Fess up

Who sued?
These things are always based on some genius who doesn't respond to obvious social cuing and then sues someone so that he can blame someone else for his embarrassment. Ego is a dangerous thing and is ruining it for the rest of us.

You recognize this, right? Floor's wet, put up a sign. No one gets hurt (or rather, people are on notice that the floor is wet, thus, the facility avoids the personal injury lawyer's dream: the "slip and fall" case):
Here's a little context. Yeah -- that's the locker room at my gym. More specifically, the shower in the locker room at my gym.

And yeah. The floor gets wet.

What are YOU doing?

I read a quick post about Kyle (who has Ataxia and has organized the fund-raising bike rides that have raised nearly $1mil for the foundation) and it more or less said, "Kyle has a debilitating disease, is participating in the RAAM, and has helped raised over $1mil for the Ataxia research foundation. What are YOU doing?" (RAAM is the Race Across America).
Hopefully the video will embed here:



You can support my RideAtaxia fund-raising here. And you can see the profile of the part of the Ride that I am doing here. Don't cry for me.

Sometimes I need to remind myself that what I'm doing is actually enough, for me, and that I am proud of that and feel good about the way I live my life. (Though I would like a vacation.)

C is for Cookie

Happy 40th Anniversary, Sesame Street! Yesterday, NPR had a great story on Sesame Street, its creators, and its history. I learned that the Rubber Ducky song hit the Top 40 (#13 I think) and that Oscar was created because the educators who consulted in production/creation opined that kids need to know that it's not necessary to be happy and feel like skipping along all the time.

There was a long period of my childhood where we could only watch PBS with rare exceptions that included, por ejemplo, the annual showing of Sound of Music or the weekly Little House on the Prairie (for some reason, my night to do dishes often landed on Sunday night Little House night and every so often, my dad would take pity on me and help get them done so I didn't miss Carrie tumbling down the hill, or other exciting adventures). This means, lots of Mister Rogers and Sesame Street, and Electric Company for my sisters -- I never really liked that show. Lots of sunny days and chasing the clouds away. Lots of Big Bird and Mr. Hooper (do people still remember Mr. Hooper?). Lots of imitating Grover in the living room. (Okay -- that last one was just last week. The guy's a genius, what can I say?) I'm pretty happy there's public television and particularly Sesame Street (and Masterpiece Theatre, but that's another story). I was even happier to hear that my nephew's favorite letter is T -- because of this:



I'll have to sing to him about Hs the next time I'm there.

So about those cookies. They're not just for Cookie Monster. Yesterday, I made these fabulous little carrot/ginger/oatmeal cookies from the fabulous 101cookbooks site as I was searching around for something yummy but relatively healthy (ha!) to make for some workout friends (can't very well bring donuts, methinks). I considered fudging on the ingredients, but why not just splurge and get some incredibly yummy and fragrant coconut oil. I'm sure it will come in handy (one commentator on the website said that the oil is a good skin conditioner. I'm not sure if I should store it in the bathroom or the kitchen).

You can make them too. Or just come over and eat them. Heidi (of the 101cookbooks site) is also a photographer, so if you check out the cookies, you can see how yummy they look. Here's my

[Once again, my camera chose to focus on the background, rather than the foreground.]

I have a little run tomorrow. I'm praying for a healthy back and nice weather. I have more confidence in one than the other. Can't decide whether I should have fun and bring my camera and relax a little. Hmmm.

Did you know there are some holidays coming up? Hurray for variety. Next Wednesday is Veterans Day, and I'm going to watch more of this. Can you imagine? Sigh. . .

I may be single, but you're ugly. . .

oI know you're happy in your relationship. I know I'm 32 years old, single, and have not had more than two dates with the same person since. . . well, let's not go there. I know that Charlotte Lucas was forced to marry the dreadful Mr. Collins because she was out of prospects at the ripe old age of 27. And even Elizabeth Bennett told Lady Catherine that she could 'hardly be expected to own her age,' and she was only 20. Really, I get it. I'm old and single. But you "smug marrieds" with your condescending head-patting are getting old.

Recent emailed inquiries, made as conversational as possible to avoid looking like there's a large flaw to be gaped at, but when strung together, they rather make one think there's a conspiracy on the rise.

J: Are you seeing anyone?

L: Just tell me if you're dating someone.

M: So, have you been dating?

B: All right, let's have it. What's the story with your life? Dating?

D: I don't understand why you're single.
[This is code for: what's wrong with you?]

And here's a couple of good conversations:

K: Are you seeing someone?
Me: You mean like dating? No.
K: Is it hard to meet people in Sacramento? [I think she's trying to figure out if she should blame me for my affliction or my geography. Note: she lives here too.] Or are there just a lack of quality people? [Ha!]
Me: I suppose it's a little of both, though I suspect I could be considered among the lack of quality.
K: Eventually someone special will come along and you'll be happy when she does :) Until then, Dozo and Mia are good friends.
Me:

Actually, I did not respond. How the heck do you respond when someone tells you, 'You'll meet someone someday, but at least you have your CATS'??

Here's another:

C: Soooooooo..... dating?
Me: Is that a question?
C: Yeah. Are you dating? Have you found that special girl?
Me: My dating is less of an endurance event, and more of a short-lived sprint of late.
C: Well, you don't need a relationship to make you happy.
Me: Did someone say I did?
C: No. I'm just saying, it doesn't have to define you.
Me: Thanks. 'Night.
[Click]

Okay -- so how the heck does one even respond to these people? I've never really liked that scene in Bridget Jone's diary where the smug marrieds ask the singleton what wrong with the single people and she says it's probably that their bodies are covered with scales. But now I see why she resorted to such a ridiculous response.
These well-meaning people are putting me on the defense for something that they have a hang up about. So when I try to add anything to the conversation, it sounds like I'm over-justifying why I'm single. If you're so bored in your relationship that you need to meddle in my life to add a little zing, then I have a few choice questions for you, you smug married, you.

Just let it go.

Spooooookkky

Friday morning PUMP class, day before Halloween, spooky music, COSTUMES! Ha! Last week, Crystal suggested that we all dress in costume for today's class. All week I announced that we'd be dressing up, thinking there was no way that people were going to do it.
But, lo! How cool is this class? Love it.

So we listened to a little "Monster Mash" and "Thriller" and "Zombie" and got our Friday morning groove on. As an aside, I searched my musical library for appropriate songs, and found I had surprisingly few Halloween-themed songs. Too bad Dead Can Dance doesn't rock just a little harder.

Costume twins Yuri and Karen (they threatened to come as "invisible" -- so invisible I wouldn't even see them there. I vetoed that idea). Karen is wearing an orange and black boa and Yuri's got the great socks.
Here's Debbie holding a squat, with devil horns.

And Pat.
And Crystal.

Yuri rockin' the Halloween socks.
The mystery woman in a mask. Somewhere along the way, she must have taken off her fresh-from-New Orleans-beads. Hard to see, but she also painted her face -- she's a cat, but I can't remember the full description.
Pregnant Crystal pumping out those mountain-climbers and trying to protect the baby bump.
Comfort. I just love Comfort. I told her we were dressing up, and she said, "I am my own costume," in her fabulous accent. But this morning, she showed up in this full-body leopard costume!
Here she is climbing up the walls.
She later took the costume off as it was just too dang hot in there.Brenda's costume. Plus some Bubba teeth.

Skull-crushers. Another Halloween-themed exercise. The girl is wearin' the heck out of that unitard.If you look close, you can see a lot of great teeth in those people who appear to have not dressed up. I'm putting both group photos is as there's good things about each.Who says costumes and workouts don't go together?

Next year, we've vowed to learn the Thriller Dance. Anyone want to teach us?

Happy Halloween, all!

A little more on Ani

Check out this song. Also -- check out how hard she rocks. The fingers on her right hand are wrapped in electrical tape.



That'srightThat'sright.

Ewwww.

I used to think it would be fun to be one of those tom-boyish girls who are all rough and tumble with their dirt and their jeans and their fishing poles, but then you stick them in the shower and they look all cute. [I mean, who doesn't want to be Mary Stuart Masterson, aka 'Bee Charmer'? And when I say, 'want to be,' I think I mean 'want.')
I remember once a long long time ago, I was standing in my dad's house, he was in a chair and my sister was on the couch. I saw a mouse skitter off in front of me. A real, live yicky mouse right there. I shrieked. Not just shrieked, actually. What I said was, "EEEEEK!" I remember this because my dad laughed at me and told me, in essence, that 'eek' is an onomatopoeia ('a word that imitates a sound in nature,' or something to that effect). People don't actually say eek, it's just a word that tries to captures that girly shriek that comes out when one sees a mouse skittering across right in front of her.

I guess I wasn't really meant to be a tomboy, though for a few (many) years there, I seemed to dress like I was ready, should the stirrings arise.

The other morning, I got to my class at the gym and there was a big 'thing' in the middle of the room. I couldn't tell what it was, and the lights are dim, so I went over and scootched it out of the way. I didn't think much about it -- maybe a formerly-wet paper towel or something that hadn't gotten swept up. A few seconds later, it looked like it had moved. I stared at it, but nothing. Then it looked like it had these long legs that were disconnected and stretching out like it was trying to walk. It was like a massive dust bunny that was taking shape.
I, naturally, stepped back, then stood staring at this little alien life with my mouth hanging open. I walked into the hall, but no one was coming. So I stood back again, wondering if it had alien friends that were going to descend on the gym.
Finally someone came in. Looked where I was looking, and said, 'there's a frog in here.'

A frog. Of course. Of course there's a frog in the Kinesis room. Why wouldn't there be. He stared at it too. Then he said he'd get the janitor (who's name I should know, but do not). Then this girl came in who obviously has the tom-boyish thing down because she looks cute enough, but also bent down and said, 'Oh, it's a frog. I'll take it outside.' She scooped it right up and cupped it in her hands.
This, too, gave me the willies, but at that point, I'm not the girl who shrieks at mice, I'm the teacher in a classroom. Instead I said, "good idea" and tried to rearrange my expression.
Let the record show, however, that last friday there was this big, giant, scary-looking roly poly bug on the aerobics room floor, and like the good, brave teacher I am, I scooped it up on my cue sheet (no small feat, as they tend to want to roll away) and scooted it right out the door.
And I didn't even get a medal.

Another chance to remind myself that whoever I am is just who I am. And frog-catching is not for everyone.

"we better have a good explanation . . .

. . .for all the fun that we had."

Last night -- on a school night no less! -- some big fans descended on the Lovely Crest Theatre in Sacramento to see Ani Difranco -- one of the best female singer/songwriter/guitar-stylist/feminist/outspoken/cute/prolific artists out there who is actually touring and bringing some memories to each town she hits.

She's a fabulous poet, so the lyrics are incredible. She's been playing for a long long time and has a varied following. And she puts on a heck of a show.
A bunch of us met at a friend's place for some snacks and hyping-up beforehand. It was cute how giddy everyone was. It was like an old friend was coming to town.

Here's a little snip of a song called Shameless. She was having so much fun playing and everyone was having so much fun dancing, it was hard to focus on the recording (and the part where I'm supposed to hold the camera steady) that this clip is quite brief.

A snip of Ani from Heather Rowan on Vimeo.

And finally: a quick shot of my hot dates as the evening ended.
Awwww.
Thanks for a great night!

It's Raining, it's pouring. . .

So I'm not out there biking or running or whatever else I do -- what is there to write about? Politics and Religion!

The questionable Guv of the good ol' Golden State is a joke. [I was going to write, "In my opinion. . . ," but really -- you're reading my blog and I'm not paid to do this. It's obviously my own opinion. ] He's a joke who was elected twice, though, and we're stuck with him until after the 2010 election, unless there's another joke of a recall in California. Wouldn't that be something. Those who live by the sword . . .

Anyway. Long story short: he signed a bill that creates "Harvey Milk Day" each May 22. People are mad about that because Harvey was gay. You know the drill. "They" are now accusing him of being a pedophile (in some religions [okay -- in some conservative religious zealot's heads], gay is synonomous with pedophile, so I follow the argument), teachers are going to teach homosexuality in schools, yadda yadda. And we have a state 'day of recognition' (no, not a holiday -- there is no cost to the state whatsoever) honoring the gay/pedophile/first openly gay person in public office who was murdered by a crazy son of a bitch who barely served any time because of the now-defunct "Twinkie Defense." [You got questions? I got answers.]

Then the joke of a Guv signed a law that basically says, "California respects the full faith and credit clause in the U.S. constitution. . . mostly." Full faith and credit says that laws/contracts in one state will be honored by other states if that first state's laws don't violate the constitution of the second state. So the recently-signed-bill says that if a gay couple gets married in Massachusetts, por ejemplo, and then they move to California, California will give that couple the same recognition that a gay couple would get in California. So if you're gay married in MA, you're Domestically Partnered in CA. Equal? [This does not violate the stupid DOMA, in case you were wondering.] It's something, I guess. And it doesn't violate California's Constitution that now says "We hate the gays and we don't want them recruiting our children, bastardizing our churches, or thinking that they can have equal rights." Or something like that.
As of today, if a gay California couple got married between June 15, 2008 and November 3, 2008, there are still married. We'll see how long that lasts.

Here's a good quote from the UK Guardian:

The Campaign for Children and Families called the Harvey Milk law "the strongest impetus yet for loving parents to remove their children from anti-family public schools".

On the same day that Schwarzenegger signed into law Harvey Milk day, Obama reaffirmed his campaign pledge to end the ban on homosexuals serving openly in the military in a speech to America's largest gay group, although he offered no timetable for implementing his promise.

Anti-family public schools?

Sort of feel like pow pow pow! coming out swinging today. Like the attacks are starting anew. Ahhh. So it goes. God wants them to be that way. [Really, though, click on that link.]

If my roommate isn't home, maybe I'll do a little pow pow pow Billy Blanks tonight.

A little something on the side.

West Sac 911

So I was at my neighborhood watch meeting a few months ago (oh my goodness, is that another story), and listening intently, and learning how to think of everyone as a suspect, etc etc, and our West Sac police rep tells us that if we dial 911 on our cell phones, it goes straight to the California Highway Patrol (helloooooo Eric Estrada!), so we should all program in the Yolo County emergency number to our cell phones, as well as the non-emergency number, in case we ever need to dial 911, but have it answered locally. (take a breath -- I realize that was one sentence)
So, at some point, in order to recycle all the papers she'd given us (don't leave your ipod or garage door opener in your car, take pictures of your stuff, and leave the porch light on at night), I put the emergency number in my phone, trying to ensure that I'd never have to use it.
This week, I was driving from one gym to the other, I stop at a red light, see a girl jump out of the back seat of a car and toward a gas station. Then, a guy jumps out from the front seat, grabs her by the neck and tries to steer her back to the car. She keeps walking (shoeless), and gets all the way into the gas station with his hands around her neck. I pull into the gas station, dialing the West Sac 911 (as named in my phone), as the guy is running back to the car, jumping in, and his getaway driver is peeling out.
The girl walks in somewhat of a straight line, but not really, out of the gas station, and starts crossing the street. I'm describing this scene to dispatch and following her and tell the woman on the phone that I'm going to hang up and see if the girl is okay.
"Are you okay, girl?"
Girl: "I'm fine."
"You don't look fine. Can I take you somewhere?"
"Umm."
"Do you need to get to a hospital?"
"No. No. I'm fine. It's just. I wasn't. He was a. . ."
"I can take you home, then."
"I'm staying down on blah blah blah at a motel."

So I drive her and her cigarette-stench-soaked-self over to the motel where she's staying and she tells me he was an ex-boyfriend and she doesn't know how he found her and he forced her into the car. I asked her if she wanted to talk to the police. She said no. (duh) I asked her if she'd be safe if I dropped her off. She said yes. (doesn't seem like she was so safe there before)
I didn't get the guy's license plate and I didn't get the girl's name. I would make a lousy witness. I called the nice lady back at 911 and told her I had dropped the girl off at her motel, and the nice lady told me I should feel good for the rest of the day because I'd done something good for someone. I think I'll stick a post-it note on my dash of questions to ask victims that I randomly pick up on the street.

Bump, Set, Spike

Last night, I picked up a volleyball for the first time in about 10 years. It was just like riding a bike. Okay, it wasn't at all like riding a bike, and I shanked it a few times, but it was pretty cool that I could still go through the motions and look like I know what I'm doing (well, there was a guy sitting in the hallway with a clear view of me hitting the ball against the wall, and I'm pretty sure I could hear him laughing). Now all I have to do is actually go in the gym when other people are playing and play with them. I hear-tell Saturday afternoons are good for volleyball-pick-up. Anyone in? Preferably, would like to hear from people who have also not played for 15 years (or more).

I guess the rules have changed a little since I played, but it seems like they are doing all the same things. Serve, bump, set, spike, repeat.

Look out Gabrielle Reece!

Artist

I've always been a little jealous of artists. And writers. And musicians. Okay, anyone who has talent and skill and creativity and does something with it.

That concludes the "confessional" portion of this post.

So if you've met T, you will know what an amazing likeness this is. If you haven't, you can take my word for it. Either way, it's a great painting, created and masterfully executed by the scary-looking, but lovely, romantic, caring, sweet, and fabulous, Zeljko (pronounced "Jel-co" . . . I think).

Fabulous, no?

Hope you don't mind pilfering from your site, T! Just loved the painting.

Hey Karen

This one's for you. See you soon!

Indigo Girls Closer to Fine from Heather Rowan on Vimeo.

Happy Birthday, Devma!

My niece Devyn turned SIX on May 7th. Unbelievable. She and I have a special bond and I'm happy that both my sisters had kids so that I would not feel any guilt over not producing grand children. Well, that's mostly true. I think my mom says she's given up hope, but would really like me or my brother to make some more babies for her to snorgle their little faces.

Devma at 3 in her church dress with her new birthday bears.


Devma at 6 with her grown up hair and "dress-up" dress. Apparently she got some prom-type dresses for her bday and she's wearing them around town. I was out in midtown Sac last night, and it is indeed prom-season.

Can't we make her stop growing up?

As Emily said in Our Town: "It goes so fast. We don't have time to look at one another."

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Last weekend after the crazy Napa ride, I hopped in the car to drive down to SF to visit some friends, try (again!) to see Wicked, and get my bike tweaked a little (thanks, Benj!). If you recall, I tried to see Wicked in LA, but was not successful. Melis and I went and stood in line on Saturday night, but our names were not called. I decided to try again on my way out of town -- I figured it would be a nice way to spend the afternoon in the big city. First, I WON! Hurray! Second, I'm not a big city kind of person. I always look forward to going, and I like hanging out with Melis out on the beach, walking through the park, or walking to dinner somewhere. But more than that just isn't for me. I think. Maybe. At least right now.

Sunday was gorgeous and sunny in San Francisco, and the buildings are so tall and dense that I could barely feel the wind (which has been quite strong in NorCal lately). I put my name in for the ticket lottery and then walked around for awhile, making sure to stay close to the theatre because I have a propensity for getting lost. Then back to the theatre for the tense, exciting, nervous 'calling of the names.' Sunday was Easter and the crowd was smaller than I'd ever seen it (this was my forth time between SF and LA) and I felt like my chances were good. I saw a few of the same people I'd seen the night before and I found myself hoping for them that they would win -- especially the two guys from Britain who would otherwise have to go home with no Wicked. Because the crowd was small, there was not as much excitement or unity among us and I decided that if I won, I would "whoop!" even though no one else was. It was a tough commitment to make, but that's the liberation that comes with standing among strangers in a place I don't live and won't likely be visiting again soon. As soon as he started to say my name, I got my "Whoop" ready and laid it out there as soon as I was sure there wasn't some other Heather with her name in there.

Anyway -- I didn't mean for this to be a story about listening for my name to be called. Name called, walked around the area for about an hour with my book in hand looking for a place to sit and read it, was told by a seemingly homeless man that he liked my smile (said while I was not smiling and he was not looking at my face), told by another that, 'damn, girl, you're beautiful,' and otherwise just asked for money. After all this walking, concentrating on not getting lost, I came upon Hastings, the University of California's SF law school. I spent some time sitting in on classes at this school while I was trying to choose. Having more than one school to choose from was not an altogether unwelcome dilemma (maybe a tri-lemma or a quad-lemma. I can't remember how many actual contenders there were, but I sure did apply to lots of schools). Funny how I ran right into a law school, huh?

Anyone else notice that I can't stay on topic? Anyone know what the topic actually is?

Oh! So after walking around for an hour looking for a quiet place to sit and read, I came upon a coffee shop that's pretty much kitty-corner from the theatre. Right. Brilliant navigating. At least I wasn't lost.

In the theatre, not-very-tempted by the $9 beer and $6 candy, I just took my book to my seat and watched people file in. The seats were less-than-stellar with a partially-obstructed view (but still in the third row, so I could see faces/expressions), but I didn't mind much. The musical was great -- quite frankly, it was not as fantastic as I'd hoped/heard, and I didn't understand why people were crying. Maybe something was happening behind my partially obstructed view. Or maybe I'm cold-hearted and should seek out the Wizard of Oz for a new one.

The great thing about being my own date was that I did not have to discuss with myself whether I just wanted to sit and wait at the intermission, or whether I'd like to try my luck in the bathroom line. As soon as the curtain went down on Act One, I jumped up and headed out. There was no line. None whatsoever. Coming out, I saw the hordes of women making their way to the growing line and I congratulated myself on having such a speedy date.

During the intermission, I sat with my book and listened to the women behind me.

Older (40's?): oh, you're back.

Younger (teens/early 20's?): Yeah. The line was so long, I couldn't even find the end [I found this curious, as I had also just returned, and the end of the line for the restroom was decidedly still inside the restroom doors]. It wasn't worth it.

Older: Ah. Well. I hope you can wait.

Younger: I guess I'll have to.

Older: I hope you're okay with the seats [their seats were better than mine, but not great].

Younger: I'm fiiiiiiine. It's fine.

Older: Well, I'm glad that we got in.

Younger: Yeah, we got in. They shouldn't even sell seats over here with half the stage blocked off by the set.

Older: Oh. Well, yeah. I guess they are not great seats. [Seems as though the older woman had bought the tickets and was maybe looking for a little gratitude.]

Younger. It's fiiiiine. They shouldn't build a set like that and then make people sit behind it. They just want to make money. They would never do that on Broadway. [huh?]

Older: I guess they are just here to sell tickets. [huh?]

Younger: Oh [reading the playbill], Patty Duke is in this. Wasn't she in something?

Older: Patty Duke. She was in some movies or shows, I think. Wasn't she in The Parent Trap? Yeah, I think she was in The Parent Trap. [HMR note: if you're going to talk loud enough for your neighbors to hear you 1) don't say stupid things and 2) know the difference between Patty Duke and Haley Mills and 3) if you read the playbill, it tells you what Patty Duke has been in, which most definitely does not include The Parent Trap.]

Younger: Oh yeah. That's right. I know her. She's so old now.

Older: Looks like the standby is performing today. What's the difference between a standby and an understudy?

Younger: Yeah. That's not the "real" Elphaba. [HMR note: even though we'd all been sitting through an hour and a half of the musical and they'd said Elphaba's name about 22 times every ten minutes, this woman still pronounced it wrong. Also -- the "real" Elphaba? What the heck does that mean? This is fiction, people.] Standby is like, the person who like, is ready to stand-by for the real one if they can't come.

Older: So what's an understudy?

Younger: An understudy is. . . You know that understudies don't even have to know the lines? They just read the script. It's in their contracts -- the actors guild says they don't have to know the lines.

Older: what about the songs?

Younger: The songs? I don't know. It's in their contracts. [So pretty much, they just pluck someone off the street, paint her face green, and then giver her a script. Mmmhmm.]
[HMR note: I've since looked this up:

A standby is not in the show and has first priority when the lead is sick. The understudy is usually an ensemble member who performs if the standby is sick or on vacation.]

Older: What do you think of it so far?

Younger: Well, it's okay. The book was better. I guess they had to dumb it down. They just took ____ away instead of ______ him. [I don't want to ruin it for you]. Elphaba is okay, I guess. Glinda is good, but she's not, like, Broadway good. She'd never make it out there.

The ladies went on in their hyper-critical view of the world. Maybe I was hypersensitive to the hypercritical because I find myself becoming more critical of the world and don't really think I'm ready to be a crotchety old woman just yet. And remember L.A. Story when Steve Martin says, "I don't think you realize how unattractive hate is." So there's that.

Here I am squinting in the very sunny San Francisco Day (not a myth! it happens!) waiting around in front of the sign for Wicked.

All these photos are a little scary. People used to make fun of my dad when he shaved off his beard because he looked like he had chipmunk cheeks. Something else I can include on the inheritance list. My word.

Interesting story about the Ink Grade ride last weekend. Wait for it. . .

Salvation via sweating

Interesting classes at the gym last night. I showed up to one class that has a 5-person max and there was one person. She was very anxious because it was class time and she knew someone else was coming, so she bustled out. I tracked down person #3 to come join us, and the others sauntered in eventually. The missing person turned out to be 14 or 15 year old S (I'm bad at making up names, so I'll just use her initial. Another reason not to have any kids. They would probably be named after whatever pops into my head based on visual clues, and then nick-named to high heaven. I think it's a genetic issue. I myself was named after a dog.) who was disgruntled from the start, surly, wouldn't practice any of the moves I was showing her so she'd be ready to start, and clearly wanted everyone to know that this was not her choice. Her outfit in which to workout was quite similar to the one here. I'm not sure where her aunt told her she was taking her to convince to her leave the texting, Facebooking, and premarital sex at home, but she wasn't really dressed the part.

Taking skills that I learned from my parents, I ignored the attitude, and figured I could teach her what she needed to know as she went. Within about 4 minutes, I could see a little transformation happen. She has no muscles to speak of, but insisted on loading up the weights. I think this is part cockiness and part naivete, to which I could relate. I let her load it, figuring that she would switch her selection when she realized it was too much. Nope. That would be to admit she was wrong, and teens are never wrong, so she was going to suffer through it. She got to one point and I told her that she had to lessen the weight load or stop, and she could blame it on me if she wanted. But back to the transformation: as we went through class, she stopped with the huffiness, smiled some, admitted it was hard, laughed with me a little bit, and might have even had fun. It was pretty cool -- and I had fantasies that maybe some focused exercise would save her from the collision course that her life is on (she said some things after class that were a little too revealing in response to a comment I'd made to someone else. She had misunderstood what I'd said and in prime teen-fashion, decided it was about her, and said that things had gotten so bad, her parents wanted to bring her to Dr. Phil. Hmmm. What do you think, Mom? Kids are acting out and making a mess of themselves -- I know! Put them on TV! I'm lucky to have had parents who were a little more into parenting than that. Of course, there's a lot I'm assuming and only a little I know.). Her form wasn't great and her aunt, who had tricked her into coming commented to her from across the room. I told the aunt that she was doing okay and not in so many words told her that 1) I was on top of the situation and 2) the success that S was enjoying was by far making up for the lack of form.

Aye. I'm kind of hoping she comes back. It will be good for my therapy-through-exercise fantasy.

This weekend marks the second annual trek up the Ink Grade in Napa. I'm nervous, but I know that I need to talk myself through it and focus on my ability rather than my anxiety. It was hard last year, but I did it (with some whining), and I'll do it again. Maybe I'll even do it better. I think I might need to start working tonight on what channel my head is tuned to so that I'm ready early in the morning.

You can sort of see what I'm talking about re: this ride here. If you're looking at that link, we'll be picking up around mile 30 of that ride (so not doing that first hill), and taking on those other two -- including Ink Grade that goes straight up.

I look forward to the day I can turn my alarm off for the weekend, get some sleep, get some stuff done around the house, and maybe even return to those weeds (that have become quite prolific in the last few weeks). Looks like I have a weekend off around May 9th.

Shoot-'em-up Commute

Maybe this would make for a good movie. Or the newest TV crime drama. I think in the movie version, I'd like to hop off my bike and save someone's life just in the nick of time. Perhaps using the tools I have available to me as my weapons: kyrptonite bike lock (would be perfect if I needed to save someone from Superman), heart rate monitor (maybe I could use the chest-strap to tie someone up?), bike (all things being equal, I would save my bike first, so this is no weapon), odometer/speedometer (not sure what I would use this for, but it might be good to know, for example, how fast the bad guy was running away for future calculations by the CSI team), and bike lights (momentarily blind someone with the blinking LED while I knock them down with the lock and tie their hands with the strap).

If anyone wants to option this show/movie, please let me know, and please note that I hold the copyright to this story idea -- don't go pilfering my geniosity.


So anyway . . . I was riding home last week from work and I have to ride through a relatively seedy area of town (worse outside of baseball season, but generally just industrial and quasi-abandoned -- good place to get flats, I've noticed. Maybe it's due to discarded needles), and just as I was crossing the railroad tracks, humming to myself, and stealing glances at my heart-rate monitor, I heard a helicopter overhead. I looked up and didn't see the familiar red and yellow under-belly of the News10 traffic-copter (the heli's underbelly; the underbelly heli) . You say it.), and thought maybe the helicopter was looking for someone and if it were dark, it would have had one of those giant search lights (clearly I watch too much tv). Then in the not-too-distant distance, I heard sirens. Then, out of nowhere (okay, out of a dirt lot where it had been hiding behind a fence doing goodness knows what), a black, unmarked car sped out and into the street, where I was minding my own business (okay, actually, I was at a stage-5 alert, minding the business of whatever the heck was going on) riding my bike, just trying to get home. Then, more sirens in the distance. Then, while I was sitting at the light waiting to turn left, two CHP cars sped off the highway and off into West Sac somewhere. And THEN, as people are are starting to come out of their meth-labs, uh, houses, to see what was going on, two motorcycle cops were pulled off to the side of the street as I passed.

I heard more sirens and was passed by yet another police car. By the time I turned out of this little enclave of a neighborhood full of toothless gawkers and broken glass, I could still hear sirens, still see the helicopter, but all the rushing had stopped, and I couldn't tell to where everyone had gone. What happened, what happened? I also saw my first (and hopefully last) episode of the X-Files a while back, and I'm not ruling out alien life-forms as a possible cause of the drama.

The next day, I pulled up to a local ATM (it's not of my bank, but it's in a well-populated area, there are no extra charges, and I don't fear hearing the click of a gun and someone saying, "Hi, my name is Bob, and I'll be your robber this evening." [name that movie?]) and there in front of me was a fancy, unmarked police/detective/secret service vehicle. I had to wait until the certain under-cover agent had made his way to the credit union to snap this photo:

He did pull up before me, and seemed to about as interested in my ATM transaction as the speeding entourage was in my bike-commute, but I can't help thinking I'm being watched, followed, and documented.

Speaking of documentation, my nieces are now fit for public office or Olympic gold-medal swimming, and will up their chances of the former by failing to pay their taxes, should they ever get jobs.
My sister sent me this photo with the caption, "Karl and Devma sharing their first bong."
Then she said the photo was their idea. I'm not clear if the photo was their idea or the caption was their idea. If the latter, how do they know what a bong is or how to use it? Maybe they watch too much tv too.


And here they are practicing veterinary medicine - notice the syringe to the right. What the heck kind of "children's museum" is this? The little one must have tuckered herself right out. Either that or she's passed out from all the imbibing.



Okay, really, I will post about the rides last weekend. Sometime.

Feeling Faces on Steroids

A friend just directed me to a site that I think I'm going to become addicted to. Sort of like my heart rate monitor, sunflower butter [like peanut butter, but without the life-threatening peanuts], and the Biggest Loser, at times I think I should stop, but I don't, and I don't want to.

You remember the Feeling Faces chart?

[Here it is, if you don't]:

These folks at we feel fine have started an artwork of sorts that compiles emotions from public blogs (by trolling for the words "I Feel") and presents them in various ways. The program continues to pick up statements from blogs, so it's live art, social commentary full of psychological snippets of our fellow humans lives. Sortable by region, weather, gender, age, and date. I only wish I could read faster.

"I feel like I am in someone else's life."

"I feel like this dog"

I often notice that I try not to use the word 'feel' when I mean 'think' (and often fail at that) but now I'm starting to wonder if I've shown up in their algorithms simply due to using imprecise language.

Anyway . . . more on last weekend's ride coming soon. Not too many photos though. I think it scares people when I pull out my camera while I'm riding.

Bus stop conversation #2

Some more fun at the bus stop, this one from about a year ago:

Beautiful

So I'm standing waiting for my bus today (missing my bike) and watching a 20 (?) year old kid with big headphones -one covering one ear and the other wrapped around his neck - doing a half-dance/half-walk pacing and talking on his speaker phone asking the person on the other end if they can hear the music he's listening to. He said, "can you hear this?" and put the phone near the headphones, but quickly had to bring the phone back to his ear because he wanted to hear whether the other person could in fact hear the music but then he had to quickly shift the phone to the headphones so that s/he could hear the music and to make sure s/he could hear the music, he shifted the phone back to his ear and asked, "can you hear this?" He did this several times until perhaps he was content that whoever it was had heard enough of the song that was making him dance. Conversation ended. I watched the cornrows in his hair bob up and down and side to side as he danced the bus stop dance. I wondered how old he was and for whom he danced. Then I was distracted as my bus was nearing on its 11th minute being late and a very pregnant woman was lighting up, and some young man was asking me whether the number eleven had passed and I looked back toward the dancing boy and oh look he was about 14 inches from my face. Well hello dancing boy. And this conversation came to pass. DB (spoken as he moved in closer): Are you married?
Me: No.
DB: Engaged?
Me: No.
DB: That's beautiful.
Me: _______.
DB: Do you have . . . do you have some kids?
Me: No.
DB (slowly): That's beauuutiful.
Me: _______.
DB: Are you from this country?
Me: Yes.
DB: No way. You look like you're. Not from this. country.
Me: ______.
DB: Where city are you from?
Me: I'm from Colorado
DB: Denver?
Me: Colorado Springs.
DB: That's. That's. That's excellent. Beautiful.
DB: What are you doing here?
Me: I like it here.
DB (looking at sky): Yeah. It's nice. This is a good place isn't it.
DB: Are you 22?
Me: No, but that's a good line. I'll give you that.
DB: Oh yeah?
Me: ______.
DB: Are you 21?
[I guess he thought if 22 was good, 21 would be better.]
Me: No. I'm not 21.
DB: So did you, uh. Did you uh go to college?
Me: Yes. I did.
DB: What did you do? What did you, you know, to be, when you were done?
Me: When I was done, I was an attorney.
DB (shocked): No way. How did you do that? How did you keep going? You've come so far.
Me: You just keep going.
DB: Yeah. That's right. You've just come so far.
[My bus is now about 16 minutes late, and I've not much to say to DB, except that I would like to ask him where I came from such that I've come so far.]
DB: Oh, what am I thinking? Where are my manners? I'm Rudy.
[My bus, mercifully, is coming]
Me: Nice to meet you Rudy. I'm going to catch my bus. I hope you find your manners.
DB: Yeah. yeah. Okay.

Ahhh. Rudy. Perhaps one day we'll meet again. Bus stop bus go.