2008 Log
January - 32.5 (thank you crappy flu)
February - 33 (so that also sucked)
March - 59
April - 25.5
May
3rd - 3 miles
4th - 3 miles
7th - 10 miles
Gentlemen, this one is for you. May you learn a lesson from the mishaps of Bobo, which is not so much his name as it is his cat's name, but it's the best I can do.
Where to start? Bobo and I casually dated back in the initial fall of a period of time I like to wistfully refer to as SMOS. SMOS was good times, but we can talk about how selfish things are often fun later. It didn't end very prettily, and we haven't really talked a lot since, though I do miss his energy. A couple of months ago, I get a kind of random text that reads something like, "Hey, this is Bobo. I don't know what you're going to do when you get this text, but I figured it was worth a shot. I finally cleaned up the mess I made. Wanna get a drink?"
I mean, what I was planning to do with that text was ignore it because I'm busy, but he's so cool that I didn't. I didn't ignore it, I mean.
So last week we decided to meet up for lunch.
Most of lunch is spent with my monopolizing the conversation my seemingly endless dialogue about having quit my job because, well, that's what I do these days. But towards the end, my curiosity and lack of discretion gets the better of me and I ask, "So, tell me about this this mess you made."
At which point eyes are rolled and sighs are released and hands are brought to head, and it is only the nicer part of me that resists saying "I could have TOLD you that this would end like this - girls who want to get that serious, that fast will ALWAYS be problems in the end." But I don't say it. Except that I know that he reads this blog so basically I am saying it, just not with a knowing smirk on my face while I eat a salad. So same thing, really. But, seriously, I could have TOLD you how this would go down.
Anyway, after the dramatic opening, this:
Bobo There's not even time to go into all of that. But I'll tell you, I'm about to tell you what I've learned. In thirty-nine years of living this is what I've learned.
Me This is your life lesson for me?
Bobo Yes. Here's what I've learned. There are three things you can count on in life. Death, taxes, and the fact that women will hear what they want to hear.
Me Women are crazy. You're just realizing this?
Bobo Yes, women are crazy, but more specifically, they only hear what they want to hear. I think that that's something you learn in your thirties.
Me Oh, right, because in your twenties, everything like that just falls into the general bucket of "women are crazy," but as you enter your thirties you start to be able to narrow it down to precise ways in which women are crazy, one of which is certainly that women only hear what they want to hear.
Bobo Yes.
Me And you're just realizing this now?
Bobo Well, remember, I was married during most of my early thirties, so I missed the part where most men are learning that women only hear what they want to hear.
Me I see. Well, I mean, I basically agree with you. Women hear what they want to. Now you know.
I mean, so there it is, gentlemen. Women only hear what they want to hear. Now you know. Or maybe you already knew that, in which case Bobo could have used your help. I'm not saying, I'm just saying.
Oh, and I could have warned you that that situation would end up like that. I'm JUST SAYING.
Ashleigh's Adventure In Africa: Rain, Wind, Mountains
Greetings from Malawi!
Um, I have lots to tell you, but I have plopped most of the details onto my blog because it's totally word vomit. Yesterday I spent all day on the bike with Kerri (American) because I needed... CRAVED... time with a girl and a Yankee who would understand all of my words (and stuff!) and seriously, we talked for 8 hours (it should NOT have taken 8 hours even with the climbs but she was a hurtin' and I was a happy to wait at the top of every hill and ride at 10mph).
In short, we have been riding in headwind (galore), up climb after climb, through rain storms (it stings), in the dreary cold until it warms up to a muggy mess. Malawi.
Who cares about that stuff though! I mean, I could talk your ear off about terrain, cycling, my sick ass body and the weird sectional riders (one of them is like a gremlin who was fed after midnight, that's all I'm saying) but let's talk racer politics!
So, this is a race. There are like 3 men who are actually strong and they are OWNED by Jos. There is 1 woman who fancies herself as a racer (even though she (a) is not (b) is nuts (c) has no competition (d) cried through the first 3 countries,. literally (e) has spent more days on the bus than anyone should have). Yea, and her name is Deb Corbeil.
So, we skipped Kenya, as you know, and the logistics were all complicated. Jos asked when the last race day was, he was told -- he decided to go home for 2 weeks. BUT, after he booked his flight, they changed the last race day -- but since he had his flight, they said he wouldn't be penalized (seein' as they screwed up).
WELL, he leaves and the other racers start moaning and group together to convince the race organization to ding him for not racing. Hello sportsmanship!
Don't do it, we told them (they did it). He's going to punish you when he gets back to make up the time (he is). Alas, he comes back and has lost like 24hrs in the race, putting him 2nd. Now, I though he was a tool before (only talked about racing, grams, calories...boooring) but I'm pretty much running his fan club now. It's such bad form to do that when he wasn't even there to make his case.
Enter crazy Deb sans competition. There's a new sectional (Jo) who is racing (was racing, but she managed to ride like 1 day and it kicked her butt so she dropped out of the race and rides the bus a lot -- shame). Deb saw Jos push Jo up a hill (he did that for me once... brilliant) and FREAKED out, screaming like a banchee that everyone was against her (we are). It. Was. Crazy.
So, there is a rider meeting and they sort all things out (not really). Race rules don't say anything about helping another rider, etc.
Well, THEN after 2 time trails (these are not factored into the race for whatever reason), half the racers decide they should count, so they change the rules (not unanimous) and factor the time trials in. But Joya (in love with Josh) is the only other girl racing (not really racing) and she didn't race the time trial up the Gorge (because that was NUTS) so they want to make up a time for her (stupid).
So it boils down to racers hating each other (I just hate Deb) and in fighting, and being bad sportsmen etc.
Joya is 20ish hours behind Deb, and has actually been riding really well (I can't keep up, but these days that is not saying anything). She climbs well at least (90lbs, 23 yrs old). This means that things are going to get ugly because when we hit Botswana (flat), we are all going to pull her in everyday to pick time away from Deb (because she sucks). I'll let you know how it goes... well, actually, the other strategy is for Nat and myself to enter as racers and take the last two sections (I think I can win the flats) but I haven't been convinced because ... UGH -- it's so much more fun to take coke stops and pictures and talk. However, since we'll be pulling Joya, them carefree days are already gone. See the dilemma?
Anyway, in short, the race is all messed up and you'd think there was something more than self congrats at the end of this (like money, but there's not).
And there you have it.
Alright, off to return to camp (tent is sorta fixed with the help of a plier). I have to get my bike looked at (because it creaks and squeaks and all sorts of things) and try not to puke. Livin' the dream people (actually, I am).
Will email in 2 days from Lilongwe (it's a long way to Lilongwe)... perhaps I'll even share with you my lil' song that I'm writing about this trip (to the tune of Rollin Down the River by Tina Turner).
Oh, no. Oh, yes I am. I'm about to straight up tell you about how I went to the Menudo show at the House of Blues and it was the most fucked up thing ever.
Firstly, you are wondering how I ended up at the Menudo show at the House of Blues, and I am simply going to answer that sometimes strange things happen and on a Thursday night you suddenly find yourself with you gay neighbor, 300 12 year old girls, their parents and Johnny Wright.
So, this is not so much a Menudo show as it as a Bandamonium show, which is like an explosion of b-level boy-bands. HEAVEN. No, seriously, even by my standards of cheesiness this is a stretch. But then something happens that is so awesome, so blog-worthy, so worth having hauled my migraine ridden ass out of bed on a Thursday for, that it all becomes worthwhile.
I suffer through the first two bands. The first is two yahoos named James and Mark who sing sensitive teenage acoustic rock. Next is BEAT FACTORY, who don't so much sing as they do dance, but they dance like there's no tomorrow (tm Paula Abdul and Randy Jackson). It's a little bit painful, but nothing this girl can't handle.
And then ... Menudo. The lights dim, the music starts, the pre-pubescent girls begin to go crazy and Menudo comes out to do their very first number of the night wearing ...
Leather zip-up S&M gimp masks.
I did not just make that up.
It's SO FUCKED UP. These twelve year old girls are going CRAZY over these teenage Mexican boys who are basically dressed up like they're about to kidnap a bunch of the girls in a creepy cargo van and then nail them inside wooden boxes and keep them in the basement for the next five years. I only wish that in that moment I had had the presence of mind to look around at the girls' parents and see if any of them were as horrified at this inappropriateness as I was, or if they just thought that this was par for the course. But I didn't look around to see that, because I was too busy being struck down by the vision in front of me of young girls rushing after Latino dominator gimps.
Oh.My.God.
Sadly, though, I am so numb to this type of insanity that I eventually eased up and started to enjoy the Menudo show. I actually enjoy the song "Save the Night," which you can buy in iTunes. At one point, I actually find myself thinking, "Hey, that sixteen year old Latino kid is going to grow up to be quite the heart breaker..."
And then the unfortunate happens. My mind wanders or whatever and I lose track of what's going on, and when I look back up, a boy who looks like he may generously be around eleven years old is singing to me about what goes on "In the middle of the night."
Oh, NO NO NO NO NO NO. Inappropriateness alert! NO NO NO NO NO! Oh, no. Now I just feel dirty. Ew. I mean, at that age, what's supposed to be going on in the middle of the night for that boy is "I wonder what this sticky stuff in my bed is and where it came from." What should NOT be happening at his age is pelvic thrusting on stage as he describes a more vivid vision of "in the middle of the night."
Ashleigh's Adventure In Africa: Whoa, we're halfway there...
That's right, people! Yesterday we crossed the halfway point of this ride (distance). We've gone 5200 kilometers (excluding the kenya flyover part). HALF WAY. I sang Living on a Prayer (Whoa, we're half way there, whoa-oooo living on a prayer, take my hand, we'll make it I swear, Whoa-ooo living on a prayer..... admit it, you know it). Everyone looked at me like I was a bit loopy (and no one joined in) but it's a tradition for me at the half way point of any great efforts (marathons, kili, this).
To be honest, I can't believe we're only half way there. I mean, when I think about turning around right now and riding back to Egypt, I sort of want to puke. This business of biking is hard. I'm tired all the time, feeling like everyone is getting stronger on the bike and I am actually weaker than I've ever been.
Might just be in a bit of a lull. The half way part can be tough. It's like a midlife crisis, really. PLUS, we're in rainy season and that means...well, rain. Rain = mud and puddles = wet cyclist.
It rained so hard the other night that there was a river running through the camp. A river. I could have fished in the thing. Lucky for me, my tent was on the high ground (because I always take the high ground, being an angel and all). I got a few drops of water in it, but nothing too bad. You should see some of the other folks. Oi.
Then, apparently my tent karma caught up with me because now my entire front door zipper will not close. The teeth are not clamping -- it's like the sides of the zipper have decided to divorce and will never talk again.
This is a problem for two reasons:
1. rain
2. blood sucking mosquitos that enjoy me a little too much.
So, currently I have clothing pins (borrowed) holding the thing together. This was a little effective last night with the bugs, but the rain came in this afternoon. It didn't really matter though, 'cause the corners have decided to open themselves to the elements so the tent has become my portable pool. I am working on a solution for this .... but currently I've only been able to come up with plans that involve killing other cyclists (the ones with the nice tents... can't take it with ya!).
Each afternoon I arrive to camp, usually wet. Then I get my tent up (wet), swap out of wet cycling clothes for wet other clothes. Then later I get into a wet sleeping bag on a wet (deflated) thermarest. In the morning, I get up and take off my wet clothes for my wet (and seriously smelly) cycling clothes, and it all starts again. A day in the life.
Tanzania is beautiful. Really beautiful. I'm enjoying the ride, even though the rough pavement made me want to lose my mind, caused great physical discomfort, emotional distress and nearly caused a riot in my saddle region. We're back on pavement now, and I can relax a little. A very little, because it's quite hilly.
Today was our last full day in Tanzania; we cross into Malawi tomorrow (I am so looking for Madonna). It's always exciting to go into a new country -- especially when there is a free visa involved. Sweet. Looking forward to our rest day in 2 days -- on the beach (let it be sunny please). There's no internet (or anything) there, so I have no idea when I will be in touch again, but it should be relaxing. We're having a beach party (hang over) on Friday so fun stories are about to start.
We have been joined by a new group of sectional riders. They are having a tough time. I feel badly for them because I know how it must feel to come into a group and be an outsider -- AND to feel like everyone is so much fitter. They are struggling and nearly all of the have been on the (gasp) bus already. Too bad, but I admit the off road days were tough for all of us -- no way to start a new ride.
We're sort of nice to them, but not getting too attached.
Let's see, what else can I throw in here before signing off? Well, we had our first cyclist hit by a bus (just on his arm as it past). Nuts. The buses are insane. He's okay (thank god because he's super cute) but it was a scary moment.
The Cools (the film guys who make the videos and are filming a documentary on the ride) are riding this insane double decker bike. It gets loads of attention and I still can't believe that they can ride it on flats, much less up huge mountains. I hope there are some photos of it on the TDA site.
My riding pal Josh lost his EFI today. He's had a bad migraine for 2 days, rode yesterday (still was stronger than all of us) but today it was the end. So sick. It's sad, but the health stuff out here can be serious. He doesn't seem to care (amazing because I was pissed when I lost mine).
And finally, re: race politics, I'll have to fill you in when I have more time (sorry) but suffice it so say there has been yelling, outbursts, poor sportsmanship, crazy behavior and backstabbing -- over a non-sanctioned race without any money for the winner. It's nuts.
And there you have it. Hope to email again in a week or so, but no promises. Much love to all.
For Those About to ROCK: The Annual Pilgrimage for Pookie's Birthday
I'm not sure if doing the same thing for two years in a row makes it a tradition, but I'm going with it. We've (by "we" I mean shamus and myself) all gone home for Pookie's birthday two years in a row now. So that makes it a tradition. And if we don't do it next year, it will be like, "Oh, we're breaking tradition. We have to go home for Pookie's birthday."
Also, if you would like to see my entire collection of pictures from the trip (including some by shamus and some by Pook and some by Honeydunce), click here.
And yes, there's something somewhat wrong about the idea that we've made Pookie so special that trips across the continent for his birthday are a regular event. I have no answers, per usual.
Firstly, you should know that this was the conversation about coming home for Pook's birthday.
Me So, my DUI hearing is the same day as your birthday, so I guess I'm coming in for your birthday.
Pookie Awesome. My sister is getting sober for my birthday.
Me I'm not. I'm really not.
Day One: This is AWESOME. So, I arrive Thursday night. I have breakfast with mom. I head to court to hang out with MD. Things are done. Things are not done. Things are sometimes frustrating. MD makes me laugh. I head to Pookie's house, where shamus is napping and listening TO THE MOST GOD AWFUL NOISE FUCK I HAVE EVER HEARD. shamus has apparently realized that a cab from the airport to Joel's cost $70. Ouch. He shows me gay YouTube celebrities. This is what we do.
We go to lunch. Pizza and tiny jugs of sugar, or iced tea if you prefer to call it that. We talk to an old lady about a bakery. We go to Jerry's used records. We have cupcakes. shamus cruises the around in a $300 t-shirt. I make the guy at the cupcake store listen to a five minute speech about how I wish I were bulimic because boys would like me better. Shamus does not like cripples. It's a good afternoon. Our sugar high begins to crash, though, and we want a nap, so we head back to Pookie's Hippie Shack.
And ten minutes after we nap ... the Pookie explosion busts through the door. And the world is happy. Though he needs a nap, too. So we all nap.
And then we head to dinner to meet up with Ferris and Honeydunce. There are two things you should know about dinner:
a. It is the first time that any of us are meeting Honeydunce, and while Pookie may not want to hear this, expectations are frankly low since we didn't like any of the last couple of girlfriends of his we met. Or didn't meet because they were noticeably absent at important events. And while we immediately fell in love with Honeydunce, I, in retrospect, feel badly for that poor girl. Firstly, when you put Pookie, Ferris, shamus and myself in a foursome together for the first time in over twelve months, it tends to escalate into an explosion of inappropriateness. At one point, I'll even admit, I go as far as to ask Honeydunce "On a scale of one to ten, how into my brother are you?" What's awesome about the fact that I just wrote that is that Pookie was in the bathroom when I did that and may just now be heating up in embarrassment that I did that to his girlfriend. The poor girl is literally bombarded. And I have to say, she held up like a pro. Like it didn't even phase her. She's the first one I've ever liked. She also had to put up with point "b", which is equally awesome.
b. We happen to be eating dinner in a Thai restaurant that is DIRECTLY across the street from the apartment building where shamus' uncle overdosed on heroin and died. And shamus happens to be sitting in the direction such that all through dinner what he's looking at is the apartment building where his uncle overdosed on heroin and died. For those of you who hang out with shamus and I, you know how sometimes I'll look at shamus and go, "You know, at least I think that the guy I'm dating now probably isn't going to put a shot gun in his mouth and kill himself," and then we laugh at that situation like it's funny instead of tragic because that's how we deal? Well, pretty much throughout dinner shamus would periodically say, "It's AWESOME that I'm having dinner and staring at the apartment where my uncle overdosed on heroin and died," and then we would all laugh like that situation was funny instead of tragic because what else do you do with that?
Honeydunce was a trooper. I love her.
After dinner we head to the Bloomfield Bridge Tavern where Allies has a show that night. Several awesome things, pretty much in this order, happen at the BBT.
- The Pens game is on. With just minutes to go in the third period, the Rangers come back to tie the game. The ENTIRE bar suddenly goes from moderately noisy to DEAD QUIET. Nobody is talking. There is no noise AT ALL. And then, with just a minute or so left, Crosby scores the go-ahead (and ultimately winning) goal and the place goes CRAZY. I feel entirely home.
- Honeydunce introduces me to my new favorite drink, which is vanilla vodka and pineapple juice and it tastes like a pineapple upside down cake.
- I eat six pirogies. Here is a note to self: no matter how much you may WANT the pirogies, they're not going to sit well with you after a Thai meal.
- Beautiful Kim shows up with her finance and somebody else we went to high school with. None of us remember the other kid we went to high school with, but perhaps that is because he probably wasn't hot in high school and now he is HOT.
- Andy and Fred show up and are, traditionally, Andy and Fred.
And then Allies play, and they rock. And my favorite thing about an Allies show is that Pookie spends a not insignificant amount of time playing with his back to the audience, all like "I would be rocking whether you were here or not." And Vesley, whom I hear is about to cut off the mane, hasn't cut if off yet and he lets it down for one song. And the band plays my favorite track, which is a track Pookie wrote after we got home from Hawaii for shamus' 30th birthday the other year. And teenage girls swoon and the Gods of rock smile and all is good.
And Ferris takes us home because Pookie wants to do shamus and I a "favor" by staying at Honeydunce's that night so we can have more space.
I should mention, by the way, that there has been no toilet paper at Chez Pookie since we arrived. I used the last tiny square within the first fifteen minutes. That is all.
Day Two: I got your Kayapolitan right here, and an Ass Cupcake For the record, I have nothing to do with that Ass Cupcake conversation. I am just here to relay the information.
We begin the morning by meeting up with my mother in Cal, PA. By we I mean me, Pook, Honeydunce, shamus and...Doreen Conaway. Yes, my mother's BFF was in full force too. And later in the day Janet Batemen joined us as well, so it was all kinds of generational. I don't have a lot to report because the visit was in general extremely pleasant and relaxed and my mother serves lots of food and I wash my hair over a sink which is CRAZY since she just basically installed a new shower for me and I accidentally mention that I bought cocaine off of somebody that we all know, which, you know, is problematic information on many levels. And we sit outside and it's warm and breezy and smells like fresh grass and then shamus insists on putting his balls near my face and EVERYTHING IS RUINED LIKE ALWAYS.
Though, you know, that move on his part is really only fair since in Hawaii that one time I stuck my bikini clad butt right in his face. We're even now. Here are some pictures of the day.
Joel, shamus and Honeydunce head back to nap. I take a trip to Chez Woo to visit C-Woo and Tyler and Cienna. Those kids are getting ridiculously big. Cienna is so articulate now - she can have a full conversation with you if she feels so inclined. She's also quite good at getting her way. She'll stand in front of you with a book and big eyes. If you don't read it, she'll just open the book and put it on your lap. Eventually you realize that she's headstrong like her mama and she's going to win. And Tyler is just a flirt. Who likes food. And hockey. We know which parent he takes after. And it's so nice to catch up with C-Woo because she's one of the only people I know who will listen to some of the retardo decisions I'm making right now and not just say, "You're a moron." It's almost like she expects them, which is a good and bad thing.
After that but before a non-existent nap that I had planned on, I meet up with shamus and Ferris for more cupcakes. We take our cupcakes and our coffee and go sit on the steps of a church in Squirrel Hill. I first start explaining that part of the reason that I don't move back to Pittsburgh is because of the lack of eligible men to date. I mean, I'm not going to die alone or anything because I've got some cats and some gays, but I might like to find somebody ... someday. This confession immediately turns into a fun game for the boys called "What about him?" "What about him?" sounds a lot like this:
"What about that douchebag in the track pants and sandals?"
"What about the old guy?"
"What about the punk rock teenager? Oh, wait, he's a little old by your standards."
"What about the guy with bad hygiene?"
And on and on. Then, a conversation that I don't even understand begins to happen about eating cupcakes out of asses. I mean, I don't even pretend to acknowledge what was said. That is all.
We make it back to Pookie's. There is no nap time. There is change and roll out time. So I change, and we roll out. To official birthday dinner, which is at this place.
Joining us at dinner are Moon and C-Woo. B-Funk mystically disappeared on us, but that's how he rolls.
I have many favorite parts of dinner. In no particular order:
- Well, one could not overlook the invocation of "ass cupcake" throughout the entire meal. I'm still unclear as to whether "ass cupcake" is a term of endearment or a verb. I'm not sure I want to know.
- Oh yes, Honeydunce steals Ferris' move and the unicorn is brought out in full force. That's really just funny every time. It's like the jackal, but not.
- Political debate 2008, at which point I move seats. In this argument, Moon argues, shamus may or may not argue (I couldn't tell), C-Woo tries to argue and is shut out and really they're all pretty much on the same side in the end, which is the strange part.
- "Oh, I knew your last boyfriend, I was out on the trail with him when you two were breaking up! He was pretty upset." This is by far my FAVORITE moment. It was actual perfection. If I could have reached across and kissed Moon for giving us that moment, I would have.
I'm not sure if this means that we rock, or that we're middle-aged, but we closed that tapas and martini joint DOWN.
And then ... off into the night.
The Last Morning: On a scale of one to five ... We spend the last morning before shamus and I fly out at the 61c having coffee. We play this game: "On a scale of 1 to 5, how would you rate Pookie's life so far in the category of (insert category) by the age of 31?"
Pookie doesn't like the game and decides that we ALL have to play if we're going to play.
The next category up is "fashion."
Ferris is wearing a Mac OS X t-shirt. His excuse is that he's headed home to do yard work.
Me I give Ferris a 2.5 for fashion.
Pookie I'll give him a 3.5. It makes a statement.
shamus I give him a stupid point dumb.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, pretty much sums us up. Stupid.Point.Dumb.
Till next year, when hopefully my DUI will be resolved and we once again turn Pookie's birthday into a federal holiday.
Ashleigh's Adventure In Africa: You Poor, Poor People
Ah, the greatest tragedy has befallen you and you don't even know it. I had a, well, there's only one word that can be applied -- PHENOMENAL email about Tanzania and the woes of off roading, and the beauty of the contrast between the rocky red roads and the fields of sunflowers and bright blue skies...on and on like a freakin' Nobel prize in literature writer... and then the power went out and all was lost. D'oh! Now you get the reader's digest version. Here goes:
We're in Tanzania. 7 days of off road. I'm talking OFF. ROAD. Boulders, I've been trying to pedal my way up and down roads made of mud, sand, gravel and boulders. It's nuts. When I think I've seen the hardest day of cycling (um, the Gorge!), I am surprised by how hard it gets.
Someone asked me if I was going to cyclocross when I get home. "Me? I've never done it before so I don't know." They replied "well you've been doing it for the last 400 miles."
True dat.
It's hard. It's really really hard. Also, I have learned that if you see a path on the side of the "road" that looks smooth and you take it whilst riding alone, you should be aware that you could end up far far off track and really scared (but then you'll find your way). I'm just sayin'...
I've had the flu or a cold or something for the entire week. I wake up, take tylenol, talk myself out of getting on the bus, get dressed, cough up a lung, respond to comments like "you look really bad, ash" and "ohh, not feeling better, eh?" for a few minutes, suffer on the bike, get to camp and go to bed. It's okay, but it's a willpower test. And really, I should just get on the bus. But really, I can't.
I did have to, though, for 30km (SUCKED) because my tire shredded into a wee bit o' rubber. That would be the 3rd tire that has been shredded to nothing. The first 2 times we managed to patch the thing together for 10-20 km until camp (this involved spare rubber found on the road, duct tape, a toilet paper roll, several patches, a lot of swearing) but this time it could not be done. I was disappointed after suffering for 70km on very rough road up a million hills, but had 0 choice.
It is hot. Muggy sunny hot. The sun beats down on you like LAPD. Then, there's a violent gust of wind, the sky goes black in 5 minutes, lightening and thunder roll in and you are soaked. 10 minutes later, it's done.
The 2 week break was nice at the time, but it killed our fitness this week. The group as a whole suffered the first few days (err, might be because the terrain was so damn hard). The new battle in the group is infection. It's crazy - a woman fell. She cut her leg a little -- road rash. 3 days later she's in the hospital with her entire leg infected. Or, a mosquito bites someone on the foot. It itches. A week later, the foot is swollen and the infection is moving up the leg (this happened to me but I healed in Uganda, with the help of antibiotics). This ride is hard on the body and immune system. This continent is hard on the body and immune system.
So far I don't think that I've become a much better cyclist in terms of speed (I still climb at 5 mph), but I can assure you, my bike handling skills are way better. Sand pit? I stomp through it (dude, that is so hard). Gravel? I fishtail but stay on the bike. 2 inch line to balance on to avoid dip, puddle, etc? No problem. It's great to see the difference.
I did, however, managed to find myself completely on my back the other day when the "road" (if you saw it you would put quotes around it too) suddenly had a 2 foot dip across it (ie. trench) that no one seemed to feel need to call out (as they hopped over it on their stupid mountain bikes). My tire went in. I went over. It was actually like bike ballet, I am told.
We have a well deserved rest day tomorrow (ohh, you might hear from me again) and then we head to Malawi ... I think we get there in 3 or 4 days. Not actually sure, but it's pretty, I am told. And, we can swim in Lake Malawi. It's all about the water because I'll say it outright -- we are filthy.
So, we're nearing the half way point and as a group we have dealt with:
broken collar bones
concussions
sunburns
crashing into children
crashing into livestock
crashing into each other
hangovers
pulled muscles
infections
great food
bad food
no food
leaky tents
stolen stuff
visa problems
truck breakdowns
cold showers
no showers
bed bugs
hyenas
broken bikes (one racer is on a cracked carbon frame as we speak)
missing bikes
mob scenes
physical attacks (we had a madman attack one woman -- n u t s)
police escorts
...and the list goes on and on.
Amazing.
Next time, I will fill you in on the SHOCKING politics of the racers. That's right. You'd think there was a purse at the end of this thing with the politics. Good times.
Hope all is well with each of you -- sending you love from Tanzania (tan ZANE ia).
Right, I know I said Friday, but I really didn't get around to finishing this until this morning.
So, St. Patrick's Day.
(Is that going to be funny every time when I put "St. Patrick's Day" in bolded green font?)
St. Patrick's Day was supposed to be mellow. There was a plan. The plan was that K-Rock, Hott Scott and I were going to run Six Tunnels and then we were going to go see Flogging Molly at the House of Blues that night, have a few cocktails and then turn in. That was the plan. Mellow, more or less. Nobody (by which I mean me specifically, but might mean others) has been in a mood for a rager here in a while. And honestly, I'm okay with that.
Six Tunnels was delightful. Hott Scott insists that we show up at the crack of dawn, which turns out to be not necessary but nice nonetheless because you can see some special sights in an off-strip casino at 6:00am. The run is beautiful, the weather is beautiful, it's a great way to start the day.
Things begin to go wrong right after that. To begin with, I don't get a chance to nap at all between awaking at 5:00am to run and meeting up for pre-Flogging Molly drinks at 5 or 6pm or whatever time we met up. I intended to nap, but I had a bunch of errands to run and it didn't quite work out that way. So I'm already exhausted by the time we hook up at the classy, classy Mermaid Bar at Mandalay Bay in the early evening.
It's fight night at the Mandalay, which means that the crowd is a mix of frat boys who never quit being frat boys ... and Mexicans. And then there are a bunch of hipsters and punks and aged-out punks and Irish nationalists running around for the Flogging Molly show. I was sure there was going to be a race riot, or more accurately a social-class riot, but in the name of St. Patrick everybody seemed to get along just fine.
So, the show. Firstly, the show begins with the single most awesome opening act you will ever see - The Cherry Cokes. Apparently, Irish punk is all the rage in Japan, and so there are now a series of Japaness bands that play Irish punk. I'm not making this up, and also I almost enjoyed this band more than I enjoyed FM. They were brilliant in a completely non-logical way. Enjoy.
And then we meet Teddy.
Teddy is everything you hate about people who answer the question "Where are you from?" with the answer "I'm from Seattle, but me and my band moved down to LA. And then we broke up."
Firstly, let's talk about Teddy's form of introduction. Scottie has wandered off, and K-Rock and I are chilling at the bar when I sense that somebody, somewhere, is WAY too far into my personal space. I turn, and there is Teddy, standing silently and stalkerishly about half an inch from my body. Teddy also looks like everything you would expect from somebody who answers the question "Where are you from?" with the answer "I'm from Seattle, but me and my band moved down to LA. And then we broke up." He has on the obligatory hipster striped Sesame Street reminiscent shirt, the shaggy but still sculpted hair and the kind of "dead behind the eyes but not quite" stare.
Teddy wants FRIENDS. OMG TEDDY WANTS FRIENDS. And Teddy is going to get friends using the most tried and true method of obtaining friends: Round after round of Washington Apple shots. I am having one of those nights where I am immune to alcohol (unlike Friday night of this week, where I had four cocktails over four hours and have now been violently ill for two days), but Teddy is not having one of those nights where he is immune to alcohol, and he gets progressively drunker and drunker.
Now, anybody who knows me knows that I am and have been for a while now a tad bit irrationally hung up on a boy, and Teddy is about the polar opposite of K-Rock's kind of thing, but it's St. Patrick's Day and we're out and about and so we're enjoying the company of our fake, hipster, shared boyfriend, Teddy. That is until Scott comes back. Scott will steal your date straight out from under you at any time in any place. And he turns to Teddy and asks him about what kind of music he plays, and Teddy is gone to K-Rock and I. Hott Scott has stolen our boyfriend, and frankly I'm still a little pissed off about it. Teddy LOVES Hott Scott and his interest in his music and decides to celebrate by buying another round of Washington Apple shots.
And then Teddy is obliterated. He begins obliterated by sidling up to me and saying, "I think you're really pretty and I want us to be best friends forever."
"Really," I say, "Would you still want us to be best friends forever if I were forty pounds overweight and played the washboard in a band for a living?"
Teddy, in fairness, actually takes a solid minute to think about this. And then he says, "No."
At which point, I was going to entertain him and talk to him anyway because at least he was honest, but the band got good and I wanted to listen. And so Teddy moves on to K-Rock and her luscious boobs. And, well, that doesn't go so well because Teddy is so drawn in by the voluptuousness of K-Rock's boobs that he can't help but to reach out and grab them, at which point Hott Scott can't help but to reach out and grab Teddy. And so, Hipster Teddy and his Hipster Ways are forced to exit the night under the heavy hand of the punk rock version of Hott Scott. And what have we learned? You don't grab women's boobs at an Irish punk show unless said women are too drunk to know better and/or don't have their ripped up runner bodyguards with them.
After the show, we head over to the bar at Fleur de Lys to meet up with Al and Sue, who are finishing up dinner. We sit in the bar, having more drinks and truffle popcorn and watching the rowed up testosterone lovers exit the fight. And then Al and Sue join us for drinks and popcorn and then Al says, "I'm a VIP Gold member at the Penthouse Club. Wanna head over there?"
Because what St. Patrick's Day is complete unless you end it with some naked boob hanging over your table and a free bottle of vodka? Screw you and your green beer and leprechaun chicks. We want Stoli and some girl whose resume says "Dancer" and who carries a little purse onto stage with her to put her thong in when it comes off.
It was a good St. Patrick's Day. If I see Teddy's band around, I'll go to a show. There'll probably even be a song called "Washington Apple" in which he laments not having been able to fully realize the passionate love of K-Rocks breasts.
Ashleigh's Adventure In Africa: Back to the Saddle Soon
After a few weeks in Uganda, traveling in a group of 4, we have managed to accomplish the following:
- White water rafting on the Nile, involving one incident of blood when Joya flew off the raft whilst going down a particularly litigation causing waterfall.
- One day of hiking in the Moon Mountains in west Uganda, where we sat in natural hot springs until our skin was lobster red, being observed by locals, including a man with 2 wives who refused to believe me when I said I was going to have 3 husbands (cooking, cleaning, child rearing).
- 5 total trips in an out of Kampala, each time as complicated as the next, mostly involving near misses with very bad drivers.
- Two 5+ hour bus rides, one involving some very impressive singing by Natalia and myself, to the mad beats of the Ugandan superstar Rasta Smart.
- The consumption of AT LEAST 1 pineapple a day -- a feat accomplished by our sheer will and determination to always be in possession of a pineapple...seriously, we carry them around like babies. No, they are not hard to find. (um, yesterday we ate 4)
- One 3 hour ferry journey to the Ssese islands, where we are now and have been for 2 days, visiting pineapple farms (note the obsession), walking around, renting motorcycles.
- One trip to the Equator to see a monument, and then promptly turn around and head back to Kampala.
- 10 days of group travel outside of our controlled biking environment, exposing personality flaws galore (I have none), testing patience, (falling in love... um, not me), laughing until near vomit, and taking too many photos of each other.
I deem it successful.
Tomorrow we attempt our bus trip from Kampala to Arusha via Nairobi. we have 3 days to get back (should take 1 day). Then we start to ride again, after 2 weeks of saddle-less existence. I can only imagine how it will feel to ride again, knowing that the first day is off road, the rainy season has begun and the word "mud" has been peppered through many a conversation.
On the 16th, we ride again. Think of me. It's hard to believe we are half way there. We have faced the smoggy aggression of Egypt, survived the suffocating sands of Sudan, battled the abuse of Ethiopia, managed a vacation from a vacation ... what will be next?
First of all, I promise funny on Friday because that entry is about St. Patrick's Day (I know, FINALLY) and that night had good stories.
But today I really want to talk about this: Pretty Babies.
Firstly, let me say that I know mothers who engage in this behavior, though perhaps not as extreme as this article lays out. But I do know mothers whose eight year old daughters get manicures and eye brow waxings. I surely do. And worse yet, I actually think those little girls look adorable with their perfect pink nails and their perfectly sculpted eyebrows. Much like I think that ear piercing in little girls is cute. And to a certain degree, I hate myself for thinking that because I'd like for little girls to just get dirty, too. And I could not promise that if I had a little girl, by the time she was 10 she wouldn't have been dolled up like that. But I'd like to think that I had trained her to be dirty, too.
Dirty in the play in the dirt way. Stay with me.
Okay, so, the first thing that happened in that article was this brilliant line about what happens when we make girls too pretty, too young ... and "How, without the ugly years, will girls learn to accept themselves?"
And I agree.
My "ugly years" were in my early to mid twenties, kind of that last year or so of college and the first years of San Francisco. First, I gained some weight, people. Seriously. I was smoking a lot of pot near the end of college, which of course means extra weight - especially when you live in a college town where half of the economy is driven by pizza delivery that happens after 3:00am - no pun intended. And then I moved to a city where the 3:00am shwarma is king and Victor's Italian was right down the road and my life become more sedentary because I had an office job. My clothing size was almost double what I currently wear, though I guess in fairness I was also wearing my clothes baggier.
And my skin went bad. My skin has always been temperamental, but when I'm stressed out about something my immediate physical reaction to it is to break out. And I was stressed a lot during those years, so there was always some skin issue of varying degrees going on. And sometimes it was embarrassingly bad. Bad like the "before" stories in a Proactive infomercial. AND I WAS USING PROACTIVE AT THE TIME AND IT DIDN'T HELP. For example, one day when I was living with (I Love) Paul Jack, I woke up one morning and my skin was broken out so excessively that I couldn't even physically open my mouth. I had to call a doctor and drink through a straw for a day.
I'm probably remembering most of this as worse than it was - but that's not the point because I'm sure that a teenager who goes through her ugly years then remembers her breakout and unibrow as worse than it was too. What I know is that I felt insecure and unhappy about the way I looked, and I had to find other ways to like myself. Or, at a minimum, because that may be an overstatement, I had to be able to look in the mirror at my big, fat butt or my incredibly broken out face and just be angry about it, not hate myself for it.
And eventually the weight fell off. That's not true. Eventually I worked the weight off through changing my late night eating pattern and making it a point to work out.
And eventually, though I still respond to stress with a big zit here or there, my skin pretty much cleared up through better product, better birth control and a dryer climate.
So, back around Super Bowl time of this year, I was very stressed. Because as you know, for the last several years Super Bowl has been one of my most stressful times of the year. And I developed a stress zit. Actually, it was more like a stress boil. Actually it was more like an alien child trying to birth itself from a pod on my right jawline. It was bad. It actually literally was about the size of a quarter and took about two months to completely heal/drain. You couldn't look at me without seeing "Frank the Zit" first. *I* couldn't look at me without seeing it first. And I am single and ready to mingle and a huge blemish on my skin is not ideal.
So, ToniK and Mike and I go to the Super Bowl. And we're hanging out in the RV one night and "Frank the Zit" decides that this is when he wants to explode all over my face, meaning that I will now have a big, draining, scar-ridden cyst for the next two days while surrounded by hot available men at the Super Bowl.
And my response to this?
Literally...
My response is to shrug it off and say, "I mean, you know, whatever. If I were a super model, I wouldn't be hanging out in an RV with you yahoos at the Super Bowl. And that would kind of blow."
But most importantly, I meant it when I said that.
And I mean, the point is, if from the time I was a tiny tot I'd had perfect nails and perfect skin and perfect eyebrows, would I still be able to kind of shrug off the BIGGEST SKIN BLEMISH ANYBODY HAS EVER HAD - EVER and not think that it was something that really detracted from the awesomeness that is me as a whole? I mean, who knows, but probably not. I probably would have stressed about that stress zit for weeks and spent money better spent on saving starving African children on treatment after treatment and whined like it was the end of the world.
So I see the author's point. It's important that we're not always perfect on the outside so that we don't start to expect ourselves to be perfect, either on the outside or the inside. Or, more accurately, if we start to expect ourselves to be perfect on the outside, the degree to which we're imperfect on the inside will grow.
I hope that Sadie and Rayna and Cienna all have ugly years. I just hope that they don't have the kind that scar them for life but instead the kind that make them closer to perfect on the inside.
And I hope that the next time I get a big old stress zit, it's on the right side of my forehead so that I can brush my bangs over it and just conceal it.
Ashleigh's Adventure In Africa: Spring Break in Uganda!
Hi Everyone!
Been a while since I've had time to email an update and I'm probably going to forget most of what I wanted to share but what can I say?
I'm in Addis Ababa again, after completing the toughest cycling of my life. Ethiopia has mountains and they refuse to build the roads around them. It's up and over. I'm talking climbing 5000+ feet day after day after day. Exhausting.
We took a new route for a few days, some of which was off-road. The first day of off-road was great because the road was rough dirt but still doable. The second day was pure misery. Took 4 hours to do 24k at one point. Road so rough you couldn't feel your hands after 15 minutes of being on it (don't even think about your saddle), there were no smooth patches, and you cringed looking at the hills. I had 2 flats (Ethiopia is been pinch flat central for me), fell off my bike (um, for no reason really...sort of like choking on your own spit), and wanted the bus to pass me so badly. It didn't. I made it another day.
The TDA blog mentioned a woman hitting a child. That was not me, people. Geesh. I did stumble upon it right after it happened and had to turn back for help (into the wind) adding 20k to my day. Yikes. That was a scary situation -- mob scene with large stones ready to start violence. The founder of the Tour was there, and afterwards he admitted how scared he was and how close it was to real serious trouble.
We've had a few accidents now. Nothing too serious, but a broken collar bone has taken one of our male riders out. We've had sickness...the other day I saw a 50 year old rider sobbing because he was so sick he couldn't move. He lost EFI that day -- had to get on the bus. It's sad to see, but some people are taking that a bit too seriously if you ask me.
Kids are still terrible. One of my friends rammed one into a fence with his bike (though he says his brakes failed) and I admit I got my hands on one and gave him a very ungentle shove (people say I Chuck Norris karate chopped him, but I didn't). You lose your mind here, I'm telling you.
As we moved south to the Kenya border, the entire face of Ethiopia changed. It went from mountains and rocky cliffs to red sand desert with thousands of huge termite towers. Westernish dress to tribal costume. Even the hair styles changed.
It's beautiful, but life here, even after seeing it with my own eyes, is unimaginable. These kids run up to you (we are watched 24/7 -- they stand around camp, which is roped off, and just watch) and beg for money (demand money) and you know that they are never getting out of this place. This is it for 99.9% of them. Seems crazy.
As for my life, it goes like this:
I get up around 6. Pack my stuff. Have breakfast. Sit around while one of my riding pals dicks around (like marie). We leave (usually the last group to get out of camp).
We ride for maybe 30km. Stop for a coke. Have a sit.
We ride another 40-50km to lunch. Sit around too long. Get stiff and uncomfortable. Groan and then get back on the bike.
We stop for flat tires, photos, dropped water bottles... really any excuse.
We ride to the last town before camp (camp is in the desert usually) and find a place that has beer. We drink beer (it's great when town is 2km from camp; it's rough riding when it's 30km). We get stiff. We talk about how this time we're really going to stretch when we get to camp (um, I admit that I have stretched exactly 2 times this entire trip). We groan about getting on the bike.
We get to camp, put up our tent, change, eat soup and bread, wait for dinner (forget about stretching), think about the next day ("where do you think the beer stop is?") and laugh at stupid stuff that will be lost when we all go our separate ways when this ride is over.
That's a day in the life.
My bike is holding up well - in spite of insane abuse. It is covered in dirt and dust, but I just put a lil' dry lube on the chain every day or two, and we're good to go. I was planning on leaving the bike in Cape Town, but lo and behold that is apparently hard to do for whatever reason, so looks like my Surly is coming home with me. We're in love anyway, so it's for the best.
Off to Kampala in the morning to do god knows what. 5 of us are going and we have no plans. We're landing. We're going to see the equator. Then we have 12 days to do whatever and find our way back to Arusha (Tanzania) where we'll start riding again...on dirt roads. I'm hearing rain and mud will be our new best friends, and that Ethiopia was some of the hardest riding, but there's a lot more challenge to come. Yikes.
Hope all is well with everyone, and I hope to be in touch in Uganda if possible.
So, forty years later, I finally finished Schulz and Peanuts. First of all, depending on how you feel about biographies, this one is particularly good even if you don't take into account my love of the subject matter. David Michaelis writes biographies like he's writing fiction, so you're compelled into the story. Maybe just a touch too much historical contextualizing in the first 150 pages or so, but I'm sure the argument could be made that it's there because the importance of cartoons is so lessened in the year 2008 from Schulz era that it's important to make you understand that.
Anyway. Charles Schulz was a very sad man, which you already knew if you've ever read a Peanuts strip or two in your life. The truth is, I almost regret having read the biography because, well, it's much harder to like him now. And also in truth, I feel bad for not liking him because much of what makes him unlikable has to do with the fact that he was a little bit crazy. But mothers die, fathers have hang-ups, lovers reject you, wives are not perfect at all times, children need affection. These are facts of life, and his inability to deal with them and lack of work to make himself able to deal with them is not the picture of a loving man who dispensed philosophy across the board to an entire world. Sometimes, it might be better to not know that somebody has had an affair, or made their children feel alienated, or actually didn't give much of a crap about the magical home his wife created for him.
So many times during that book, I wanted to reach out and grab him and shake him and say "Get some medication!" or "Just deal with it!" I imagine, from what I read, that there were a lot of people who felt the same way over the course of his life.
There's an entire chapter dedicated to the making of "Merry Christmas, Charlie Brown." It's actually an amazing chapter about the decision to use children's voices and the fight over Linus' speech from the gospel and how the network hated the special when they saw it. Even if you don't read the book, you may want to consider downloading the chapter on the Christmas special only.
You know that he died on the exact same day that his last strip ran, right? The universe is crazy. Crazy, I tell you. And also always right.
Well, I didn't. I have to write for some other reasons this weekend, so hopefully there will be personal reflection time then, too. In the meantime:
1. Party with Pookie: You can find out where and how here. Just show up. Sort of.
2. June Feels So Far Away: So very, very far away. It took me about .4 seconds to develop serious senoritis.
3. I cried on the plane yesterday: When I read the final chapter of Schulz and Peanuts. It embarrassed the guy next to me.
4. Here's my second favorite text of the last two weeks:
Hott Scott You know that getting an honorable mention on your blog and having my texts excerpted really just makes me want to go into a dark room and lock the door with nothing but my phone and your number, right?
DO IT BUDDY!
5. The saddest thing ever... is when you tell people that they need to fix their poor attitude if they want to secure their job and they don't even realize when other people are perceiving them to have a poor attitude. I have to think about how to fix that.
Ashleigh's Adventure In Africa: Keep Your Eyes Behind You
When you ride through Ethiopia, the body is in pain - heat, altitude (10,000 ft at times), steep long climbs - but it's the ability to focus the brain that seems to be key, at least for me.
The thing is, this country is beautiful -- really stunning -- but you can't really let yourself look around too much. Someone says, "look at the view" and you turn your head for a second, take in what you can, and then inevitably you turn back and yell "The kid at 2 o'clock has a rock. Look at Noon - there's a gravel section. 3 o'clock, the sheep are about the cross." It happens in seconds. It happens all day long.
The trick is, you have to look ahead to make sure you aren't going to be hit or stoned or trampled by cattle, but you can't look too far ahead because this country will break your spirit ( at least mine). To look ahead means you see endless walls of pavement heading straight for the sky, sitting in front of layers upon layers of mountains. The best is to pull off at the top of a mountain and look behind you, congratulate yourself of what you have done, and then look only as far ahead as you need to. Mind games.
We've had 6 incredible days of riding. The hardest yet. We have been climbing endlessly -- Mt. Diablo+ every day. We hit the Blue Nile Gorge 2 days ago. You should google it for pictures. We climbed for 60k until we hit a plateau, and then the world just opened. It's like Zeus threw a lightening bolt into the ground - split it apart. Then, a difficult downhill for 20k, switchbacks, pavement that suddenly becomes gravel, then big rocks, then packed dirt. Hands aching, tires screeching.
Cross a short bridge at the bottom, and you hit 22k of 12% grade. Paved. Unpaved. No shade. It was a sufferfest, and incredible sufferfest that I was happy to give up on, but the bus was full (luck on my side again, as I finished the stage). It took the fastest woman (Natalia) 2:32 to climb it. It took me 4:40. That is called ugly.
Lucky, our lil Team Africa 911 has decided to win every time trial for Expedition riders and Nat and Josh took the second time trial so game on. It's all for fun, but it's nice to have goals :)
At the bottom, our Aussie pal George looked up at this unfathomable climb (seriously, it's unreal) and said "Gorge? That's not a Gorge, that's a dip." Australians are nuts.
Things I have learned:
1. If riding in Africa, get a triple chain ring. DUMB DUMB DUMB. The hills get so steep -- there's not a single woman left who has been able to do it all with a double. I have long been a big fan of the triple, cannot believe I don't have one. The mechanics tell me I was a fool. I KNOW! I keep asking if I can take a ring from my back cassette for the front (no) or grab a triple from a rider who is leaving (no) or buy one (no). bummer.
2. Tire levers for taking tires off and putting them on are for suckers. A ha ha. Really, they are quickly grabbed away by the boys and you're mocked if you use them. I'm actually getting pretty good at getting tires on and off without them now. And, we've learned a new trick dubbed the Martyn Wiggle, to get a tire on. I'll try to tape it and put it on youtube.
3. The sounds of violent vomit will wake you out of a dead sleep in seconds. Sickness is going around, and let me tell you, it's loud and you can't help but feel so bad for people. I've been okay so far, but Natalia (of Team Africa 911 of course) is on her death bed.
4. I have learned how to open a beer bottle with my pedal. These are my people, people!
And that is about 1% of what has gone on, and all I can manage to tell you at this point. Heading for Uganda in a few weeks -- no idea what we're going to do, but probably some rafting.
Next 2 weeks are unknown territory. We're going a new route, through the Rift Valley. Something about making it harder to make up for Kenya (honestly, this is so hard it really need not get harder). Something about hot springs at the end as a reward for surviving.
Honestly, I'm trying not to but I'm already dreading the end of this. Trying to live in the moment, but I don't want this moment to end. 3 more months!
And By The Way...Happiness is a Monday Five with a Good Close
1. Getting Old: So, this weekend, I was meeting up with some lovely Bachelorettes that Party Planning Girlz had booked a party for, and I see them walk into the casino with their bags. And included with their bags is a full case of bottled water. And I sighed wistfully and said, "I remember when my girls and I used to party so hard that we had to come packing a full case of bottled water with us."
Ladies, get the acts together and schedule a trip. We can't be trumped by some 22 year olds from Orange County. Yet. We're not that settled in ... yet.
2. Something More Wholesome? I read the chapter of the Charles Schulz biography today that's entirely devoted to the making of A Charlie Brown Christmas. I cried like a baby. Just like I do every time I watch that special ... which is not limited to Christmas time.
3. Of Limo Drivers and Drama: First, this weekend, one of my favorite limo drivers in the world got fired for ... and wait for it because this IS Vegas ... a VIP host put some people in his limo and instead of quoting them a price to go into a strip club, he just said "Just take care of the driver," which is a million kinds of illegal here. In your town, do people lose their jobs over mis-quoting entrance fees to strip clubs?
And then I watched a hooker and a pimp try to steal a limo on Friday night. Actually, they pretty much did steal the limo, but I hear that they were tracked down later. The limo driver opened the doors and turned on the cd and then took ten steps away from the limo to greet his party. And as soon as he did, this pimp and his hooker jumped into the limo and took off. Okay, she didn't so much jump as she kind of tipped over in her hooker shoes and fell in, but you get the point. And everybody just kind of stood there and stared. I felt grateful to be a part of it. And then I shook my head and said, "I really should get out of Vegas."
4. Teaser: Slap sent me this horrifying article about mothers who take their daughters to the spa, and I don't mean for a mani and pedi after they're teenagers. Though, for the record, in my hometown if you were a teenager who wanted a mani and pedi, you were going to "Hair We Are" and you were coming out with some acrylics that had airbrushed shooting stars on them. But anyway, there was this fantastic line in the article about how mothers were making their daughters too pretty, too early and "how, without the ugly years, would girls learn to accept themselves?" I have so many thoughts on that. And soon, I will have time to write about them, because...
5. I Quit My Job Today: It's true, though I'm not really leaving until the end of June, which is about when you should expect the email from me that reads "Hey! I'm going to Mongolia to ride horses across the desert for two weeks, but then I'm really going to be looking for as many freelance gigs as I can find. Know anybody?" Until then, don't stress. Just know that I, for the first time in over a year, woke up without a big stress zit on my chin today because I finally came to a firm decision. BUT IT'S NOT LIKE IT WOULD HURT YOU TO START THINKING ABOUT PEOPLE WHO WOULD HAVE FREELANCE WORK FOR ME AFTER I FINISH MY SOUL SEARCHING ON THE ASIAN SUBCONTINENT.
You love me BECAUSE I do ass-backwards crazy shit like this. Remember that if I start asking for donations in November. No, I'm sure it will be fine. I have offers already, I just don't know if I can make the timing work or not.
As a side note, did you know that "hookers" was a blog tag that I had apparently used before?
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