Monthly Archives: May 2011

Self-crippled

I am overwhelmed and sad that I have terrified myself to the point of self-crippling.

I know what needs to be done and stare blankly at the task calculating the consequences that will inevitably follow.

I weigh the stress, chaos, and uncertainty estimates of leaping versus the stress, chaos, pain, abuse of standing still, and I feel paralyzed.

What seems obvious and logical still grips me with fear.

I know it’s a simple leap and all I have to do is count to 3 and jump…

…But the exhaustion drains my body and convinces me that my leap will fall short and I will be screwed.

My head slams down on my desk and the tears fall.

I look out into the dark and raging storm my window as the universe echos my soul.

ICC 3-Hour MTB Race – A Newb’s Recap

First, ICC = Indian Camp Creek.

Second, this was my second non-dirt crit-actual-real-mountain bike race EVER!

[whispers, “evvvvvvvahhhhhhhh….”]

Third, I was FUCKINGAWESOME…and that is really all you need to know!

What?

You want for more?

MORE YOU SAY?!?!?

Alrighty then…

It was effing hot, I am effing slow…and I was effing slow and hot but did not do ANY of the following things:

  • Puke
  • Cry
  • Faint
  • Quit
  • Pee for 9 hours
I did:
  • Smile when the first splatter of mud hit my skin.
  • Almost wreck dreaming of cx season 3 seconds after the first splatter of mud hit my skin.
  • Actually wreck a bit later on, but I don’t really want to talk about it and it was totally my fault and it was pretty funny.
  • Fall over for no good reason at a complete stop after allowing contending racers to pass.  That was even funnier.
  • Drink a crapload of water and Heed
  • Get a weeeee bit dehydrated during one part of the race and broke out with the chills.
  • Drink a VERY pretty and fruity concoction post-race (and after I properly took in refueling nutrition like the good girl that I am).  *wink wink*
  • Feel wicked fucking awesome because I was not a bike racer to my son until I did that race and that’s funny to me…and cute.

This was a super fantastic event that I could not imagine running any more smoothly than it did.

Believe.

I can find a way to bitch about anything if I wanted to…and I can’t find anything.

It’s nice when racers feel loved at events.

It’s nicer when racers feel the love back for the organizers.

This was like a giant love-fest.

…and that was nice for this racer who hasn’t seen much of that lately.

I don’t really know if this event is on the 2012 schedule yet, but if it is, make sure it’s on your schedule.

*Disclaimer:  Use of the term “FUCKINGAWESOME” is relative and in no way discounts any other racer.  The term is used specifically as it relates to my own personal awesomeness.  Do not attempt to tell me that my awesome is not all that awesome because it is not your awesome.  I don’t judge your awesome, so leave my awesome alone.  Also, I just now created the term “FUCKINGAWESOME” and sent in my copy right paperwork so there is no way you could know a secret meaning of my word when I just created it**.  Go make up your own words/terms.  It took a lot of creativity on my part to ingeniously fuse those words together.  Do not attempt to piss on my pita chips.  Go be your own awesome and show that awesome by just spreading the awesomeness.

**Of course I did not send in copy right paper work.  I am not that lame and would not kill a tree over something so stupid.  WTF is paper?  I hate paper work of any sort and go out of my way to avoid most paper work of any sort unless I am being paid to do the paper work.  That’s right.  I get PAID to do paper work.  Because I am just that…

(wait for it)

(wait for it)

FUCKINGAWESOME!

(Duh!)

Open Call for Male Cyclist Stripper…

Yes…this in open casting call for any male cyclists who would like to audition for a position as *Alexis’ personal stripper during her stay in the hospital.

This is not a paid position but should be done out of the goodness of your…”heart/brain/whateveryouhavenamedittoday”.

I am coordinating a panel of judges for whom you will audition your “talents”.

This is a very serious matter.

*Alexis is a fellow lady cyclist and is bored out of her pretty little head in that mean old hospital with screaming ladies who reside down the hall.

Because *Alexis likely has ear plugs in at this point, you will not need to speak…and really that works out best for all involved parties.

*Alexis will have final say on whom wins the coveted position as her personal stripper, while I retain first right of refusal to any/all cast-aways.

Please post photos and/or a description of prior experience.
Newbs are absolutely welcome to audition and may win extra points if you are “coachable”.

*DISCLAIMER: (*) = that Stacy’s name has been changed. Shit. My bad.

You may not touch any judges or *Alexis.

You must have shaved legs. Period. I will not allow my friend to be visually assaulted with leg pubes. Deal with it.

If you have previously been told that you are a “butter face” (or whatever the male equivalent to that is…), you may still audition, but please wear a mask. NO PRESIDENTS masks allowed. NONE. ZERO. Besides, it’s already been done.

NOTE: *Alexis is not in the psych ward; she is actually pretty sick and it sucks. If you are a weirdo who was hoping for straight jackets and bondage, you will be disappointed. Go fly your freak flag on the 5th floor…or whatever floor it’s on. I really don’t know. Really.

OK, well time is a wastin’.

Ready…set…GO!

Droopy-pants Drama

OK, I am going to say this…

I’m just going to put it right out there…

The “droopy-pants” law is not a form of racism.

Calling it racist is actually more insulting and racist than the particular law could ever be.

Are you effing kidding me?

We went through this same thing with the bandannas a decade ago. OK? Recall?

The ban simply involves all people wearing those stupid pants…just like the stupid bandannas.

I know…I was a suburban mom who left the rock gym and crossed over to the mall with my family (including an infant) and was asked to leave…because I had that thing holding back my hair.

Yep. Me. TOTAL gangsta.

(NOT.)

Look at that…I got asked to remove it or leave and I am an Irish/Italian/German/Scotch-American with freckles.

(Did you see what I did right there? WORD!)

I don’t actually care about this law, but calling it racist is stupid.

…Just like wearing your pants in a manner that makes you look like you crapped a bag of sand is stupid.

I don’t care if you are a criminal or my Fairy Godmother; if you are wearing droopy-pants you are likely an idiot and committing some type of assault…even if that is simple visual assault.

(PS: My Fairy Godmother is a TOTAL idiot who wears no pants…and I like that.)

There are zero benefits to the droopy pants other than making you look like a complete fucking mess and total slack ass.

Stop worrying about this thing or that thing that “may” allegedly offend your effing feelings or trigger your litigation finger and go bitch about something relevant.

There is a fucking war (or five) going on and our economy is in the shitter and now we have to tip-toe around feelings? About PANTS?!?!

Lighten the fuck up, grow the fuck up, and shut the fuck up.

Truth? MLK, Jr. did NOT get killed fighting for your rights to wear stupid, fucking ugly clothes.

He did not die for your right to bitch and moan and be an affront to your race and those in your race whom you embarrass by playing the race card and dragging an entire race into a specific demographic for the convenience of a petty gripe.

You insult every dignified, educated person in your race by making this an issue.

You insult every person in this country who believes and has fought for civil rights and equal rights.

Want an issue?

Go educate yourself on your heritage and ask your government why it gave you an allegedly “politically correct” label that should be more insulting and racist to you than any droopy-pants issue could/should ever be.

Until you understand racism, you surely cannot claim it.

…Then again, what do I know?

I’m an old cougar who wears spandex and rides a bike…which as I was told recently is:

(1) Very gay; and
(2) Very white

(If you are keeping score, I could TOTALLY nail a double hate crime claim right there…if I were such an asshole with nothing else better to worry about.)

*shrugs and pedals away*

Peace.

Best Advice From Mom

I didn’t have a fantastic mom who baked cookies and supplied advice to my sister and I to assist us in our life journeys.

I had a mom who made chocolate penis lollipops and paved the way for my sister and I to put our respective therapists’ children through college.

Instead of reading romance novels, our mom created drama.

Instead of brushing/braiding our hair, she pulled out her own and made crazy eyes at us and made us wish we were invisible.

Some moms carve turkeys; our mom carved her wrists.

Our mom made beautiful decorations for the Christmas tree…and then hurled the entire tree, decorations and all, out the front door into the yard.

Santa was the neighbor guy who had 3 creepy sons and an alcoholic, chain-smoking wife with long nails and fucking ugly hair.

My chocolate Easter Bunny had a penis.

The best advice my mom ever gave me was to not be like her. Consider it done.

I am 20 years younger than she was at my age and 50 years wiser.

I have never used my illness as an excuse for shitty behavior.

When I’m an asshole, I have no reason other than that I am an asshole.

I have not let my perceived need of a man, his love, or his penis rule my life.

I can open jars, smoosh bugs, and change the thermostat on my car with a butter knife…and have.

I have never let my perceived need for a man come before my children.

My son is almost 19 and still talks to me about real things, and tells me loves me multiple times a day.

He gives me real hugs.

We always say our “good nights” and look each other in the eye.

My daughter lives without fear that she will awake to find her mom gone from her life to pursue something more rewarding than her children.

While I am not the perfect mom and have made numerous mistakes, I can say that I followed my mom’s advice…and I am not like her.

So if I had to pass along her wisdom, I would say:

(1) Do not make penis lollipops for your children.
(2) Do not slit your wrists.
(3) Do not forget that children are children, even when they are 38, and they need their mommas.

If you had a good mom, tell her you love her.

If you had an awful mom, tell her that you love her…often.

You may just get through to her. I did.

That is this mom’s advice.

Peace and Happy Mother’s Day to all the super rad moms out there.

Huffs, Puffs, Cowbells, and Exploding Unicorns…

Today begins the awesomeness that is pychocross training!

I am beyond myself with excitement that May 1st sort of snuck up on me and whacked me in the head.

Holy hell on a cracker!

In the true spirit of the cx season, I am starting with a 5K, then mimosas on the park, then super-secret dirt/grass stuff in areas that are not (amazingly enough) flooded.

You don’t need to concern yourself with the super-secret plan, just know that it contains running…thus providing me more excuses for being slow on my road bike.

(Don’t act like you weren’t scared that I was going to jump right into this road season fresh out of surgery and blow the doors off the crit scene.  You were scared.  I can smell it like a fart in a car.)

OK, maybe I will blow the doors off something…but more than likely I will “Huff and Puff” like the big bad wolf that I am and that will be all that happens in any crit I enter…

So what?  I’m pretty.

…and I was told this in my last crit.

I may be slow but at least I’m pretty…and that made my heart feel all mooshy gooshy with warmth and love and my head exploded like a thousand cupcake-filled unicorns…because what I REALLY like is being reduced to “pretty”.

While many of my friends will be suffering whilst riding their bikes in a circle in Bellevegas today, I will have the shit-eating smirk of a genuine asshole who is just smart enough to puss out of that crit-racing nonsense and call myself a cyclocross racer.

A “pretty” ‘cross racer…who is going to clean your clock.

…and blink my pretty, mascara’d eyes at you over every barrier.

WOO-HOO!

*ties tiny cowbell to super cute ponytail and heads out for a run*

Peace, mud, and barriers to all.

Disclaimer: This was all in humor.  The racer who called me pretty is a friend and funny and was fucking with me.  Any attempts by any reader of this blog to attempt to start some shit makes them an immediate idiot.  If you are my super funny friend who made the “pretty” comment, I am in no way angry or pissed and have no intention of cleaning your clock, nor would I begin to know how to do so.  Who cleans clocks?  The Swiss?  I have zero clocks and 10 watches. I’ve cleaned the band and have to admit, it’s not a very menacing act.  It’s rather slow and boring…like me in a crit.  Who came up with THAT as a threat?  They must have been snorting bath salts and cotton candy.