As I was sitting at a light during yesterday's ride, I thought it would be the neighborly thing to say, "Happy New Year" to the guy sitting two feet away from me on his bike.
He thought the neighborly thing to do was outright ignore me and push on with his ride.
I thought about two things:
1. Why can't we just be nice?
2. Why am I so disaffected about this?
Here's my insightful yet thought-provoking answer to number 1: We can't just be nice.
Here's my equally profound answer to number 2: Because we can't just be nice.
Number 2 was the more disturbing thought, in my opinion. At what point did I start to not care about human rudeness? This kind of thing used to really bother me. On and on I'd rant about this d-bag that ruined my ride/my day/my week. Yesterday I simply continued my ride - a stick with ends too blunted to neither hate nor love. Have I turned into "them"?
Sort of.
We can't "just be nice" and we can't care about other people's niceness
because we're humans. I know this sounds rudimentary and it is. We think that our life is the perfect way to live it and that gives us the right to attempt conversion of our fellow earthlings by bossing them into it.
At least mentally. As my story illustrates, no communication is needed because the less-enlightened should already know. I believe that was the source of the wanna-be world leader at the stoplight.
To move from the dead horse of the stoplight dis, I had probably the worst New Year's eve of my life last night. It was a combination pity party with a side of blame and resentment. Balloon drop at midnight. Champagne toast.
Here's where the philosophical part (and also the cunning intermingling of subjects) comes in. Well, it would if I had one. It's me. It's the rest of the planet. I'm right. I'm wrong. If I ignore everyone at stoplights, everyone will see that they want to be exactly like me. Only they don't because (Here's where the pity party started. It's censored to retain a modicum of self-respect.) *pop*
Was there ever a conclusion? No. Much like this blog entry, it's still hanging around, I'm still wallowing in self-pity/resentment and I'm going to go back to bed. There will be no epiphany, no future bumper sticker. Just me going back to bed and smugly acknowledge that I would never ignore anyone.
Happy New Year and be nice.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Friday, December 11, 2009
Unemployment as writing material
After two years I got a job and not one involving a decision about with or without fries.
This is a job where I write. I knew this place was real when (a) the editor had an actual physical copy of my resume printed and in her hands and (b) she was excited about the three degrees (implied was the vast amount of loans to obtain said degrees) I've collected over time.
But I worry. Unemployment was good fodder for my writing. Will I be witty with a job? What now will I write about? Even now I search the toys on my desktop, looking for something to write about. Severus Snape? A dish of Red Hots that have been sitting here for four months? A pen cup containing pens of which only 2 percent actually write?
Oh yeah. This is supposed to be a blog about my training, which has turned into a blog about my back injury.
Well, I'll have to worry about this later. My dog needs to go out.
This is a job where I write. I knew this place was real when (a) the editor had an actual physical copy of my resume printed and in her hands and (b) she was excited about the three degrees (implied was the vast amount of loans to obtain said degrees) I've collected over time.
But I worry. Unemployment was good fodder for my writing. Will I be witty with a job? What now will I write about? Even now I search the toys on my desktop, looking for something to write about. Severus Snape? A dish of Red Hots that have been sitting here for four months? A pen cup containing pens of which only 2 percent actually write?
Oh yeah. This is supposed to be a blog about my training, which has turned into a blog about my back injury.
Well, I'll have to worry about this later. My dog needs to go out.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
List of house selling
Things I will not miss after the house buying and selling is over
1. The intimate knowledge of "short sale", "foreclosure", "mello roos", "HOA" and "contingency agreement".
2. Having those words take up the space in my brain where the bad 80s songs used to reside. I never thought I'd miss Madonna.
3. Having the phone surgically implanted for immediate notification of home-related issues. (Note: I will now give the benefit of the doubt for the poor slob whose phone rings at the restaurant. If he looks like he's about to have a heart attack, he's selling his house.)
4. Having said phone stay as silent as waiting for the person you really liked in high school actually call you when you gave him your phone number. "Is it working??" *pick up receiver*
5. Living in a museum - i.e., no socks left on the floor, no imprints on the vacuumed carpet (requires levitation), god help you if you left a coffee ring.
6. Feeling really super duper strung out - lack of sleep, dreaming of life in a cardboard box, constant sweating, sailor mouth at inappropriate times, all conversations with friends containing "Take it easy. . ."
7. A diet of Hot Tamales and pita bread because of the need to keep the house ultra-bare since real people don't actually eat - they just keep the cereal boxes lined up in alphabetical order and soup arranged by type (chicken v. bean) and can size.
8. The immediate and essential washing of workout clothes since no one in THIS house smells like feet after riding or running.
9. Until a permanent residence presents itself, the closet is stripped of most clothing, leaving like five things hung in a tasteful manner to show potential Buyers that this room? Is a closet. These rods? Where the clothes hang.
10. The raging desire for perfect strangers to call causing maniacal cleaning, dog walks in the 100 degree heat and picking up of rice grains and, one-by-one, animal hairs that just might have fallen to the ground - and the urgent desire for this to happen.
1. The intimate knowledge of "short sale", "foreclosure", "mello roos", "HOA" and "contingency agreement".
2. Having those words take up the space in my brain where the bad 80s songs used to reside. I never thought I'd miss Madonna.
3. Having the phone surgically implanted for immediate notification of home-related issues. (Note: I will now give the benefit of the doubt for the poor slob whose phone rings at the restaurant. If he looks like he's about to have a heart attack, he's selling his house.)
4. Having said phone stay as silent as waiting for the person you really liked in high school actually call you when you gave him your phone number. "Is it working??" *pick up receiver*
5. Living in a museum - i.e., no socks left on the floor, no imprints on the vacuumed carpet (requires levitation), god help you if you left a coffee ring.
6. Feeling really super duper strung out - lack of sleep, dreaming of life in a cardboard box, constant sweating, sailor mouth at inappropriate times, all conversations with friends containing "Take it easy. . ."
7. A diet of Hot Tamales and pita bread because of the need to keep the house ultra-bare since real people don't actually eat - they just keep the cereal boxes lined up in alphabetical order and soup arranged by type (chicken v. bean) and can size.
8. The immediate and essential washing of workout clothes since no one in THIS house smells like feet after riding or running.
9. Until a permanent residence presents itself, the closet is stripped of most clothing, leaving like five things hung in a tasteful manner to show potential Buyers that this room? Is a closet. These rods? Where the clothes hang.
10. The raging desire for perfect strangers to call causing maniacal cleaning, dog walks in the 100 degree heat and picking up of rice grains and, one-by-one, animal hairs that just might have fallen to the ground - and the urgent desire for this to happen.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Le Peuwww
I woke up this morning and I'm on crooked. My head is going one way, my shoulders the other. My lower back is heading the other way entirely. This? Is the last time I don't see my chiropractor every week.
But more dramatic than that? I'm out of deoderant.
I turned the knob and it was all "clickclickclick."
Why is this so traumatic? Let me put it this way, I wear the clinical sport strength in the hope that I will win the Battle of the Stinky Triathlete.
I hate stink. Always have. Since my injury, I have the MOST sensitive sense of smell. I can smell people on the side of the road and in other cars. Cigarettes four cars in front of me? Yep.
I hate stink.
We all have stinkiness. I hardly expect anyone to not curl my nose hairs (including myself) by mile 120 of an Ironman.
So until I get to Randall's I will walk around with my arms stuck firmly to my sides.
I'm also going to visit the chiro.
But more dramatic than that? I'm out of deoderant.
I turned the knob and it was all "clickclickclick."
Why is this so traumatic? Let me put it this way, I wear the clinical sport strength in the hope that I will win the Battle of the Stinky Triathlete.
I hate stink. Always have. Since my injury, I have the MOST sensitive sense of smell. I can smell people on the side of the road and in other cars. Cigarettes four cars in front of me? Yep.
I hate stink.
We all have stinkiness. I hardly expect anyone to not curl my nose hairs (including myself) by mile 120 of an Ironman.
So until I get to Randall's I will walk around with my arms stuck firmly to my sides.
I'm also going to visit the chiro.
Thursday, June 4, 2009
Everybody needs a dream
I am determined to do a handstand.
Yes, my main goal is to qualify for Kona. But I've always admired those people (they are usually gymnasts) who can push themselves up from a seated position into a handstand.
This all started because I grew a core. Find the irony - I first got the idea at physical therapy. Don't even ask me to explain the Pilates funky thingy with springs on it that I started doing pikes on.
Then I got the idea to push myself up. More. More. And now I've gotten as far as my feet going to my head.
Here's where I start to need a wall. Here's where I really need a brain. A brain that will tell me exactly how badly I will ruin my race season by snapping something in two.
I'm practicing on the kitchen cutting island. While I'm making coffee. I've determined that this is a good idea by not trying to get upside down.
Another goal more conducive and less health insurance premium raising - to swim at all the public pools and swimming holes in the Austin area.
Yes, my main goal is to qualify for Kona. But I've always admired those people (they are usually gymnasts) who can push themselves up from a seated position into a handstand.
This all started because I grew a core. Find the irony - I first got the idea at physical therapy. Don't even ask me to explain the Pilates funky thingy with springs on it that I started doing pikes on.
Then I got the idea to push myself up. More. More. And now I've gotten as far as my feet going to my head.
Here's where I start to need a wall. Here's where I really need a brain. A brain that will tell me exactly how badly I will ruin my race season by snapping something in two.
I'm practicing on the kitchen cutting island. While I'm making coffee. I've determined that this is a good idea by not trying to get upside down.
Another goal more conducive and less health insurance premium raising - to swim at all the public pools and swimming holes in the Austin area.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
70.3 Florida Half Ironman
With being a triathlete who maintains a blog comes the responsibility to write a race report.
That being said, here's the preamble - race reports are usually ungodly boring, too long and contain a lot of bad grammar. So in the interest of maintaining attention spans, I try to cut mine from a different cloth.
Orlando 70.3 Ironman
My pre-race nerves are things of legends. This year, however, the mind genie was kept in his bottle with a bottle of passionflower (a foul tasting concoction mixed with water).
My chiropractor, and I mention him frequently, is not just a bone-popping kind of guy. His name is Chandler Collins and not only does he keep the usual body parts from falling to pieces, he heals the rest of the stuff as well.
So, passionflower it was. And it helped! No miserable week before where I wished I had a time machine. I even gave attitude to my competitors.
Ah, yes. My competitors.
Perhaps now is the time to describe a "tri-weenie". We've all seem them. They are male and female but that's where the difference ends. These are the people who wear a matching tri kit during the race even if they're sponsored by no one. They've got 8 percent body fat and believe they're racing this race by the grace of God.
They hang around in flocks and try to outdo each other with their tales of doing 200 mile bike rides two days ago as a warm up for the race. You can see them race morning sprinting around the race site. Actually, you can see them sprinting from the hotel room to the breakfast buffet to carbo load; from the car into the 7-11; inside the grocery store. There's nowhere they don't sprint.
Best of all, come race day they break every rule set by the USAT.
Swim - It was like swimming in shark infested waters. I understand aggressiveness in the water but, come on, we're supposed to sight. We know when we're about to goose the person next to us in the water. So we should know that we're about to dunk someone's head under the water (mine) and then do it a second time (mine again) and act accordingly. We've all been touched in a not-ok-way during the swim and swam behind someone who was a little passionate about kicking. But my coach got punched in the neck (on purpose, might I add), which pretty much made the use of his aerobars nonexistent. His race? Ruined.
Which leads me to bike.
Here's where the tri-weenies shined. Drafting: check. Passing you as you are passing someone else: check. A total lack of "on your left": check. Here's where my favorite story of my race comes in.
I was passing someone while maintaining the proper bike length between the two of us. From my left side - "watchoutwatchoutwatchout." The carbon from his disc rubs the carbon on the rim of my front wheel. Understandably, I was pissed off and more than a little aware of how close this dorkmunch almost caused me to crash.
At the top of my lungs: "ON YOUR LEFT, MOTHERF*CKER!!!" He turned around in what I think was a bit of surprise and up went my tried but true middle finger. The best part is that I passed him in the headwind - thanks to training in the Texas headwinds BTW.
This aside, I was pleased with my bike. Truly the easiest 56 miles I've ever done. I didn't just sail like I was on a townie bike picking up groceries but I maintained my HR according to Kevin's plan and lookee what it got me - 28th place in my age group - missed the lead by 13 minutes.
But what goes up must come down.
The Run.
(1) After the first of three four-mile loops, the course is then familiar for the second and third loops (2) during which was this amazingly grassy area with hidden ninja-like tiny potholes that feed off of exhausted feet (3) and a steamy swamp bringing the humidity to 250 percent but (4) I ran the whole thing (5) very, very slowly (6) which made my excellent bike time irrelevant.
But still. I'm proud of this race. My bike was the highlight of my season thus far. I've got such great coaches and although we've got a ways to go for Kentucky, I'm a true believer that we'll get there.
As for the tri-weenies - you'd better work on your skills in the headwinds. HAH! HAHAHA!
That being said, here's the preamble - race reports are usually ungodly boring, too long and contain a lot of bad grammar. So in the interest of maintaining attention spans, I try to cut mine from a different cloth.
Orlando 70.3 Ironman
My pre-race nerves are things of legends. This year, however, the mind genie was kept in his bottle with a bottle of passionflower (a foul tasting concoction mixed with water).
My chiropractor, and I mention him frequently, is not just a bone-popping kind of guy. His name is Chandler Collins and not only does he keep the usual body parts from falling to pieces, he heals the rest of the stuff as well.
So, passionflower it was. And it helped! No miserable week before where I wished I had a time machine. I even gave attitude to my competitors.
Ah, yes. My competitors.
Perhaps now is the time to describe a "tri-weenie". We've all seem them. They are male and female but that's where the difference ends. These are the people who wear a matching tri kit during the race even if they're sponsored by no one. They've got 8 percent body fat and believe they're racing this race by the grace of God.
They hang around in flocks and try to outdo each other with their tales of doing 200 mile bike rides two days ago as a warm up for the race. You can see them race morning sprinting around the race site. Actually, you can see them sprinting from the hotel room to the breakfast buffet to carbo load; from the car into the 7-11; inside the grocery store. There's nowhere they don't sprint.
Best of all, come race day they break every rule set by the USAT.
Swim - It was like swimming in shark infested waters. I understand aggressiveness in the water but, come on, we're supposed to sight. We know when we're about to goose the person next to us in the water. So we should know that we're about to dunk someone's head under the water (mine) and then do it a second time (mine again) and act accordingly. We've all been touched in a not-ok-way during the swim and swam behind someone who was a little passionate about kicking. But my coach got punched in the neck (on purpose, might I add), which pretty much made the use of his aerobars nonexistent. His race? Ruined.
Which leads me to bike.
Here's where the tri-weenies shined. Drafting: check. Passing you as you are passing someone else: check. A total lack of "on your left": check. Here's where my favorite story of my race comes in.
I was passing someone while maintaining the proper bike length between the two of us. From my left side - "watchoutwatchoutwatchout." The carbon from his disc rubs the carbon on the rim of my front wheel. Understandably, I was pissed off and more than a little aware of how close this dorkmunch almost caused me to crash.
At the top of my lungs: "ON YOUR LEFT, MOTHERF*CKER!!!" He turned around in what I think was a bit of surprise and up went my tried but true middle finger. The best part is that I passed him in the headwind - thanks to training in the Texas headwinds BTW.
This aside, I was pleased with my bike. Truly the easiest 56 miles I've ever done. I didn't just sail like I was on a townie bike picking up groceries but I maintained my HR according to Kevin's plan and lookee what it got me - 28th place in my age group - missed the lead by 13 minutes.
But what goes up must come down.
The Run.
(1) After the first of three four-mile loops, the course is then familiar for the second and third loops (2) during which was this amazingly grassy area with hidden ninja-like tiny potholes that feed off of exhausted feet (3) and a steamy swamp bringing the humidity to 250 percent but (4) I ran the whole thing (5) very, very slowly (6) which made my excellent bike time irrelevant.
But still. I'm proud of this race. My bike was the highlight of my season thus far. I've got such great coaches and although we've got a ways to go for Kentucky, I'm a true believer that we'll get there.
As for the tri-weenies - you'd better work on your skills in the headwinds. HAH! HAHAHA!
Saturday, May 2, 2009
"a" and "b" do not always equal "c"
It's hot in here.
So get up and turn the a/c on.
No.
Why?
Because if I'm not working out, I'm a big fan of sitting on my ass in front of my computer.
But you're sweating and grumpy, which means more typos, which means you're angry and pounding on the keys. Which expends more energy and makes you sweat more. You've been sweating all morning in 200 percent humidity for your workouts. You've got modern technology just ten feet away.
My right foot is twitching for some unexplained reason. It's annoying.
Also, I've got a necklace of bug bites because I seem to be tastier when I sweat humidity.
What does that have to do with the a/c?
I'm burping tacos.
Get up and turn on the a/c.
Ok.
So get up and turn the a/c on.
No.
Why?
Because if I'm not working out, I'm a big fan of sitting on my ass in front of my computer.
But you're sweating and grumpy, which means more typos, which means you're angry and pounding on the keys. Which expends more energy and makes you sweat more. You've been sweating all morning in 200 percent humidity for your workouts. You've got modern technology just ten feet away.
My right foot is twitching for some unexplained reason. It's annoying.
Also, I've got a necklace of bug bites because I seem to be tastier when I sweat humidity.
What does that have to do with the a/c?
I'm burping tacos.
Get up and turn on the a/c.
Ok.
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