Twofer Tuesday

So this lady and gentleman (and an occasional third reader) is the inside of my hub. I never got my paws on the pawls. The best I can figure that's something on the drive side, where I can't seem to access. Things shooting off into the ether was quite a discourager.

That and the couple people I consulted with made it sound like tackling the impossible. But really any mechanic will tell a non-mechanic that no matter what. A little bit of patience goes a long way and saves a ton of cash; I know that.

So I got as far as removing the nut and we'll say the cap. Then I hit a road block. There's talk of a 10mm and a 5mm and this and that, but I don't even have a 10mm so we stop there regardless. And both parties keep talking about repacking the hub, the bearings, and the like. Okay, I hear you! But that there folks appears to me to be a sealed cartridge. No servicing required.

But I cleaned up what I could, dripped a couple drops of oil around it and screwed her back up. Nothing I did shoulda made a lick of difference, but the $80 service quote sure would have. Know what, it worked. No more noise (for now). I'm not gloating because I can tell it wants to howl again. But with a little screw and a little lube I got a quiet smooth ride. That's what she said.

And on that nice quiet ride I encountered a war zone over on Connecticut Avenue. Water main break. I didn't realize it at the time, but with those pants I coulda got a ring side seat to the geyser. And maybe an honest answer as to when the water restrictions would be lifted. It smelled a whole lot like gas so I didn't hang around.

The trail was still open and the traffic was horrendous so I was sitting pretty. All 4 stations were camped there but no one stopped me to interview me. :( And there I was all prepared with my sound byte:  How am I affected by the water restrictions? Oh not so bad, I drink more beer and shower with my girlfriend...sounds like a lifelong plan!

Rien Ne Va Plus

I lent my bike to a friend a few months ago. And now it's broken. I'm not saying there's a correlation; however, I heard she had a broken nipple the other day. Spoke. Broken nipple spoke.

I couldn't recreate the noise she claimed she heard while riding it. I'm not saying it was in her head, I heard it too, and I'm not in her head. But as much as I rode it I could never recreate the noise.

True, many of those miles were logged on my trainer. Because let's be real, it's scary out there on the roads. This was my old commute route just one week ago. Then this weekend I took Mary Todd back out on the road, that's when I saw the crushed car. DAYS after the wicked snow 'storm'. It was the same car I saw on the news, just now, live, in person, up close.

And there it was. The noise. Was back. For me. It sounded like rubbing. Something seemed to be rubbing but I had no idea what or where. And it only happened at speed. Downhill speed accessorized with a bump. It's not exactly a time when you want something undefined 'rubbing'. On a bike. In the city.

 

When I got home I took the thing the apart. I removed the cassette, gave it a good cleaning, gave the wheel a spin. ?? What the?? I spun the wheel in my hands like a roulette wheel and it seriously sounded like one. It sounded just like the little marble looking for a number to land on. With a fully pumped tube inflated in it? I think not. But sure enough no matter how many times I spun it, it was an unmistakable sound.

I had no choice but to pull the tube. And if you had been here when I put the new tires on you would know that's not an exercise I cared to repeat. Tire off, tube removed, bouncing ball still in tact. Another reason I dislike the deep dish rims, add it to the list. So, I'm guessing there's a pebble caught between the rim and the tape and I can't decide if it's worth looking for. Spin, spin, watch, spin, watch. I kept my eye on the nozzle hole like a puppy watching a mole hole. Red Fourteen. FINALLY, out popped a...presta tip? What are the odds? Okay, I wasn't expecting that.

Stair Me Down

Let me just start by saying this IS the doggie in the window but NOT the puppy in my tale. She's cute as shit though right?

Okay, so here's how it goes down...I've had my new bike for just under a month now. It's been cold and wet and muddy; I haven't been on it much. In fact I've been off it more than you'd think.

So yeah, I've fallen off it on more than one occasion. And every time the girl says, how's your ego? Snicker snicker. After confirming that I'm okay, of course.

Really? My ego? As if I care. You can't fall if you don't ride. And you don't ride if you don't fall. Me? I just fell down the stairs. Excuse me, STAIR. It was just ONE stair. I fell off one stair. Oh no, I wasn't ON a bike. I was on my feet, emphasis on the WAS.

Here's how I went down...hard. End of story. Don't ask me; I have NO freaking clue. There I was just sock hoppin' down the steps and boom. I went boom. 4 inches from the ground. Clearly I caught myself on my forearms. Lucky me. Happy Half Birthday I feel OLD.

Enter Puppy 911. Ripley was a little slow to respond but quite able and willing, unlike some other first responders you may have heard recently in the news. This dog was on it, er, well, on me. As I rolled myself over I was face to face with a whimpering puppy. No doubt, concerned about my well being. How sweet.

When I didn't really answer outside the groans and moans, she panicked. Tempered panic mind you. She began CPR-- Cute Puppy Response. There I laid at the foot of the stairs, puppy poised above me. The whimpering stopped and the paw tapping began. Yes, Ripley began tapping my chest as if she might fix what was wrong with her careful chest compressions. She would stop, look, and listen then continue with more tapping. Thank god she skipped the breath.

Come to think of it, sweetie, would it be okay if I rode my bike in the house? I do much better on stairs on two wheels than two feet. I mean as soon as I can maneuver a handlebar again. :(

Stick A Fork In It

Brave. That's what the guy said as he passed me. Brave. No, I'm tempted to say stupid, but it wasn't my idea. Although it was fun. But I like hills. And I like them even more on 29 inches. Felt like riding a StairMaster up a hill, outside, on the road. I guess that's what it felt like, has anyone ever rode a StairMaster up a hill on the road outside?

Here's the thing...never, ever bail on a trail. I know I sound like a broken record, but she never believes me. Has her own agenda. Thinks I'm out to get her. But you know, it never ends well. Usually you end up lost. Riding fatties on concrete. Nobody likes that.

 

This time I knew where I was. I just didn't love it. And I knew she wouldn't either. Earlier she said she didn't like riding that road, with no shoulder. And here we were back on it. With a 49% grade. Give or take a percentage point. Depending on if you ask her or me.

In her defense, she broke her bike. Her new classic amazing race machine. Broke. Yes, that's what I was afraid of when we stole it from that guy at the swap. And when I lifted it ever so carefully and put it on the rack of the car I questioned the watery oil concoction seeping down my forearm.

 

I don't know very much about shocks, even less about oil based shocks, but I'm thinking oil running from the fork is bad. Very bad. But that explains the bargain bike. Still worth it even if we need to buy a new fork, but what a drag to find out mid ride at technical Patapsco.

 

So I don't blame her, she should want to bail on the trail. She is after all riding it on an oversized underwheeled road bike. While I take a sabbatical on my oversized overwheeled comfort style mountain bike.

Don't tell the kids but these 29ers might be the off roader for the elderly. Seriously they are super comfy and easy to ride. No pulling through a rock garden. No header after your crank sticks in a log. No aching back as you hover over the flat bar cranking out the miles. This baby feels like a comfort bike built for the woods. How cute that the youngsters find them trendy. And I didn't even mention the extra three inches. Ladies, size DOES matter.

Sew Me

None of this is my fault. First, look at me. I'm not built for home ec. I got dressed today, but I can't remember the last time I combed my hair.

Second I'm more of an idea man. And not always a good one. I throw them out there like Mr Mom in Night Shift. Most should be left by the curbside. If I'm not saying, "hey this would be a good idea" I should really just be pushing the buttons.

I'm no engineer, no matter what the project is. I'm not great a planning things out. I don't want to measure and check and recheck. I want to go. I want to do. I get an idea and I want to roll with it. NOW.

Third, you see what I'm working with here right? The calico is PARKED on what I am TRYING to sew. And she is staring at me like, WHAT? Sorry, to have disturbed your catnap, but do you mind IF I FINISH THE QUILT FIRST BEFORE YOU START FURRING THE THING UP??!!

As a short aside, Cats, listen up: the women who love you most are crafty. They like to sew, knit, cross stitch...they use needles, thread, and yarn. We understand you like those things too, and we might think it's cute the first or second time you experiment with them. But it ends there. It gets 'uncute' FAST. And Parker, that little circus trick you do swallowing pins...was NEVER entertaining.

Oh, and then there's the whole reason I need a new blanket, also NOT my fault. I'd love to keep using my warm fluffy down blanket and feather filled poofy pillows. But it's not really fair to my snotty girlfriend. See what I did there sweety, snotty, cute right?

Through all this stress, she puts me under further duress by contributing to the quilt with her precious stash. Then proceeds to tell me, Don't MESS IT UP! Breathe, breathe, breathe, you can do this.

Turns out I cannot. I got my first flesh wound whilst sewing today. I haven't even started the quilting process yet. She's on her way, I warned her of my ills, and I could hear disappointment in her voice. She told herself, "it's only material" and I'm sure that was more for her than me.

Well, it's warm. It's not overly pretty. It bunches. Some key things were covered in the making of the quilt. But Parker likes it!

Here's Mud On Your Thigh

Thems my pants. This My Dear, is why I need to buy new pants. So the other day the girl gives me grief, says "don't you already have a brown pair of pants?"

I'm sorry, aren't you the one who wanted to go to Gabe's, absolutely knowing neither one of us needed a single thing from there?? But really, who can pass up a trip to Gabe's?

Skipping Gabe's. It's like eating one Pringle, who the hell can do that? Come to think of it I'm not even sure that's a word. Pringle. I'm quite certain the correct use of that word would always require plurality, Pringles. Anyway...

Then, she wants an inventory of my brown pants selection.

THEN, she puts on my brown pants to go biking. Mountain biking. In the mud. And of course she falls. Repeatedly. In my brown pants. Yes, thank god they were already brown. But I repeat, this is why I need to buy new pants. ANOTHER pair of brown pants.

That's What You Get For A Dollar

Today I took my bike for a ride. In a car. I took my bike for a drive. And I wasn't happy about it. But it rained so I guess it doesn't matter anyway.

So instead of a nice leisurely, flat ride on the laid back Eastern Shore...cuz let's be honest the only place you can get a nice, leisurely ride on the Eastern Shore is in the woods, deep in the thickly populated dense forest, protected from the harsh flatland winds...I digress...

So anyway I got some sketchy directions. And let's be completely frank, I only blame myself because clearly I wasn't paying close enough attention. I remember something about a Y. But the girl does talk to me like I sprouted from a local country field, trolled the beaches since I was knee high to a praying mantis, was perfectly pooped from a purdue chicken butt. "You head toward Pocomoke..." I mean really, I have a 50-50% chance I guess and I know it ain't north. She's right I ought to know...But I never found the forest.

Instead I ended up making a circle and wound up right back in town. Otherwise known as, Route 13. Here, for miles and miles and miles, one can embark on the Dollar Tour. Dollar Tree, Dollar General, Family Dollar, Dollar Store, there's even one called Family Dollar Store. And this is in no way to be confused with Big Lots or Ollies Bargain Outlet.

So instead of doing ride bys of deciduous trees we were doing bargain buys at Dollar Trees. Not quite the same. It wasn't a good day on the Eastern Shore. I'm not sure if the rain made it better or worse. wah, wah, wah.

Back In Time

Like a trip in a time machine. A broken time machine. Today I went back to where it all began. When I first started mountain biking. When I was riding dirt along Naylor, no trails or trail heads. Back on my black High Plains.

Traversing Salisbury without touching pavement...well, sort of.  On some of my old routes...almost. Cutting back by the ball field...you can still launch off the old sand pile. That's where the fun started. Twenty years ago.

It's also where the fun stops. Jump forward to 2013. Well it was fun back in the day. Drop down by the zoo, weave through the trees just beyond the park. Cross the street and go at it some more. By the lake, pause on the dock, go all out weaving trunks and foliage.

Not so much any more. You can ride by the zoo, on gravel, no bobbing, no weaving. Unless you count the meandering dog walkers who have complete disdain for sharing the trail. Makes me have a new found appreciation for the city.

And I've spent many a year accepting the fact that I AM a vehicle. Here all the paths are marked Official City Vehicles Only..is that me? Is it not? Am I a vehicle? Can I use this trail? I have no freaking idea.

By the pond...it's completely unmarked. I guess? I can ride there? Back there where the magic started. Back where I actually helped blaze the trail a couple decades ago. But it's hard to say. Now it's Salisbury University's. Some kind of Frisbee playground. For adults. Where adults throw discs free of dogs...and probably bikes, but I couldn't be sure. There were no signs, but I was in constant danger of getting whacked in the head by a flying disc. And I'm not overly sure they cared for me ramping off their tee pads. Tee pads? Really? Whatever.

I had more fun riding over the curbs in the EVO parking lot really. Even if I did eat gravel on one of them. Just goes to show the riding is more technical in a parking lot than the actual single track of the big city. Truly, I'm not sure why I went with a 29er...really a niner would have been sufficient!

A Toast

Dating beneath you. I've heard it. And I'm not talking about being on top...really? Where is your mind? GUTTER. What has that got to do with King's syrup and peanut butter...wait, strike that. This is NOT about bowling, I SWEAR! She gets me, I mean it.

Yes, I admit it, I am dating beneath me...and I felt the effects of it today. When I was having breakfast. And I couldn't find the necessary ingredients for my toast. I had to look here and there...waay UP there.

Why? Because she can't see over there. Or reach up here. Oh, I tried to fix it and I made it worse. Because I don't live down there. And I have no clue what makes sense...in her world. And that's what it's all about.

I'm not making this up. That's what she says. When I try to move something. Or find something that no longer lives there. Welcome to together. I don't mind so much. I can, after all, see things she can't. That gives me a slight advantage. I mean if you've ever seen us heel to heel. Slight. Right.

This is where the beneath me ends. She is perfect. But you know that. Or we wouldn't have celebrated the first full year of bliss this week. It's true. And I couldn't be happier. Even if I can't find my toast condiments all in one place.

Ithacat

Yes, that is poop on my blog. Poop. I've blurred it in an attempt to make it less offensive. Have I succeeded? That's Parker. Perhaps you've met.

She doesn't care much for the litter box.  She used to be able to stand on the corner so that none of her precious feet had to touch such a gross and disgusting event. I'm not sure if she can still manage that or not. Clearly she can't manage actually hitting the box, so NO I won't be teaching her to use the toilet any time soon.  I'd settle for her covering it up when she is done.

The good news is she is a relatively clean cat. Now that I've met country cats I can say that with some form of authority. I do not love poop on the outside of the litter box. I have a part-time dog I get to bend over and pick up poop for...I do not need a cat. Parker, this is one of your selling points, don't muck it up.

I mean if it's particularly offensive when it comes to odor, you can scold her. If she agrees, she will actually go over and try to cover it up with litter. You can see her vain effort above. It's not always effective. I am not convinced she does not do this out of spite to let me know she doesn't approve of my irregularity in cleaning said box.

All things being equal, which they are not, I do much prefer Parker's poop slightly missing the litter box to say Gus's inability to clean his toes after using his litter condo. The girl excuses his poor hygiene to his polydactylism, which would be much cooler if it were pterodactyl RAH RAH!

I've got nothing against the liberal-toed, I just don't love litter in the bed, for example. It's days like that where I'd rather pick up doggie poo in a bio-degradable bag, yes we just bought those! Right!? Here's a girl that doesn't want to pay for a bag for her groceries, and I just bought bags for poo. (can you see my eyes rolling?!) I'm quite certain  it would be cheaper to buy bags with groceries and use them twice rather than....oh never mind.

Anyway, when did my blog become about this? Oh right, when the only exercise I got was picking up poo. Right, right. For shits (pun intended) and giggles, have you seen this yet? (yes, I was thinner then, I did more than pick up poo. Oh, and that is not the aforementioned Gus...does that toe thing grow on trees??) sheesh.

Butt, Er

Waitre...I steal butter. Or rather this is my first coup. I've never been that person, but times are tight. And snax is good with actual butter. These little gold popcorn pats of it are super duper handy too.

Excu...Fits right there in yer purse for emergencies. Cuz you never know when you might need a dab of butter. Gum in your hair. Stuck ring. Sap on the hood of your car.

But I...And I snagged them like a stealth burglar in the night. What with our waitress taking an hour to even take our drink order. RIGHT?! Indeed, me and my dinner date, thought we'd take the sneaky option and sit outside since we had that warm January night you always look forward to every year. See, there was a lively fundraising function on the inside...with a band, and tots (the running giggling kind not the tasty fried treats) and an hour wait for a table.  Did you say an hour???

Er...Yeah, so we waited an hour in the 'waiting area' of the restaurant, sitting outside reading our menus and wishing for drinks. We couldn't get an order in edgewise. I was glad to see my friend's function booming with success. The waitress says the Event Planner (they have one of those? and they still have a job? can I turn in my resume? just in case?) only expected 24 people. Are you kidding me?

As my friend said, I am truly shocked that they were only expecting 24 people. I mean what the heck?  I mean do they know who I am??? :) KK brings in a party! And that's NO LIE.

Quilt, Quibble, Quit.

We all have our obsessions I suppose. She has hers; I have mine. The girl on one hand has a healthy supply of scissors, bet you thought I was gonna say T-shirts! I, on the other hand, think each pair of scissors should have a specific, defined role. She, clearly, does not.

Eight pairs of scissors and not a one that can cut material. I think it may have been a set up. See, the girl also has an unhealthy supply of T-shirts, ah, there it is, the T-shirt reference. And doesn't want a single one cut.

I like to make quilts. Out of T-shirts. Little cut squared pieces of T-shirt. Cut with a clearly defined pair of material scissors (used on nothing in its lifetime but material). She likes to hoard, yes hoard, T-shirts. And what does a hoarder do? Clings to every day items in an abnormal obsessive irrational way.

I get it. Kind of. I did an essay in college about the importance of T-shirts. But I believe in a time and place to let go. And if you've got T-shirts from college, or worse yet, high school...it might be time. Or not, hence, the immortal T-shirt quilt. I thought it the perfect match; she and I. She has 852 T-shirts. And I have the ability to turn them into a blanket to keep us warm.

Wrong. She can't bear to let a single thread be cut. "What is it about this one?" I ask. "I went there", "my friend made his one", "I like Peanuts", "the color", "I've had this one 30 years". Yes, I could tell from the smell and the fact that I can actually see through the shirt. Baby, not only is it time to let go, but I can't even use those for a quilt...be a chilly blanket.

So I gave in. Keep your ratty T-shirts squirreled up in the unfinished room, you can use them as insulation. I'll cut all of mine and make a boring TV quilt. She actually buys shirts, I can't blame her. I get so many free I wouldn't dare spend money to get one more. And I'm not that great at quilting so it's just better this way for sure. At least for the sake of the relationship.

Below the Fold

When my friends find out how much I make (and the fact that it doesn't pay the bills) they think I'm crazy for quitting my financially comfortable job. They also suggest asking my boss for a raise. Mmmm...yeah, I think they call it non-profit for a reason.

So indeed, I took a bit of a pay cut, but the flexible schedule, nights, weekends, and holidays make it all worth it. I think. And yet, I struggle:

1. Where to get my news.
This has been quite a big dilemma. I used to get my fill of current events on the clock. I tried watching local news, but it turns out they need to pay me to watch that crap. I can't afford the paper nor do I want the pressure of reading it every day. Online...well, I spend a majority of my day on the computer and don't really want to do it a minute more. So if it doesn't cross my facebook newsfeed, it ain't news.

2. How to get exercise.
I used to commute to work by bike. Now I walk down the stairs, brew my coffee, and wear my pajamas into my home office. No commute required. I've gained 20 pounds. And aged 10 years. I can't touch my toes and my hips ache. When I walk the dog my arm hurts the next day. This sucks. When did I become that person?

3. I'm dehydrated.
Oh, I know how it sounds. It's true what they say about the water cooler, there's a certain social aspect tied to it. My kitchen faucet doesn't have nearly the same effect.  And I'm downing beer, coffee, and tea but now I'm hearing that doesn't even count. I've seen how they're all made and I can assure you plenty of water goes into everything. In fact, you can even see it in certain mass brews.

The good news is I've found a solution that addresses all three downfalls at once! At least for those days when I'm in the city. If I ride down to the Newseum I can get the front page news from across the nation in one quick ride by. Then I flip and climb back up the hill. Inevitably I get thirsty.

News. Exercise. Hydration. I still can't pay the bills, but I had Christmas and New Years off. And...there's your Christmas bonus!

Stop Waffling

Once upon a time I cried to my friend, "I just want someone to make me pancakes in the morning." See, I'm not great with breakfast foods and even worse at pancakes. And I don't want them often but every now and again I get a hankering for pancakes.

And I thought my time would never come. I would never be so lucky as to find someone to love who loved me back. No one to share my life with. No one to swap social theories or life dreams. No one to have sleep overs, pillow fights, or pint night...and I'm talking ice cream here. No one to decorate the tree, drive while I sleep, or tell me to put my laundry away. No one, damn it, to make me pancakes and coffee!

 

And this friend that I whined to about life and pancakes gave it to me straight that day, "Girl, you need to learn how to make your own pancakes!"

 

Well, I never did. To this day I still can't make pancakes. But I did get a waffle maker for Christmas. Actually I got a waffle machine, the waffle maker has been around for a while...and she claims she's not great with pancakes either. But she does make a mean egg.

Shaken and a Bit Stirred

The other day I left the house. We're talking country now, of course. It sounds crazy, but I don't often leave the country house. As much as I hate city traffic, I often find it harder to get around in the country. It involves gas and vehicles and miles. I can't hop on a bike, ride to the store, and be home in a flash. Nothing is as close as it appears.

So I load up the car with supplies for my big adventure to the big city. Water, snacks, GPS...Now I had seen this several times before but never actually read the sign. There, at the local watering hole, was a sign promoting the not-so-recent Skyfall. You've heard of it? You've seen it!? Great, let's grab a drink.

All you need to do is bring your ticket stub to this establishment and you'll get a drink at a discounted price. And I'm pretty sure it's not PBR. I wonder, though, would they really honor my ticket stub (I saw it in the actual city, or rather, not SBY. And the ticket doesn't exactly say Skyfall.

See, I know I should have blogged about this when it happened, but what with the holidays and all I guess I didn't have time. But the girl brought it up in conversation often. I guess it was a little bizarre. The girl wanted to see Skyfall (a fairly recent release at the time) one Friday (in fact BLACK Friday) whilst we were perched in the city. No prob. we've got theaters on every corner. HOWEVER, she said, I want a theater with only 18 people there. It was just an insane challenge not a crazy phobia or anything. She thought I couldn't do it. To be honest, so did I.

I mean really, where in the hell could you see a new release in the city on Black Friday??!? WHEAton of course. So I took her to the 'hood. There was no fooling her, she red.neckenized it right away. Cue Carol Anne in the vein of Poltergeist, No, No, you said NOT to go into WHEAton after dark, NO.

We enter the theater directly. The box office outside was dark. At the concession stand we were able to purchase our tickets. They made two little chicken scratch marks on a piece of scrap paper under a handwritten Skyfall heading. We were then issued two carnival style Admit One tickets in return for a twenty. Sit over there they say and motion toward an array of black pleather office chairs lined up in the lobby. It looked a bit like a small airport waiting area. OR a going out of business sale at Office Depot, which by the way, could be where they came from.

And there we sat, with a growing group of others who also collectively scratched their heads wondering if they truly understood the candy counter lady correctly. Finally, a man said, Skyfall? You can go in now. Slightly skeptical and somewhat untrusting we cautiously followed each other down a long darkened hallway as if we were about to be laughed off the screen in the latest version of Scream 8. The leaders taking two steps, turning a questioning glance sideways back at us, taking two more steps, shrugging, laughing, wondering where the hell this deserted hallway was leading us next.

To the theater of course. We eventually made it. And we should have brought the lobby chairs. No stadium seating. No drink holders. There was a bonus squeak in the chair and a spring poking up in an unpleasant place, so you had to sit still. But the film was focused and centered and the audio not too shabby. And by the way, 18 ticket holders joined us as the reel started to roll.

Now, about that $3 martini....

It's A Trap

No creatures were hurt in the making of this photograph...the blog, however, a different story.

So, I couldn't help but notice the girl's sadness whenever we came home to the country home to find empty mousetrap, empty mousetrap, empty mousetrap. Behind the dryer, in the ceiling, in the attic, nipping at my toe in the bathroom...

You may recall she had an escaped colony from NIMH creating a humansized mouse maze within the walls of her country home not so long ago. Well, perhaps long ago and never moving out, hence the headsized hole that now hangs in the spare room. And I don't have to tell you, nobody likes a sad girl. So I fixed it. Fixed it like one might fix a basketball game or an SAT score.

 

Because you can't really make a mouse jump in a trap, you do what you can. I borrowed a kitty's Christmas gift, as you can see above, stocked the stockade. It was cute for all of about a half second. THEN, we found the crime scene in the next room. When we checked trap #2 in the Hot Zone, ZAM! ZING! BOOM! Ladies and Germs we have a broken-necked-blood-drained winner! And my dear Watson, just to be clear, my work here is done.

 

After I confirmed the carcass was present and lifeless, dangling precariously above our heads just out of sight in the ripped apart ceiling, I slowly removed myself from the ladder, tagged the girl, and stepped aside, like any good city girl would. This is after all her kill. My job is to set the scary, snapping traps, thank god. Occasionally I rig them with fluffy catnipped replicas, for the sake of exciting the girl, and apparently then, I am called in to confirm when they've been successfully deactivated. At that point I then call in the CSI team, which does NOT include me.

 

I just lure them in...Girl!

 

"The bitch set me up"

  

You're Fired

Twas the night before Christmas when all the house every creature was stirring, was it cat, rat, or MOUSE? It was all fun and cute when we talked about country mouse and city mouse...until they started dropping from the ceiling like MI 3.

When I found her she was on a ladder, a saw in hand, and a gaping hole above her head. She was crying a little, mumbling something almost indiscernible about Hantavirus.

I was glad to see the stain on the ceiling had finally been removed after months of complaining about it.  She didn't want to find the leaky pipe behind it. I didn't like the mold growing in it. They had no idea they would be evicted days before Christmas.

I wasn't sure I wanted to ask about the Virus. Turns out neither one of us was right. We should have listened to Parker. No wonder she hated coming here, the walls spoke to her. She thought she was going crazy. While we were all nestled and snug in our bed, full bladdered meeces pissed on her head. Poor Parker.

When I went back in, she was still on the ladder, now armed with a mask, gloves, and head lamp. Mouse poop raining down like snowflakes on a cold, crisp, winter afternoon. Fiberglass insulation floating in the air like angel dust. Actual tinsel and wrapping paper hung from the ceiling...with care. How sweet, they decorated for the Holidays.

And here comes the Grinch...all five feet of her....throwing the tiny family out on their ears on the eve of winter, the nasty blizzard blowing across the land. We discussed shoving Gus into the hole and leaving him there to feast. I'm pretty sure he'd eat through the wall. And really...what are these cats doing all day? I don't think they deserve the the presents we just bought.

Piece On Earth

It's family time in the country. I've come to learn that means Cookie Day. It's about as much fun as putting a puzzle together with a menancing Calico.

I had high hopes for Cookie Day, maybe it was my fault. I love holiday traditions and baking cookies is my thing. But this wasn't so much festive as it was Betty Crocker Hell. Every elf had its specific task and I made mine to stay out of the kitchen.

I'd rather chuck matchboxes at my young playmate than squeeze crisco through my fingertips. Meanwhile, the girl was knee deep in cookie dough. Actually, she too, found a way to escape most of the kitchen fiasco which didn't surprise me much.

What I learned about the girl is she is obsessive compulsive, as if this is something I didn't already know. And I can assure you she touched the cookie you are about to eat at least four times as she perfectly placed it atop the waxed paper upon which it was perched, again, again, and again.

 

She also does this with a jigsaw puzzle. She is lucky she is darn cute. You can scour the pieces, deduce from a slight white speck crosschecked with the box that that particular piece will reside in the upper left quadrant, and lay it there for future use. As you can see from the photo above, this is how I work. There is a method to the madness.

 

There is another method to the other's madness. The girl will come behind me and take all the pieces from the center of the puzzle and move them back outside the perimeter of the puzzle. She is telling me now "the pieces don't go in the center of the puzzle". No, no, I don't think you understand the point of the puzzle. That is exactly where the pieces go baby.

 

But this is love. This is how we will do a puzzle. This is our tradition. I will put them together. The girl's cat will push them on the floor. I will pick them up and organize them. And the girl will reorganize them in a completely irrational way. My step-father says 'the family that plays together, stays together'. Yes, and we will be working on the same puzzle for the rest of our lives.

 

I wonder if she realizes when I put the knives away I purposely turn the blades every other way...just to see how long they stay that way. To her credit, she hasn't touched them, but I guarantee she's seen them.

Snaggled

Heavens to Murgeminid! Oh really? You're going to question that word? Because you have a particular fondness for the term, Murgatroyd? As if you even know what that is!

Oh man, I found something in the country that beats the city hands down! And it was right in front of my face the whole time.

I spent many hours sacked out on my deck in the city trying to catch a faint star shooting across the sky in some meteor shower or another in years past. Truth is I was never sure if I actually saw one or if there was just a floater clouding my eyesight.

In the country, the stars alone are worth the price of admission. They don't need to dart around at all. Wishes be damned. BUT, I did manage to catch a pre-show of the Geminids, which was quite impressive and the show hadn't technically started yet. There's something to the, lack of people...a lack of LIGHT.

Pop! Look at all those stars. There's one. There's one. Ooo that was a good one. Yeah, that's the life I wanted. Just staring up into the sky with the girl by my side. Hiding beneath a blanket, just the two of us.  Or...walking in the shadow of the Mormon Temple amidst their Holiday Lights show busloads of people around us.  It really doesn't matter, as long as we are together.

And yes, the stars in the country are still white, not green and purple like I've misled you in the photo above. It's not a recreation on my childhood light bright, but it could be....Exit Stage Left...

Time To Lower The Bar

Yes you guessed it. The bike went back. Today. Before Christmas even arrived. And here I sit with nothing under the tree, or really, next to nothing. I still have the monkey.

I could promise to buy another one, but if you read the last post she had the smallest adult bike they make. I might be exaggerating, but I still had to face the chick mechanic at the shop and try to explain why this amazing bike was coming back. An no offense, but she's not ready for a $5,000 carbon replacement (the next step up).

There was talk of T-Rex arms and stand over centimeters...she looked at me like I was crazy. I said, she's afraid of hitting the bar. I told her I asked how many times that had happened...None, but it could said my girl. And I can't touch the ground.... Okay. Oh dear, your trail cred is dwindling fast my love. I feel a life of redirected energy a'fore me.

The girl at the shop just looked at me (again). I shrugged. I know the girl teeters on her motorcycle, but this is a 20 lb. bicycle not an 800 lb. motorbike. The last trail I rode had right around the estimate of ZERO red lights or stop signs. And really....Why are we stopping on the bike anyway, just ride!

I honestly can't remember a time when I wasn't 'coming off' the bike because I couldn't handle the terrain. It was steep, it was rocky, I was flying over the handlebars as I nosed into a log. There's not too many times when I can touch the ground and way too many when I was getting intimate with my bike parts. (what the neighbor calls the 'vagina bar') The girl in the shop agreed, she can't touch the ground on her bike and she said, if the bar isn't all up in your business something is wrong.

I rode it from my car to the curb and cried just a little. She said, we could fit you on one for you. To which I replied, if I could find a way to fit Sneezy onto my old bike you'd have a deal!

So the bike went back. It's good for the vacation fund...except the vacation won't include mountain biking. :( I believe her, the bar was high, but the price was right and the components bomber. I couldn't pass up the deal. Too bad, it just didn't fit Cinderella.

Boarders, Carried Alive

It has finally happened. There is a cardboard box in my attic. An empty cardboard box in my storage area. Please don't tell my neighbors.

 Maybe you don't know me, but this is a huge taboo. It happens. There are tools on the table and a box in the attic. What the hell is going on?

I am not a hoarder. I am not in denial. And I still think saving empty boxes is stupid. Unless it's a bike box. Or a bike light box. Then it's completely logical. I stand by my criticism of saved teevee boxes. It's not like the new ones will last long enough to be moved. And the old tank tubes could withstand a steamroller, I don't think it really needs a box.

And then there are the action figure boxes. And the Hallmark ornaments. Really? The box retains its value? Yes, I guess you could make $5 on that ornament you've been hanging on to from 1983 so you better hold on to that box. I bought a toy truck for $500 without a box, so I'm just saying box or no box it all depends on the buyer.

However, when you have a delicate, specially delivered, cool as shit beer bike sign, go on and keep the box. You're not gonna wanna risk damaging that in a move for sure. Oh, there might be a good shoe box or two in the attic too, I'm not gonna lie. Give me a nice sturdy Keen's box or a 5.10 and I'll hang on to it for papers or trinkets. I think I've actually got plastic Easter eggs in one of them so there! Holiday items do not count as hoard.

Okay, okay, I might have some old Panasonic tape boxes at the ready too. But those are superior ace boxes. And on the endangered list, not to mention I no longer have access to swiping them. I'm not making excuses. Just what are you trying to say? Okay, so I hoard boxes. It's not exactly Reality Show material.

Not Your Grandma's Oldsmobile

"That's a big bi....ke". Why yes Parker, indeed it is. Such a big bike for such a bitty girl. Yes, yes, that's precisely why the girl is getting it early. That, and she doesn't much like change...and this is a big change. I'm already prepared to return it...:(

I know, I know, I am breaking Rule #1...NEVER buy a girl a bike. Never. It's what I tell all the boys. But I've got a couple things in my corner. First the girl can ride. And second the girl is mine.

But, back to that snag...she doesn't care much for change. She definitely doesn't do different. Same town, same job, same 80s polo...I mean the actual shirt, not just the style. The girl holds on. This looks good for my future, I mean I'm lucky she ever picked me in the first place, but she did. And maybe, just maybe she'll hold on to me...I did after all buy her a bike.

 

But it's not looking good for the bike. A 29er. It's big. It's different. What? She has totally earned it; she's a kick ass rider. She deserves the Lexus of mountain bikes. You wait, she'll jump on it and love it. I did! Truly, I hopped on this thing and it felt like a luxury car. She rolls smooth. Up and over the curbs like butter. Across the parking lot in a jiff.

 

What's that? It's not for me? I know, I know. Maybe she'll let me ride it. Oh, who are we kidding this thing will NEVER fit me. It's an XS (the smallest they make) WSD frame...they don't get any smaller. The next step down and we'd be looking at 20 inchers in the kiddie section. Would you like us to remove the training wheels ma'am? No, my monkey arms would never crunch into this geometry. Although I can ride anything.

 

But it is sweet. Makes me want one of my own. Wasn't I the one that said, 29ers? Pwah, just another gimmick to get us to buy another bike, who needs it. Me! Me! Me, I need it! There's plenty of room in the bike barn. Go Buy A Bike.

 

Wait, if a bike is as good as an engagement ring...and I already bought the ring...oooh, I am such a sucker. If you like it then you should have put a chain ring on it...

 

Whoever thought the name Oldsmobile was a good name for a car??

Up In Smoke

Let there be no mistake, I am bored in the country. I complain about the incredible lack of things to do. The limit of culture and art. It's just not like the city.

Take today for example. My country mouse was in town for some very important training after which we were under the gun, so to speak, to get our butts downtown for some very important 'art'.

Forgive me, I stand corrected. Turns out the city, too, bores me quite a bit. A limitless amount of culture and art, apparently, is not always a good thing. Today, a Chinese 'artist' blew up a tree. And called it art. I call it FAIL. To quote Deana Carter, "I shaved my legs for this?"

I expected pyrotechnics, like the sign said. I expected mind bending, tree altering effects like the diagram indicated. I expected lights and wows and cool. It's not at all what I expected. It was beyond the complete opposite. It was what they call in the fireworks biz: A DUD.

It sounded like a ancient gun fight with the smoke of one to boot. But when the smoke cleared, the tree stood unaffected and the crowd dispersed, scratching a collective head going, huh? The guy next to us turned and said, Is this Art?!

 

Well, it's in front of the art museum; that's the closest it's gonna get to art in this town. The smoke artist said he hoped the smoke would look like a virtual tree. O...kaaay.... It was some kind of protest about lighting Christmas trees. Protest, YES!, now you're in the right neighborhood.

 

Art, maybe not so much, and the Chinese, maybe not as big a threat as once thought.

 

Change

My neighbors have five vehicles lining the street. I can't talk, I've got 8, but they all fit in the Barn and roll on two wheels. I guess it depends how you define vehicle.

Theirs have motors, barely. And ironically they got three bills when they finally sold one today. I don't have one bike less than that! But three hundred is better than no hundred so you take the money and run.

Sounds like fun. I want three bills! I asked my ebayin' neighbor about selling unwanted items. He gave me a name. So today my neighbors sold a big hunkin' car and I sold two tiny round pieces of hollow metal for the same price. Party on Kerwin.

He said, "you sure didn't waste any time dropping those rings." Depends on how you look at it. I've been sitting on them for a decade. Not because I have any emotional ties to them. I just didn't know what to do with them. She wanted to chuck them over the side of a cliff. I didn't even have that much attachment.

Having done both...I'd rather have love over a ring any day. And it'd be a lot more fun to drive the neighbor's car over the side of a cliff anyway. Today I am a much richer girl.

Glad We Got That Straight

Awesome. I'm allowed to marry the love of my life. Thanks for that Maryland. Seriously, it was a much closer vote than I anticipated and a bit of a slap in the face.

I'm sorry, I just don't get it. I mean I hear those arguments for families or some nonsense. Sanctity of marriage? Nonsense.

Let's start with protecting our families. Whose families are we talking exactly? You know gay families exist with or without the legalese of 'marriage' right? It's a shame you don't want those kids to have the same rights as the others.

 

Next, that holy thing. Yeah, today's marriages are really sanct. Tom Cruise. Liz. Britney. Do I need to say anything more? How about 55 hours. People get married for all kinds of crazy reasons today; god forbid we should let folks marry for ever lasting true love.

 

And why do so many people care anyway? I tried the traditional unionization. It failed at I do. And I don't remember anyone coming to the door trying to help. No one cared. No one tried to fix anything. Where were those Sanction Police then?

 

In fact why is divorce legal if that's the argument. Divorce is bad for children. It's clearly destroying families. Surely it is a blow to the sanctity of marriage, no? And it's been around since the turn of last century.

 

No matter. We won. We won the ridiculous fight to be considered human. Here. We won here. We still don't exist at a federal level. Or in the next state. We are still separate and unequal. But we can say we're married. Well, next year we can.

 

And really that's all that matters. I love her. She loves me. If God has a problem with it I'm sure He'll let us know. You can keep your comments to yourself. Unless they contain, "you can kiss the bride".