Thursday, April 26, 2012
A New Blog Discovery
check out McSweeneys.net... especially the "open letters" section.
here's a fine example.
http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/an-open-letter-to-the-gentleman-blow-drying-his-balls-in-the-gym-locker-room
Monday, April 23, 2012
Omissions.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
A Day I Won't Give Back
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Anticipation?
Sunday, April 15, 2012
The Orange Couch
High on a rural hilltop overlooking the Pacific Ocean is an orange couch. How it got there is known only to the people who placed it, no doubt under the cover of darkness, but perhaps not. It could have been put there in broad daylight. Maybe for a photo shoot, or to liven up a picnic. Whatever, and however, as I plodded up the road in my lowest gear, hoping that maybe I forgot I had one more gear I could shift into, and no matter how many times I flipped that gear leaver, the answer was still “no,” the orange couch appeared, mirage-like. Doing its siren call: Come hither. Stop. Rest. Enjoy the view. No one will get hurt. It's okay to stop.
Temptress, ugly vinyl couch. I can't stop and rest upon your soft cushion. I have work to do. I have a Strava segment to complete! If I stop, it'll screw up my stats. And... I'll never get started again on this hill without falling over.
The sofa happened to mark the end of the steepest part of the climb. Not the end of the climb, but the end of the mile long 12% (more?) grade that seemed like it wouldn't quit from the first soul-sucking bend upward.
After the couch, the climb mellowed and we regrouped. Riding along the ridge top, we could see from Mt. St. Helena to Mt. Diablo. A stunningly clear day (due in part to the winds that helped and fought us) rewarded our efforts. Springtime is my favorite season and Spring in Northern California is without parallel. The famous golden hills are bright green with young grass fed by the winter rains. Lambs learn to graze on this sweet grass and yearling calves frolic and chase us along the fence line. Older, wizened cows look on indulgently at the silly humans.
If ever I consider leaving California, a Spring ride in the Sonoma and Marin countryside cures me of that notion. Ask me again on a foggy July day.
The day's ride had been brought to us by SAG stops 1, 2 and 3. Welcome roadside attractions for hungry cyclists needing to replenish their water bottles, munch on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or roasted potatoes (food from the gods). The past several rides were self-supported, so seeing our SAG support volunteers comforted and nourished our bodies and our minds.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Meadow Muffins
Monday, April 2, 2012
Generations
When the inlaw(s) came to visit, I was the host. In addition to the tending of the children, I also tended to the houseguests. There was very little tending to me. And, when visiting the inlaws, I was a “good guest” who tended to the host. I seemed to pick partners whose parents needed tending to.
But yesterday, I was a guest at a friend’s gathering. Her parents were there, taking care of business. I kept offering to help but was denied opportunities. So I relaxed while they grilled the chicken, sauteed the mushrooms, prepared the pasta and all the other what-have-yous. I was gently teased that I didn’t know how to grate parmesan if I wasn’t Italian. Once I looked up through the kitchen window and saw Dad washing some dishes while Mom sat and relaxed. What a nice partnership, I thought.
It made me realize how tired I was. Tired of being the caretaker. Tired of directing the show. Tired of being responsible. Even when you have a loving and caring partner, as I had so recently, there’s still the background noise of “being responsible.” The worry of where the kids are. What they’re doing. What they haven’t done that they’ve been asked to do 13 times. Bills that must be paid, shopping to be done and WHO IS GOING TO CLEAN UP THIS MESS and am I the only one who cares.
How nice it was to be a “kid” again while the older generation took care of details. How lucky my friend is to have her parents living so close that she occasionally gets to be a “kid.” Parents who pitch in to help without being controlling.
The richness of multiple generations at parties has always enthralled me. Making conversation with “The Grownups” -- as a kid, I often enjoyed my friends parents as much as I enjoyed my friends. I love hearing stories about what my friends were like in their youth. Watching my friend with her parents, I could imagine the fun and playfulness that existed in their household. I understood her humor a bit better, seeing the roots of it. Mutual teasing belied mutual respect with a bit of “I knew you when.”
It reminded me a bit of being back home -- a place I haven’t gone all that frequently in my adult life. But when I have, I’ve treasured the mutual eye-rolling of acceptance and acknowledgement when someone acts true to form. The we-love-you-anyway-eye-rolling. Every visit, trying to piece together the family tree. No matter how many times we made Daddy tell it, so much of that oral history died when he did. Who is going to remember his summer job at the Campbell’s soup factory unless we pass it down.
Pay attention, youngsters. One day, this will be important to you.