suggested we grab a quick dinner and then sneak over to the Days Inn’s happening bar for a nightcap. We’d be working it off the next day, so why not?!

On the way out to dinner, we swung by the motel’s lobby to ask the front desk manager for his suggestions for dining options in that small town. The moment I stepped up to the front desk, I was hit with a waft of strong alcohol, and the group standing in line before me was clearly in fine spirits. It was a party of four men and two women. It hit me in those two minutes of observation that the women, one white and blonde and the other African American, so clearly did not know the men they were with nor did they match the men in appearance (the men were yuppy, frat-boy looking and the women were…well, how do I put this…disheveled). The blonde woman was the loudest when asking the motel manager if the swimming pool on the premises was “clothing optional” or not. Hmmm…methinks them there gals were hookers. Karen, so much kinder hearted than I am, gave them the benefit of the doubt and didn’t quite believe me.

Later, after dinner at a small pizza joint and returning to the motel, we tiptoed back down the steps and over to the hot tub where we could hear the hookers…um…women and men partying it up. She and I were just so amused as we stood before this packed hot tub of laughing, drunk people. We told them we were riding in the morning and I asked if I could take their pic. I must say that the black lady, very attractive with an English accent, did seem to be wearing a swimsuit. The blonde, however, was very obviously wearing a bra, and when I told her that they all seemed nice enough (they had asked Karen and me to join in the hot tub by saying, “Come on in, lovers, we won’t bite.”), she laughed, spread her legs wide open and said, “I’m not nice. I’m dirty!” I can tell you, she had opted for no clothing on the bottom half, that’s for sure. I refrained from taking a picture at that exact moment.

After our little peep show at the pool area, we headed on over to the Days Inn Bar. Now, should you ever find yourself in Beullton, CA, bored to death and seeking some people-watching opportunities, this would be the place to go. When Karen and I walked in, I swear Karen’s jaw dropped and her eyes widened to the size of tea saucers. I was right there with her in being shocked. It was a throw back to the 80s and every character imaginable was represented! We braved sitting in two bar stools and asked the bartender (who looked nineteen although she swore she was twenty-four) to make us a drink. I literally had to make up drinks for us, as this young woman serving us drinks had no clue how to make a cocktail!

As we sipped my oddly delicious concoction, we were interrupted by Joe, the resident annoying-drunk-guy-at-the-bar. What a sad character. He demanded our attention, told us how to solve our problems by giving a quarter demonstration (don’t ask) and wanted to know our exact cycling route for the following day (scary!). He made such a nuisance of himself that we finally had to move to a table as far from him as possible (although he continued to wink and wave at Karen). There we were treated to a PDA show by a couple where the man was around forty and the woman must have been sixty years old, and clearly they had just met…in the parking lot or on the street corner, or…. She was drunkity-drunk-drunk and kept referring to her Seagrams & 7-Up as a Cerebral Palsy. Finally, Karen suggested ditching the bar for bed, and after all the stimuli, I was grateful! I’m so happy I’m a cyclist and live a life where hanging at a bar isn’t appealing.

Next morning, we were up after a bit of tossing and turning (never easy to sleep in a motel bed) and off right on schedule. It was cold out but once we arrived at the winery, we were stunned by the chill. It was 34 degrees at 7:30am! Fortunately, I was well layered for the cold except for my long fingered gloves (left them on my living room floor, dangit!). Karen, who is so tiny, layered up as well, but she could not stop shivering. Of course, she weighs as much as one of my thighs does, so she has no body fat to help her. That’s one nice thing about being fat! As she stood by her car shivering and stalling (I was on to her, but I felt so bad for her pain in that cold, I didn’t rush her), a rider suddenly appeared behind me. It was Brian, a chap I use to ride with three years ago. I met him when riding the Mardi Gras Century solo in 2006. We both cut that ride short due to rain and freezing winds, became friends and I rode with him and his group up until he and his family moved to Minnesota. He was here visiting and decided to take his bike out for a good 100 mile ride. He was solo so I asked if he wanted to join Karen and me without hesitation. He was pleased to. I just love that – this community is so small really and you never know who you’ll run into!



Finally, after stalling as long as I’d let her, we took off. It was frickin’ freezing! My fingers were icicles but the rest of me stayed warm. Still, getting the muscles to move was difficult. We rode at a relaxed pace until the sun inevitably brought the degrees up enough to get our blood really pumping. The golden hills were just stunning in the morning light and we rode without incident until the first rest stop. There, I almost lost my chain as my quick release link came undone! Fortunately, a very sweet volunteer and member of the Goleta Bike Club helped me put it back together again and we were off without further delay. You’ll see by my pics how pretty it was out there!





After our lunch stop, Karen and I decided to “dope” some more. Yup…I’ve gotten to Karen and now she’s a junky too. We were desperate to find a dealer so that I didn’t have to share my stash. We couldn't find a 7-11, so we settled for a small market near Hwy 246. They had it! My hand was shaking as I ripped off the top and swallowed the liquid. Then I was high and climbing the hills so much better! In case you don’t know, my drug of choice is the 5-Hour Energy Drink. I’m going to carry one on every ride going forward.






Our route slip said 6,897 feet of climbing, but as the day wore on, we were nowhere near that! We were worried that the ride climbs would be back-loaded, but it turned out that the elevation profile was from the year before when Drum Canyon was still on the route. They’ve taken that climb off. Can’t say I was disappointed! Although, the very last ten miles of this ride were the hardest! For one thing, that was when we were hit with extreme headwinds. Also, Karen was starting to bonk. I scolded her (lightly) and told her that she needs to eat more on rides. Another benefit of being fat – a) I eat more and b) I have more energy storages. I gave her some Cliff Blocks and then she and I braved the last (brutal) climb of the day. At mile 97, you are treated to Foxen Canyon – yup, the climb that’s on the Solvang Century at about mile 30 or so. Oh, good Lord, that hurt! I just spun up and kept my eye on the prize. One final very scary (due to the crazy crosswinds!) descent and we were home. Phew!



My thoughts on this ride are:

1. Excellent route. I will need to remember that last climb next year, but overall only 5,000+ feet of climbing and not 7,000!
2. Very attentive volunteers and SAG vehicles. We met one guy who stayed with us most of the ride, parking his truck at turns so that we wouldn’t miss them. His name is Buzz – sweety!
3. Very well marked arrows
4. Excellent rest stops with homemade cookies, muffins, breads, sandwiches, cut-up fruit, lemonade and water. At the lunch stop they served sandwiches, bean salad, potato chips, pickles, fruit and more cookies. Plenty of food and delicious!

I absolutely recommend this ride! It does have traffic, but other than a short trip through Beullton and a short stint on Hwy 135, it isn’t bad at all. On a scale of 1-10, I’d rate it a strong 9.5. You cannot beat the views and lovely country roads! I hope a group will form next year so that we can support it as there were not a large number of riders out there."

Like I said - it was a glorious day! :-)

More pics are here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/merider/sets/72157607974866848/

burning winds

You may or may not have heard, but we are burning again in Southern CA. Yup, another whack-job has set a fire (allegedly - the initial cause has yet to be identified but it appears "suspicious").

(these two images were taken from Fox 11 News online)





The fire is out near Lake Terrace and in a canyon I've ridden several times. It's so nice to ride out there (when there isn't a raging inferno!) and it saddens me that it's being destroyed. My heart goes out to the many fire fighters risking their lives to get those blazes put out to save homes, wildlife and possibly, human lives. Worse than the hills burning, of course, are the many homes and businesses that border the San Gabriels that are now being threatened. Already, thousands are being asked to leave their homes and flee the sparks and embers that, combined with the nasty Santa Ana winds out here, are flying fickle and at random - any structure within a few miles of the fire is threatened!

In case you don't know what the Santa Anas are, here is a link: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Ana_winds. I hate when these winds strike as they generally bring with them a propensity for fire spreading and the arsonists jump on the opportunity with sick glee. Plus, the winds pick up all of the dust, ash and smog and sweep it across the valley in a swirling cloud. The winds were so strong last night, my windows shook and I woke up with my head on fire. Being asthmatic, I can hardly tolerate the air at present and am wishing those wicked winds to die an early death!

Needless to say, I'm defunky today! I owe a ride report and will be providing it at lunchtime (when I'll have time to write it). Yesterday was glorious - I should have stayed up the coast.

runny nose ride

I woke up this morning definitely feeling better. I went to bed fairly early and got a solid nine hours of rest. I even slept through my neighbor's bathroom visit at midnight. I was not drunk as a skunk but just wiped out from my cold, I think. Anyway, I dressed, loaded Patsy on the car and drove to Herb's in Burbank. I normally would just ride over but I wasn't sure how I was going to feel. Turns out, not too bad.I did have a perpetual runny nose, but I might have cleared a lot out.

Today's weather was outrageous. Windy, but clear, crisp and a perfect fall-like day. I had great company - Herb, Jason, Gene and two brothers, JP and Dave. Just a relaxed group of men and type of riders I enjoy.

We decided to climb Mt. Hollywood to the Griffith Park Observatory and were treated to the most stunning, clear views I think I've ever seen in those canyons. You could see to the ocean and there was no smog lining the sky like a giant filthy dust rag. I love these types of days.




Had I not had a cold and didn't have my 100 mile ride tomorrow, I'd have stayed out there all day.





But now I'm off to pack for an overnighter in Beullton near Solvang, California. It's so beautiful up there and I've not ridden once in those hills all year! I'll be riding a route I've never been on but through farmland and countryside I have ridden many times. I'm riding with Karen (The Pink) and I know we'll have a blast. I just hope Dayquil gets me through it!

I'll report back tomorrow on the ride, of course, with lots of pics. The rest of today's pics are here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/merider/sets/72157607936920842/

me no sit there

I was going to blog about this last night since it happened last night, but I don’t want to get into a habit of ranting too often. I realize that life isn't fair and that Shiite happens. I also know that others are having bad days, experiencing losses, having their expectations not surpassed and are just downright bummed. We are all in a similar sticky mess right now with the world around us so out-of-balance. So, who the hell am I to gripe, right? Typically, I’m a happy person, especially if you put a tube between my legs and I’m allowed to roll forward (uh…talking about biking here). I know I’m lucky to have a job, good friends, my health and a fantastic pillow-top mattress cover - might I suggest that you go out and buy one and you’ll see why. I am fortunate and am grateful (something I've blogged on previously). So, ranting I must keep to a minimum as ranting is for ungrateful wussies. Stopping to think something through and then using timely perspective to report on your experience is a far more valuable use of energy than a full on rant. Consider this a…thought out report.

Last night, after a very stressful day (the theme for the last year), I decided to treat myself to dinner at my new favorite sushi joint. This place was recommended by a couple who lives in the area where it is located. It has good food (not exceptional, but I’m not too adventuresome with sushi, so it needn't knock my socks off), quiet ambiance and the chef is the owner. I've patronized them five times over the last two months and have always been pleasant. I don’t drop a lot of dough there, but in a short time, I've become a loyal customer. If I’m going to have sushi, that’s the spot. I’ve never had an issue with any aspect of my visits. I generally grab my favorite 4-seat table in front of the bar, read a newspaper (spread out, which is why I prefer the 4-seat table to a very narrow 2-seat one within their establishment) and eat my sushi in under half an hour. In the time that I've been eating there, they've never once so much as hinted to me that I should really sit at a table with two chairs or at the bar in order to leave the 4-seat tables open for larger parties. There are usually no more than a small handful of customers and most tables are empty. If the restaurant was busy upon my arrival, I would willingly take a seat that accommodates a solo diner, but this has never been the case.

Yesterday, the scenario was the same. I arrived and looked around the room. There were two solo diners at the bar and one 4-seat table taken by a party of three. There were five 4-seat tables open, four 2-seat tables and five solo spaces at the bar. I beelined for my favorite table and just as I had set my purse down in one of the chairs, the chef says to me from behind the bar, “No! You sit there,” and points to a 2-seat table by the window. I was frozen for a moment since his less-than-customer-oriented tone shook me from my thoughts. I was also aware that the other patrons had all turned to look at me, one woman with a piece of a roll hanging half out of her gaping mouth. “No. I’ll sit here,” I responded a little louder than I intended to. His tone and the sudden attention being made to me, solo, coupled with a command one might give a wayward dog had me instantly ready for battle. I’m not a wall flower, in case you haven’t noticed, and I will speak up for myself. “No, you sit there!” Again, a point. I looked around the restaurant, waved my hand through space in the direction of the many empty tables and asked why. “That’s for more. You sit there," he replied with a third point. Oh, and by the way, he was pointing to the 2-seat table with a knife in his hand. There was no violent intent behind it, but the image was definitely disturbing. My lip curled slightly when I said, “Unless you can guarantee me that your restaurant is going to fill up in the next half hour, I will sit here as I normally do.” With that, I sat down at my favorite table. He was visibly shocked by my refusal to obey and for a moment just stood still. The other patrons looked shocked as well and had yet to return to their private dining experiences. I smiled politely and with one eyebrow raised repeated, “…unless you think your establishment will fill up…” His forehead folded into a series of etched lines and in the most dismissive manner, he scoffed “Fine, You sit there.” No point this time, but I can only assume he meant where I had presently plopped my stubborn derrière. And with that, I was dismissed.

Now I had other choices. I could have just left. I could have told him in front of the other patrons that his pointing and commanding that I sit at a particular table was bad customer service (I do not believe that his behavior was a cultural misunderstanding; he was just rude) and then left. I could have sat at the 2-seat table. However, none of these actions would have satisfied my need to assert the obvious. Good customer service is simple. If your restaurant is near empty and a solo dinner wants a bigger table, give it to that diner. The waitress, who must have been in the back when this transpired, arrived at my table and promptly yet discreetly asked me if I’d be willing to move over to the 2-seat table. I laughed a little and replied, “You’re a little late on that, darling. Honcho over there already blew it. No. I will sit here.” She looked confused and again appealed, “If customer come, lot of customer, you move, okay?” She gave me kind of a painful smile, one that had me convinced this was simply what she is instructed to do with any solo customer. I softened somewhat. “Yes, if the restaurant starts to fill up and you need this table for a party of three or more, I will move.” I then placed my order and waited for what is normally a very nice meal.

No, no…me no sit there and Honcho not happy. I forgot. The owner is the chef, and he’d be the one to prepare my sushi. Oh, life is not fair…from my perspective. From his, justice is served...literally. I was served the tiniest little pieces of fish imaginable, not anywhere near the portion size I had received in the past on that exact order. I stared at my dish and at the pathetic sized rolls and thought about my new choices. I could leave and not pay, except for my beverage. I could throw a fit and take it up to the bar, demanding a correct order. Or...I could eat it, pay, leave and never return. I decided to follow the path of least resistance. I ate my sushi and requested the bill along with a pen and piece of paper, on which I wrote:

Dear Owner,

Your treatment of me this evening was unacceptable. Had your waitress asked me quietly and politely to move to a smaller table, I would have, but I do not take kindly to hollered commands. Your portions were obviously too small and since you are the sushi chef, I can only suspect that this was intentional. Sadly, I was recommended here by a friend and have been a loyal customer in the short time I've known of your establishment. I've come here five times in the last couple of months and would have continued to do so. Now, I will not return nor will I recommend your restaurant to anyone. Regards,


In the scheme of things he loses, of course. A solo customer is never quite alone, and on a future visit I might have brought enough diners to fill that table he so steadfastly protected. By word of mouth, I could have sent him enough diners to fill many of his empty tables. As it stands, he made such a fuss over my not sitting at a 2-seat table...and guess how many diners showed up in the half hour I was there who needed a 4-seat table...

...none.

new bike blingy

I decided yesterday to bite the bullet and get Patsy a new cassette. I've been riding a 12/25 triple and due to a little knee discomfort when mashing up hills (in lieu of spinning), a 12/27 just sounded so appealing. Plus, I can feel the cassette she currently has failing at times during rides, as the shifting has become increasingly less smooth even after good cleanings. I've had that bike since 2006 when my sweet dad insisted on buying her for me and I think she's due for a little upkeep.

My first bike was a Trek 1000 that I named "Fred" (my current bike is womens specific designed, so naturally I named it a woman's name...in case you were wondering). Fred served me well, and I rode many centuries on him before selling him to a triathlete. I've loved Patsy. She may not be the Madone that I'm always lusting for, but like me, she has "got back." Simply put - she's stocky, thick, a little heavier than the competition but surprisingly capable. I've ridden double centuries on her with no issues at all (well, other than the fact that riding that long on any bike hurts!). She's scratched all to hell from being placed on various bike racks, in train cars, from a crash in January (her brifters were scraped) and just plain old wear-and-tear. She does sport nicer wheels than the ones she came with and her saddle has been switched out to a Terry Butterfly (yes, the one with the stupid butterfly stiched on it cause we women apparently love little butterflies and flowers on everything...grrr). Other than that, she is exactly as I bought her.

No matter how much I enjoy riding Nellie, my mountain bike, Patsy will never be replaced. She may, however, be retired when and if I can ever afford that Madone. But I'm in no hurry to put her out to pasture. And, quite honestly, after riding my used steel Lemond, Lyleluvit, on the back roads in Tennessee this past summer, I may at some point order a steel frame and just build a bike up from scratch. I'm in the camp that prefers the less-blingy-than-carbon bikes. I will admit that I've never ridden on carbon, so I really can't compare. But steel is a dream, especially when well-built. If you are reading this and are a first time bike buyer, I'd urge you to either go for an entry level Trek 1000 (if you aren't sure you are going to stick with cycling or you have little $$ to spend) or, better yet, get yourself a used Lemond. You will not...I repeat, will not...regret that choice. And when you upgrade, which you will do, you can keep the steel ride around for rainy days and bumpy roads on which you just crave the cushion and flex.

Anyhoo, here's my blingy as I know at least one rider who will read this post and be curious as to what I'm putting on my bike - right, Dad? ;-)

Here's the cassette:

http://www.performancebike.com/shop/profile.cfm?SKU=1896&subcategory_ID=5133

And the chain that goes with it:

http://www.performancebike.com/shop/profile.cfm?SKU=20630&subcategory_ID=5134

Last but not least is a new computer for my bike. But it may be returned if it's too testy and hard to read. It's the VDO:


http://www.performancebike.com/shop/profile.cfm?SKU=20547&subcategory_ID=4110

Herb has sweetly offered to put the cassette on for me (I'm going to help him so that I learn how). I do most of my own bike maintenance - chain clean, lube and all - and it wouldn't hurt me to learn how to put a cassette on. Can't wait to feel that 12/27. I'm not known for my climbing abilities, so having Patsy padded up is okay by me. I look it like I'm stuffing her bra a little, and, really what girl doesn't like a little stuffing from time to time!

and you thought your arse was made of steel

The other day, I made fun of Sarah Palin for her numerous and clichéd “shout-outs” during the Vice Presidential Debate, and yet I’m about to give one of my own. However, my “shout-out” isn't clichéd (not in the least) and I’m not running for VP of this splendid country…so neener-neener-neener.

You may or may not be familiar with an ultra-endurance event put on by this organization: http://www.the508.com/ , but if not and you are into such things, do check this out. The Furnace Creek 508 is a long distance cycling race that requires unwavering discipline and dedication on the part of its participants. It is no small undertaking and only elite riders can participate. They must select you to race 508 miles with roughly 35,000 feet of climbing in 48 hours! If you average that over two days, you’re riding 254 miles with 17,500 feet of climbing per day. My uterus just fell out from writing that! Can you imagine? Well, many elite riders not only imagine it, but mount their bikes after months of training and strategizing and willingly, excitedly take off to beat their own personal best. I admire them, applaud them and fear them (a little…I mean, come on!). Most of all, I respect them and their ability to do something I know I will never do. The very fact that I lack that athletic brawn is why I’m so fascinated. Lucky for me, I know a couple of folks who ride this event each year.

One rider is George Vargas, Red-eyed Vireo: http://epictrain.blogspot.com/
He’ll tell his story on his blog in the next few days, and I’ll be reading it. I know that he beat his own best and finished in 37 hours. He had a goal of 40. Very impressive! Congratulations, George!!!!

Another is Francis Ignacio. Francis doesn't have a blog so I’ll post his pic here:

Francis came back this year after having to abort the ride halfway through last year due to illness (he damn near had pneumonia but insisted on riding anyway - which seems to be a common theme among these guys!). He’s one of the most laid back riders I know (and friend of mine – the first person who ever rode up Mt. Baldy to the village with me. In fact, he’s the one who got me up it and pushed me past my limiting belief that certain rides were just “too big” for me to handle). After not finishing last year, he shrugged it off, took off from training for a few months earlier this year and adopted the motto, “Why suffer?” I suspected that he was full of it and I knew he’d suddenly stretch his cat-like physique and then spring into action. That he did and nothing stopped him from crossing the finish line this year! Congratulations, Francis!!!

I can’t wait to hear the stories from Alan and Vince (members on his crew). I know there are some good ones. There always are.

Shout-out complete.

mad at midnight and R.I.P. Willie

When my neighbor of seven years, Alia, who lives in the apartment beneath mine, asked me to avoid stepping on my floor’s squeaky boards and to not bang my bike when carrying it down my stairs in the wee morning hours, I complied. In return, she doesn't leave her television or radio on loud past 8:00pm knowing that I've retired for the evening. We are friends who look out for one another, including keeping keys to each other’s apartments and checking up on one another if we go for a time without speaking. We meet for dinner, coffee, a hike or just a pow-wow on our porch steps on a regular basis. She, like me, is a dream neighbor. We are conscientious, sympathetic and supportive of each other’s lives. We don’t assume that our rights trump those of another neighbor and adhere to the unwritten ethical rules of apartment dwelling. You simply have to concede to certain restrictions when sharing common walls, especially with respect to noise.

This is why I am now ready to murder my neighbor who lives in the adjoining apartment to mine on the top floor. No, I’m not violent and I’m not really going to kill him. But that doesn't change the fact that I’d like to. You see, he is not a dream neighbor. He’s not a nightmare either and, really, if you met him, you’d find him rather agreeable. But your bed is not up against the adjoining wall to where his bathroom sink and medicine cabinet are planted. Before I go any further, let me just state this now – no, there is absolutely no other way to arrange my bedroom so that my bed’s headboard is not up against the wall where it currently rests. And no, there is no way for him to move his sink with the all the plumbing attached to another wall…duh. Got it? So, I am stuck with this arrangement unless I wish to move out. When he first moved in (after my other very quite neighbor moved back to Ireland), I knew I was in trouble right away. He’s loud, and his hoochie girlfriend (don’t make me have to describe her; just think of a trashy version of Britney Spears) is determined to out-loud him. Both of them shower, brush their teeth and slam their medicine cabinet door, the one up against the wall behind my head, three or four times every single night between 11:45pm and midnight. This has been going on for months and my sleep is suffering for it. Unless I’m drunk as a skunk, I cannot sleep through this cacophony of synchronized slams and, instead, am jarred from deep sleep as if hit in the head with a tire iron.

Have I considered talking to him, you ask? Well…don’t you think that if I've considered strangling him that I've thought of talking to him as well? You know, knock-knock - “Hi, inconsiderate neighbor from hell. I've come to strangle the very last breath out of you.” But seriously, I have talked to him which makes the madness all the more maddening. One night, he and hoochie slammed the cabinet door fourteen times. I know this as I counted them. After that fourteenth slam, my blood pressure was past boiling and I could take no more. I threw on my robe and with my hair in sleep-pasted clumps, bad breath and a look no man every wants to see at midnight, I stomped over to his apartment. The ten seconds it took for me to arrive at this doorstep was just enough time for me to turn my snarling grimace into a forced smile. I may have looked as if straight from my shock-treatment, but my manner was pleasant. His manner was pleasant as well. The hoochie, who was standing just behind his left shoulder with one scrawny, tattooed arm on her bony exposed hip looked stoned and annoyed. I merely suggested that he be kind to his sweet neighbor who is kind to him in return and (please, for the love of God) not slam the medicine cabinet repeatedly. Turns out, they were leaving for a two-week trip to Europe (best two weeks of rest I've had in the last year and a half) and in the process of packing (thus, the repeated need to visit the medicine cabinet - hoochie sure couldn't leave her “prescription” drugs behind). He reassured me that they’d “cool it.” I went back to bed and they went back to packing with continued slams of said medicine cabinet.

I. Hate. Them.

Since that night, like territorial mutts pissing on the same tree stump over and over, I get a repeat of the medicine-cabinet-door-slamming concert (great name for band, don’t you think?). It’s as if my asking for just one compromise motivated them to assert their right to disrupt my sleep. I've thought of involving the apartment managers and ultimately the landlord. But I fear neither will be in my court. I mean, can they really ask a tenant to not use his/her medicine cabinet? And I can promise you, my neighbor and his hoochie will deny any intentional slamming of any door at midnight. They will say that they merely close it. Alia, whose bed is on a different wall than the one mine is against doesn't hear the noise and can’t act as witness (although our apartment lay-outs are the same, her space heater is located on a different wall than mine allowing her more flexibility with furniture placement in her bedroom). I’m the only one suffering. I've thought of turning my television on to ear-splitting levels while getting ready for the gym at 4:30am, but I fear Alia will suffer along with the offending neighbor and hoochie. I’m fairly certain their bedroom is adjacent to my living room which gives me ample opportunity to retaliate. But I don’t. It’s that little part of me that doesn't wish to stoop to the level of revenge to make a point or get my way. But really, I am at a loss. Last night, like clockwork, my dreams were shattered with several slams behind the wall of my bed and today I’m paying for the sleep disruption!

Oh, and by the way, Willie kicked the bucket yesterday. I found him lying in a very un-praying-mantis type pose on the step, almost as if he had just fallen off backwards (I imagine him crying in a high-pitched bug voice, “Help! I've fallen and I can’t get up!”) I tried poking at one of his fragile, needle-thin back legs and, as if in agony, he shot all of his legs and his two delicate front insect-arm-thingies straight out. It was as if he was having a seizure! His mouth...er...pinchers opened and closed in a manner of gasping and his antennas vibrated. I got a piece of paper, scooped him up and took him downstairs. I figured that if he was going to die, then he should at least be able to do so in the grass which is more his surroundings than a cement step. I gently laid him on the small patch of grass lining my driveway, pet him a little with my pinkie (on his bulbous back section) and wished him peace. When I left for work this morning, he was one cold, dead bug. Poor little guy. Well, it was nice to have him around for the time he was there. This is why I try not to get too attached to my loaner pets. None of them ever last for long.

Okay, back to work…

riding in the rain

As I mentioned in my last blog post, I had a century ride planned yesterday. Here is my ride report that I posted on http://www.socalbikeforums.com/ :

"Yesterday, Herb, Mark and I carpooled up to Ventura. We, along with Karen and Dave had decided to brave the elements and head out for 100 miles on the Harvest Ride for Literacy. I’d never ridden this ride before and was curious not only about the route but how it was organized. Given that it’s following a little more than a month on Cool Breeze’s heels, this ride has its cards stacked against it with respect to particpants. There were hardly any riders out there. Of course, this might have had to do with weather reports and all of the nasty threats of rain. Our little group wasn’t deterred, however, and we simply packed everything but the kitchen sink with respect to rain gear and drove up to Ventura for what was to be a three-hour tour.



When we arrived, the weather was surprisingly warm. The marine layer had socked the warmth in and we all convinced ourselves that we didn’t need our rain jackets, arm warmers, baggies for the feet, etc. All of us but Dave. He brought it and he was going to wear it, so he was decked out for a snow storm with extra layers and a rain slick. I was torn. I know better and have been caught in inclement weather on a bike before. I should have thrown my jacket on and at the very least, carried arm warmers! But although very cloudy, it was that deceiving warm air that ultimately convinced me I could go with just a base layer, tights and a vest. Others, like our friend Rebecca (R2Bfit on here), only wore shorts and jersey! So, I believed I wouldn’t need any additional layering. We learn from our mistakes, don’t we?



As we took off on the familiar Ventura bike path, our spirits were high. We had Tom Bunn and Linda join us along with Rebecca and her friend. Tom, Rebecca and friend rode with us for the first fourteen miles and then split for the 55 and 66 mile routes (this ride had many options). Any of you who’ve ridden Cool Breeze is familiar with the route out to Bates Road, the one that takes you on the bike path by the ocean and down that monotonous stretch of motor-homes along the beach. All was uneventful and the pace was aggressive. Pink Hammer Girl dropped her little pink hammer for sure! We arrived at the first rest stop and over cut fruit and other goodies, said farewell to our 55/66 milers. This is where we…um…lost Mark…or, rather, Mark lost us. Tired of waiting (he is convinced we were there for 20 minutes when it was more like 10-15), he jumped on his bike and took off. Bye, Mark! Mark is the only one in the group who finished the 100 miles yesterday.

Herb, Dave, Karen and I took off from the rest stop and headed into the hills where the route took us on a new canyon – Guvenator? It was a pretty stretch with only a little climbing to a sweet descent on which we were passed by a group of riders flying down it at 35 mph! It was on this canyon that the first drops of rain were felt. None of us were worried. The forecast in the morning had predicted just light showers in the AM and no rain in the afternoon coupled with warmer than expected temperatures all day. We could handle a little light drizzle. But as we continued along, the few drops became a light but definite rain. And with rain comes cooler air, so naturally the temps began to slightly drop a few degrees. My vest and base layer were no longer perfect for the day, and I was beginning to realize that I had erred in my decision to dress with less. Added to this were the sudden wet, oily road conditions, and with various small descents, I was increasingly becoming aware that any traction my slender slicks had was diminishing.



It was around this time that I was given yet another lesson in bike handling skills. Oh, yippee doo-dah! As our little foursome came around a curve (don’t ask me where we were as I don’t know the name of the two-lane road, but it was one with traffic and no shoulder!), a sudden right turn appeared on our route, one we were not familiar with. You either turned and had to gear-down to climb a steep but short hill or continue around the curve and down to the left. We were not traveling fast but the roads were extremely slick. Herb and Karen saw the turn in time and took it with ease. Dave hit his brakes and his back wheel slid a little but he held his turn. I was in the back, saw Dave hit his brakes and I hit mine. My back wheel slid a lot, so much so that I began a fun-filled, gut-wrenching fishtail spin into the left hand lane. All I could think in those brief but “this-feels-like-a-lifetime-flashing-before-my-eyes” moments is that I did not want to be hit by oncoming traffic. There was a car behind me who obviously saw my disaster waiting to happen and hit his brakes. There was no car in the left lane, but with the curve, the fear of one suddenly appearing was painfully real. So, I pulled the front wheel in to correct the back wheel and, you can guess it…sigh…the back wheel slid to the right. Now, it was a fear of just flat out going down. As I struggled to get the bike back under control I had these thoughts, “Ah, shit, here I go. Down on the left or right? Tuck? Oh, #$#%#! Let up off the back brake, M.E.” Yes, those were my thoughts as I did let up just slightly off the back brake and the bike eventually corrected as I held on with all my might (in these situations, I’ve learned that you cannot give up. You aren’t down till you’re down, so hang on, darlin', hang on!). I stopped, put my foot down and my head down over the handlebars. The car behind me went around. He may have “thumb-upped” me but I was shaking too hard to pay attention. I had slid at least ten feet and was down the curve at this point. I would have gone down had I slid off the road and I might have been killed had I slid into the other lane. Luck and the universe were on my side for sure, and the reality of how bad the day could have become hit me. Wake up call! It’s dangerous to ride under any conditions, but riding in the rain is just foolish if you don’t have to!



I walked up that steep hill (I was too shaken to get back on my bike right away and had to let the adrenaline subside) and now I was spooked. The gang, who had no idea I had slid on down the road, came back to see where I was. I asked Herb if the sudden silence without my big mouth around was a clue that I was missing! I rejoined the group, trembling lip and all, and off we went. From that point forward I just couldn’t regain my joy of riding. I was scared to gain any speed at all and scared to descend. We met up with the gals at the next rest stop near San Ysidro, and it was there as the rain kept coming down that we made the decision to cut the ride short and only ride 66 miles. One of the volunteers told us it was pouring in Santa Barbara, the direction of the century ride (Mark confirmed later that this was true)! No way. I rode the infamous Solvang Century Hail (Hell) Ride in 2006, and I’m not doing that again!

The four of us now joined by Linda, Rebecca and her friend took off back to Hwy 192 to complete a small loop and then head home. It was cold and now my socks were soaked through as were my tights and chamois. I hate having my feet wet as that is miserable, but when my honeybox is soaked and cold, I’m done. I asked Herb what the most direct route was back to the car. He convinced me to keep going to complete one short loop and then the whole group would turn back (he did so out of safety, I’m sure, and not that he had any real desire to keep riding. It’s just – what do you do?) We continued in these wet conditions with cars passing us within a few feet. I was not happy as our pace was painfully slow. I was struggling as the adrenaline rush had robbed me of any energy upon leaving my body. A hot cocoa was all I wanted. As we descended a bit around more curves on those slippery roads, I was nervous, tentative and didn’t feel I was controlling my bike as I should be. Nothing more dangerous than a tentative rider, in my opinion. It was at this point that I threw in my soggy towel. I told Herb I was going to SAG back as I wanted out of the rain! Rebecca and her friend had already turned back. Linda, Karen and I were shivering. Dave, the only smart-dressed one in the bunch, was smiling (that Dave is such an upper!) and Herb looked pensive. He told me I could just ride back, and I reassured everyone that I could go alone, but I was done with the curves, the climbs and most of all, the now-very-dangerous descents (for me for sure since I lacked all bike handling confidence in that moment). There was this gal on the road that we had passed who stopped when we did. She was dressed in a sleeveless jersey and shorts! The poor thing was drenched and shivering and she was very curious as to what we were going to do. Linda said she’d ride back with me and this gal, Ashley, said she’d come with us. She was so cute and obviously relieved to have company. She was freezing and out there alone! We adopted her for the rest of the ride and she, Linda and I rode back to Summerland. The plan was that we’d sit at Stacky’s and sip hot cocoa as Karen, Herb and Dave pounded out six more miles and a few more feet of climbing with a final descent. A while later, we were all reunited at Stacky’s. Us three girls were freezing but happy to have had cocoa. Karen, Dave and Herb were triple soaked, and Karen told me how scary the last descent was. I was grateful that I had chosen the cocoa plan!



Once together, we all piled back on our bikes and took the final stretch home with ease. It warmed up a bit and quit raining up until the last five miles, in which we all got drenched again. Damn weathermen! Grrrr….those were NOT light showers. I ended up with 67 miles for the day, Herb, Dave and Karen ended up with 72 and Mark, who arrived about an hour after we did, smiling ear to ear, got his 100. He’ll have to tell you about his slippy-sliding incidences, but we were grateful he returned safely. I’m not sure about Tom Bunn or the others. I hope they were all okay! It was dangerous out there and I have to say, I’m not sure I’m riding in the rain again, especially when it is forecasted!

As for the ride – I’d rate them a very strong 9.5 on a scale of 1-10. The .5 that is being distracted is from no potato chips at the lunch! As for the route, great! The volunteers were fantastic and I’ve never seen such excellent signage on a ride. Mark felt the same way. Tons of SAG cars and the best part? At the end they asked for our feedback and took notes! I loved that. They really want to keep improving the ride so that more cyclists will join in the years to come. I plan to ride this again next year, just hopefully in perfect weather!

Oh, and last note – perfect company yesterday. Even in my mood-turned-foul, I had lots of laughs and fun with all the peeps. Thanks guys for the great company!"

The rest of the photos are here: http://www.flickr.com/photos/merider/sets/72157607757300692/

three times...a charm, right?

Just popping on to report that Willie is still here! Yippee! Claire is gone, but with those little insects, they don't live much longer than a day or two, so I wouldn't expect her to hang around her whole life! But Willie is still on my step and he changed position slightly. His tiny head with two glowing, red eyes swiveled around to look at me when I told him how happy I was to see him. I even put a few pieces of Honey Bunches of Oats cereal out for him. I doubt cereal is a natural food choice for the praying mantis, but if he's hungry enough, he just might dig in. Anyway, here is a better pic of him. In the dark with the flash from the camera you can really see his eyes:




Okay, I'm off and to bed. 100 mile bike ride tomorrow in Ventura to tackle. Can't wait!!!
Sweet dreams...

loaner pet...s

I was so busy worrying about the rednecks of the world this morning that I forgot to report that I have new loaner pets. Yup, pet…s - two, obviously strays and they found me. They always do. I love where I live - a one-bedroom, 1953 apartment in a pretty, safe area nestled against the mountains - but there is one restriction that I hate. I cannot keep a dog as a pet. No one in my apartment building can. We can keep all the cats, bunnies, lizards and parakeets we want for an additional deposit, but no little furry critter with puppy breath. That blows, but realistically I wouldn’t dare subject a little dog to the confinement and solitude he/she would be faced with in my absence. I’m rarely home and my office is too far from my place for me to drive home at lunchtime to walk a dog. My apartment is too small for two dogs, so one would be driven mad alone with no one around all day. I feel this way about cats and bunnies too. I’m not a cat person anyway and with asthma I’d be foolish to get one, but, regardless, I wouldn’t subject a kitty to solitude either or a bunny or a gerbil or anything fuzzy with whiskers and little brown eyes that look up at you so helplessly.

I went through a period of wanting a pet of any kind so badly that I even considered a snake. Snakes don’t need company but they do need to be fed live bugs or, worse, live mice. I just can’t wrap my head around sacrificing one pet to keep another alive. Yes, crickets are pets too, don’t you know? And I’d hate to name a snake Thelma and a cricket Louise and then feed Louise to Thelma. That’s just wrong. I thought about a turtle or an iguana, but they are so high maintenance. Folks don’t realize that you can kill a turtle by simply forgetting one time to change his filthy water. Every animal that I thought of and researched the care of online was a poor choice due to their upkeep. Apparently, living, breathing animals cannot be treated like a non-living thing such as a bike. You have to feed them, clean up after them, exercise them and give them love. You just ride a bike and lube it’s chain from time to time. That I can do. Clearly, I do not need a permanent pet.

But the universe is kind to me and loans me pets from time to time. I’ve had baby lovebirds whose parents built a nest in a pot outside my French doors. I even brought them indoors one night when I panicked and thought the momma bird had abandoned them. I called a shelter who put me in touch with a “bird expert” who told me to put the pot and the babies right back where I had found them. I did, and the momma bird came back eventually (bitch; pardon my French, but she shouldn’t have left little hungry mouths for that long!). I’ve also had baby hummingbirds on a low branch of a tree lining my building’s courtyard driveway. Both sets of baby birds were the cutest little things and brought me joy up until they left the nests (I hope my ex-neighbor’s cats didn’t eat one of them). I’ve also had a fat squirrel at the edge of our driveway who loved to play chicken with me on my bike, a big rat on the outer wall of my building that I spotted while flipping the circuit breaker for my place, a dozen spiders on my walls, a fly on occasion from when I've left the front door open too long, moths around my porch light and one very sad little stray cat on the hood of my car at night (to keep warm) who was missing an eye and ran from me whenever I tried to catch him. I fed him for all of three days before he disappeared for good. I love when these little critters come to my doorstep (okay, not the spiders, although I do generally try to catch them in a glass and set them free). I talk to them and coo at them and if they lack fangs or infectious diseases, I might even try to pet them. The little baby birds probably would have preferred my going on about my business without bothering them, but I didn’t see the harm in asking them how their day was going. I just love animals and this ability to make every little creature somehow a pet of my own is a gift. Really, it is. I also agree that it is high up on the cuckoo scale, but I just don’t care. That’s the beauty of being self-obsessed and completely in my own world – I get loaner pets!

I reveal this idiosyncrasy about myself so that the pictures I’ve posted will make sense. One of these animals was on a step outside my door and the other one was just sitting still beside my car. Both seemed to be waiting on me this morning. Although not the same, I think they are both grasshoppers or praying mantis of some kind and both are simply stunning in my opinion. I stopped, took pictures, reassured them that I’d neither eat nor smush them with the heel of my foot, and then I wished them a good day of it. They both seemed rather pleased and certainly were not camera shy.

This is Willie:

And this is Claire:











As I've already said - yes, I'm odd.

I got yur back, Bubba

If you didn’t see the vice presidential debate last night, you’ve likely heard the lowdown on how each VP candidate did, assuming you own a television and assuming you turned it on in the last 14 hours. Now, if you tuned into Fox News or any affiliate, Palin was touted as aggressive, assertive, down-home, well-spoken albeit allusive, and the Republicans are thrilled about her performance. If you tuned into NBC Nightly News, you were told that Biden was the winner overall of the debate with his authoritative, commanding, intelligent responses, and that the Democrats couldn’t be more thrilled about Palin’s performance…or lack there of. And, of course, both stations’ news anchors looked dumbfounded as they peered directly into the camera to ask us, the viewers and would-be voters, “but what does this mean to you, the American voters, and will this debate have made a difference when it comes time to choose?”

Hmmm. Well, this voter hasn’t changed her mind based on last night’s showdown, but I was highly entertained by what I observed. So much so that I both listened to it on NPR (National Public Radio) while sitting in gridlock on the freeway heading home and watched it later on CNN when they rebroadcast it for those of us who missed the live broadcast. Unlike the presidential debate last week, I wanted to ensure that I digested every word each of these candidates had to say. Plus, I had no real clue what Biden stood for and after hearing of his legendary debating style, I was curious to see him in action. What did I think?

Not saying.

Instead, I’d like to take this opportunity to provide a consolatory “shout-out” to the gazillions of Americans that Sarah Palin outright ignored last night when she addressed us, the American people. You betcha (insert wink here) that she addressed the hockey moms, the working class folk, the little chillin’s in third grade, too! She reminded us over and over in well executed sound bites that she knows what the American people want (she does have a knack for both hitting her mark and saying those lines right on cue, does she not?). Just ask any Alaskan, they’ll tell ya. You know, those people “hungry to tap into our energy sources” chanting “drill, baby, drill!”? She alluded to the middle class so many times that I actually began to believe there still is a middle class in this country and not just “Rich/Poor/Immigrant.” And gosh darn don’t-cha-know-it, she has a clear vision of a future for our country where all wrongs will be righted by creating more jobs and increasing our work force - the class of people that may very well be the middle to which she refers – in the energy industry. In fact, she was an expert on energy last night, so much so, that other questions about our country’s affairs were outright ignored (I was absolutely floored that she had the moxie and spunk to tell not only Senator Biden but the moderator that she may not answer the questions in the way that they wanted her to, or really at all, but instead speak directly to the American people). But to hell with the other formidable issues this country faces, we need that there oil drilled and now! Darn Tootin’!

And Yeehaw!

Oops…um…no…no “yeehaw.” You see, Governor Palin, in her desire to appeal to the every day man and woman, gave mention to certain groups of the working class folk but totally forgot the “shout out to” and in the process dissed one very crucial constituent of this here fine country. She forgot the Good ol’ Boy, the cowboy…Bubba. Really, how could she do that? Being from the south and having grown up with Bubbas, I can tell you right now, them boys ain’t gonna take too kindly to that diss. Nor are their wives and girlfriends. Bubba babes stand by their man, I can promise you, come hell or high water, divorce, abuse, drug-addiction and/or jail terms. Seeing as how Palin is the first woman in history to run for VP of this country, I believe she stumbled in a pitiful misstep last night. Where was the shout-out to all them good ol’ boys? And what about mention of our good ol’ boys in service…stationed in Iraq? She didn't even make mention of her own son! Of course, she didn’t really want to talk about Iraq as that is just not a pleasant topic nor one she has the authority to speak on and would rather the Maverick handle (we do need to give her a break here; after all, she spent two whole days memorizing the “McCain the Mighty Maverick” script and there really is just so many sound bites one can commit to memory - something had to give). But by making no reference of any kind to the cowboys, I think she did herself the most harm. Would it really hurt her to have droppd just one “Darn Tootin’” and added a “Yeehaw!” or “God-Damn-You-Got-That-Right-Sure-As-Shit!”? Would it have killed her to say, “and when I was thinking about all the Bubbas in this country the other day…”? Pitiful, I tell ya, and a grave injustice.

About the only way that woman can now redeem herself with the American people is to appear like this in public from this point on:

Can I get a "YEEHAW!!!"

damn...I'm fat

I'm reporting in today in a rotten mood. Don't worry, I will not take it out on anyone who may be reading this. But I just couldn't keep it to myself and what better way to force myself to stay on track than to look my own failings straight in the eye. My day started just great. I woke without the blaring shriek of my very antiquated, often-faulty alarm clock (really it isn't a clock but more a box with blinking red lights. I still call it a clock because "box with blinking red lights" sounds funny.) I woke naturally from a dreamless slumber at 4:44am. I love when I wake naturally as this typically means that my body got the rest it needed. Nothing worse than being jarred from a deep dream by the “box with blinking red lights” and feeling like a sedated walrus for the rest of the day. Yes, 4:44am is an unholy hour for anyone to be stirring, I will admit, but I dig it. It's the time of day when the night's dew is just beginning to evaporate and the air shifts to morning. There is night-air and morning-air, and although the difference in temperature may be nuanced, it is most definitely detectable. I love to be clipping into my pedals and pushing off for an epic ride anytime between 4:30 and 5:00am. There is something both eerie and satisfying about beginning that early with the tingle of morning air on my skin.

However, this morning I was not getting up to ride my bike. Nor did I ride last night. I was at the gym then and I headed back to the gym again today. Not that my workouts weren’t pulse elevating, but I missed both the joy of the ride and time with my friends. I was nervous that work would impede this week, so I simply bailed out altogether and left Patsy at home. My bad, but who knew? Then today, after an a.m. grueling 1.5 hour weights/jump rope/step-lunge routine, I met a friend at one of my favorite Mexican Restaurants, La Cabanita, for lunch. I’ve mentioned Herb on here before as he is one of my bestest riding pals. I tease him that he already has a BFF (Mark, another riding buddy), so he and I are just “bestests” (yes, I am an adult. I just don’t like acting like one). Anyway, the lunch was uneventful except for the description I got of last night’s ride. The guys had repeated the route we did last week with that stunning climb up in the canyons, sun setting, down and back up to the Griffith Observatory, through the funky, eclectic neighborhoods with views of downtown LA and then, for fun, an extra 10 miles out on the LA River Bike Path! I would have had some amazing photos to post today as well as an excellent cardio workout had I ridden. Sigh. Chalk that up to not being prepared (I should have brought Patsy with me to work “just in case.”)

So, why the “Damn…I’m fat!” outcry? Well, on the drive back from lunch, I snapped some portraits of myself in my new shades (to send to the sweet aunt who bought them for me during her recent CA visit). I happened to capture several candid shots in this batch of photos (some without the shades). As I looked over these images back here at the office, I was simply appalled. My face normally has cut, defined cheekbones and, although oddly shaped (not picking on myself here; I’m just very aware of my asymmetrical features), is typically the thinnest thing on me! Looking at these photos, I can see pockets of fat dripping off my cheeks! Yuck and Boo! When did that happen?!!! Here is the only pic I’d even consider posting of the lot:


Well, I guess the 5 points of chips I rationed out at lunch were not such a good idea after all. Gulp.

I’ve got to seriously take one for the team (team being me, myself and I) and lose 'The Pudge' now! That or get liposuction and have some surgeon suck the fat out. Can they do that for your whole face? They can for the belly, and I’ve heard of fat being sucked from a double chin, but I wonder if they can vacuum my whole head. Last but not least, I may see about getting my jaw wired. This may not be necessary since I’ve been told by my dentist that I must get gum-grafts done (very barbaric so please Google it if you really want to know what’s involved). I won’t be able to eat for a few days, but I also won’t be able to ride my bike! Grrr.

That’s all. Just reporting on the “pudge” battle. Ding, ding...this round goes to...'The pudge.'

you and your butt can get lost

Yippee! Yay! Yippee!

Maybe my rant on here about the rude elderly smoker the other day went straight from my mouth to the ears of the anti-smoking gods? It looks as if the city I work in, a city chock-full of smokers, may soon be "smoke free":

http://www.myfoxla.com/myfox/pages/News/Detail?contentId=7553137&version=1&locale=EN-US&layoutCode=VSTY&pageId=3.2.1

Should you not be able to access the above link, it contains a FOX LA news video regarding the proposed ban on smoking in all public areas of Glendale other than the sidewalk (100 yards from any building) and in the middle of the street. The City Council will vote on the ban this evening, and it is expected to pass even with opposition from those in the community addicted to cancer sticks.
If I had learned as a child how to complete a proper cartwheel, I'd do one now in celebration.

If this ban is passed, it will mean no more "smokers' alley" outside the building I work in! When entering my building’s gym lobby or front lobby (in the morning and/or at lunchtime) I and others often have to pass through a large plume of smoke caused by all of the building's smoking residents who can't spread their second hand poison within their offices, so they use the area as close to the front of our building as possible to stand and puff away. We, the non-smokers who then end up smelling like an ashtray (and in my case, sometimes wheezing if I forget to hold my breath) just for passing by the smokers, gave the courtyard in front of our lobby that nickname and have complained about it for years. I’m not sure what those smokers are going to do. Technically, 100 yards from our building means two blocks over. Hee hee hee…snicker. Ahhh…poor things. They’ll have to actually walk (gasp) to smoke. I’m not sure what will kill them first, the carcinogens in the cigarettes they’re puffing on or sudden heart failure from having to actively move their legs in what is known as “taking steps.”

I’m not too concerned either way. Blow away with the wind, smokers, blow away…










Yes! I’m evil! Yay!