Monthly Archives: May 2010

A Good Day

I have zero children at home this weekend, so I decided that the entire weekend would be filled with cycling, and some lounging by the pool.

Maybe some sex.

Maybe an umbrella drink.

(The latter might greatly improve the likelihood of the former…especially if he wears the umbrella and not much else…)

Today, K and I rode 50 miles of hills.

It was quite perfect (save the fact that my Bonts are not entirely dialed in and my cranks and bottom bracket do not get along)…

The weather was glorious.

The company was strong, fun, and laid back…

I arrived home covered in a fantastically beautiful layer of salt, made an iced lemon-lime Heed, peeled off my shorts, replaced with different dry shorts, grabbed the dog, and laid down on a lounge chair on the patio.

I am currently watching the dog kick a tree’s ass.

Life is good…and a little funny.

The Bad Snack

Have you ever craved something and when you finally got it, it was less than mildly rewarding?

While this could be said about sex with my ex, circa 2002, in reality I am referring to today’s snack.

What’s worse, is that it wasn’t really good, but I kept eating it. (That cannot be said of sex with my ex, circa 2002.)

I looked at the bag (of trail mix, not my ex) and wondered what I was doing.

It wasn’t bad for me, but it wasn’t good either, and more importantly, I didn’t enjoy it.

Why do we do these things?

I stopped.

I put the bag away to offer someone else one day when they need a snack…They might like it. (After all, my ex and I don’t care for each other, but other people dig us.)

This I know…life’s too short for a bad snack.

The Funk Yawn

After the most recent surgery in December, I had to ride the trainer to get my rides in.

I wasn’t allowed to ride outside with the other kids because I had no core and might end up with some wicked crash boo-boos.

I resumed the running I had taken up at the end of cx season, hoping to get my body stronger and redevelop my core.

It was almost a month after the surgery before I tried to ride the bike while it was actually moving.

Success!

I gradually upped the ante and added some rolling hills.

I ran a race.

There was then no telling me shit about riding.

If I can run; I can ride.

I changed my schedule at work so I could be off on Fridays to have 3 whole days of riding.

I would go out for hours and Dan would say, “Ummm, what happened to the easy ride on your plan?”

(For the record, it is impossible to blink innocently over the phone to your coach who is looking at your Garmin data and can clearly see where you have ridden and for how long and at what level.)

I felt alive and happy and excited.

I planned new and tricky routes to challenge myself and keep me out of the comfort zone.

Now, the rain has started and it feels like it has been here forever!

My boss told me that he is going to make me work on Fridays because it has rained every Friday since I have been off.

Yesterday, I did my intervals on the trainer because it was storming in the morning…but the afternoon was lovely!

As I drove home in the sun, I wanted so badly to get on my bike, but had already been told no, so I didn’t.

(I totally pouted like a candy-robbed toddler though.)

Ty found that amusing.

Tempting fate, some of us planned to go out and do the Indian Crossing Century today.

By 9p last night, everyone had cancelled and we planned a new hill ride closer to home.

I woke up this morning and it was not raining.

I was happy.

I walked into the bathroom, (not a long walk as I do not live in a McMansion) and it was raining.

That was like 20 ft of walking.

By the time I flushed, (which was soon because I only pee’d) it was pouring.

I felt my entire body sigh.

It is MAY!

I cannot continue to ride this effing trainer or I am gonna smack a bitch.

The most I can do to mix it up is ride the rollers for an hour, then ride the trainer.

I can rotate my climbing block.

OOOOOOH! Dare to DREAM!

I am tired of riding my trainer and watching those fucking runners jog by.

(As much as I love my friends who run, I maintain that you guys are nucking futs.)

We will all pretend that I didn’t say that when I begin my cx training…

*smiles a sweet and angelic smile at running friends*

Back to the point, I am getting into a funk.

If I don’t ride my bike outdoors soon (while dry), I will get more snarky than I am right now and while that generally can be entertaining to screw with the general public, I have grown bored with that too…

*yawn*

OK, I am going back to bed.

Pukervals

I went out to Castlewood to do my pukervals last night.

As we were warming up, the sky opened up.

We rode anyway.

Seeing that we were not afraid of some rain, the Universe turned the sky into that “Bucket Falls” thing at almost every water park in the continental U.S.

Hmmmm…

We rode.

Mother Nature said, “Oh yeah, bitches?”

She then threw down a most impressive light show that although initially had me playing a techno beat in my head…

*NNNT NNNT NNNT NNNT*

…eventually, it made me shriek a bit as the lightening crashed around us and we knew the ride was over…

That may sound like it took a while, but in reality took about 4 minutes.

We raced back to our cars and loaded up.

Soaked.

(That’s hot!)

Craptastic!

Another night on the trainer…simulating hill intervals.

Then…

…life interrupted for longer than I thought it would…

I looked at my watch and knew the workout was not happening.

(I felt OK about this since my shoes were still soaked…as was my saddle.)

Mmmmm…YUM!

I knew I was going to have to rise with the sun and have my ass kicked.

I woke at 5am, planning to head back to the hill.

Pouring rain.

Futher mucker!

It stopped by 5:30, but that didn’t leave me enough time to drive to the hill, work out, and drive home in time to get Ty to school.

I looked at my trainer with disgust.

Sonofabitch!

Raycer looked at me as if to say, “Get on it, biotch!”

(That dog is weird. He likes to lick the trainer while I ride. Must be a French thing.)

I got on and did the deed.

I was glad Ty was in the shower and couldn’t hear, because I screamed at some point during the first set…then I went numb.

It was awesome!

The whole thing became a dance…

It was like bike sex.

(That’s hawt!)

I warmed down, hopped off, and jumped into the shower with 10 minutes to get out the door with Ty.

Done.

We raced out the door, I dropped him off, and headed to S’bux.

I got about 60 seconds down the road, pulled over and puked.

WOOP! THERE IT IS!!!

I looked down at the mess and said to myself, “Yep. My work here is done!”

Pain Cake with Hell’s Icing…YUM!

I want you to close your eyes and think of your family.   The family with whom you grew up.

I want you to think for 30 seconds about your relationship with each family member.

Perhaps most were good but you have that one asshole sibling…

Or, your mom was the best mom on the planet but your dad was an abusive drunk…

…or simply not around.

(I can use these examples because they are not mine and do not cause me pain.  I apologize for any similarities you might see in your own clan…not for the coincidence of the similarity, but for turning the screw of pain.)

A friend and I were just agreeing on how neither of us comprehends the need for these peripheral holidays and that the American calendar is so full of them, a person is bound to touch upon a day to celebrate a person they might rather not celebrate.

Happy Third Cousin Twice Removed Day!

(Yeah, THAT asshole hit me in the face with a brick when I was 7 and his fat mom told me it was my fault for pissing his ADHD ass off.)

Whatever, Aunt Fat Ass.  Your “name” is “Bunny” and your ass beeps when you walk backwards.

(For the record, (1) That was a mean statement, albeit true, and I will now do 30 seconds of penance for typing it and thinking it.  Yes, really…and (2) one of her adorable children is a career criminal and the other is an lifetime alcoholic who works for ConEd.  Clearly Aunt Bunny should have ate less and parented more.)

To clarify, we aren’t really related.  My mother married into that mess when I was 5 and that entire family treated me like crap because I was not my stepfather’s daughter.

I also half believe Bunny may have encouraged her adorable son to throw a brick at my face.

Clearly, I have digressed.

(Derrr.)

The point is, why do we need one day to zero in on our love or complete indifference to this or that family member?

If you have a super fantastic mom, should you not celebrate that every day…especially knowing that some people’s moms are on the pole, the corner, or a bar stool?

Would it not absolutely shock the shit out of your mom to receive flowers and an “I love you” on a Tuesday when you are slammed at the office or heading to TNWs…rather than on a day that has been programmed into your head to do it…?

…a day on which you will stress out trying to find the right card, restaurant, flower arrangement…just like the rest of the American population?

My mom aside, I am a mom.

I would much rather have my kids focus on being great kids and show respect for me the other 364 days a year.

I’m lucky.  I have great kids.

I show my mutual respect for them by staying off the pole, the corner, and the bar stool.

I bake them cookies, make homemade waffles, and let them see my sappy, schmoopy side.

Father’s Day is next.

Guess what?

Screw you.

That is one sob-fest I can do without.

Ty too.

Father’s Day equates to this brilliant recipe of pain and disaster for me:

Start with 1 heaping bag of  Pop (the one person who made me feel that I was an actual human being).

Add:

  1. mental images of how he suffered an awful, humiliating death just before I turned 18;
  2. being left alone in the world to “figure it all out” with the circle of bitches whom have succeeded him in his death;
  3. many emotional & psychological punches thrown by circle of bitches (these will be camouflaged as misguided attempts of love but will actually reveal themselves as soulless acts of greed and self loathing…) They add a lot of flavor to the recipe, but really contain no true nutritional value and are just generally bad for you;
  4. sleeping in car for weeks while attempting to figure out how to be an adult at 17 while the circle of bitches pat selves on backs for valuable life lessons taught to silly head-strong teenager who fused to play “the game”…while they live off family funds not earned by selves but by now dead, Pop.

Yummy!  That sounds like a super delish memory cake that I would sooooo love to eat year after year while people pat themselves on the back for my NOT turning into a stripper, whore, or drunk.

Excellent.

Very tempting.

(That was snark.)

Sorry.  I am now in a constant state of “training” of some sort (possibly to be a snark ninja?) and can no longer afford to eat pain cake laced with hell’s icing.

I will shut the interwebs off that entire Father’s Day weekend and Ty and I will stay out of every retail establishment designed to shred our hearts and souls.

Jeeze.

This is why I hate this Mother’s Day crap.  It gets the ball rolling for June.

I can call my mom up any time…and do.

I cannot call up Pop.

I cannot beg him not to leave me here with them.

I cannot fix it or undo it.

I cannot stop these tears after 20 effing years.

There are NO holidays.

You should just love everyone you love TODAY.

The Oddness of the Day

I know it is Mother’s Day and I should be on the phone with you, but I am typing this.

(Actually, I should be on my bike, but as I just finished an unexpected breakfast with The Sass, whom did not sleep in today, I am typing this.)

I plan to call you at some point today, because it’s the “correct” thing to do, yet it feels odd every year.

I am not angry at you.

I love you.

I am happy that we figured “us” out.

Yet, I get a little smirky on Mother’s Day.

I feel like you should call me.

Like you should be a mom on this one day.

Just this one.

You should bake me cookies and wipe my nose and allow me to be a kid.

I want to run and fall and make my knees bleed and not be stressed out that you are going to lose your mind when you see it or make me feel stupid and clumsy.

(I am very much the latter, but feel I have accepted such gracelessness with a certain amount of grace.)

There are no pictures of you and I.  

There are simply pictures of me alone or us with your mother between us, or her with me.

I don’t recall seeing you smile before 1995…and by then it was too late and I was gone.

Ultimately, I will dial your number when I stop typing and do what I am supposed to do because I know it will make you feel better and help you have a better day…and I do want that for you.

We will laugh and tease because we are  funny and uncensored and tragic…and yet, here we are.

The sound of it will make me happy.

I will listen and in the back of my mind wonder who or what I would be had I had you when I needed you.

Whoever she is, she isn’t me now and for that, I do thank you.

I will forever make jokes about your crazy chocolate business, your various animal obsessions, and your dysfunctional parenting and romantic choices…

I will never like the Easter Bunny, milk chocolate, cats, birds, or Speedos.

Ever.

…but I will always love you.

*picks up phone and dials…*

Yeah, It’s Like That!

This isn’t everything…but it’s enough.

I am pretty sure that I am going to be in a constant state of cycling orgasms from July 1 through the end of the year.

(That statement takes into consideration that the Concordia CX and CXmas are not even on the schedule yet and generally close out December…)

I just found out there is a psychocross race in July and damn near lost what is left of my mind!

My dog already thinks I am nuts and my daughter may never hear again, but all is right with my world.

Ridley (aka Bad Ass Mutha Fucka) is my new boyfriend and mud is my new commitment ring.

Bring it!

The Snarky Eyebrow of Chaos

I had a dream last night.

(That in itself is huge because it’s a sign that I was asleep!)

In the dream, I had one eyebrow (not to be confused with a unibrow), I drank espresso, and was late for work because my ginormous poodle got into a fight with a little poodle…

This chaos had me racing on foot across a cyclocross course during a race to get to my car while racers yelled at me for selling out to the man…

I then jumped in my car and drove the entire way dragging my cherished black Burberry coat (which was somehow caught mostly outside the car door) along the road and it was of course shredded when I arrived at work with the previously mentioned one eyebrow and ginormous poodle. I was wearing a tank top and flip flops. It was gray and slushy out…like the day after a blizzard.

My alarm went off.

I immediately walked into the bathroom to check my eyebrows.

They were both there…but the rest of that dream seems almost possible.

Was my eyebrow gone so that I could not properly deliver my particular brand of wordless snark?

Was my proper English jacket destroyed so that I would no longer live under the conservative veil of filters…?

Is Raycer really a badass?

Hmmmm…

Much to ponder.

*wicked grin*