Name That Road

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

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

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

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

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

Hard Head

Recently we made some additions to our helmets in the city. For the events mind you. But she said, hey let's leave them on, they make people smile and maybe it's harder to be angry at someone with a monkey on their head.

Well I'm not sure about the last part, but they definitely do make people smile. Including myself as I passed under the parkway the other day, entered the tunnel, and ducked like a pterodactyl was about to take off my head. RAH RAH! Six more weeks of spring...the scaredy-cat cyclist was afraid of her own shadow.

So, in light of my better judgment I left the aeronotsodynamic hat at home on a recent trip to the windy country. Didn't need my head tossed around like a bobble head. Tragically, some other cyclist had 'borrowed' my helmet upon my arrival, leaving my melon unprotected.

She says, what, there are several motorcycle helmets laying around surely they must be good enough for bicycling. Ah, a smart ass, yes, but I would have been off with a parrot on my head! But if I put one on, it would at least get to leave the house this spring...on a bike that moves. Touché.

Really I could just take one of the 18 kitty litter buckets adorning the yard and cut eyeholes in them. I mean now that muscles figured out how to get the lids off!  I just pulled my Dr Pepper hat low over my eyes and tried to forget about it. I did well, minus the handful of times I tried to buckle my non existing strap. Ask me about my refreshing Downy water.

Holes, She Said Two Holes, Not Hos.

I'll just put it out there, the girl ain't gonna like this one. This is a picture of two Frisbees. Yes, Frisbees. Two of them. And this might sound like I'm calling the girl cheap, but..well, in the world of Urban spitting I guess I am.

See as I understand it cheap is not needing much paper. Like McD's as opposed to Ruth Chris. It's all beef Yo! No really, as in the Frisbee on the right is clearly the cheaper purchase.

Now, the girl will argue she's frugal. Cuz, it sounds better. More respectable. More prudent. More responsible. And she does like to look for a bargain. That's frugal. But take a look back at those Frisbees. That's Cheap. Foregoing quality to buy what is cheapest...that's not frugal.

See, those yellow shards of a Frisbee...that's what a 5 minute old cheap bargain Frisbee looks like. She buys them because her hole digging, rat shredding dog tears them up in a day. I say, give the dog quality and it will last, not quite a lifetime, but at least a week or two. No way, too expensive, she says. So she continues to buy dollar Frisbees by the armful.

$158 cheap Frisbees later...the Frisbee on the left, of a higher quality, still standing. It's got a couple holes and is quite gnawed upon, but it still flies. Better yet, it's still recognizable as a Frisbee! That's a quality Frisbee. AND it was a give away at some event, so FREE.

I'm just saying, just because the bigger jar, box, or bag cost less per ounce or ply that doesn't make it the better buy. If you only NEED X amount of product A you don't need to go to Costco to spend a dollar more to get a quarter more product-B you'll NEVER use! Confusing her with algebra, never gets a point across. But if you tack on the price of gas...don't even get me started on the cost to run across town for a cheaper can of beans.

Miss Utility Player

Ahem. Dog. Yes, you. That particular area in which you are *ahem*; digging, was not preapproved for your excavating services. In fact you are dangerously close to some underground electrical cabling and I suggest you BACK OFF.

Oh, she is good. I think I mentioned recently something about a little -rat-a-tat-tat- incident? Perhaps it was just a little Ratinator reference. Meet: The Ratinator.

The thing is. She doesn't really know what she is digging for. China by the looks of it! She has gotten me on more than one occasion. I mean she really thinks there's something in those freaking holes. Sometimes, Dog, they are just holes. Holes YOU create no less.

 

In the country I don't recommend you go off all willy nilly running around the yard like some school girl in a country meadow breeze. First of all, it's never a breeze. Second of all, you'll twist your ankle in those crazy diggin' dog holes.

 

It's a bit like watching Caddy Shack when she's around. Once, just once, I said, What's In The Hole. And out popped a rat. A big, fat, city rat! rat-a-tat-MOM. I won't recall the details of what happened next, but Rips got an extry dog treat that night.

 

But let's get back to the extraneous hole digging. You are to dig on command. MY command. Yes, I know it's YOUR yard, but I have to clean up YOUR mess, in more ways than one. I win. Quit diggin', you dig?

Forget the Hot Tin

I got this. look... Really, I got this. look...panic....I, I, I don't got this! How'd you like to wake to this OUTSIDE your window. ...of your SECOND story bedroom??

It was exactly that. And from what I understand, not exactly catlike. If you saw the pitch of the roof you'd understand. Or simply appreciate that YOUR cat is OUTSIDE your window when it SHOULD be asleep between your feet!

I wasn't there you see, but the girl, and the cat, paint a vivid picture of the morning shenanigans. Let me just say, for the past two nights, the girl has misplaced cats. I leave mine in the closet, she apparently airs them out on the roof.

This morning the girl awoke to quite the clatter, I'm not sure if sugarplums went round in her head, but I guarantee you she was wondering if a mouse were a-stirring. Here we go again with what sounded like rats in the belfry...mind you we don't have a belfry...and we are really hoping we don't have any more rats!

No rats, no mice...this time. But the Ratinator was standing by just in case. This my friends, is a clear high and dry case of a cat on a cool asphalt roof. Are you freaking kidding me? The roof? A cat on the roof? Yes, a cat on the roof. Or rather dangling precariously from all twenty claws a good twenty, okay maybe 35, feet.

 

I mean I've been in the girl's bed, I ain't gonna lie it's worth trying to get into...but scaling a roof, in the middle of the night, sliding into the gutter, clawing your way back up, just to get inside? I'm sorry baby, but it's not all that. After all, I'm afraid of heights and I don't got nine lives.



Testing, Dummy.

So the secret love affair of same sex dating is usually in the closet. No, really. Shoes. Pants. Shirts. The doubling of the actual closet. Not the oft mentioned, proverbial one.

AH...unless...the same sized loves can share bikes. THIS is the true secret appeal of like pairing couples. Doubling your bike cache! Makes buying a bike for your loved one that much easier too.

So since my mountain bike is sojourning in the country I took the next best thing, which turned out to be the single best thing, riding today. Sweet jesus...I mean it's got its imperfections, most notable, it's not mine, but boy is that a nice ride.

She's gonna regret I ever took it out. I mean, really. Do you seriously have any excuse not to kick my ass on this thing each and every day?!? It practically taunts you to ride faster, and stronger, and bolder. The new shock, icing on a non-carvel ice cream cake.

It's beastly. Climbs like a mountain cat. Corners like Parker sneaking up on an unsuspecting Ripley. I'm a little afraid of putting myself in the doghouse so I'm somewhat gentle with it...let's just say I don't ride as hard as it's begging me to. It's like a Porsche stuck in second in beltway traffic. RELEASE THE HOUNDS!

As I said, it has it's quirks. And I wasn't sure what to do about the play I felt in the headset. Do I mention it? Do I wait to see if the girl notices? It was bad. Felt like the hub wanted to explode. But it wasn't the wheel, wasn't the brake. I determined it was either the headset or the brand new fork. Either way I didn't want to know the answer, or the lack of solution.

I was going to let it go. I knew she'd be safe. That's why I was testing it. Not joyriding, testing. But I had to know that she was going to feel safe on the bike, and I knew the looseness going down a rocky hill was NOT going to go over well. And if it's unfixable, hey, I just got myself a new bike because, well, I'm okay with it.

It was a quick, easy tighten. But one can't be sure until it's retested upon the rocky terrain of Patapsco. Don't worry My Darling Dear, I'll test it thoroughly, often, just to ensure your safety each and every ride. AND to avoid any of those quivering excuses claiming she couldn't keep up because of some thing or t'other.

Gashole!

I am well on my way to having more posts about lawn mowers than bicycles on my blog. This, does NOT make me happy. Nor does it make me any more knowledgeable about mowers and engines than the last time I blogged about them.

You may recall, if you follow the blog, I broke down and bought a new mower last year in an effort to escape working on them four times a season. So much for that theory.

And all I kept saying today was, I don't know nuthing about fixin' no engines. I ride bikes. I struggle to keep them rolling, but as you well know they ain't got engines. Just wheels and pedals. I know those. But a mower isn't a bike.

And, if you also recall, the last time I tried to fix a bike problem I didn't get very far. I basically took off the cover, looked in the hole, breathed on it, and closed her back up. And the issue has been gone ever since.

 

So today, the mower wouldn't start. And although I got real familiar with the old one, this one didn't look anything like that one. What was once on top is now buried beneath and basically you have to take everything apart just to get to one thing...or you can't reach the bolts.

Genius. So they sat around the board room scratching their heads saying, now how do we get them to just keep buying new ones instead of fixing the old ones? First, make sure they get clogged good and often. Then, make it so complicated to open that they either give up, give in, or just say the hell with it...and buy another one. Brilliant!

And so, not to be completely outsnookered by the geniuses, I dove in...okay, I stuck my toe in the engine. Not literally! I took off the cover, looked in the hole, breathed on it, and closed her back up. And she fired right up.  I stand corrected, they are exactly like bikes.

The Birds and TVs

Still making teevee after all these years. I'd like to credit my years of training or degree of schooling, but these is the skills you learn in kindeegarten, or shortly thereafter...and they stay with you.

It's true, I've spent many hours on the weekend juggling equipment, wires, and formats in order to get a picture out of a box through a hose and into another box. WHAT are WE talking ABOUT here??!! Signals, no maintenance technicans in house, and out of station reporters and non compatiable equipment, what did YOU think WE were talking ABOUT?!

Circa 1980...remember that episode of Laverne and Shirley when they all contorted their bodies and grabbed some tin foil in order to tune in the tv signal that was snowy and indiscernable? Ah, the good ole days of broadcast.

Now a days it's all HDTV and either the signal is there or it's not. No more ghosting, no more hash. No more tin foil antenna parties. Just signal. No Signal. And then there's the whole converter box saga for those rare few of us still holding on to our square teevees. Yep, that's me.

And like a good girlfriend, I left not only my antenna but now my DirecTV box at the country house...leaving me with NO tv. I've still got the box, but no way to tune in a signal. Or do I? I do have an incense burner. Yes, incense (it's metal). And a spare co-ax cable. TADA, teevee. If that didn't work, the tin foil hat was next!

So just to recap, in case you ever need to do this at home: I jammed a coax in my box (watch your minds...)  touched the tip with metal (still talking television) and presto: TV...that boys and girls, is how tv is made. And actually I guess babies too!



Let Sleeping Cards Lie

It's been a while since I've been allowed out after dark. Okay yeah, I'd rather be home on the couch not out sweating through pedal strokes with no where in particular to go, it's true.

But last night I was out after dark and I had to get home. Back on my old commute route. The plus side is I got to do my Meg Ryan routine down the big hill...but that also put me at the intersection I don't love and then the stretch of road followed by the HILL.

....and....the....DETOUR sign that makes me hate the color orange. Change is not welcomed opened arms, really, ever. And I followed that detour once in the car...it sucks! Clearly not thinking of the daily cyclists when they suggested that detour. There is a somewhat better option.

Which I took. And was rewarded with a free DVD. Alas, although it was a good movie, I had already seen it. And it wasn't really mine to take. But I do like to rescue items roadside, so I turned around and picked up the Netflix envelope strewn upon the gravel.

Add it to the list. Credit card, credit card, metro card, wallet, $20, credit card, library card, purse, cat, credit card, yearbook, PA license, DVD, and....wait, CAT?!

Yes, Parker might be the biggest, oddest, cutest find ever on the bike. I typically like to try to bring peace of mind to the rightful owners, but companies don't really give a shit. IF you can ever reach a human at a credit card company good luck making headway. Without a pin number attached to the card, first of all, they don't want to talk to you. Secondly they don't care that you are trying to do the right thing. They won't contact the owner or send them a new card. I've been without plastic thanks to an evil doer, and the faster you can turn that card around and put it back in my hand the better...they don't care.

The DVD company...doesn't even know who the customer is without an email address. Yeah, no, I have their name and address right in front of me. Maybe you could just make a note that they didn't get the DVD and if there's damage didn't create it. I don't want to kick a postal service that's down, but I don't always get MY mail either.

I'm not dogging Netflix, Erin was delightful on the phone and was super nice to me. They were quick to pick up and address my concern (kinda). She asked why I didn't take it to the address. Yeah, well, I was tired, it was dark, I was on bike, didn't really know where the street was, and wasn't interested in getting shot somewhere near Walter Reed because I was poking around some one's house in the dark. Call me lazy.

 

Then she expected me to drop it in the mail, on my dime, after I took it to the post office to have it weighed. Again, call me lazy, but NO. Next time I might not be so quick to return it. I'll first need to consult the address and the condition of the envelope. If I hadn't found it and returned it I'm just curious if Steven would have been responsible financially for replacing it? Since they don't really know who Steven is without @gmail tacked on the back.

 

Sincerely,

Good Samaritan (for the time being)

 

#Take Your Dog To Work Day Fail

Honey, I broke the dog. I used it like you showed me but now it's not acting right. It doesn't move. It's snoring. It's letting the cat reclaim the house.

I'm sorry. Maybe you can take it back and get another one? It's not really my fault. If you hadn't lost custody, it would have been with you today, and maybe it would still work right.

But you left it to its own devices and it ran into a car. Come to think of it maybe it was defective from the start. Did it come with a warranty? Money back guarantee? 100% Satisfaction Guaranteed?

If it means anything the cat likes this new calmer version. Maybe we should just keep it? This one might not run out willy nilly into traffic butt bumping bumpers anyway. Let's give it a try and see how we like it.

But I can make it disappear if you'd rather. Just let me know by 2pm tomorrow...I'll be at King Farm loading for CESTA. Actually if you could tell me by lunch I'll make sure to leave a space for it.

Stumped

Day 3 on the trail handed me an obstacle. Really the whole experience has been nothing short on obstacles. It's one obstacle after another. It's what defines the trail.

We are referring to the Day 3 Obstacle as The Rake Incident. And it has a tree by which to lay offerings. And I suggest you lay offerings. To be on the safe side.

The trail is defined by stump holes. It's why the trail twists and turns. It's why there are logs to jump. It's why you probably shouldn't walk the trail, only ride...and it could swallow your wheel. Be Ware. No, No, DON'T be Ware...good lord!

I did fall in my share of holes the last few days. Swallowed whole. By a hole. Really, these are no joke. To the knee. To the hip! It will drop you an easy 2-3 feet. But it doesn't hurt. Like they said when I jumped out of a plane...you need actual ground to be afraid, or get hurt; without it you are just falling. Tree Falling.

 

Day 4 was slow going. I miss the rake. I can't seem to get anything done without it. I mean I pushed on, but it wasn't easy. I'm back in the city now and can't wait to get back to my trail. Which is somewhat crazy...there are perfectly good trails here, no rakes required.

Tedi's Timbers - A Work In Progress

Well I've had it with Eastern Shore living. I mean it's wet like all the time. Every day I wake up, wet. Foggy. Icy. Dew. Wet, wet, wet. That small town barber must always be late for work!

Then the sun comes out and it's gorgeous. I grab my gear, load the bike, drive entirely too far for a mediocre trail...only to get there and guess what, it's raining.

It's unpredictable. Unexplainable. Inexplicable.
Done.

But you can't win that easily with me. I'm gonna out trick mom nature and build my own trail in the back yard! Yes. That is what I'll do. And I'm just stubborn enough to pull that off.

So that's what I did, started clearing the backyard. After a decade of neglect it really wasn't so bad. Gives me something to do. Will give me somewhere to play. And the pup and me can run off leash without anyone yelling at us.

I'll admit, it's not the best trail. The turns are tight and the ground is mushy. But, it's. right. in. my. back. yard. It's doesn't get any better than that. Unless your backyard is Allegrippis, that would be better.

Come to think of it Gambrill was in my backyard and I never even went there then, so it doesn't hurt to make a day of it. Load up the car, ride til it hurts, stop at a bar, drink til it feels better...

Twofer Tuesday

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rien Ne Va Plus

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

Stair Me Down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stick A Fork In It

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

Sew Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's Mud On Your Thigh

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

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

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

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

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

That's What You Get For A Dollar

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

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

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

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

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

Back In Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Toast

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

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

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

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

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

Ithacat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Butt, Er

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

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

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

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

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

Quilt, Quibble, Quit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Below the Fold

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

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

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

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

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

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

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