The OTHER Sickness

Posted on January 24, 2012 | Leave a comment

Normally, when I talk about “The Sickness”, I am talking about Jens Boom, my 29′er boyfriend who lets me ride him as hard or easy as I want and lets me get a little wild.

Lately, I have been having to talk about some other sickness and I cannot lie, it has crawled right into my mind and given me the sads.

The first week of November, during the Cincy3 CX festival, I started to get sick.

At first I was just a little run down, then it grew bigger/worse.

Because I am me and not all that brilliant at times (and grossly selfish during cx season), I did not take a break and kept up with the traveling and racing and the all-around not resting of self and body.

I was at my old company and things were ugly and cx made me happy on weekends that my daughter was at her dad’s.

Well, I ended up with walking pneumonia.  I have written about this before.

I went to State CX Championships anyway, inhaler, antibiotics, and all.

I was on so many meds at the time that I would have been happy to stay in bed.  I didn’t.

On the day of the Championships, I realized I had made a truly awful mistake the day before…

I had left some items in the back of the velowagon after that day’s race and they were now still very wet…including shoes and gloves.

My skinsuit was fine because I had a spare, but ummm…so what?

I lined up freezing, wet, and miserable, and tossed the idea of taking my gloves off back and forth until I decided to just go with them.

Big mistake.  HUGE.

If you have ever seen the SAW films, you will know that there is one scene where people have to put their hands in a box and let the saw slice through until a certain amount of blood fills a container. Click here to see that scene if you have an iron stomach; ignore link if you do not.

(Nice image, huh?)

Yeah, well that is what my hands felt like after 2 laps in the freezing wet that was the Championship race.

What’s worse, I kept seeing that scene in my head as I was racing and that was not really a good thing.

I started crying from the pain in my hands and lungs and the gasps were strong enough to cause me to lose my breakfast, which was a pretty spectacular way to end a race, so that is all I am saying about that day.  I hated that day.  That day was the entire 2009 cx season in 30 minutes.  That day sucked.

I now have what is potentially permanent nerve damage to my right pinky, constant acute pain, and limited function of the digit.  Good stuff.  I’m pretty excited about it myself, because you know how much fun I have with my malfunctioning and/or rogue body parts.

*semi-dramatic sigh*

OK, so I took a break and forfeited some racing and mentally shredded myself while trying really hard not to.

I got back on the bike a few days before Christmas.

I got on The Sickness to kick the ass out of my sickness.

Now sure, I had gone to some spin classes and had been swimming and doing some funnish things at the gym, but to really ride….well, that was pure happiness.

I had to take it easy and went out with some good people who wouldn’t let me do anything stupid.

And while I maybe started with a more challenging ride than I should have, I was over the moon excited to have had my ass kicked and couldn’t wait to measure my health and wellness by returning to that final climb.

I felt the sparkle returning to my eyes and the mischievous smirk playing on my mouth.

We continued to go out…somewhere…anywhere…almost every day.  My addiction had returned.

Fast forward to the week of CX Nats.  A trip we had always planned and one that had never included me actually racing.

I spoke to Kirk just before the weekend and he said there was no point in me racing after how sick I have been and missing the races leading up to the event.

He was of course right and said that the only benefit I would receive from racing that race would be for novelty. He told me to take my bike and ride the course with Jim and get my workout that way.

I agreed that that was a great idea!  Originally, my travel partner-in-crime was also going on the trip and we were going to run while out there; no bikes.  Once a schedule glitch kept Suze from traveling with us, running didn’t seem all that fun.

So we went out to Madison and I decided I was absolutely without a doubt not racing and said it out loud to anyone whom would ask.

Nope, not racing.

At pretty much the 11th hour (because why would it not be?), I looked at Jim and told him I wanted to do the novelty race.

The novelty race being the Women’s Elite race.  My first Elite race and not at all intimidating, right?

No stress.  Just fun, heckling, and counting the minutes before Katie F’n Compton lapped me.

Jim looked at me in that way that Jim does because he knows I am like this.

(Yes, I routinely feel for my friends for having to deal with my spontaneous whims of doing things”just for fun”.)

So, I registered, looked oddly at my number fully absorbing how many women were in my race, (93) and then very oddly…I did all the right things!  I hydrated, didn’t party, took it easy, and went to bed early.

(Technically, right there should have been a sign that I was still sick.  Just saying.  I almost never do the right thing the night before a race.  I am very bad at the night before.  Mostly because I over-think it and I stress out, so I do stupid shit to keep me from doing the stressing/thinking thing.)

I bought that HotHands/Feet stuff so I could be a ginormous pussy with snuggly warm hands in the race (because we all know I would not be going fast enough to stay warm) and some red Swedish Fish for post-race and I was ready.

The shortest (and bestest) race report EVER from the 2012 CX Nats Women’s Elite Race is below:

Yep…Kirk was right…and in being right, he allowed me to get my spirit back.

I did my novelty race and was excited by all the new year held.

He put my plan together and man was I excited!

At the end of the plan he wrote, “Small steps – stay healthy.”

So that brings me to now.

Last week I jumped into my plan and rode mostly indoors.  On Thursday, I decided to do my intervals outside because I was going nuts in the house.  It was 37 degrees, but I layered up and wore super warm lobster gloves (because I am just that Pro!) and the HotHands/Feet thingies.

I even wore a hat.

Immediately upon getting off the bike, I went to the steam room and sat inside making sure to loosen up any gunk that may have crept in while I was outside.

I took a steamy hot shower, and felt pretty good about things.

I felt alive.

SOOOOOO alive and good and happy.

I almost did a naked podium stand in the locker room, but…you know, I get a little tired of those ladies judging me, so I didn’t.

*smirk*

Friday, I felt less alive…and each day since has been worse.

Now I am back on the inhaler and antibiotics and feel worse than I had during the worst of the walking pneumonia.

When I look back at the year, I have been some version of sick since the end of June when I kicked my own ass in Colorado.

I cannot seem to get it together with this whole breathing thing and every time I turn around I am sick.

I have taken breaks. I have rested. I have hydrated.

I have been off the bike for four (FOUR) effing days.  FOUR!

Now, I am crawling out of my bleeping skin because I want to ride my bike and while I know that technically I could do it, I wounder…should I?

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Posted in bike racing, humor, Life, psychocross

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The *sshole Debate

Posted on January 23, 2012 | 6 Comments

Well, it’s that time again…you know, the same time that it was yesterday and the day before, where politicians (and actual humans) focus their energies on “winning”.

If we are frank, this shit happens all day long even when the topic has nothing to do with politics.

Last week someone actually told me they are focusing all their energy on “beating Obama”.

Hmmm…

Whaaaaat…?

OK, let us suppose for a minute that in the  Magical World of the People Against Obama, they could paint him as a baby-raping, Medicare-check-stealing, dog-kicking, granny-beating, aerobar-having, goat-fucker.

What? That’s all bad stuff, right?

OK, so there you have this awful person.  He’s awful.

Guess what?

His awfulness does not change who you are.

If you were an asshole before Obama was unmasked as the Supreme Asshole, you are in fact still an asshole.

As a matter of fact, one of my signatures says this: “Pointing out that I am an asshole does not make you any less of one.”

I wrote it.

You know why?

Because I am an asshole and I need to remember that any time I want to point out how asshole someone else is.

Sure, there are many glorious levels of asshole, but regardless, it is a club much like the mafia and once you are one, you sort of have to really work to get out; most do not succeed.

You know what else?

I could care less about Obama…or any other candidate.  I know I have to, but I am also the type who will look at the one most beaten down by the opposition and think, “Hmmm…they must be afraid of something,” and then I will  research.

Now, I have exceptions to this way of thinking of course.

I just will not vote for someone named “Newt” because that is a stupid name and also he looks like he belongs on a poster…and not the good kind.

Also, I do not agree with him and he has odd and unsettling speaking mannerisms that increase my distrust for him.

…and his name makes me think of The Great Space Coaster with Gary Gnu and the catchphrase “No Gnews is Good Gnews with Gary…Gnu”. 

Soooo, no on Newt.  Just like that.

“No news is good news with Newt.”  There; fixed it.  You’re welcome.

(Yes, that is judgmental and a bit obtuse, but I am completely self-aware and these are not exactly the rantings of a life coach or spiritual guide for feck’s sake.  I have already stated that I am an asshole, so get on with it.)

That said, I won’t go around telling people what an asshole I believe Newt to be; I will talk about the positives and benefits of whomever I choose to endorse.

How the hell are we not tired of all the mud-slinging?

I’m not just talking politics, people.

I am talking in everyday life.

Hey, I am pointing at me first.

Last year someone dragged me into an ambush of negativity simply because they did not like me.  They could not tell me what I had ever done to them, but they were hellbent on making sure others heard the news about what a jerk I am.  They did their “civic duty” and warned people that I would turn on them or sprout a second head and eat their babies or some such nonsense and it was amusing…for a bit…but then it really started to hurt my itty bitty wittle feelings*.

(*”Itty Bitty Wittle Feelings” is the intellectual property of Lisa Petty, Petty Jokes, the spindoctor of snark and sarcasm…but I love it and her so much that I frequently use the term.)

For a while, I would defend the rantings of the person by pointing out their unhealthy and mean-spirited behavior and then I felt like my attacker and slapped myself.

As I continued to deal with the situation and had more interaction with people to whom this person was marketing her odd campaign to destroy me, I found myself saying to people, “Yeah; I am an asshole…but she is not less of an asshole, just maybe more observant than the average asshole who actually has a life.”

See that right there?  I was owning being an asshole…and  it did make some people pause to think for a moment.  If this angry person was so awesome and happy and good, why was she on a crusade of hate?

Dude, hate is way worse than being an asshole.  I will take an asshole any day of the week over a hate-mongering maniac.  Hate-mongers are exhausting.

So, fast forward to present time and witnessing some things that really do not affect my life in any way, I am able to sit back and objectively observe this behavior in everyday life…

I see people focusing so much with what is going on with other people’s success and/or failings without pondering to consider why it even matters to them.

Wishing someone to fail does not mean you will get their success.

Also, if wishing someone to fail does not make you feel a little sad, there is something fundamentally flawed with your character and perhaps you need a vacation, a vibrator, a happy ending, or a combo of all.

The times I have sucked the most in races were the times I said to myself, “I want to beat so-and-so…” 

You can’t let these people or ideas get in your head.  It will ruin you.  You will get wrinkles and look ugly.

You will see your production decrease in work and play.

You will laugh less.

You will start to see people become more and more quiet around you.

Make no mistake, they are not agreeing with you.  They are either afraid of your wrath and don’t want to be your next target…or they feel sorry for you because you are irrational and lacking in the balance to have a true debate…which by the way is only fun when there are opposing sides.

A group of people sitting in the room agreeing with each other sounds about as fun as eating Skittles off the shag carpet.  Sure, it may be good for a split second, but then you realize that even if not entirely wrong, it is still a little “off”.

I am all for debates and disagreements.

I would just like to see more healthy debates and disagreements with people arguing what their side does fantastically/correctly instead of arguing what the other side does poorly/wrong.

You want an argument?  Preach with negatives.

You want a sale?  Sell the positives.

But always debate with balance…and maybe think that way too.

Just my opinion…which is just like an asshole.

…everyone has them.

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Posted in assholes, humor, Life, opinions

Censorship and Throat Punches

Posted on January 11, 2012 | Leave a comment

A few of us tied to post the following article on Facebook…only to have it scrubbed or not published at all.

Open Letter to Beyonce & Jay-Z

So of course, asshole that I am…I want EVERYONE to read that effing article now on principle alone.

Suck it, Zuckerberg!

Enjoy!

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Festivus – Feats of Strength 2011

Posted on December 21, 2011 | 4 Comments

Oy.

*sigh*

[shakes head]

Great start, ehh?

After re-reading last year’s Feats of Strength, I am smacked in the face with just how spectacularly different this year was.

I raced MTB this year.  Marathon races.  What can I say here…?

HOLYSHITIFUCKINGLOVEDIT!

If there was ever a way to feel complete zen and pain and badass all at once, marathon races were it for me.

3+ hours of dirt, sweat, pain, snot, and saddle sex while people cheer and spray you with Super Soakers.  Hmmmm…

Oh my dog!  I had such a blast!

MTB racing used to intimidate the hell out of me.  Hell, riding a mountain bike in general with its different fit and weird tires just flat out freaked me out.  That is why you would see my crazy ass on my cx bike on trails it allegedly did not belong.

*PSHAW*

First off…cx bikes belong EVERYWHERRRRRRRRE!

OK, perhaps they do not belong on a ski lift for that extreme downhilling thing that some folks are into, but in my world we do not shun the cx bike.

That said, I had the honor of riding the Specialized Epic Marathon 29er for Mesa Cycles this year and on that bike, aka “The Sickness”, I found my inner kid in a different way than with cx.

I found a kid that I never was and frankly didn’t know existed.

The wild child party girl that I am during cx season was replaced with a calm, quiet, giggly mess of a girl.

It was all very bizarre and I have no idea what to say about it.

MTB was not on my list of grievances, but after landing on the podium my last race of the season, the day after doing a mock sprint triathlon*, I was pretty effing stoked and consider that fear conquered.

(Always save the bike, people!)

*A group of us had signed up for a sprint tri to do with The Sass and it was canceled due to storms. Two of us did the distances anyway indoors at Lifetime Fitness…whom I would also like to thank for not looking at us like we were fugging nuts considering we still had our numbers written on our arms.  That was awesome.

[clears throat]

Eh-hem…anyway…

I guess that also means I wrestled my issues with triathlons to the ground too.  It was the swimming, frankly.  I was really not a fan when I looked at the sport as a whole.  The Sass however wants to do them and she is a fantastic swimmer…and giggles a lot when doing it.  That’s weird, I know…but she’s a giggler and I like to be around that.

Don’t get me wrong, triathletes on bikes still freak me right the fuck out because…well…TURNS!  

And also don’t get me wrong that I will forever (FOREVER) make fun of anyone on a group ride in their aero bars because, seriously?  SERIOUSLY??  You folks are wrecky!

But I have conquered my issues with “the swim”; the stupid suit, the cap, the goggles, and how my hips look when doing all of that.  I am now relaxed and actually enjoy the swim, so one less thing to stress about.  Heh.

I have wrestled a few other things from the list too.  The main one being that I have learned to let people go.  Just let them go.  You don’t need to kick their ass, just let them go.  If they are dead set on being a tool/jerk/douche/bitch/maniac/stalker, let them.  Those are their issue(s); not yours.  You have to ask yourself what value they have on your life and conquer your fear of them not being there.  Sure, conquering your anger and fear may give you the sads for a while, but if you sit back and breathe, you may see a lot of things that you were missing before…like peace.  This year, I wrestled chaos to the ground and kicked its ass…because it’s really about the chaos and not the people.  To this day, I still love the people I let go this year, but not their chaos.

OK, perhaps I have not entirely kicked chaos’ ass, but I have called it out and am giving it the silent treatment with a raised eyebrow and it knows (KNOWS) that  I am on to its little game.

I was about to say that I have not wrestled cancer to ground and kicked its evil ass…but the fact that I am here typing this blog means that I actually did.  I have to remember that.   Twelve years, baby.  <- BAM!

[shakes place where titties used to be]

Well, there you have it.  After a colorful year of c*nts, chaos, and cancer, I am still kickin’.

I wish I could say I have no regrets from this year, but I do.  I am writing each one down and lighting them on fire on New Years Eave so I can let them go.  I wish the same for anyone reading this.

Peace and dirt.

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Posted in bike racing, breast cancer, cancer, Christmas, cyclocross, Festivus, friendship, gratitude, holiday fun, humor, lessons, Life, mtb racing, pain, psychocross, xmas

It’s Festivus Time – 2011

Posted on December 19, 2011 | 1 Comment

Yeah, baby!  It’s my semi-favorite time of year…mostly because I get to get this shit off my already flat chest and move on.

Alright, I just reviewed last year’s post to see how things have changed.  Here’s where we stand:

In 2011, I had zero dealings with Assclown #1 or #2.  Go me!  Now, I know that both read my blog and one is actually subscribed to this blog, but whatever.  Her obsession is her issue and I cannot force her to unsubscribe.  Weirdo.

Assclown #3: Yeah, no.  Just no.  I will not speak of this again.  It is painful and awful and a mess.  The end.

Assclown #4: Yay!  I did not have to see THAT surgeon again this year.  I did however see a different surgeon (who also performed one of the previous surgeries but is good at what he does), but hopefully we are done removing body parts from Cory, yes?

Assclown #5: *sigh* I swear to you that I have had no potty issues with Raycer all year…until this morning.  It’s like he KNOWS it is this time of year and cannot bear the thought of being left off the list.  Jerk.  In all honesty, the boy has had a rough month with the introduction of a new “sister”, Sasha and now an ugly haircut.  He will be fine.  I left without telling him good-bye this morning and I feel like an ass.  I love that damn dog.  Raycer, if you are reading this, “Mommy loves you, honey!”  *kisses and belly scratch*

OK, so now onto the new entries for 2011…

Tipper:  This person was left off last year because we were trying to work things out with our friendship.  One problem…one of us did not honor our agreement and listened and participated in gossip, rumor-spreading, and cyber stalking; I am the other person.  You hurt me.  I have cried a lot of useless, wasted tears always wondering why you would do what you have done.  I know I will never know; I am not owed closure.  It is what it is.  I love you and hope you find happiness.  I mean that sincerely.

Angry McAngrypants:  Wow. It is my personal opinion based on my personal experience with you that you are a very angry person.  Possibly you are in need of a good shag/vibrator/dog and peanut butter, but that would only be speculation on my part and I am fresh out of mind bleach, so…yeahhhhh…moving on.  You have lost some good friends this year, myself included.  People who stood by you through all the anger and loved you anyway.  You never seem to understand why people chose to distance themselves from you, and you are too busy ranting and raving and creating drama to listen to anyone.  When someone says something to you privately and you make a huge public issue out of it, you’re in the wrong.  Period.  You appear to be an attention whore who brings little to the table other than gossip and speculation about other people’s lives.  Because you have involved me personally many times, I am afforded the right to comment on this unhealthy behavior…especially since speaking to you directly and privately yielded the exact opposite effect as desired.  When you interfere in other people’s lives and then play the victim simply because they tell you had no right to get involved, there is a problem.  There is no “conspiracy theory” involved.  You sent an email to someone threatening them on my behalf.  That was wrong. You had no right to do so and I make no apologies that my statement of fact hurt your feelings.  I said it to your face.  Privately.  You have never considered the consequences your actions had on my life after you hit “send” and the recipient received your threat.  I stood by our friendship, regardless.  The meddling, gossip and rumor-spreading continued throughout the year until I finally put my foot down and addressed this with you.  You still have not stopped.  This past week you were given a test; you failed.  Oooops.  Ugh, you are not a victim; you are an instigator.  Own it.  I am just so tired of this and you in general.  You are always bitching about something.  Enough, Ms. Cranky Pants.  Learn to keep your mouth closed; more people will speak to you if you do.  You were an angry person long before me and I can only assume that you will be an angry person for a long time to come…but I hope I am wrong.

Cancer:  I fucking hate you.  I do.  I have tried to live in peace with you and allowed you your space, but you have fucked my year and I want you to die…except at this point you would take me with you, so fuck off.  I have nothing else to give you, but all I ask is that if you have to stay, stay where you are and stop whoring around my body spreading your “love”.  You are a bigger asshole than anyone on the list because I cannot simply walk away. I guess I have to love you a little bit so that the anger doesn’t tear my body down more and allow you to win.  Let’s be honest, if you kill me, you die too.  How you like them apples?  Not so much, right?  So…truce, OK?

Crits:  Go fuck yourself.  I loathe you and do not feel the need to prove anything to anyone, including myself, by racing you.  You make me feel bad about myself and you are not fun.  I am breaking up with you and also switching teams.  Dirt only now…sort of…there are some fun things on the road I still like…but not you, stupid crits.

The Party:  I sipped my last martini the other night.  It was disgusting and just what I needed.  I looked back on the year and more recently this year’s cx season and realized that the party was never worth it.  I realized that I like the look of sangria more than anything it gave me and that I received the same pleasure drinking cranberry apple pomegranate juice with fruit in a pretty glass. I like things to be visually appealing.  Alcohol works the exact opposite for me; I never get “booze goggles”.  People never appear prettier or more appealing to me when I drink.  I don’t need it.  My body doesn’t need it.  My “image” doesn’t need it…and if it does then that’s your problem; not mine.  I am done.  Just like that.  Call me Forest Gump.

Me: I am so angry at myself for all the mistakes I made this year.  I am devastated that I lost sight of myself this year and made so many choices that seemingly lacked good judgment.  I have no regrets for having faith in people and giving people (plural) “second” chances, but I do feel sadness for the part of me that I lost along the way.  I hope I find that girl again.  I hope I find the girl who stands up for herself and makes her children proud.  I know to do this, I must forgive myself…and everyone on this list for the deeds done in the past and let it stay there…in the past.  I feel very fortunate to have really great friends who keep me grounded and don’t let me lose myself too much or be hurt too badly by the actions of others.  I love you guys.  You are the BEST!  Thank you.

Ultimately, I was happier and smiled more this year than last, but I have admittedly allowed the last surgery to get in my head.  I need to rediscover myself and learn to love this new body and all its issues.

I am looking forward to the new year…and the next minute.  Why wait, right?

Happy Festivus everyone!

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Posted in breast cancer, cancer, catching up, confidence, Crazy Town, cx, drama, drinking, dysfunctional behavior, Festivus, friendship, growing up, Life

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Santa Fraud

Posted on December 19, 2011 | Leave a comment

It’s no secret that I do not like the “Santa Game” and all that comes with that.  Like another friend mentioned yesterday, my seemingly irrational dislike for the fat, jolly one stems from my belief that it is OK for children to learn that their parents’ hard work, sacrifice, and generosity afforded them their treasures on Christmas morning.

I never understood the desire to give children the impression that these gifts were created effortlessly by caffeinated little people.  Whaaaaaat?

Look, I don’t need to be patted on the back for the gifts given because frankly along with the thanks comes the blame too…for all the wrong things purchased or things not received.

The Sass put Santa in “time out” when she was 3 for bringing her the wrong talking kitchen.  She mentioned Santa’s blunder repeatedly throughout the year when someone would suggest she put her desired items on her Xmas list.  I even have video of her having a “chat” with Santa the following year to make sure he got his shit straight.

Guess what? She received the correct talking kitchen that year…and then declared it a “baby toy”.

[slaps head with hand]

That year, she also got that awful, ginormous mechanical horse that Target was whoring. That thing made me dread Target and when she got it, she then told us that when turned on (something she delighted in at the store), the horse freaked her out and was obnoxious.  (Yes, she said “obnoxious”.)

I did not have a lot of money and that thing was a ridiculous amount of money.  My heart almost audibly cracked from the double-punch and it took everything I had not to burst into tears and spill the beans about the old fatty.  But, I remembered that The Sass was 4 and was in fact happy, but just pointing out the obvious. I also learned a lot about my daughter that day.  She will do something on principle. She asked Santa for the Dora Talking Kitchen and Santa could not be released from time-out until he made it right.  Point made, Sister!

My own Santa discovery came the year following the Great Coal Incident.

I am pretty sure I was 9 when the incident occurred, because my sister was still pretty young.  I believe this is also the year I mastered the raised-eye brow-stare-combo.

So, let’s call it the Christmas when I was 9.

We went to bed and were later woken by my mom to come downstairs in our ridiculous matching candy cane-striped night gowns.

Well what do you know?  Old fatty is down there with his ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!” and all that nonsense.  My parents’ friends are down there too and my sister and I are very confused.

My sister is of course also terrified because seriously, what the fuck? She’s 2.5 years old and Santa is a loud stranger in the middle of the night…

He gets to me and yabbers on about good girl/bad girl hoopla and then presents me with a bag of coal and a speech on how I need to try better next year to be a good girl.

Hmmmm…

I’m gonna try very hard not to “Deck the Balls” at the moment, fat man.

(OK, I didn’t think that.  A) I didn’t know what balls were back then and, B) I wasn’t even snarky back then…but we can all thank Santa for playing his part in my snark development.)

Anyway, this adorable little speech went over pretty well as you might imagine.

I was devastated.

They sent us off to bed…with me a mess of mental anguish and wishing someone would form The Smiths so I could sing along and cry.

Imagine for a moment the stress I had on my 9-year old shoulders that night as I lie there staring at the ceiling and sobbing and shredding my brain trying to think of what I did that was bad enough for him to pull that shit…in front of other people too.  I mean, he didn’t even take me aside and have a little talk.

Just WHAM!  Here’s your coal, Bitch…and also you are bad at being a kid.

(For the record, that Santa moment also taught me how NOT to manage my co-workers.  Ugh.)

I dragged my butt downstairs in the morning and was shocked (SHOCKED!!!!) to see a ton of presents under the tree.

My mom said Santa told her that he thought I was sincere in my promise to do better and so the slate was now clean.  I had no idea what that meant, but whatever…TOYS!

I was without a doubt very excited by all of this and it was a good Christmas.

(Let us recall that the previous Christmas had my mom throwing the tree out the front door in a psychotic fit literally over spilled milk, so yeah, this was cake.)

Between that Christmas and the next, I learned a lot…and I was pissed.

No Santa meant that it was my assclown mom and idiotic step-dad who staged that Santa session and that Santa was the fat neighbor friend (a drunk, mind you) from down the block.

That meant that my mom and step-dad intentionally inflicted that mental pain on me and let me go to bed like a whipped puppy.

What assholes.

Of course, years later when I stopped hating Santa, it also dawned on me that my mom busted her ass to get me presents.  I always seemed to know that the gifts at my grandparents’ came form the rest of my family, because my grandma was not as great at secret-keeping as she thought.

When later the next year my mom went ape shit and threw all my toys out one day while she was angry at me, I learned the truth.

She said she bought them, so she can toss them.

When I later cried to my grandpa, he was angry because he and my grandma had purchased much of what my mom had thrown away.

I ended up having a separate stash of toys at their house, but Christmas was never the same and my mom left before Christmas the following year, when I was 10.

I knew that regardless of whether I liked some hideous bath robe that someone gave me, that they had taken the time to select it for me and that I wasn’t some name on a list of gazillions.

When my daughter, who is now 9, told me recently that she believes me to be Santa, she said it with pride.  She seemed so grateful that it made every sacrifice worth it.  She knows her dad and I coordinate the gifts and she likes that we work together.  That makes her happier than the idea of Santa…and I can’t really argue with that.

Santa gave me a great kid…or was that the Pumpkin Fairy?

Whatever your beliefs, don’t sweat the Santa…or miss the lessons, good and bad, in the magic of Christmas.

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Posted in childhood, Christmas, humor, Life

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The Power of the Snot Rocket

Posted on December 16, 2011 | 2 Comments

My dogs are friggin brilliant!  I cannot lie.

I have learned a lot over the last month just watching them interact.

You know what?  Sheer genius.  (Unlike me who actually typo’d that word because I never believed typing would become “a thing” so I am a mess with the keyboard…but still wicked quick. Go figure.)

Anyway, Sasha (the Husky who we pretend is a wolf) and Raycer (the French Poodle who we pretend is Bob Marley) are diverse little fuckers who have little in common…other than the whole canine thing and the fact that they both rely on me for food and love.

They play and fight regularly, but always resolve their issues pretty quickly…no matter how ugly it seems to get.

They never go to bed angry and talk regularly, but still…a battle is a battle.

On the rare times that she is losing the battle, I have now observed Sasha pull a stunt that shuts the whole fight down…

She sneezes on Raycer.

When she does this, it affords them a “time out” where both parties just look at each other like:

R: “Did that just effing happen?”

S: “Yeah, Dude.  I just went there.”

R: “Way to own it.  That was not cool.  I would never do that to you.” [looks down sadly]

S: “Yeah, I know, but…it happens.  Wanna go jump on the good furniture while mom is exhausted by our fighting and not looking?”

R: “No, but I will watch you do it.  I love you.  You’re on your own if you get busted though.”

OK, maybe they don’t say all that, but regardless, things certainly chill out after she blows that snot rocket on the little dude.

I have to wonder if this would work if I pulled that shit on some of the more unreasonable people I encounter.

I blew my first snot rocket (one that did not result in a wreck) only recently, but feel I have quite the talent for it…especially with my current chronic health issues.

All I’m saying is too often in our disagreements we fail to take a step back, a breath, a moment…

A snot rocket may just be the thing to aid in this process.

I know it won’t be popular with some people, but really…what’s the harm…especially if someone will not take a break from their attack(s)?

*raises eyebrow*

I know I am willing to try.

*grin*

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Posted in friendship, humor, Life

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The Great Gory Scale Toss of 2011

Posted on December 14, 2011 | 2 Comments

Every day since November something of 2008, I have stepped on the bathroom scale to make sure that I did not drop below a certain weight.

Then, admittedly, there were times after this year’s surgery that I hopped on the scale praying/chanting that I had not gone above a certain weight.

Once we got my meds figured out, I stopped stressing the latter and only worried about the former again.

I have always had a ridiculous love/hate relationship with the scale and that is coupled with what I call a “self depth-perception” problem.  Without the scale, I could never tell you if I was thin or fat…

I was a yo-yo kid.  I was either skinny or chubby depending on the year and what fresh hell was brewing in my home life..mostly related to my “mommy issues”.

I can look at any picture from any year and tell you what was going on based on my weight.

In 1995, I ballooned to a weight that most people, if they did not see me during that time, drop their jaws in shock upon hearing.

A few family members saw me later that year…but that was after I had lost a significant amount and was down to a very confident and saucy size 10.

Because the last time they had seen me I was a size 6, this was “huge” to them.

They would have fainted had they seen me at size 18, but then again, I stayed away from all people except my toddler son and co-workers that year.

My grandmother and mom saw me twice at the almost 200 pounds that was my person.  My mom asked me if my dress was a tent.  That was enough of the visits with her.

I got to work on losing the weight and knew I would never go back down that path.

My weight monitoring was a full-time job because I am not only a foodie, but a good ol’ Brooklyn girl who adores her pasta and bread.

(OMIGAWD do I ever LOVE bread!)

I became creative in finding ways to eat at least 3 times per day and not take in more than 10 grams of fat daily.

I became a pretty excellent cook and dined out as little as possible.

That all changed on August 12, 1999 when I got sick and the weight dance became irrelevant and unnecessary.

I started to live a little just when they told me to stop.

I started eating other people’s food.  (Things they cooked to share; not things I stole out of the work refrigerator.  Sheesh!)

I started drinking wine.

I laughed more.

I got married and had another beautiful baby.

I didn’t stress about my weight while pregnant or after.

Since 1999, I have dropped weight drastically and gained weight oddly, but the latter is always for a short period.

Currently, I have walking pneumonia which “we” thought was other things ranging from cold, to flu, to sinus infection, to mono…

I have been sick since the first weekend in November and am not getting better…

…so I have been monitoring my weight a bit more closely…again.

I am not stressing (yet), but checking.

I can see my ribs, but the number on the scale is only 3 pounds below my “allowable minimum” so that relaxes me a bit.  A bit.

I know I have to get the weight back on from a medical standpoint.

Then there is also the shallow, fucked-by-current-American-culture psyche that makes me feel fat for being above 120 pounds.

Or, I’ll see a race photo of me and let’s face it, sometimes photographers don’t always grasp how to photograph ladies in spandex and that will mess with a sista on the wrong day.

Today was such a day.

Regardless of knowing my weight is actually below what my doctors would like it to be for me to race, I still stepped on that scale this morning.

Even though I am sick as a dog and have no near-future plans to race.

I got up on it.

You know what happened?

That futher mucker slid across the tile floor and damn near broke my neck throwing me off it.

It was like a scene in Paranormal Activity and that scale was not having it and just got up and left…violently.

I dragged it back and held my now strained back (from twisting and contorting in that way that people do when they are trying to save themselves from eating a face full of tile) and gingerly stepped back on the evil/possessed scale.

The number was the same as it has been, but I stepped off the scale and immediately thought of how unimportant that number was.

I am as healthy as I am going to be right now and obsessing over this daily is not going to do anything positive for me.

I wish we could all forget a lot of numbers.  Ages, weights, dollars, power wattage, “friend counts”, followers, etc.

That scale is like that one person you all know…

We all have that person…

The one who tells you things you don’t need to know because you have rationale and common sense and already know what they are telling you but they just HAVE to tell you because they know EVERYTHING…

I hate those effing people.

(No, I do not hate those effing people but they are annoying as fuck.)

If I gain (or lose) a shit ton of weight, guess what?  My clothes will tell me before that scale ever does.

I think I am going to hurl that scale in the trash tonight.

And I think that you should do the same to yours, whether you are big or small.

If there ever was a Devil, scales and trisuits are it…

…but I am keeping the trisuit…just in case I want to slum on the dark side a time or two.

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Posted in humor, Life

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The Slightly Terrifying Town of Singledom

Posted on December 7, 2011 | 14 Comments

I normally don’t comment too much on dating and the like, mostly because I hate it and am pretty awful at it.  That said, regardless of what I do not know, there are a few things that I DO in fact know and one of them is…

Never act like a complete effing psycho after one date (or even 100 dates).

Duh.

Just don’t act like a psycho in general, mmmkay?

I just read this letter that some twatwaffle sent a lady after one date with her and you know what?

It fucking terrified me to be single again…

…actually, I am not at all terrified of being single because I have the awesome Sass and the dogs and they bring me more joy than does Death by Chocolate to a fat kid…

I am however in fact terrified to date again after reading that letter.  Seriously.

Don’t get me wrong, I have been turned on by men who can creatively use bullet points, but this guy is fugging nutso.

He is the 27-cat, makes suits out of past girlfriends, eats bellybutton lint, types 1,600-word emails and knows the chemical composition of Twinkies  type of crazy.

I think he must read Cosmo, The Daily Love, or some other like garbage written for men without balls who have no idea how to communicate with The Vagina People…and that is just wrong….for everyone.

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Posted in Crazy Town, dating, humor, Life, psychos

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Jingle Cross 2011

Posted on December 5, 2011 | Leave a comment

Can we say “ROAD TRIP!”????

I can say it in multiple languages this year….

OK, I cannot, but I can say it in plenty of accents.

Last weekend (not the one that just passed but the one before that) was Jingle Cross.

I have not written my race report because the sick that I had been nursing since Cincy 3 CX kicked up into complete “Fuck You, Bitch!” mode last week and I didn’t do a whole lot of anything…So I am writing now.

I am writing now because I am about to get new meds and have no idea how those will affect me, so now is better.

Jingle Cross is still the most fun CX event in the Midwest.  Mostly because just knowing you are going keeps you from shoving your pie hole full of…well…pie and other yummy goodness on Thanksgiving.

Jingle Cross starts on Black Friday and continues thru Sunday.

So, while some thousands of lame asses are lined up outside retail monsters to prove their stupidity and buy things they don’t need, the smarter folks are sleeping soundly and dreaming of The Grinch and Mt. Krumpet in Iowa City.

There is almost always frost or rain or some combo of both, and if not…then there is ALWAYS Mt. Krumpet.

Always.

The man of my dirty dreams.  He is always “up” and always a sweat-making maniac of leg-shredding, dirty bliss.

I never wonder if he is happy to see me.  He is.  And like a good man, is always happy for me to climb up on him and ride, ride, ride… He seems to like when I go down too.  Good man.

*Note: Hey!  PSSSSSST!  You dirty-minded freaks need to focus…I am talking about a hill.  A big one!  What were YOU thinking?  Nevermind.  I know what you were thinking…and I like it.  Carry on!

On Friday night there was only a bit of mud.  A teaser if you will.  One was on a berm before the flyover and the other was on the face of Krumpet.  (Yep; he even gives good face.)  I am in love.

The mud was good, but again, just a teaser as we watched the radar and knew that the true cxgasm would be the following day when it rained.

Omigawd, I am a rain whore between September and January.

I don’t so much like ice because that brings the ouchies and the breakies and frankly does not photograph well, but mud is my money shot.  Those roadies who race that “Froze Toes” nonsense can have the ice.  It’s all theirs.  Take it.  Ice on mud will shred a tire and that gives me the sads, so I am whole-heartedly against it.  Ice is for martinis; not cx tires.

So, I was as pleased as spiked punch that the temps were damn near tropic (in the 50s) when the rain came.

*snicker*

Yes, I am 12 in my head.  Shut up.

There was so much dirty wetness on Saturday that I damn near lost what was left of my tragic little mind.

I shot my nose spray up my nose and hopped on Christian.

The sound of wet cx is like porn music…except good.

Sadly, they took the flyover out of the race on Saturday because they were afraid people would act a damn fool and make it a Slip-N-Slide.

*raises hand*

I was bummed to lose it, but the muddy, off-camber goodness of Mt. Krumpet’s face was pretty magical.

The sloppy mess of the swirly/”toilet bowl” was a fantastic cxgasm of power and muddy spray.

My two favorite hecklers (Awesome 1 and Awesome 2) screamed at me each time over the barriers and through the finish of each lap.

I tried to give them a show each time through and gave them their reward in my finishing sprint…unintentionally.

I came off the dirt and hit the pavement like a maniac.

I did this weird thing where I added gears and tucked in and went very fast…

I need to stop that shit.

I hit the wet grass and gravel again and my bike caught air in front of A1 and A2 and I went sideways a bit…in the air.

(Hey look! I’m Tony Hawk, bitches!)

…except that was a bike and not a board.

It was the longest 100th of a second where I actually had the time to think, “If I do not land this shit right, mama is gonna be wrecked and torn up!”

Due to the power of physics, I was now over gravel…

Holy crap.

*exhale*

I somehow (amazingly enough) landed rubber-side down, finished the sprint, taking the guy I was chasing (for no good reason) at the line.

I finished blahblath place, but you would have thought I podiumed because I rode over to A1 and A2 (whom we had just met whilst heckling Chris Jones on Friday night) and A1 hands me her beer and…

…I drank it!

I think the rain and mud helped make that shit taste OK, because I didn’t make a “Cory face” and we just jumped around and squealed like a bunch of freaks…and it was awesome.

Basically, Jingle CX is like Lollapalooza with bikes instead of music and bad beer instead of pot.

I mean, we brought sangria and fancy acrylic wine glasses…because we are awesome assholes.

Because we know how to bring the party, we also hung out in the hotel room watching Forest Gump after a super yummy lunch at Vesta.  (Seriously delish for the 2nd year in a row!)

This old gal was feeling the sick by 4pm and could have stayed in all night…and should have.

However, how often am I around this many fun people in a strange town?

(Apparently a lot, but still…)

We stayed out later than needed.  (Totally past the street lights coming on!)

I was a sick ball of “ewwwww” the next morning and decided to play it safe and not race, having already missed 2 days of work the previous week.

Some chap told me to “HTFU”, which gave me the sads for 3-120 minutes because that was just uncalled for and also mean.

He will now be receiving a lifetime subscription to Cat Fancy magazine as thanks for his motivational speech to me, as I have realized that all people I dislike also happen to own cats, so he should be thanking me in 3-2-1…

The End.

 

*Disclaimer 1: I did not send anyone a magazine subscription. I am against magazines as most are a useless waste of trees unless they contain photos of bikes or boobies.

*Disclaimer 2:  I do not dislike all people with cats, but in a strange coincidence, of the small group of people I dislike, a high concentration own multiple cats.  This is not the fault of the cats.  My daughter likes cats and all things with a pulse.  Her father and I have discouraged her from cat-love, but kids rebel.  We now say nothing and distract her with better pets and hobbies.  I like my friends who own cats, but visit them infrequently.  I will pet them when I see them, but that is where it ends.  I like Hello Kitty and Chococat.  We’re good.

*Disclaimer 3:  I actually don’t give a cat’s ass if my dislike of cats offends you.  All people will not like what you like.  Triathletes do not get offended that I don’t like their sport.  Scratch that; I may do a tri but will never do a cat.  Blame my mother and take it up with her.  She cares; she really does.

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Posted in bike racing, cyclocross, humor, Jingle Cross, Life