Ate Crimes

Leave it to the Bethesdites to have bridge graffiti as controversial as this. Oh the horror! Fruit? Fruit, right? As in apples and oranges? Not the derogatory gay term I presume? You Vegan you.

Those wretched foodlums! Next, the county will introduce a tag tax. You watch. But we must find a way to pay for the fast acting police force, or is it a neighborhood paint force?

The force that jumped to neutralize those hateful red letters on the air rights tunnel. Yes, that's right. Before the paint was dry it was cloaked in a perfectly matched tunnel grey shade covering every inch of this carnivorous profanity.

Faster than a memory card download this suburban art was a distant memory. Like sands through an hourglass. So too was the short lived 2 Girls 2 Blogs. And so....here I am 1 girl with 2 blogs, 3 if you count work. And while my commute is now exactly 42 steps no shoes required, there are still stories to tell. My sole follower perhaps missing a taste of Americana should enjoy the tales of the road that follow.

This, is for you.

2 Girls 2 Blogs

So you know I have this blog...

I know you know because you are reading it now. I had, in my heyday, a whopping 2.5 readers. That may have very well slipped to zero due to my infrequent posting capacity.

But did you know I have two...

Well I do. And I suspect you don't know because if you could see the itsy bitsy print above you'd see every single post has 0 page views. This is deliberate. And it's disappointing. I still post infrequently, but every time I sign in to add another I know my page views will never change. As I write I know I will be the only one to ever read the post. But that's okay.

There's no intimidation whilst writing however. And no limitations on what is said or what is shared. Pictures have faces in the other blog...besides Parker. The girl, however, is often still the girl.

But here's the funny thing. The girl warns me it must remain private. If we start this blog of ours (not mine) it cannot be public. But... IT WILL NOT BE PUBLIC she says. Inmates and such. I get it. I don't like it but I definitely do get it.

That wasn't the funny part. This is. So I sign on the other blog today and she scootches up next to me excited to see and says, did anyone read it? Anyone? Like whom? She doesn't even read it! I'm not sure she knows how to find it.

The point of the blog, not that you'll ever read it, is to track where we've been. It even comes with this cool funky map! Which I'm sure she also can't find.

So now we are documenting our vacations and maybe soon our excursions here at home. It's a lot to catch up on. And a lot to remember. But the good part is now I can forget. Now it's all right here to remind us when we are old. Just as long as we remember how to sign on and where to find it. I should probably make the girl a cheat sheet. I might even put it in italics for old time sake.

And girl, in case you were wondering we are still holding steady at zero.

If The Shoe Fits

Recently I rediscovered stick-ups. Thank god. You remember these things right? The little round things that you twist? Made infamous in the pantyliner commercial starring the cat with the crazy feet? You may have missed that one, it was by invitation only.

Anyway, back to my stinky closet. Not too long ago dad and I made this amazingly cool closet that I thought I might get to use. It had shelves on the outside of the closet where I thought I might stash my stinky shoes.

I was wrong of course. The closet was created because I got married. Even though that's one of the perks of a same sex relationship...doubling your wardrobe...it's still nice to have your own space. Hence, the new closet. But you did understand I have a wife now? Yeah, so she got the closet. I got the boot, so to speak.

So back in my cramped closet, I have my jeans on a book shelf, my oxfords on a hanger, and my shoes shoved in a milk crate. I'm almost positive there's a warning on the side threatening prosecution if it isn't used properly, which clearly, it is not.

Just so we are on the same page, this is her closet. See, isn't it cool? But this post is really about stinky shoes. Scratch and sniff above.

Let's skip to the chase. So this is her closet and when I go in there it smells like her. When I go in my own closet it smells like warehouse feet. Maybe I smell like warehouse feet, I don't know.

So I've tried Lysol and dryer sheets and now I have a 44 cent stick up that smells like a Hallmark store.It's only slightly better.

But let's be honest, my wife loves me. And she wants me to be happy. I'm sure she doesn't want my nice clean clothes to smell like warehouse feet. Or me for that matter.

 So she decided to share the shoe rack. And not to call the girl out on anything but you see how she has cleared off the entire top shelf of the rack above right? It's the shot in the upper left corner. The other six shots show various areas of the downstairs floor space that has ironically, all of a sudden, been taken over by randomly placed shoes! Go figure.

Stoptionals Are Like Snipe Hunting

This is for the little white car in the park. And just to be clear, I have nothing against little white cars. This may prove to be remedial for most of you, but it's been brought to my attention abruptly, some of you, perhaps driving little white cars in the park...need a remedial reminder...

I can see now that they are side by side, why some of you MAY be experiencing some issues differentiating between some of our critical red road signs.

And I'm not gonna lie, some of our signs are confusing. I'm not sure what an acorn and a penguin have to do with one another...for that matter I'm not sure why our pedestrian crossings contain a penguin at all. A penguin in a suit no less! But believe me I've got my eyes peeled for one every time I'm downtown Silver Spring.

But this is really about the little white car that damn near took the paint off my bike in Sligo Creek. Now I knew you weren't really going to stop, so it wasn't that close, but you do know what the red octagon means right?

I'm not sure what it is about spring, but it makes people drive poorly. I mean I'm not sure if there has ever been a scientific study...could there be a compound, element, or freaking amino acid like tryptophan that causes drivers to lapse into semi-consciousness while driving or even have selective amnesia?

I mean I tried really hard to give you the benefit of the doubt. I looked on every corner. I saw the same sign-everywhere. I tried looking at different angles. It always looked the same.

I investigated the yield sign. It is indeed the same color. It's even red outlined in white. Okay. Let's assume you are color blind. Let's also assume you can't read. STOP may mean nothing to you. Of course, let's be honest, if that's the case, this blog posting is falling on deaf ears...or rather illiterate eyes.

But is there such a thing as apparentylexia? I'm gonna tell you right now my spell check has got that made up word on high alert with its squiggly red notification. My inclination is NO that's absolutely not a word and absolutely not a condition. Therefore, the octagonal shape of the STOP sign and the triangular shape of the YIELD sign should mean something to everyone.

Whether it's the white triangle in the middle of the sign (assuming you don't speak English) or the letters on the actual sign...I'm not sure if you've ever taken the time to notice but allow me to point out S T O P Y I E L D does not repeat one single letter. So there's that. And then there's the shape. Eight sides to three. Surely you can count to three? If you are truly geometrically challenged, and I get it, some people are...an octagon is really more like a circle and a triangle more like a...well, a triangle. Get it?

Sometimes STOP signs even come with these pre-STOP signs as a kind of warning. This one comes in yellow and is a diamond, which is really just a square on its side. It's not really geometry, I think if you stretch your brain you can get this one. Turkey be damned.

This sign is alerting you to the fact that you are going to need to STOP soon. Stopping, in case that is the problem, is when you depress the pedal on the left, all the way to the floor if you have to.

Once when I was a kid I heard a rumor if the sign had a white border around it it was really a STOPTIONAL and you didn't need to stop if it were clear. Even at 15 I knew that wasn't true. Those are called YIELD signs and they look completely different, as we just remediated in this blog. Bottom line, if there's a question, please STOP. Thank you for your time.

See What Had Happened Was...

Let me paint you a picture of our last time on the Rachel Carson trail. First of all, this is an amazing trail system within walking distance of the house. I would LOVE to ride my bike here, but the sign says I can't. To hell with the sign I say!

Because I also can't walk my dog here, not anymore. I'm done. Y'all win. It's legal alright, but it's a hot spot for unleashed dogs. Despite what the sign says.

So you have my leashed dog, who is also friendly, but sounds mighty scary. In a fight she's gonna get her ass kicked; are you ready to find out if that's true? She will probably intimidate your unleashed dog putting it on notice. Let me remind you mine is leashed, yours is not. She already feels the disadvantage, and she no likey.

And so what's gonna happen is she's gonna be unhappy with the situation. Truth be told, me too. And you're gonna say, "it's okay he's friendly". I'm gonna pull back on my dog and try to keep her calm and yours is gonna go all inmate on her personal space...yeah, you know. Nose to ass, all up in her stuff. She's restrained and you are off forest frolicking while your 'friendly' dog runs up on her. She ain't cool like that.

In fact, that's exactly what happened. First time. You lollygag on, pleading your dog is friendly and I'm like, "well mine is NOT". Then you apologize saying, "he's not wanting to listen today." How lucky for us. And you knew this ahead of time? When you decided to leave him unleashed?

Meanwhile, moving on. We successfully escape and mine pulls part way out her harness. I'm forced to end my call early to deal with the situation you just caused. I bend down, on ice, to attempt to fix the situation. Arms around my pit, face in her face, I hear from behind, "I'm sorry." Without looking I say, "no problem." I think you realize you just ended my call early and put a crinkle in my walk.

Without looking I say this. Without knowing what was about to happen. Without fully understanding what she was apologizing for. Guess who's back? To taunt my barely leashed dog. I'm sorry, didn't you just say he wasn't listening? Didn't you apologize for what you just caused by not having your dog on leash? And didn't I mention my dog is not friendly?

Harness half off. Collar grasped. Then gone. Headlock. Me. Dog. Dog. Growling. I damn near got bit, by my own dog. And you are still behind me, voice starting to sound concerned, doing like, nothing?

Before it was said and done we saw six dogs today. One off leash, documented above. The next one, off leash. "It okay?" No!, not so much. The next two, rambunctious, off leash...owners, unconcerned...me, stressed, pissed, and about sick of it. The next two, on leash, for what it's worth. The leashes don't do much good when you let go, just saying.

That last one was HUGE! Owner calling from across the street "he's friendly!" Okay!, but my dog has had just about enough today, not to mention me. This thing looks like her best friend and I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear how they greet each other. And I'm about sick of trying to control the situation when I came prepared with a freaking leash. This about to be on you!

SQUIRREL, Right

Way too many posts about the pup on facebook and especially my bike blog. How's about we combine the two?!

YeeHa! Not only did we find an activity to enjoy together but we found a decent place to do it. I'm not sure I'll ever be ready for trail jouring. But the C&O will do just fine.

Our second attempt went quite a bit better than the first but it's still cumbersome and stressful. SQUIRREL.

The first time out we came up on a biker who was about to get an earful if he didn't just RIDE ON. We had me, the dog, another dog, the long leash, a 29er. It's a lot to handle. Then the biker passing on the left. The one who just slowed and kept saying "On your RIGHT." Can you just RIDE?!? Seriously dude. I'm facing you, I can see you. The dog sees you. The couple off trail sees you. We ALL effing see you!

PS...you are on everyone's LEFT.

Perhaps he was nervous. I'm sure it looks scary. Me, holding the dog, it jumping and excited. But did you also notice us stopped, off trail, anxiously waiting for you to PASS? The longer you draw this out the worse it's gonna get. So put your footsies to the pedals and get on them!

Again, for the record you are on our left, your right. Pedal on.

Illuminating

Well I have now sunk to an all time low. Here, on my bike blog, we have...a car entry. I don't know what to say. I can't possibly have an excuse. I can't even blame the girl.

And I don't know, perhaps it was all those years in the saddle...all the miles on the bike...but that little light of mine, it shined, shined, shined. And then it stopped.

Now I've seen how much those car people charge you for simple little things. Search the blog for 'Honda', specifically 'EX'. And so I'm not sure if you can call me cheap when I tell you my dome light burnt out a few weeks ago and I dragged my feet about replacing it...

...oh hell of course you can call me cheap, I used to break my Q-Tips in half and save them if I only used one side....that's cheap.

But anyway, one of these here replacement bulbs only costs a girl five bucks. I take that back. Technically it's $2.50 if we're counting pennies. NOT that you can buy them that way. They come in a two pack, solely. And again, at the risk of sounding cheap...what a waste! Do I really need two? Unless of course those car people factory installed a plutonium based ultra life bulb when I bought it 14 years ago....and of course charged me $268 for it.

But I can't in this lifetime imagine needing a second bulb. This one lasted 14 years after all! I mean even if you account for all the years it just sat sitting in the driveway untouched and unlit I'd still need to throw down another 150,000 miles...and no offense DAE-Z I ain't trying to keep you that long.

So, I guess I got a bargain. And I know, most cars today probably need two of these things anyway...although really!?! This thing looks like an old carbon-filament bulb made by Mr. Thomas Edison himself...I'm super lucky they even still make them, right?

Glass Houses? What About BRICK Houses??

I told her. You can't just come up in the city and act any old way you want without consequences. I mean maybe that's something you could do in the country, but up here you need walk the line. Mind your p's (Ripley). Tend your q's (Girl).

But the girl does what she wants. You can try to tell her, but she's always going to do what she wants. And now look. Look what's happened.

That is a brick. A brick from my own house. A brick from her chimney (I also told her we needed repairs). A brick relocated to the driveway, centimeters from my car...with a brand new windshield.

Oh, that's just surface brick she says. It just chipped off the edge of the chimney, she says. Oh really? Really, really? And I suppose you think this has nothing to do with the fact that you are feeding the wild animals in the yard that I told you not to humor. No, of course not.

Yes, that's exactly what I think happened. Those darned squirrels are up on our roof plotting against us for our bird feeding preferences. "Look biotch, I told you we want peanuts. Peanuts, not sunflowers!"

"And what's with this tiny feed," the other one chimes in. "I want me some ears of corn. Do you have any idea how much seed we'll need to shove in our cheeks before we're ready for the winter cold? Ain't nobody got time for that!"

That's when it happens. Them squirrely squirrels chip away at that fireplace chimney with their squirrely-squirrel-claws until a piece breaks loose. Then they laugh and sneer as Cheeks McGee draws his tiny squirrel paws back and hurls his fuzzy-tailed-rat-rage at my Civic. I bet they turn back around and fist bump those tiny fur paws of theirs too. And say, "WHAT!?"

I Resemble That Comment

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Once upon a time there was a blog. It went by the name 'Cog Blog'. It was about a girl and her bike.

Day after day the author rode her bike to work and sometimes for fun. She used to post pictures and witticisms about those rides and sometimes had choice words for naughty traffic...especially this time of year.

Then she met a girl. And a dog. And two cats besides her own. Her life became less about bikes and more about picking up shhh...she might hear you.

Yes, once upon a time tires were meant for rolling not throwing. It's true what they say, marriage can change a girl. Now there's no time for riding. There's just walking and throwing. Throwing and walking. Would you want to tell her no?

Alas, there is still a blog. It is just updated less and more about life. Or at least less about angry traffic. Thanks for tuning in and standing by. Maybe soon we can return you to your regularly scheduled program...not currently in progress.

Throwback Almost Thursday.

Perhaps I am showing my age, but old school works. Today I was at a bit of a technology seminar and I glanced about to all the laptops and felt a little silly with my pen and paper. Then I pulled out my flip phone. And read from a book with physical pages. You could touch. Yeah, I still roll like that. Like a stone wheel chiseled by hand.

And then technology bit me in the ass. I rushed home to go to a school fair...that I never made it to. Instead I took a two hour tour of the county. In the rain. During rush hour. Whoop Whoop. Guess what day it is? It's okay I heard the camel was furloughed. It's almost Throwback Thurs-DAAY.

I made the mistake of googling the address. When I arrived it didn't feel right. So I consulted GPS, which confirmed I was at the right place. I mean the sign in front of the school said Hoover Middle School, which was my destination. It had to be right. But it's not where I needed to be.

I now firmly believe this was the old Hoover Middle. What I needed was the new Hoover Middle. I had no idea. The internet didn't tell me that. To confuse the situation I found yet another Hoover Middle on the other side of the county. THREE Hoover Middles? Are you freaking kidding me??

Here's a thought, when you invite me to the fair how about giving me an actual address? And a contact number??  Silly me, I thought I could just check the internet and get there no problem. And in case the jury was still out, everything on the internet is NOT true.

Oh hey, just the other day I was on Google and searched for map. Sometimes I search for translate when I need Google translate. So I searched for map to get Google maps. Know what the number one search result was on Google? MapQuest. Go figure. And I should have stuck with it...they know where the right Hoover Middle is.

Up a Really Big Creek Without a Paddle

Okay, so the move to meld the mouses, both country and city, is a bit like shopping for a sofa. Seems like it should be a fun activity; turns out it's not. And I feel a bit like I'm up shit creek.

Doesn't help that the girl is right there with me....in the creek we'll call, de Nile.

So it's no secret I'm thrilled with the situation. Although she might be surprised to learn I'm sad about leaving the country. I'm going to miss it. But I try to keep it all to myself.

See, I'm not sure she is thrilled. And I don't want to rub it in her face. I'm sure she feels like she is giving up a lot to come to me. I, on the other hand, can't wait for her to see what she's gonna gain. I think she's keeping a secret calendar marking off the time until she can return to paradise.

In the meantime, we don't talk about it. And if we do, we fight. I'm told this is normal. I don't love it. She says I act like I'm not excited about it. --the move, not the fighting. Yes, that is kinda what I was going for. On the inside I'm pink with delight.

I say, you also don't seem excited about it. She says she is. But you see how she packs right? Keeps saying she's not moving anything. I'm like, you realize you are MOVING to the city. It's where you live now little mouse. Yeah, but all I need is some pants. Some pants, 'that's all I need... And these matches. - The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control, and the paddle ball... And this lamp. And I don't need one other thing, except my dog.' Jerk.

I feel like she doesn't expect to stay long. Like she is uprooting her life for the next 6 months and that's all. Then we move back. You see my trunk right? Just some random pieces from her life packed piece by piece in the Civic. This picture, my mug, chapstick, and some pants, that's all I need.  Baby, I don't love boxes stored in the attic, but I'm not opposed to them whilst physically moving. And you're not The Jerk. Maybe we could try actually packing something next time?

Define Normal

My whole life I've either been a step ahead or a staircase behind. I had short hair before it was cool. Rode a bike before it was green. Kissed a girl before it was on the Top 40.

What I did right on time was find my wife at exactly the right moment. We were planning our marriage just as our state was planning to legalize it. We were expecting our certified license in the mail the day the nation recognized our melded life.

Most couples are worried about colors and flowers and where to have the reception. We were concerned with rights and taxes and health care. Who would come and who would scorn, not where to seat them. As we became one, which companies would accept us and which would give us hurdles. There are plenty of hurdles...we continue to find. And yet plenty of people who won't bat an eye when a woman says my wife.

Some see our choices as unconventional. Okay, if you must. I've been different my whole life. But saying my wife feels as natural as my own skin. I don't care about your policies or loopholes. Falling asleep in my wife's arms erases any struggles in our day.

The heteroes bucked society by living together before getting married. And here we are married, living apart. Now I'm hearing the key to a successful marriage is not living together at all. Here we go again. A step ahead about to fall behind. Different as the day is long. C'est la vie. Haven't you read the new YouTube comments, she keeps me warm.

I'm not sure if I should be excited or not, the whole process has been such a stressful journey. I want to live with my wife. I want dinner at the table with conversations of our day. Dog walks, evening jogs, rides to the city, nights on the couch with the remote. Many many more blog posts about life with the girl.

She makes breakfast. I cook dinner. She kills poison ivy. I do dishes and laundry. We love each other, support each other, depend on each other. We are married. And soon we will live in the same house. Yeah, I'm excited. Normal or not.



Hey Bud

This is exactly what I'm saying. Guess what I found today, finally? It's stringy, pink, and heard all over. Welcome back ipod, I can finally hear you now.

Ear buds. Yes, ear buds. Where were they? Is that what you asked? I just want to make sure I heard you correctly. Where? In the office.

NO, I am NOT saying the girl was right. In fact, what I am saying is I was right. This is why we don't throw items willy nilly around the office. In the black bin would be one thing, but these were clearly not there. I looked 104 times. Every time the girl said, they are in the office.

Yes, I understand how that last statement makes it seem like the wife was right. But clearly you are not listening to me. Typical. See I know she didn't put them in that white bag. That's not what she meant when she kept saying, "in the office." I have no earthly idea how they ended up in the white bag. PARKER?!! Hmmm? Well, yes, maybe.

But let me distract you from this post a second since you seem to be taking her side...

Today I was at the market and I sent a text to my wife.
It said, "Honey do we need bread?"
She replied, "No it's in freezer."
I snicker, "Really, there's bread in the freezer?"
She doesn't miss a beat, "3 loaves in freezer."
I said, "Clearly you haven't read the latest blog."
Fresh, fresh, exciting...

Really I'm just procrastinating because now that I found my ear buds I have no excuse not to go out and run. It's not like I need to stay in and make bread or anything.

Keepin' It Fresh

Good lord woman! Did they discontinue sliced bread? I mean even after the rush on Twinkies they ended up bringing them back. I don't think bread will ever go out of fashion. It's not a fad.

Haven't you ever heard the expression, the best thing since sliced bread? It's here to stay, mark my words. There's no need to hoard it. It's much better fresh.

Meanwhile she has got every chilled crevasse stuffed with the floured yeast product. And here's the thing, wait for it...she doesn't even hardly eat it!

I'm not exactly sure what the plan is but we are covered. Covered in bread. If the apocalypse comes maybe she is planning on lining the house walls in it to protect us from inevitable doom. Floods, good there too. Just open the fridge and all the water will be aborbed in no time flat!

Maybe it's the drama king across the street. He can be quite loud. Bread would most definitely deafen the sound of his whining rants that last hours and hours on end. Just ball up the bread and stuff it in your ears. I mean if your ear buds are missing and all. I know, they're in the office!

I can only assume she gets it at half price. The bread not the sarcasm. She was born that way. By the looks of things I won't be having fresh bread for the next year and a half. It might be different if we had a toaster. Or space to buy lunch meat or cheese. Good grief.

Girls, Work It Out



I used to get my panties in a bunch whenever the girl would ask me to do something in the middle of my work day. Like laundry or food shop. Um, I'm WORKING, I would quip, borderline annoyed.

And she would always put stuff on my 'desk'. Papers, Reader's Digests, crap we bought at the store the night before. It would drive me nuts any time I went to the country. I'd have to reorganize my office 'space' every morning. I'd miss the city where I had my own 'office'.

She's gotten much better about respecting my country desk. Now apparently, we need to work on the city office. Baby.

It's her house, I can't much complain. And she's cleaning up. But cleaning up means if she doesn't find it important or see a place for it it goes in the office. My office. I looked up office and it does not mean a place to store unwanted stuff. In fact it means quite the opposite.

It's a room assigned to an individual in which they do business. I'm that individual and my business is not rearranging stuff. I do collect a lot of unwanted stuff, but we send it overseas far far away from my office.

And so we do this little dance every weekend. I go to work, she cleans up the house by throwing everything in my office, closing the door, and forgetting about it. Monday morning I get up and move everything she put in there back out into the hall and living room. It doesn't belong in the office. I have to WORK there.

Baby, where's my ear buds? Last I saw them, they were in the office. Sigh, I'm not surprised. It's like the bi-cycle tri-angle in there, things go in and never come out.

Grounded

At it again. By the time I'm finished I will have rewired the entire country house. It's not likely to improve the electrical situation but at least when we catch the joint on fire we will be able to do with it with less effort. Just the flick of a switch.

But not any time soon. Right now I can't even get the light lit. I can't technically gain power from the main circuit box, if we're being honest. I never said I knew what I was doing, I just knew it wasn't right.

I've honestly got the best wife ever. So she comes home from work...I've got switches dangling from multiple walls, wires shoved in and out of junction boxes, and a rainbow of wire nut accessories saluting the mess I've created. Oh, and the power is shut down to half the house and I can't get it back up.

So she walks in from a long day at the pen...me hurdling debris on the floor, running back and forth between dining room, living room, and utility room, nervously assuring her "I'll fix it." She doesn't bat an eye. I'm not sure if this is because she trusts me (tsk tsk) or is just used to me screwing things up (already?).

Maybe it bodes well for me to have a partner who never minded that her three-way switches weren't exactly wired to work correctly. It drove me nuts in two days. And I set out to reverse engineer them as soon as she wasn't looking. Not that she cared.

She is so patient with me, lucky me. And I did get the electric back on, lucky me. Simple grounding issue, lucky me. 

Ups and Downs

I hate to call the girl out but this is how it went down. First, I'm not sure if this makes us a perfect couple or unable to ride together...but this is what's up. I like to go up. And she likes to go down.

That sounds a little dirtier than it really is.

So the girl likes to be on top. Again, you are thinking dirtier than it is. She doesn't like to be whipped...ahh, again. Let's just say, she's competitive. And I am kicking her ass...fancy bike and all.

From my position uptrail, I heard quite the clatter. She threw her bike. THREW her bike. In the woods. Things were definitely NOT looking up. Ah, but if only that meant it were all downhill from here. That could fix everything.

I hesitated to say it, but  baby, can you find it in your heart to try NOT to throw your bike into the woods? To which she replied, I knew I should have never let you buy me a bike. It is true what they say, you should never buy a girl a bike. But I married her so I thought it was okay.

No, it is your bike. Technically you can do anything you want with it. I'm just asking you to try really hard not to hoist it above your waist and shotput it into a pine tree. See, technically, I will be the one fixing it when it's broke...so there's that. And I'm not that great a mechanic. Besides it's not good for the pine tree, worse for the bike, and do you really want to walk back to the car?

Heeheehee Banana. Let's RIDE.

Marco. Burger.

Half way through the vacation and a mere month newly married...and I'm still settling in. Getting used to each other in a small space can be a lot of work.

Is that a hamburger in the glove compartment? Cheeseburger, cheeseburger.

Needless to say we are working on our communication. I can't tell you how many times I put something in its place only to come back to that place and find it missing. Apparently it was not the girl's place...which, was somewhere else, I could never find.

Like a hamburger in the glove compartment. Cheeseburger, cheeseburger.

I'm mean car camping comes with its limitations. Mostly space. And nothing drives me nuts like trying to find something in a car packed with gear and gadgets. Try coupling that with the complications of a couple. And then try to find something you thought you put...in the glove compartment.

No, it wasn't a hamburger. Say cheese.

The first rule of marriage is: your way is not necessarily wrong, it's just probably not the best way...and will soon cease to exist. Second, your preference will probably not be hers so get over it. Third try not to make the girl cry. I still have a long way to go.

But I now know where to find the hamburger, I mean if you ever need a two day old fair burger. And chances are...you won't.



2 States, 2 Countries, 2 Posts!

Well this is a little odd for me, but there's just no way around it. Two posts under the same date. Give us a break we rode all the way to another country and back...we deserve TWO posts!

So if you're following along you know how the trip began. Keys, bag, passports...Yeah. Now let's get to the ride. The goal is simple...Vermont to Canada to New York and back to Vermont. In one day. On mountain bikes. With one tube. Ah....yep.

I carry a (1) tube and tools and a pump. The girl does not. I know this about her....or at least it's a really good guess. But I still only carry for myself...knowing full well if anything happens it's on me no matter who goes flat first.

So she's up ahead cruising down the hill and as I catch up I start to hear (to me) the unmistakable sound of a flat tire happening. I check my rear. My front. I'm good. So I ask the girl, do you have a flat? She says, no but there's a rattlesnake in the weeds.

A rattlesnake?!? Did you see it? And are you sure you don't have a flat? The noise is still there. The snake is not. She is convinced of both. Snake in the grass, air in the tires. Okay, I pass her and pedal on. I hear her call from the back, falling further behind, I think I have a flat.

Ah...yep. So we pull over and I start to dig into my bag...being extra special careful not to lose the passports.  Meanwhile the girl surprises me by taking off the rear wheel. I should hope she can change a flat, after all most of our beneficiaries can and she is my wife. Found the tube and levers, but I now notice the girl is removing the tube from the tire....Strike that, removing paints an incredibly toned down image of what was happening.

She is actually snatching the tube from the rim where it is being held captive by the nasty tire. Baby, what are you doing? You have to remove the bead of the tire from the rim before you take out the tube. I've never done this before, she quips. NEVER? Well, clearly, duh.

So here we are on mountain bikes being passed by 700c if at all and my one tube is already put into play. And we haven't even left Vermont. I'm a little panicked. What if we get another flat...in Canada? Do we walk back to the States, well, yeah I guess we would. Round trip was about 30 miles and 15 kilometers. Be a long walk. The girl is oblivious.

I actually assayed the situation and thought in a pinch, no pun intended, I could take the duct tape on the edge of her seat and possibly patch a tube if it happens again. If it's simple like a snake bite, that pun WAS intended.  But that's as long as I can get to her before she puts a choke hold on the imaginary rattlesnake and tears the living schrader out of it.

Passporting the Buck

It would be remiss of me to not include this story for the blog, although most will have already heard it in person had we met. It involves border patrol, passports, and visiting a foreign country...permanently.

Have I got your attention? I thought, what a great tale it would be - movie even - okay, the movie would be mediocre...but wouldn't it be funny if we rode our bikes all the way to Canada, got in, and then, lost our passports out of our backpack or something...it's always the or something that gets you.

What had happened whaz...we rode our bikes all the way to the road and we stopped. Still in the U.S. of A. mind you. To check the map. The girl wanted to go one way and I was sure the map said the other way. I'm usually wrong so I pulled out the map to check. Well, I went to remove my pack to pull out the map and the keys to the car swung around and whapped me in the face. Before I even opened the pack.

 

I looked at the girl. Who was last in my pack. And I remembered saying, be careful the passports are in there. And sure enough the pack was wide open, passports blowin' in the Vermont breeze. See now, I was already whining about riding my mountain bike all the way to Canada and how I was going to regret it on the way back...and already we had to make a detour...back to the car.

 

Because then the girl says, do you think the car is locked? Really? Do I think it's locked? When I clearly impatiently rode away before you were even out of the car! No, it's not locked. It's wide open. And I feel like there was a moment of hesitation when the girl actually thought, do we need to lock it? No, on second thought I'm quite certain that actually came out of her mouth.

 

See the irony of the whole tale is I just spent a buttload of cash fixing a window because I was afraid we would drive to Canada and it would be stuck open with our masses of personables trickling out of the Civic. And here we were about to consciously drive away with the car absolutely unlocked. Exactly how lazy are we?

 

We rode back and it wasn't as far as I thought. Together. We rode together, because we are a team. We both left the car unlocked. We both left the pack unzipped. We both rode back to fix the problem. It's not like we were in the wrong boat or something!

 

Oh, and that window I had fixed just for the trip...did I mention it's still broke?

Little Black Box

The girl shares a GPS with her mom. I'm not entirely sure how this works, the sharing not the GPS...mostly because it doesn't help me get to work on time, but it does have its advantages whilst exploring the land on vacation.

On second thought, I'm not entirely sure how the GPS works either. But if you know me, you are not at all surprised to see a paper map sprawled in my lap whilst in the passenger seat.

The girl is also a driver. She'll tell you straight up she doesn't navigate well. I will second that emotion. It's not entirely her fault. I blame Mini Driver. Not the accomplished actress/singer-songwriter but the irritating voice in the car who thinks she knows more than we do...I don't always agree.

It may have been an awful movie, but Barbra Streisand had it right in that silly movie where she drives across the country with her son...you can't expect to react in feet when you are driving 70 miles an hour! I don't drive in feet.

So here's the deal. We are in Vermont. On beautiful, winding, steep, foggy country roads. I drive my Honda like it's a race car but even here it's not unusual to find yourself going 60mph at any given moment. They are routed roads...not really small town country roads. Just give me a route number and I will follow it. But the girl does what the woman wants. Talks to me like I live there. Mini, if I knew each and every little tiny road and the name by which it goes by, I wouldn't need you.

But that's not how Mini Driver rolls...in route numbers. I think it's job security. If we find out we can use a road map or better yet an actual road sign...she's toast. Molasses topped toast. And instead of just doing her job, she likes to brag and boast her knowledge across the dashboard.

Turn left at Log Hollow Road. Talk to me in numbers Techno-Queen. Route numbers. Log Hollow Road? Are you kidding me? Is she expecting me to see a tiny green road sign tucked around the curve of a Vermont country road in time to actually make the turn?!? With a neighborhood Subaru on my ass spitting windshield washer fluid above its roof like a welcome mat on Barnard Road?

Recalculate this Aviation Blondie...

Key To Happiness

WARNING: A budding exaggeration may flower.

It's been just over 40 days since the big day and already I am locked out. In an odd twist of marital strife and not to be outdone, because the girl is uber-competitive, she is also locked out.

Perhaps because this has nothing to do with us and everything to do with modern technology. I miss the days of keys. Good, old fashioned, cut metal, ringable keys. Gone by the wayside, replaced by unpredictable, finicky plastic. We may in fact hold the key to our happiness but most definitely do not have a workable, usable key to our stuff.

Nothing against the Inn. It's stood the weather of time, lasting longer than a nickel-plated brass key. Go figure. Imagine if the pilgrims had landed on the tip of Provincetown after grueling months at sea, hungry, wind burnt, laundry layered in the salt of the mer only to be locked out of America...the thin plastic rectangle they had been issued by the Queen granting them entry to the new land, beeping and flashing a red light: DENIED.

Okay, so our plight was not nearly that dramatic. We just couldn't get back into our room after a long, shaded, chowder filled day, escorting wealthy fundraisers to their champagne laden shower oases. Now that I see it in print...oh it's dramatic all right....just maybe doesn't match the photo above. At. All.

And considering our day ended with us being incredibly late to dinner...lending to us leaving for town AFTER the sideways rainstorm...making us wait for the town trolley skipping the long walk where we would have inevitably been soaked AND in turn seeing a wonderful rainbow giving a big gay hug to Ptown. Are you kidding me? Well, I guess it all happened as it should is all I'm saying.

Despicable Me

Well, the vacation started off with this little, how do we say...issue. For those of you staring at the big ass crack, that ain't it Dion. You are probably also the same group who read big ASS crack instead of big ass CRACK. I'm just guessing.

So starts the, technically, honeymoon. Banana. Oooh Banana. If you are still wondering, it's really not important, but the issue was the minion not the crack.

This is the first posting from the first vacation post wedding. It sounds like it may have started off shaky but that's just for blogging purposes. All is well in the land of Us. But for your reading purposes, we give you some of the funny hiccups....

Don't Blame The Outlet

One foggy morning there was the distinct scent of burnt toast. Not to fret, I was making toast. There is always the hint of browning bread when making toast....those darn bits that linger in the bottom of the appliance. Note to self: clean toaster regularly. Not that it would have helped.

Meanwhile I was plugging away at work, my stomach rumbling. How long does it take to brown a bitty deli thin? BEEP BEEP BEEP. A fire alarm will always put a fright in your seat. But they often fire off, so to speak, at the mere hint of heat. A dog panting to close to the wife's (yes you read that right) will send up the alarm.

But this was not a drill. This was a fire in the making. Cue Dust in the Wind. I am on the list. On notice. My house was engulfed in smoke. A billowing, thickening layer of soon to be choking smoke clung to the ceiling making a mockery of gravity. Are you freaking kidding me??!!? You waited until NOW to notify me of impending doom? Damn fire alarm, you are....fired!

The smoke was e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e. It seeped and oozed into every crevice in the smoldering abode. Dancing across the ceiling like a theatre grade diffusing haze. Looming above like a crafty blanket about to smother my lungs and blind my vision. It appeared in every sense, that my house was ON FIRE. As it were, it was merely ON SMOKE. But I mean come on; I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but maybe a head's up BEFORE death is about to molest my alveoli might be nice...ahem, smoke DETECTOR. This is most definitely smoke I detect.

Yes, love, funny lesbian joke...the new toaster oven is in the mail she says. As long as Melissa signs the box. She wants me to believe it's not her discounted outlet bread that is at fault. There was nothing wrong with my toaster. Was. Indeed the flames were forming when I found it. Deep inside the belly of the thing, nothing licking it's protective plastic shell. Really? Is this a good idea, plastic shell?

I smell burnt toast in the car. Am I having a stroke?

Name That Road

I don't care much for technology when I'm riding...besides the essential phone that is. I have no idea how fast I'm going or even how far. I certainly don't know what street I' on or where I'm going. Just riding.

In the country it's no big deal. First of all, you really can't get lost. Too many rides marked right there on the road for you. Problem is you might have to ride the entire Seagull Century before you get back home. And FYI...there WON'T be a pie and ice cream stop.

But at least you'll never have to worry about turning the wrong way and being faced with a giant hill. No 35% grade in this corner of the country. Not even a .35% grade.

Here's the best part. You can always phone a friend. Every try this in the city? Where no one is FROM. They are likely to not know the next street over from their house. In the country you can give a cross street and the person on the other end of the phone will know EXACTLY where you are WITHOUT consulting a map.

In fact at one point today when I was on a long stretch of road and wanted to know where I was, I noticed there was never a street sign that named the street I was actually on, only the cross streets. I considered calling the girl at work just to read names off the mailbox to see if she knew where I was. Like a party trick. I bet she could have done it!