Friday, August 5, 2011
Viagra and Birth Control
Hmmmm. Where would I begin to blow holes in this idiot's argument? Have I said I hate idiots and bullies?
Here's my solution to the problem of birth control and Viagra in my personal life. A vasectomy is the perfect form of birth control, so get one before entering my vagina unless you've got a vagina too. As for Viagra, I keep a cut-crystal bowl of them right on my dresser. Pop a couple, clear your sinuses, and let's have some fun. Let's not make this debate into an either/or argument. Viagra and birth control go together like blueberries and vodka, so let's make both free for everybody so idiots and bullies can find something else to beat off about.
A Day in the Life of an Old Hippie
I'm licking the last drop of blueberry martini out of my glass, thinking it's time for bed--even the drug dealers down the street have stopped arguing in the street and gone in--but I want to try to get this day down in words. It wasn't, as far as I know, an exceptional day, one that would call for an extra, special edition of the newspaper. But it was a day that left me feeling tired and slightly inebriated fortunate for so many things in my life and maybe even a little buzzed warm and fuzzy. And since it's not Wordless Wednesday any more, I can talk about cows....
...And about how I was up at the ass-crack of dawn milking my cows....Oh, wait. That was someone else who was up at the ass-crack of dawn milking my herd share of cows. But I did run up north to farm country with my good friend Chicken Grrrl to pick up 17 gallons of raw milk for our little milk co-op. It's about an hour up there so we had a good, long chat on the way up and back. We're usually doing something else when we're together, like last week when we dreadlocked another friend's hair or Friday night when we were dancing with a hot, half-naked young man in a kilt (who claimed he was old enough to drink beer and insisted the two of us should spend the night together because he has his own apartment and what more do I need in a man? Oh, child. So much more than that), so it was nice to be captive in her boxy tree-frog green car with no interruptions.....except the one phone call from my daughter asking if projective vomiting is normal for a 2-week-old baby. I assured her it wasn't time for an exorcism unless the baby's head was spinning at the same time and she crab-walked backwards down the stairs.
At the farm, we unloaded our clean, used half gallon jars and filled five or six coolers with jars filled with raw milk. This is the best milk ever. I usually drink and share half of the two gallons I buy every two weeks, and use the rest to make yogurt or farmer's cheese. The farmer's cheese is really easy, and it doesn't melt so I can use it in omelets and stir fries just like tofu.... only it tastes like cheese. Yum. Fried cheese. With this batch, I'm going to make some mozzarella. One of the local party stores that sells beer- and wine-making supplies got smart and added stuff for making cheese. Booze and cheese. Food of the gods. The milk comes with a two-inch head of cream on the top. Sometimes I just shake it back in and drink the rich milk, or I skim it off and eat it on fresh summer fruit. The gods can get their own. I don't share.
After we unloaded the milk at Chicken Grrrl's house, I just had time to run home and eat a really late lunch before I rode downtown to meet A Man Called Horse* for a bicycle ride. We headed north on a new trail, grateful the temperature had dropped to only 91 degrees today. It was the coolest ride we'd gone on in weeks. We both decided this river trail was our favorite of the ones we've ridden so far: smooth, shady, and way out in the boonies for long stretches. So far out in the boonies we heard rifle fire instead of traffic after one wrong turn that led to a closed bridge. I wanted to lift our bikes over and see what was back there, but A Man Called Horse was afraid somebody would make us squeal like pigs.
At one point we rode past some soccer fields and were surprised to find twofat fucking idiots women had set their lawn chairs up right on the bike path. As we slowed and circled around them I said, "You're kidding me, right?" One of the them replied, "Yep, we're kidding you." I wanted to turn back and bitch slap them, not so much for their chair placement but for their stupid comeback. I figured I could just ride by with my arm straight out and get them both with one pass, but A Man Called Horse encouraged me to stay the course. I plotted a return bitch slap, but they had moved by the time we got rode back through. I hate idiots and bullies.
We rode about 23 miles in all, snacking on small, flying bugs the whole way, and then loaded our bikes on A Man Called Horse's rack back at our meeting place so he could drive me home. He doesn't like for me to ride home because that means I get an extra three miles for the ride and he feels like less of a man if I ride further. Or maybe he's just a nice guy.
By the time I got home I was running a little late. Chicken Grrrl was coming over for music and martinis. I called her, peeled off my sweaty bike clothes, jumped in and out of the shower, and then heated up some left-overs. I sometimes lose up to two pounds during a ride, which sounds good but really means I come home hungry enough to eat a litter of alley cats. Chicken Grrrl arrived while I was sitting on the porch eating, hoping my neighbor Melvin wouldn't come over and ask me to feed him. He's been drinking a lot more lately and his boundaries tend to slip.....although he's way more willing to share his pint of gin and juice.
Chicken Grrrl brought homemade sour cherry syrup for cherry martinis and I got out my homemade blueberry syrup and blueberry vodka for the blueberry martini recipe I developed a couple of months ago. We started with the cherry. I shook ice, Skyy vodka, simple syrup, and sour cherry syrup until the metal shaker was too cold to hold, poured, and dropped in a bing cherry. Mmmmm. Tart and sweet at the same time. We grabbed a bag of Dove darks to eat with our martinis and headed into the living room to play some music.
I picked up my Gibson and we got to work. We're supposed to play for a church service Sunday, so we had to work on a song for that first. We chose one we've done before, "Holy Now," because it's summer and we felt lazy and the martinis were cold and sliding down fast. And then we decided to do a second one just because nobody is expecting it and we like this song by singer-songwriter Carrie Newcomer. It didn't take us long to knock out the songs and knock back the martinis.
Time for more. Chicken Grrrl hadn't tasted the blueberry martini** yet. I'd been saving it for a special occasion with someone else, but the time passed and I was eager to share the recipe. Chicken Grrrl is kind of a booze connoisseur, so I must admit I wanted to impress her. Same ingredients as the sour cherry martini except for the blueberry vodka, which is surprisingly fruit-like; no chemical taste. I shook, poured and tossed some fresh blueberries in the glasses. Yummy. If you haven't had one, you should definitely give one a try. I first drank one at.....ummmmm.....I can't remember the name of the restaurant, but there was steak and salad and my date and I had such a good time we lost track of time and missed the play we'd intended to go to. The martini made a big impression too, so I vowed to replicate it. I suffered through several tries before I got it just right, but it's perfect now.
Responsibility music out of the way, we could have fun and play whatever we wanted, like an "Evil Ways"/"Venus" mash we came up with for a big show we did last summer. We ran through some other old stuff we've played out before. We're going to apply for panhandlers licenses so we can busk downtown in the artsy, hippie(ish) area there or maybe in a nearby small town where the real hippies live. Yes, we have to get a license here in the city to put out the guitar case and let people throw in their spare change. I think it costs $25, and we'll have to wear our little badges around our necks. It will be fun though. I've busked before and you never know what people will stop and say or do, especially as the night gets older.
We played a bunch of old songs while the drug dealer and his girlfriends fought in the street. For a while we hid under the windows and listened, but other than something about "don't you talk about my mama or my kids, motherfucker," we really couldn't understand what the fight was about. A fight is usually top priority, but this time playing music was more fun. I played and we sang until my fingers werebloody stumps sore and we called it a night.
I love living in the city, with my cows close-by and the river and the bike paths and passionate neighbors who fight in the streets. Tomorrow night The Architect* and I are riding downtown for dinner and a photo shoot. The city is going to turn on all the lights in the buildings and on the bridges so photographers can take colorful photos and enter them in a big contest with a cash prize. The Architect is a professional photographer so I imagine he'll take some kick-ass slow-speed night shots. I'll just haul my heavy Nikon D-70S down there and leave my shots up to serendipity. It works for me. Maybe I'll even get my ass in gear and enter that contest. After the shooting, there're free concerts and dancing and the art galleries will be open for First Friday. Too much fun might make my Saturday morning ride kick my ass, but I suppose I have to pay for my play.
Somehow it got to be 4:00am though, and somebody has to get up to milk my cows at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm sure as hell glad it isn't me. Good night.
*More on the men I ride with in an upcoming post.
** Blueberry martini: 1 1/2 oz blueberry vodka; 1 1/2 oz simple syrup; short jigger of blueberry/lemon syrup. If your syrup doesn't have lemon in it, a small squeeze of lemon. Shake until the metal shaker is too cold to hold and pour into a martini glass. Yummy! Feel free to lick the bottom of the glass when it's gone and then mix another one.
...And about how I was up at the ass-crack of dawn milking my cows....Oh, wait. That was someone else who was up at the ass-crack of dawn milking my herd share of cows. But I did run up north to farm country with my good friend Chicken Grrrl to pick up 17 gallons of raw milk for our little milk co-op. It's about an hour up there so we had a good, long chat on the way up and back. We're usually doing something else when we're together, like last week when we dreadlocked another friend's hair or Friday night when we were dancing with a hot, half-naked young man in a kilt (who claimed he was old enough to drink beer and insisted the two of us should spend the night together because he has his own apartment and what more do I need in a man? Oh, child. So much more than that), so it was nice to be captive in her boxy tree-frog green car with no interruptions.....except the one phone call from my daughter asking if projective vomiting is normal for a 2-week-old baby. I assured her it wasn't time for an exorcism unless the baby's head was spinning at the same time and she crab-walked backwards down the stairs.
 |
| Milk Shed |
After we unloaded the milk at Chicken Grrrl's house, I just had time to run home and eat a really late lunch before I rode downtown to meet A Man Called Horse* for a bicycle ride. We headed north on a new trail, grateful the temperature had dropped to only 91 degrees today. It was the coolest ride we'd gone on in weeks. We both decided this river trail was our favorite of the ones we've ridden so far: smooth, shady, and way out in the boonies for long stretches. So far out in the boonies we heard rifle fire instead of traffic after one wrong turn that led to a closed bridge. I wanted to lift our bikes over and see what was back there, but A Man Called Horse was afraid somebody would make us squeal like pigs.
At one point we rode past some soccer fields and were surprised to find two
We rode about 23 miles in all, snacking on small, flying bugs the whole way, and then loaded our bikes on A Man Called Horse's rack back at our meeting place so he could drive me home. He doesn't like for me to ride home because that means I get an extra three miles for the ride and he feels like less of a man if I ride further. Or maybe he's just a nice guy.
By the time I got home I was running a little late. Chicken Grrrl was coming over for music and martinis. I called her, peeled off my sweaty bike clothes, jumped in and out of the shower, and then heated up some left-overs. I sometimes lose up to two pounds during a ride, which sounds good but really means I come home hungry enough to eat a litter of alley cats. Chicken Grrrl arrived while I was sitting on the porch eating, hoping my neighbor Melvin wouldn't come over and ask me to feed him. He's been drinking a lot more lately and his boundaries tend to slip.....although he's way more willing to share his pint of gin and juice.
 |
| Sour Cherry Martini |
I picked up my Gibson and we got to work. We're supposed to play for a church service Sunday, so we had to work on a song for that first. We chose one we've done before, "Holy Now," because it's summer and we felt lazy and the martinis were cold and sliding down fast. And then we decided to do a second one just because nobody is expecting it and we like this song by singer-songwriter Carrie Newcomer. It didn't take us long to knock out the songs and knock back the martinis.
Time for more. Chicken Grrrl hadn't tasted the blueberry martini** yet. I'd been saving it for a special occasion with someone else, but the time passed and I was eager to share the recipe. Chicken Grrrl is kind of a booze connoisseur, so I must admit I wanted to impress her. Same ingredients as the sour cherry martini except for the blueberry vodka, which is surprisingly fruit-like; no chemical taste. I shook, poured and tossed some fresh blueberries in the glasses. Yummy. If you haven't had one, you should definitely give one a try. I first drank one at.....ummmmm.....I can't remember the name of the restaurant, but there was steak and salad and my date and I had such a good time we lost track of time and missed the play we'd intended to go to. The martini made a big impression too, so I vowed to replicate it. I suffered through several tries before I got it just right, but it's perfect now.
Responsibility music out of the way, we could have fun and play whatever we wanted, like an "Evil Ways"/"Venus" mash we came up with for a big show we did last summer. We ran through some other old stuff we've played out before. We're going to apply for panhandlers licenses so we can busk downtown in the artsy, hippie(ish) area there or maybe in a nearby small town where the real hippies live. Yes, we have to get a license here in the city to put out the guitar case and let people throw in their spare change. I think it costs $25, and we'll have to wear our little badges around our necks. It will be fun though. I've busked before and you never know what people will stop and say or do, especially as the night gets older.
We played a bunch of old songs while the drug dealer and his girlfriends fought in the street. For a while we hid under the windows and listened, but other than something about "don't you talk about my mama or my kids, motherfucker," we really couldn't understand what the fight was about. A fight is usually top priority, but this time playing music was more fun. I played and we sang until my fingers were
I love living in the city, with my cows close-by and the river and the bike paths and passionate neighbors who fight in the streets. Tomorrow night The Architect* and I are riding downtown for dinner and a photo shoot. The city is going to turn on all the lights in the buildings and on the bridges so photographers can take colorful photos and enter them in a big contest with a cash prize. The Architect is a professional photographer so I imagine he'll take some kick-ass slow-speed night shots. I'll just haul my heavy Nikon D-70S down there and leave my shots up to serendipity. It works for me. Maybe I'll even get my ass in gear and enter that contest. After the shooting, there're free concerts and dancing and the art galleries will be open for First Friday. Too much fun might make my Saturday morning ride kick my ass, but I suppose I have to pay for my play.
 |
| Cleanup can wait until morning. |
Somehow it got to be 4:00am though, and somebody has to get up to milk my cows at the ass-crack of dawn. I'm sure as hell glad it isn't me. Good night.
*More on the men I ride with in an upcoming post.
** Blueberry martini: 1 1/2 oz blueberry vodka; 1 1/2 oz simple syrup; short jigger of blueberry/lemon syrup. If your syrup doesn't have lemon in it, a small squeeze of lemon. Shake until the metal shaker is too cold to hold and pour into a martini glass. Yummy! Feel free to lick the bottom of the glass when it's gone and then mix another one.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Baby and Black Leather
I smell like baby. New baby. Mmmmm. And leather. Black leather. My daughter came over to my house today for the first time since her baby was born. She even let me hold her for a while, although not as long as I would have if she weren't a selfish little brat loving, attached mother. Oh, that baby is so scrumptious. You know what she smells like, right? Only she smells better than you remember babies smelling--like fairies and lightning bugs and summer nights...only better. And she giggled in her sleep while I was holding her. Not even two weeks old and she giggled. I'm not kidding. She smiles at me too. Mmmmmm. Baby.
When I went out on the porch to greet them, I noticed a package stuffed into the outside of the mail slot. I pulled it out and we went in out of the heat. I threw it on the chair.
Daughter: What's in the package?
Me: Oh, I think I know. Something I'll probably send back.
Daughter: You haven't even looked at it. What is it?
Me: Lingerie? I guess that's what you'd call it.
Daughter: Open it. Let me see.
Me: OK, but I really do think I'm going to send it back. (carefully opening the package and pulling out the contents.)
Daughter: (looking up from the couch where she's sitting with her newborn in her lap.) Wow! Mommers, did you order that? Is that leather?
Me: I ordered it a while ago. It just came.
Daughter: Try it on. Right now!
Me: Right here in the living room?....Ummmm.....I guess I can close the blinds. The baby is asleep, right?
Daughter: She might as well get used to you now. Just put it on and let's see what it looks like.
Me: OK, I will if I can figure out how to....how do I get into it? It looks too small.
Daughter: Unzip it.
Me: I don't think that will be enough. I have to do something else.
Daughter: Start there.
Me: OK, I got it but something else will have to be loosened. Don't you think it looks small?
Daughter: It's supposed to be tight. Don't pull the laces all the way out....that looks good. Try it now.
Me: (trying....) Oh, shit. I'm stuck.
Daughter: Stop! You've got it all kinked up.
Me: Kinked up? You think? I can't get it on like this.....shit...my head is stuck in the.....damn it....I can't get it off! Help me get this thing off!
Daughter: Where will I put the baby?
Me: (muffled) Put her on the couch.
Daughter: She might roll off.
Me: She can't roll! She can't even hold her head up. Lay her by the back of the couch and put a pillow beside her. Hurry up! I'm suffocating.
Daughter: (finally helping) Here, just let me loosen.....
Me: Let me take off my glasses......there...wait!....now just....
Daughter: I've got it....stop struggling. I need to loosen this some more.....
Me: I think a bone is caught in my hair.....Ouch! That hurts!
Daughter: Stop fighting me!
Me: I'm not fighting you....I'm....obviously it's too small....
Daughter: I've almost got it.....just hold your arms up.....there. It's off.
Me: Wow. I'm definitely sending that thing back.
Daughter: No, try it on first. You just didn't do it right.
Me: It's not going to do me much good if I can't get into it by myself. And once I do, I'll never get out of it and isn't the whole point to....
Daughter: Oh, look! It came with accessories.
Me: What the hell are those?
Daughter: These hook on here and....see?....and this is....
Me: Oh! I get it. No, I'm not going to be wearing that...accessory. That's definitely too small.
Daughter: You might if you ever get that on. Try it again.
Me: No......(holding it up and examining the problem) I might be able to pull it up from the bottom.
Daughter: That won't work.
Me: Yes, it will if I loosen this some more. Watch. (pulling it on from the bottom and fastening some...things....into place....success!)
Daughter: It's too big.
Me: Maybe if I do this....I measured.....let me get it zipped.
Daughter: You've lost weight.
Me: Not that much. I measured....twice.
Daughter: Well, it's too big....Don't do that! You can't do that with those laces.....Here, let me fix it....
Me: It's too big. It doesn't matter. I was going to send it back anyway. I only ordered it because...
Daughter: Why?
Me: Nevermind.
Daughter: Oh, you needed a reason?
Me: For leather? Yeah! It was just payback for something else... it was just a costume.
Daughter: It's not going to look like a costume if you get the right size. Send for one two sizes smaller and wear it out. Wear it when you ride your bike!
Me: Don't think so.
Daughter: Here, hold these up to your....
Me: I will never wear that, so don't get it close to my....
Daughter: You never know unless you try it.
Me: I have a vivid imagination.
Daughter: This is kind of weird, you know, that you're trying that on. And it's not fair. There's no way I could get into that, and it's too big for you, and you're 30 years older than me.
Me: Twenty years ago you weren't much older than that baby you're holding, and I couldn't have gotten into it then.
Daughter: Still not fair.
Me: I'm sending this back. You get to keep her forever. I think it's perfectly fair.
Daughter: Get one two sizes smaller.
Me: I don't need it now. It didn't arrive in time.
Daughter: You might want to keep one on reserve then.
Me: (getting dressed again) Hmmmm. You might have a point about that. I'd need help getting it on though. And off.
Daughter: That could be fun.
Me: Yes, it could. I'll think about it. Give me that baby now.
Baby.....and leather. Mmmm. Grandma smells good.
When I went out on the porch to greet them, I noticed a package stuffed into the outside of the mail slot. I pulled it out and we went in out of the heat. I threw it on the chair.
Daughter: What's in the package?
Me: Oh, I think I know. Something I'll probably send back.
Daughter: You haven't even looked at it. What is it?
Me: Lingerie? I guess that's what you'd call it.
Daughter: Open it. Let me see.
Me: OK, but I really do think I'm going to send it back. (carefully opening the package and pulling out the contents.)
Daughter: (looking up from the couch where she's sitting with her newborn in her lap.) Wow! Mommers, did you order that? Is that leather?
Me: I ordered it a while ago. It just came.
Daughter: Try it on. Right now!
Me: Right here in the living room?....Ummmm.....I guess I can close the blinds. The baby is asleep, right?
Daughter: She might as well get used to you now. Just put it on and let's see what it looks like.
Me: OK, I will if I can figure out how to....how do I get into it? It looks too small.
Daughter: Unzip it.
Me: I don't think that will be enough. I have to do something else.
Daughter: Start there.
Me: OK, I got it but something else will have to be loosened. Don't you think it looks small?
Daughter: It's supposed to be tight. Don't pull the laces all the way out....that looks good. Try it now.
Me: (trying....) Oh, shit. I'm stuck.
Daughter: Stop! You've got it all kinked up.
Me: Kinked up? You think? I can't get it on like this.....shit...my head is stuck in the.....damn it....I can't get it off! Help me get this thing off!
Daughter: Where will I put the baby?
Me: (muffled) Put her on the couch.
Daughter: She might roll off.
Me: She can't roll! She can't even hold her head up. Lay her by the back of the couch and put a pillow beside her. Hurry up! I'm suffocating.
Daughter: (finally helping) Here, just let me loosen.....
Me: Let me take off my glasses......there...wait!....now just....
Daughter: I've got it....stop struggling. I need to loosen this some more.....
Me: I think a bone is caught in my hair.....Ouch! That hurts!
Daughter: Stop fighting me!
Me: I'm not fighting you....I'm....obviously it's too small....
Daughter: I've almost got it.....just hold your arms up.....there. It's off.
Me: Wow. I'm definitely sending that thing back.
Daughter: No, try it on first. You just didn't do it right.
Me: It's not going to do me much good if I can't get into it by myself. And once I do, I'll never get out of it and isn't the whole point to....
Daughter: Oh, look! It came with accessories.
Me: What the hell are those?
Daughter: These hook on here and....see?....and this is....
Me: Oh! I get it. No, I'm not going to be wearing that...accessory. That's definitely too small.
Daughter: You might if you ever get that on. Try it again.
Me: No......(holding it up and examining the problem) I might be able to pull it up from the bottom.
Daughter: That won't work.
Me: Yes, it will if I loosen this some more. Watch. (pulling it on from the bottom and fastening some...things....into place....success!)
Daughter: It's too big.
Me: Maybe if I do this....I measured.....let me get it zipped.
Daughter: You've lost weight.
Me: Not that much. I measured....twice.
Daughter: Well, it's too big....Don't do that! You can't do that with those laces.....Here, let me fix it....
Me: It's too big. It doesn't matter. I was going to send it back anyway. I only ordered it because...
Daughter: Why?
Me: Nevermind.
Daughter: Oh, you needed a reason?
Me: For leather? Yeah! It was just payback for something else... it was just a costume.
Daughter: It's not going to look like a costume if you get the right size. Send for one two sizes smaller and wear it out. Wear it when you ride your bike!
Me: Don't think so.
Daughter: Here, hold these up to your....
Me: I will never wear that, so don't get it close to my....
Daughter: You never know unless you try it.
Me: I have a vivid imagination.
Daughter: This is kind of weird, you know, that you're trying that on. And it's not fair. There's no way I could get into that, and it's too big for you, and you're 30 years older than me.
Me: Twenty years ago you weren't much older than that baby you're holding, and I couldn't have gotten into it then.
Daughter: Still not fair.
Me: I'm sending this back. You get to keep her forever. I think it's perfectly fair.
Daughter: Get one two sizes smaller.
Me: I don't need it now. It didn't arrive in time.
Daughter: You might want to keep one on reserve then.
Me: (getting dressed again) Hmmmm. You might have a point about that. I'd need help getting it on though. And off.
Daughter: That could be fun.
Me: Yes, it could. I'll think about it. Give me that baby now.
Baby.....and leather. Mmmm. Grandma smells good.
Monday, August 1, 2011
Cycling 101 (in which we butter our bits)
Here are a few lessons I've learned from my new obsession hobby, cycling, which I wrote about earlier this summer after my virgin ride. In no particular order, I'm passing these lessons along in case any of you are looking into buying a bicycle and hitting the bike trails this summer.
* More on the men I ride with in another post. As I should have expected, not everybody can keep up with me, but a few are willing to die trying. Bless them.
- First, it's called cycling, not bike-riding or biking. Either of the latter could refer to motorcycle-riding, and I am not cool enough to ride a motorcycle. And to be honest, I don't own one, although I do have four black leather jackets. But if I did own a motorcycle, I would have a rumbly, classic, turquoise Harley, and I would sweet-talk some guy named Gary who has a long, gray braid, a beer gut, and leather chaps to ride in the front and drive me around. Let Gary be the bug-catcher. I just want to look good on the back of my hog. That's biking. I cycle.
- A bicycle is still called a bike though. Just roll with it.
- Your bike will probably come with gears. If you don't know how many are on it, to avoid being mocked, just don't talk about it. If someone asks how many you have, look bored and say, "Enough. I've never used them all." Change the subject to something else, like clothing.
- Yes, you will want to invest in some expensive, form-fitting bike shorts so you fit in with the other cyclists. If you're a woman, you will have a nice, padded
diaperchamois between your legs to cushion your coochie and mop up some of the sweat. And don't kid yourself, doll. If you ride far and fast enough, you'll sweat there. Make sure you check the color of the chamois if you're ordering online. Believe it or not, some chamois are red. Neither chamois nor merkins should be red for reasons too obvious to mention. If you're a man, simply from a woman's perspective, I'd like you to tuck your junk or....do whatever it is men do with their junk. Please. Bike shorts are awkward enough without you walking around giving everybody an outline of your manly endowments. Also, make sure your bike shirt is long enough to cover the waistband of your shorts. In other words, no gut hanging out between the sausage casing and the bottom of the shirt. There are bad ways to announce you need a woman in your life, and this is one of them. - You can buy some grease called Chamois BUTT'r to lubricate your bits if the chamois isn't enough to keep you from chafing on your saddle. Lots of people like it, according to the reviews on Amazon. I didn't find it made my bike ride any more comfortable, so I recommend applying it with a partner. You might not ever make it out to the trail, but you'll probably still get a ride. Giddyup!
- A bike seat is called a saddle. The wide, fat ones look more comfortable but they're not. How much space do you have between your legs anyway? You only need to ride on your sit bones. You don't want to bounce around on your butt fat, no matter how many springs your tractor seat has. I hear your confusion, your disbelief. I didn't believe it either, but it's true. We're not talking bed size here. A saddle the size of a Snickers bar is the right size, but do make sure it has an indentation for your bits. To make sure it's right for you, find a cute guy at your local bike store and have him fit you on it. Also see if he can sell you some Chamois BUTT'r and ask how it tastes.
- Even if you slather yourself with sunscreen--and you definitely should--you will get a weird tan a few inches above your knees from your bike shorts. You can either cycle or wear mini skirts; you can't do both. I chose cycling because the last time I let my ass hang out of a mini skirt John Travolta was wearing a white leisure suit and wide lapels. Guys, if you ride your bike in a kilt, you will also get a weird tan....or so I've heard.
- You will also want to buy tight cycling shirts made of space-age fabrics that wick the sweat away from your body and don't flap in the breeze. Ladies, this inevitably causes headlights. Even a sports bra worn underneath your tank won't completely conceal your nipples, although it will give you the dreaded uni-boob so nobody will want to look at your one-eyed monster anyway. Depending on the shirt, sometimes I prefer headlights to uni-boob. That's why I bought a road bike with curved handlebars. Once I'm bent over my bars and riding, my nipples don't show. Problem solved unless I stop and stand up straight.
- For some reason cyclists don't notice each other's rolls of fat. In other circumstances, people neither are nor should be so forgiving. The only time you should dress in clothes this tight and go out in public is when you are cycling. Otherwise, you just look like a large Eastern European sausage...or a ho. (Special fashion note: leggings are not pants. Make no mistake.)
- You can buy special shoes that clip onto special pedals so your feet don't go to sleep on long rides. These shoes make you special. I haven't earned special status yet. And I don't want to fall off my bike because my feet are clipped to my pedals. I'm only allowed to wear mitten clips.
- You won't find many bathrooms along the bike trail, so you should pee before you go and plan to hold it if you're going on a long ride. Unless you're a man. If you're a man you can stop and go in the weeds, where, as usual, you won't have to wait in line. Or, if you're built like a squid you can....use your imagination. No, your chamois only looks and feels like a diaper. Don't even think about it.
- Etiquette requires that you ride single file when you pass a cyclist going the other direction. However, if you have stopped on the trail to talk and another cyclist comes along, you should only move aside after she has slowed down to a crawl. As you move to the side of the path, keep talking, but throw in an insincere "sorry" as the cyclist crawls by you. I don't know the reason for this rule, but enough people seem to do it that it must be written down somewhere.
- Honking at Canada geese as they try to settle on the bike path in the evening sometimes makes them run at you instead of away. Hissing makes them waddle away. There's nothing you can do about the poop, so just pretend it's not there. It's not worth whining about.
- If you have to ride on surface roads (streets to you novices), use hand signals when you're going to turn. It doesn't matter what signals you use. People in cars don't know what they mean anyway.
- Cycling is an addiction, not a sport. Nothing else explains why I go out during 98-degree heat alerts and ride 20 miles with the guys I cycle with. The only thing that explains why they go out with me is....ummmmm.....the bike shorts? Yes, it must be the bike shorts.
- Dairy Queen ice cream is calorie-free if you ride a bicycle there and back. Conversely, cocktails consumed just up the path at Pat's Dildo Club will still get you drunk. The good news is that you're riding on a path. Just follow it and you'll end up where you started. Or close enough.
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| Did I mention my new bike? |
* More on the men I ride with in another post. As I should have expected, not everybody can keep up with me, but a few are willing to die trying. Bless them.
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