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

Sunday of Solitude

Posted on November 21, 2011 | Leave a comment

From noon to 3pm yesterday, The Sass had a birthday party to attend and I had some down time to reflect and answer to no one.  (We all know that The Sass rules me.)

I crammed a lot into those 3 hours.

I started by sitting in my favorite wine bar, looking out through the rain at the peaceful grounds of Concordia Seminary.

I am wearing a warm hat and comfy shoes and feel connected with my hometown when I dress/sit this way.  Subconsciously, I must have needed this.

I tasted a new wine (for me), Bin 36.  DJ was right; it was superb!  (Add some more exclamation points here.)

There is a lady looking at my curious “SoHo” look that I am sporting and seems to be questioning why I am happening upon her Sunday.

She has that “sucking lemons” puss on her face and appears to be wondering what all this fuss about “fun” and “happiness” is  about as she straightens her colorless, poly-blend church suit and casts a look of disgust at DJ and me as we discuss his bike-purchasing options.

(We have this conversation every time I am there.  He is always pondering a new ride, but oft forgets to actually do the purchasing of said new ride.  I almost always have him talked into a new cx rig, but he is yet to pull the trigger.  If he does not buy one soon, I will be forced to tell him he is no longer pretty.  A lie, but sometimes we must resort to these measures.)

I was thinking that I would sip this glass and then head to the book store to look at dirty art books…but then realized that the book store closed (because people prefer to be stupid) and my options for roaming are to head to the bike shop or a furniture store.

For safety purposes, I hit the furniture store because I have enough of it and they do not fill me with longing.

At least I believed that to be true until I walked into this particular store.

I was immediately warmed and felt a flicker of a past life.

The life in which I regularly spent hours painting, creating, and imagining.

Ugh…what is this new fresh hell?

Please dear universe, do not give me another reason to become reclusive or not ride my bike.

I can be a horrible recluse at times and struggle to appear extroverted and social.

Nevertheless, there it was.  That flame flickering and warming me with ideas and images that I wanted to put down on paper, canvas, board…

I felt the sadness in me awake and I quickly quieted it, left the store and popped into the more commercial store to deaden my thoughts.

I felt mostly back to normal until I came upon the kitchen section and nearly burst into tears at how very ridiculous this holiday season will be…and how oddly similar to last year, only with thrice more pain.

Oh the joys of having regressed instead of making any discernible progress.

I fled that nonsense pretty quickly and headed back to pick up The Sass.

I stopped in the park and decided to walk off my icky feelings so that I could greet my magical child with happiness instead of need.

I spotted stairs, which always intrigue me, and walked toward them, taking in the surrounding colors.

I let my feet make music of the wet leaves and twigs beneath them and inhaled deeply the smell of the wet air around me.

I found a path I have never seen before and came upon a bridge that pleased me visually.

I had no idea where it led and could not see past the trees.

I stood looking for a long time.

I realized that it is time for me to cross these bridges and do so with welcome abandon, because fear of the unknown is how we trap ourselves into safe, obnoxious boredom and emptiness.

I turned away knowing that the time was not yet right but would be soon and immediately saw an empty bench.  Alone and cold.  That is what I would become if I did not cross that bridge.

I skipped back to the car to pick up my littlest; relaxed with the excitement of a new adventure, a new bridge, and pretty images dancing in my head.

It was a good day.

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Missing Bubba

Posted on November 7, 2011 | 2 Comments

Bubba Cross…

Like a long lost friend, I miss you.

I cannot believe that November is upon us and I have yet to race a Bubba race this 2011 psychocross season.

*sigh*

Tis not that you are not fantastic or awesome; tis just that things come up and plans change.

This year saw me (surprisingly enough) making the difficult decision to forgo a few Bubba CX races for the opportunity to race a few races at UCI venues.

I started with the USGP in Madison and it was without a doubt the most fun I have had on a bike in a wicked long time.

It was a muddy mess of hell and harmony that made my heart sing, and my bike hum.

You know you have had a spectacular day on the cx bike when you advance through fifty percent of the field in torrential downpour and laugh as you quite literally pull gobs of mud from your ass crack and coin slot.

Good, filthy, yet wholesome fun!

That was USGP Madison.  If you haven’t done it, you may as well open Google Calendar and type it in now.

This past weekend, we traveled to race the Cincy3CX race in Sunset Park (ehhh) and Harbin Park (SAWEEET!).

What a friggin’ blast!

I won’t talk about Saturday because it was 38 degrees, there was frost, and mud, and frosty mud…and that does something to a person.

(And if you know me, you know exactly what that did.  A cube of sangria followed soon after, as it was happy hour somewhere….like Europe.  AMIRIGHT?!?!)

We raced the Masters Women 35+ and while I came in 12th of 25, I was ahead of the chick who got 3rd in her race, if that gives you any idea what Miss Suze (who bet my ass with 7th) and I were up against in our field.

Holy shitcakes; not a slow race.  All power and one 20 secondish technical spot had Suze crying out, “Merry Christmas to ME!” as soon as we parked the velowagon.

I wanted to slap her.

(No, not really.)

Harbin Park was all hills, mud, and off-camber.  What a painful heap of hell and joy!

I almost puked as I crossed the Finish, which is certainly the sign of a good race!

Ohmygosh this race hurt so good!

I just found out that I got 15th (instead of the 23rd previously thought) and I am excited/orgasmic by that.

Sure, not a win, but considering my caloric intake, lack of non-sangria hydration, and the fact that I almost went shopping at IKEA instead of putting on my skinsuit which was still damp from being washed in the hotel sink the night before, I am pretty effing ecstatic.

Plus I went to IKEA and bought a wok for $5 and that pleases me.

Now, I am back home in St. Louis and looking the race schedule and realizing that there are only two (2) Bubba races that I am able to attend…and they are both this weekend and one of those is only a maybe.

I really want to do the “maybe” race because that course suits me, but will likely do the other course because it doesn’t suit me and I need  that more than candy-covered cross races right now.

Bubba Cross #7

11/12

Concordia Seminary

The Sass’ first 5K with Girls on the Run is that day and I am racing it with her.  I may be able to race if we get done in time as it is down the block.

Bubba Cross #8

11/13

Creve Couer Park

If I do not Concordia, then yes; if I do race Concordia, then no.

Bubba Cross #9

11/20

Mt. Pleasant Winery

The Sass’ best friend’s birthday party is that day, so that takes priority.

Bubba Cross #10

11/27

Jefferson Barracks

Will be racing Jingle ‘Cross Rock in Iowa City.  Not one bit remorseful and plenty thankful.

Bubba Cross #11

12/11

Spanish Lake Park

Nope; out of town and no cx out of town. Will be sad.

I love me some Bubba, but this year is just different with The Sass being older and into her own thing.  It has become more important to nurture her and her growth than for me to play in the mud.  Obviously, I have still found time to play, but that has grown to be balls-to-the-wall type play, crammed into short double-header and triple-header trips instead of filling Sass’ weekends with Mommy’s racing.

Jingle Cross Rock

11/25, 11/26, 11/27

Iowa City

Jingle ‘Cross Rock

UCI venue; The Green Monster is HERE!

MO State CX Championships Weekend

12/3, 12/4

KC

Fun people; no Bubba conflict.

Chicago Cyclocross Cup New Year’s Resolution

12/31 and 1/1

Chicago

Closing out 2011 and opening 2012 in UCI fashion. Wicked exciting!

To my Bubbalicious friends, I hope to see you this weekend.  I miss you guys a lot, but feel confident you’d do the same as me if you were a non-pro, weekend warrior like me with an aspiring triathlete at home who is finally the only kid tugging at mom and dad and while her sibs are off doing college stuff.

*wink* 

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Posted in bike racing, cyclocross, humor, Life, psychocross

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Tales of a Recovering Halloween Hater

Posted on October 31, 2011 | Leave a comment

I hate Halloween (or used to) because my mom was a giant pain in the ass.

There.  I said it.

She would either drive us nuts by going all out with decorations, costumes, and baking amazing themed cookies…

…or…

She would go bat shit crazy and do nothing and I would have to wear a dented mask from some other year or go as a ghost.

The only good thing about Halloween was that it saved me from her awful cooking*, because she never cooked on Halloween.  I was allowed to just dive into the trick or treat sack until a sugar coma was achieved.

(*My mom was an excellent baker.  She loved to bake.  Cooking, however, was not her bag…and eventually she just stopped doing it.)

I can’t recall any of my sister’s Halloween costumes, except one…I think…was a clown.

Ugh.

With all due respect, my mom was only around until my sister was 3, so there weren’t that many chances for costume success anyway.

What I recall as the beginning of the downward spiral of Halloween for me was the first grade.

All I wanted was to be Wonder Woman.

Diana Prince/Wonder Woman was my favorite!

I had really long hair and was pretty good at sleeping with those big, horrible rollers (remember those?!) to make my hair very “Brooke Shieldsy”.  I thought this would be a perfect thing to do for the Wonder Woman costume.

I saw the amazingly beautiful Wonder Woman costume at the store and begged for it every time we went.

One day, my mom (who is also a fantastic seamstress and made a fair amount of clothing and costumes) came home with a bag.

Now, even at 6, I knew there was a chance that my mom (who is clearly related to Eddie Murphy’s mom) might simply go to Joanne’s Fabrics and buy the pattern to make my costume instead of the “perfect” costume at the store and I would just have to deal with it.

So, I was not expecting that bag she held containing a store-bought costume.

I became very excited, like children do, and couldn’t wait to get my hands on that bag.

She handed it over and I ripped it open.

There it was.

The most hideous, embarrassing, store-bought Wonder Woman costume ever made.

(Since I am now a semi-adult and know how ridiculously flammable that effing thing was, I am currently crossing my arms across my chest and pouting twice with an added foot stomp.)

What in the hell was she thinking?!?!

At 6 years old (or at 39), I did not have a fantastic poker face and was not able to hide whatever that look on my face was.

Shock? Anger? Confusion?

Yes.

At 6, I could not wrap my head around how she could fuck up something so fantastically simple.

Did she not know me?

Had we never met?

Had I not specifically taken her by the hand numerous times and guided her directly to the correct thing?

Was she fucking serious?

(Don’t try to pretend that you are not right now imaging a 6-year-old Cory articulating my specific gripes and disappointments to this character called “Mom” who thinks she can saunter right in an ruin my Halloween.  The first Halloween in a new school and unarmed with the knowledge of what those other kids are bringing to the Halloween table costume-wise.)

Dammit!

In reality, I didn’t fully have a grasp on the “trigger button vocabulary” yet, so I didn’t mouth off or throw a fit.

First of all, you don’t pull that tantrum shit with my mom.  You want to throw your ass on the floor and sob and stamp and make a scene, that’s fine; she’ll step over you and go about her business.  But the second you try to drag her into your nonsense and suggest/imply/state that she made a mistake, or you are displeased, you better hope your ass can fun fast…or that your blood is made of anti-freeze because that woman will turn you to ice.

My little sister liked to throw tantrums…and I liked to watch, but I was no fool; best to keep that one happy.

I took one run at the costume topic.

“That’s not the right one.”

(Smooth, Cory.  Very smooth…and wise.)

“Is it Wonder Woman?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’s the right one.”

[starring contest]

“B-b-but…”

“Fine; I’ll take it back and you get nothing.”

[She grabbed the costume back; I sobbed.]

(I am REALLY playing this one rather smoothly, don’t you think?)

“No, no, no….I like it…let me try it on…I’m sure it’s fine…”

Tears and snot running down my face.

She handed it back and I ran up to my room to try on this awful, smelly, plastic, fire trap that was to bring me Halloween joy…

That creepy fucking half-mask with the elastic string that snapped on your head and hurt more than it should…

Those creepy eye slits, nose holes, and mouth cut-out were frightening.

I felt claustrophobic immediately.

I looked at my pathetic, flammable self in my mirror and sighed deeply.

The next day, I wore that horrible mess to school with my hair curled as if I really was Wonder Woman.

Then I saw it…

Samantha was also dressed as Wonder Woman.

She had on the costume I wanted.

She looked beautiful.

She looked at my costume and you could tell she knew hers was infinitely better.

I dropped my head.

She didn’t say anything, but I took off my mask.

Samantha and I played at lunch and she knew I was sad.  She told me my hair looked pretty while we jumped rope and she wished I was going home to her house with her mom to trick or treat that day.

As I walked the 2 blocks home from school, I dreaded going out to trick or treat, but if I didn’t I would be at home pouting and that would not go over well.

Not having the kind of mom who explained certain things that only adults think of, she sent me out trick or treating at 3p…when most people are still at work.

I was defeated after 3 blocks and although I had some candy, I knew Halloween was a complete failure that year.

Later, as it became dark, my mom had me hand out candy to trick or treaters who came to the door.

Neither she nor my stepdad took me out and every kid in our zip code got to see my horrible costume.

The next year she bought me a witch hat and I wore that…with a hole cut in a sheet as the dress.

(Those must have been some super awesome meds the doctor prescribed for her, because she was a real treat, for sure!)

She at least made cookies the following year (2nd grade), so that was good, but my sister had been born a few months earlier, so no trick or treating…again.

In the 3rd grade, I simply recycled the witch hat and said the 8-year-old’s equivalent to “fuck it”.

In the 4th grade I was an amaaaaaaazing vampire…because my aunt Lisa and her girlfriend Rosalie did my makeup and worked out a cape for me.  My sister was a toddler vampire and we were AWESOME!

In the 5th grade I made myself into a table setting and made a cake hat.  That was fun and I won some award at a party we attended.  My mom was already gone or I would have told her to suck it.

In the 6th grade I was a punk rocker and walked around bombing people with eggs and shaving cream with the rest of my friends.  It was a blast.

I didn’t dress up for 7th grade except for a party, at which I was Cyndi Lauper in one of my grandma’s spectacular dresses from the 50s.  Again, awesome, but Halloween was not about candy and fun anymore.

That was the last year I dressed up for about 15 years.

Ty and I always had a blast figuring out his costumes, and it made me happy that I had a boy so we could be as obnoxious as we wanted…and we were.  Some of his costumed freaked the shit out of people.

Then The Sass came along.

When she was 1, I dressed her as a Dalmatian and I dressed as Cruella DeVille and carried her around while Ty dressed as JLo (pillow in the ass and all)…which was FANTASTIC!

I caught the Halloween spirit again and it is now one of my favorite holidays.

This year is the first year in a few that Halloween falls on my time with The Sass, so I am jazzed to take her trick or treating.  I am even dressing up as the mommy of a werewolf.  It’s going to be awesome!

Parents, it’s OK if you don’t have the money or want to spend the money on a fantastic costume for your kids, but at least encourage them to be creative and make their own Halloween magic…

…otherwise they grow up to be authors of snarky blogs who call you out on your bullshit…even if they find it funny one day, as I do.

MUAHAHAHAHAH!

OK everyone, be safe and go get some CANDY!

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Posted in childhood, humor, Life

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Let’s Get Some Legos!

Posted on September 9, 2011 | 2 Comments

The Twin Towers (how I will always refer to them) were completed when I was 4 years old.

I remember being taken to the city soon after and walking in the grass and running my hand along the building and looking up into the clouds.

I remember the texture between my fingers and knew then that the buildings were a big deal.

I was never that into The Empire State Building.

Maybe King Kong movies ruined it for me.  I really don’t know.

In my adult mine, I imagine that it was the pure aesthetics  of the structures that appealed to me.  I have always appreciated clean lines.  Perhaps that is an outward expression of my personality, whether natural or evolved.

Once I left NYC and moved to South Hell (aka Hollywood Beach, Florida), any image of the Brooklyn Bridge or the Twin Towers was “home” to me.

I was a teenager and still felt nothing for the Empire State Building…perhaps that even then I knew that it was designed my a man obsessed with his…ummm…manhood?

When the planes hit the Twin Towers, I was far from NYC.

I was a mom, in treatment for cancer, and supporting my young son.

Ty was 9.

He knew I was upset when I picked him up that day.

He semi-knew why.

He knew that I had accepted and then turned down a job back in NY the year prior.

He knew I was homesick.

He did not however expect me to stare stupefied at the TV that night, praying and crying for my aunt, whom I could not reach or my step-uncle whom I had not spoken to in over a decade…

My aunt, Lisa was NYPD at the time and I could not imagine the hell she was in.

My step-uncle, Tommy was FDNY and I had had a crush on him from the ages of 5-11.  He was still pretty dreamy…

Lisa and I, raised as sisters, had had a falling out the year before when I backed out of moving back to NY, and we had not spoken much since.

I could only reach my actual sister, Jennifer.  She and her family were safe…but she had not heard from Lisa either.

She was “right there” but did not have a driver’s license and wouldn’t have known how to get to Lisa even if she had.

I was *this* tempted to jump in my car and drive to NY myself to do something.

I didn’t know what, but I felt fucking helpless.

Helpless enough that I was happier at that moment to have cancer than to be in NYC.

It was an awful night.

I kept the TV on all night and didn’t sleep a moment…just waiting for Lisa to call me back.

I dragged my sorry ass into work the next day and went through the motions.

When I got home, the TV went right on in the hopes of hearing just one bit of good news.

I was a zombie.

Some parts of that day. week.  month…are still a blur.

Ty and I were just talking about it tonight…while we discussed with Megan how she must have felt that day.

It was her 9th birthday.

She told me that her mom didn’t tell her until September 12th.

That her family celebrated her birthday and that she got a lot of presents.

She had a great birthday.

I was so impressed with Megan’s mom and so disappointed in myself at that moment.

Ty had laid next to me drawing the Twin Towers while I watched…artistically recording the moment.

My heart sank realizing what I put him through that day.

Hearing my praise and admiration for Megan’s mom, Ty looked at me and said I looked at him and his drawings on September 12th and said…

“Let’s get out of here and get some Legos!”

As Ty was a Legomaniac, I am sure this thrilled him beyond expression.

He said that I drove straight to FAO Schwarz and bought him “the most badass Lego car thing EVER!”

That is what Ty remembers of September 11th…

…and I think I am happy about this.

I know I am happy that I have the type of son who instantly took away my fear that I am a horrible parent…

…and his excitement at 19 over the Legos he got when he was 9 means perhaps, just perhaps, I have not entirely scarred this kid for life by not knowing what to do.

Lisa and Tommy are alive and well.  Many of my childhood friends lost people they cared about that day.  I was fortunate.

My heart goes out to the families and friends of those lost that day, especially to Karen, my childhood nemesis, who lost her brother that day.

Hug your family and go buy your kids some Legos this weekend.

Turn off the TV, click away on the web, and count your blessings.

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