August 2005

One of our stops today, while running errands, was at a local bike shop. (The web site sucks, but I’m linking anyway, for reference). It’s been a while since I’ve made my way through a large bike shop – where there are multiple brands of bikes, multiple rows of accessories, and where there’s a clothing section with interesting options. Our last few bike-related wranglings were at a small shop around the corner from our house, run by a man who annoys me just by breathing and who appears to have some form of ADD that doesn’t permit him to acknowledge customers standing – patiently, oh so patiently – in his store. The plan for today’s shopping was to find me a pair of padded non-spandex shorts – the sort that you can find here – for a reasonable price. I’m all about avoiding the monkey butt, dontcha know.

Less than 30 seconds after we walked through the door, after fondling the camelbaks, I started to get twitchy. My eyes were opened a bit wider than usual, my heart was pounding, and I couldn’t stop hyperventilating the fabulously rubber-scented air. Bike Store, heaven-on-earth, gadgets and doodads galore. I tried to keep my blinders on – after all, I have the basics of what I need – but soon found myself making comments to myself like, “I could totally use some spuds.” and “Oooo, I really need a pair of orange Oakleys!”. As we stood, debating new saddles for ourselves, I casually let it slip that I was, “feeling a little twitchy.” My husband looked around, noted a pinging noise in the A/C and suggested that might be the cause. I had to choke back laughter – if he knew how close I was to whipping out my credit card, bank card and writing promisary notes for every item in the store he’d likely have grabbed me by the arm and escorted me out to the car. The car that was parked in the parking lot of an office supply store. My other form of sweet, sweet heaven.

My business needs to start making a fuckload of money RIGHT NOW.

Instructions:

Go to MusicOutfitters.com.
In the Search box, enter the year you graduated high school.
The first item returned should be the 100 most popular songs from that year. Cut and paste them into your journal.

Bold the ones you like.
Underline your favorite.
Strike through the songs you loathe.
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Library day. It’s just as much fun as it was when I was a kid. Still free, still no limit on books (at least, not one I have to worry about) and we rode our bikes there – thus making it even more similar to my childhood. Of course, my childhood library was a 40 minute ride. It’s only 10 or 15 to this one. Same amount of exertion, however, given my curent lack of physical stamina. Heh.

It feels nice to be out riding my bike again, particularly on these short little jaunts. I’m getting used to being around traffic – we’ve been riding on the sidewalk (which I am totally against) because I’m too unsteady still to feel comfortable on the actual road. Our area is fairly industrial, and the number of transport trucks (coupled with road construction) in our neighbourhood scares the crap out of me. In time, once I’m able to handle my bike AND keep my eyes on traffic, I’m sure I’ll get back onto the street.

Many lifetimes ago, I used to race road bikes – hitting speeds of 40km or more and never less than 30. It was a lot like flying to reach the point where the bike is just zipping along with very little human power added. When it gets to that point – where you’re flying and the air is cooling your skin and your body isn’t exerting much effort – it’s like magic. When I had to stop racing, for health reasons, I was completely unable to get on a bike without attempting to reach those speeds again. Like a drug, I suppose. I’d get on, force the issue, end up gasping for air and feeling terrible. Repeat. Be angry. Be sad. Feel crappy. In the end, I stopped riding altogether.

A few years ago, after my Dad died, I decided to buy a really good mountain bike. I found a beautiful Brodie Hellion, in deep red, had it fitted and then and brought her home. Her name is Ruby, of course. My theory was that a mountain bike was so different from a road bike that I wouldn’t feel the same sadness when I didn’t go as quickly and that I could just ride and enjoy myself. I was terribly wrong – my mind was completely dissatisfied with the plodding thick knobby tires. I felt like I could have been walking faster than I was riding. I wasn’t comfortable or skilled enough to go on trails or ride offroad at all.

My fabulous mountain bike sat, mostly unused, in the garage.

My husband recently got his bike fixed up – with a new tire – and decided to ride around to do some various little errands. My curiosity was somewhat piqued – and I hesitantly asked if I could join him. He’s quite tall, and has long legs, and is in much better physical shape than I am – so I asked whether he would mind riding really slowly so I could keep up. He agreed.

And god, it felt good. We rode at a nice pace, save for the last block on the way home when I sprinted up to 30kph. (And that hurt. Heh.)

So, two days in a row, we’ve been out riding. Short distances (which is good, and keeps me from overdoing it and then not wanting to go riding anymore) but with a purpose (which also helps). There is talk of purchasing a bike trailer so we can use the bikes to buy groceries and food for the dogs and run small errands along those lines.

How nice to finally be able to just enjoy my bike. My beautiful, red bike. Red, to match the colour of my ass. Ouch.

Yesterday was, without question, the worst migraine I’ve had. I shall spare you the traumatic details, other than to say that my husband is a saint who fetched me water and cold cloths and dry toast and snuggled up with me when I needed it.

The day after a migraine is always this weird, surreal sort of day. Every move feels tentative – if I tilt my head slightly, will it start to ache inside my brain again? – and I walk around on fawn-legs, wobbly and weakened. My energy has not returned, fully, but I’m frustrated by it – instead of blissfully slumping onto the sofa with a cold cloth on my head I want to do something – anything – but my energy isn’t there. The light no longer bothers my eyes, but when I close them I can see lurching patterns of dizzying light on the inside of my eyelids. Spinning and twirling. I down a few extra Tylenols during the day, just to keep the dull ache down. I am hungry, but only for certain foods and not others. I am thirsty, but only for water. Everything feels precarious.

I can’t wait to wake up tomorrow and feel better.

Generally speaking, all it takes is a Beach Boys song for me to start smiling.
And for so many reasons.

Suprisingly, to both you and I, this has nothing to do with periods or tampons or cramps or any of that stuff, other than the mention I just made.

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I knew I was in love with her when she replied with, “Oh, the words just felt right. I’m in a good mood today!”

I am quite certain I loved her before then, long before, but it’s the first moment when I knew it without question. I had flipped to her blog, from work most likely (though I honestly can’t remember) and found the message typed:

You stupid dumb shit goddamned mutherfucker!

I instantly sent her an email: are you okay? what happened?!

She replied almost as quickly: No, stupid, it’s Offspring.

And then I, again: What? WHY?!

Which brings us back to where we started – me, in love with her.
I did a damned good job of missing her today, too.

Happy Birthday Debbie-Sue. I miss you.
You stupid dumb shit goddamned mutherfucker.
I love you.

Our beagle, Zooey, has always been rather guided by her nose and mouth. There are times – many of them – where she will become transfixed by a single, solitary spot on the carpet. A spot that is not noticeable in any other way besides the beagle snout circling it. She can do that for hours, making little snuffle and snort noises every once in a while, or scratching at the carpet briefly with her toes. When she is not sniffing, she is chewing – rawhide, usually – and fiercely defending her snack from the sneaky jaws of our other dog, Daisy. There are stories aplenty of Zooey consuming people’s sofa cushions and wooden frames and shoes and ziff ties and errant socks. Anything not firmly secured out of her reach. And she can walk great distances on her hind feet, too, so don’t think that your stuff is safe on the edge of the counter. No, no.

This afternoon the beagle suddenly appeared in the basement, skulking up to my unexpecting husband, with an empty packet of mouse poison in her mouth – the tiny blue chunks conspicuously absent from the clear plastic. We haven’t had mice in our house in several years – and both of us were quite certain all of the poison had been removed, save for an unopened box in our garage, high up on a shelf. My husband escorted the dog upstairs and informed me of her latest snack. We pondered for a moment what, exactly, we should do.

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My husband was offered a job – pending the working out of some minor details and discussions of salaries and hours and the like. That’s a great thing for him – for several reasons, one of which is his pending immigration completion. He’ll know more about it tomorrow, and we’ll have to make some decisions. All good, however, and I’m quite excited about the whole thing. I get goofy about “new” things like this – it’s a similar feeling to going shopping for back-to-school supplies. A feeling of fresh, new, wonderful experiences.

I had my own ‘back-to-school’ experience when I swung by Staples/Business Depot to pick up office supplies. If there is a mothership, for me, it is a toss up between a store with fresh, new, good-smelling office supplies – like Staples – and Indigo and Ikea. They call to me. Like right now, if I close my eyes and hold my breath, I can totally hear a fresh stack of graph paper calling my name in the distance. Ah, sweet, sweet, office supplies. I have a new rolodex, a business card holder, a file box for my receipts/papers and a nice portable folder to store client files in.

But. The piece de resistance?

A new label maker.

Hold me tighter, please, for my legs are going weak. My husband is employed and I have a new label maker. My life totally fucking ROCKS.

I swear, people are gonna’ start telling us to get a room.

With any luck, that room will have a heart-shaped bed, a big fat jacuzzi and some sweet men to feed us grapes.