moms rock the tri

Saturday dawned chill and drizzly, which meant I couldn’t think of a thing I’d rather do than ride my bike, dontcha know.

Because, after all, at this point if my bike shoes dry out even a little bit, they will instantly succumb to a state of toxic stankiness and I’ll have to replace them.  Which is a purchase I’m not ready to run by the CFO here at Casa Fraught just yet.  And when I do, I’m going to remember to take those new Oakleys off my face first.

Now, where was I?

Oh, right, tellin a big ole fib. Because okay, yeah, I could’ve come up with one or two dozen things I might rather have done than saddle up for yet another wet ride, but way back in like June I’d committed to a reprise of last year’s triathlon relay effort with the SoRo Moms team. And maybe you all have figured out by now that I am not really the bailing type.

As for the day, it was not nearly as wet, nor as cold, nor as long as last Sunday’s epic outing.  Sheesh, hardly enough self-imposed misery to make it worth getting out of bed.  Well, except for the fun of hangin’ with my teamies Melissa and Lori.  And the challenge of pushing redline for 25 mildly rolling miles when I’d trained an entirely different set of muscle-twitch fibers all summer, doing long slow distance climbing to prepare for B2B.

Plus, since it’s a fairly local race, there were lots of familiar faces and it’s always fun to cheer for people you know.  (Kate of BookNook did the whole thing solo, so she gets the official You Go Girl! of the day.)

I gave it everything I had.   I’d so hoped for like three more days between last Sunday and this Saturday, because my legs needed more recovery time, but the request I put in for that variance was not granted.

Given that, I felt pretty good about what I managed to do with what I had, namely improve my time from last year.

In fact, each of us did, and while we don’t have the official numbers yet, we’re pretty confident we knocked almost ten minutes off our finish time from last year.  Pretty awesome, huh?

And we came in second of the all-female relays. A distant second, it must be said, to another team of phenom-athlete moms from our very same ‘hood.  Hats off to you, 2 Heels & a Hoo!!

It was a fun time, and a great day, and I loved being a part of it.  And I believe this week I’ll dust off my running shoes, and take some time to get back in the groove with my power yoga.  I might  — just might — be biked out for a bit.

generally awesome, in two acts

I gave you last the epic of Bridge To Bridge ‘09, showcasing moi, wonderful moi, in a big ole production number, high-kicking across the stage in front of you, supporting cast in the form of My Crew and a cameo or two by Junior, the bus.

But the story needs to be told of how the show would never even have been cast were it not for the incredible support, devotion and partnership of my man, known to you as The MPM.

Act 1, Scene 1: A July-ish day.

Me: Gee, luv, I was thinking about maybe going down to North Carolina for a weekend in September. Me and, y’know, Richard and three other guys you’ve never met.  Do some eatin and drankin and we might ride a few miles, like maybe a hundred or so up some crazy mountain.  They’ll be wearing spandex for a good portion of the time I’m with them, and we’ll be sleeping scant feet from one another.

The MPM:  Better tell ‘em you snore.

Me:  (sticking out tongue).

The MPM.  Sounds like a great time.

Me: Oh, and between now and then, I need like four or five hours every weekend to go ride, cos I gotta train.

The MPM: Right.

Act 1, Scene 2: early September

Me:  Would it be okay if I buy yet another pair of ludicrously expensive Oakleys so I have them for the ride?

The MPM:  Sure.

Me:  And get a complete tuneup on my bike too?

The MPM:  Sure.

Act 1, Scene 3: Friday, September 18

Me: Megs needs to practice her piano both days, and it would be great if you could get them to church on Sunday.  And a bath.

The MPM: (Nods; taking notes).

Me: And can we order dinner in tonight because I’ve been packing and haven’t had time to make anything?

The MPM:  Sure thing.

Me:  Oh, um.  The guys at the shop didn’t re-wrap my handlebar tape.

The MPM:  Gotcha covered, babe.  I can do it before bed.

Act 1, Scene 3: Morning, Saturday September 19

Me: Can I borrow your helmet? Mine really stinks. And I need one of the trays off your roof rack. Can I have your nice water bottle too?

The MPM: Sure. (Gets tray; racks bike, unasked). Have a great time, hon! Ride safe. Say Hi to Richard for me. (Kiss.)

Act 2, Scene 1: Sunday, 6p.m.

Me: (on phone) Hi, luv. I’m finished!

The MPM: Great job, hon.

Me: I’m thinking I’ll be home pretty late.

The MPM: Drive safe. I’ll tell the girls you’ll see them in the morning. Love you.  ‘Night.

Act 2, Scene 2: 3 hours later

Me: (on phone) Hey luv, we just got back to the bus.  Driving conditions are really dicey and I’m pretty wiped. The boys aren’t pulling out of town until morning, so is there any way to work it so I could sleep here in the bus and get home tomorrow morning?  I can get up pretty early if I have to.

The MPM: Sounds like the right choice. If you can be here by 9:30, I’ll get Megs to school and take the second bus in. I’ll make it work. Sleep tight.

<< CURTAIN >>

And you know, amazingly enough, he seems to feel like there’s something in it for him.  And for that, along with everything else, I am deeply, utterly, grateful.  He is my rock, and my soft place to fall, and he deserves the spotlight for a minute.

there’s blue sky ahead

One thing I like about blogging is I never really feel on deadline. But I notice that my hit counter took a healthy tick up yesterday, which suggests that there may be a few of you out there wondering how it all went down for that little Bridge To Bridge outing on Sunday. So I am ignoring the laundry and gettin’ down to writin’ it down. Can you feel the love?

There’s so much to tell. Generally I believe there is numbness in detail, and when I started I had every intention of finding that broad line of the story between too little and too much, but after I started writing I realized your scrolling device works just fine. My blog, my story; EP version. And my longest post to date, by an order of magnitude or two. Scroll at will.

So we’ll start with Saturday.

I have little faith in Google Maps and even less in Mapquest. Instead, I called my bestest CL, whose sister lives down thataway, and thus ended up taking what I am sure was both the quickest and most scenic route to meet up with my crew just outside Boone, NC.

I did have to rely on Google Maps to find the campground, which of course meant that I had to rely on the dude at the mattress shop next to the shuttered gas station to get me unlost. I don’t believe he ever once shifted focus north of my neck, but in all fairness it must be said that he managed to give me stellar directions despite that, and I pulled into the Grandfather Mountain Campground just ten short minutes later.

You may be saying, Woah now, Madam Fraught, did you say CAMPGROUND? Fear not, fair reader; I may be crazy enough to undertake such a ride but I am nowhere near crazy enough to do it on a night’s sleep in a tent.

My accommodations: Reeechard and his crew arrived (from Tejas by way of Georgia) in Junior, aka “the bus.”

The bus is not exactly a repurposed yellow school model, and to be completely honest it has several more comforts than my home. Like the separate thermostat to heat the bathroom should you feel chilled after your steamy shower, and a flat-screen TV some decades newer than anything we own.

So I drive in and get to meet the rest of the crew: Todd, of the quiet nature and great grin. Gregg, whom I will shortly learn with utter astonishment graduated high school two years after I was born. And Keith, who feels — within minutes — like your favorite pair of old jeans. He and Richard are on their second trip; the rest of us are B2B virgins.

We had some lunch (leftover pork BBQ for me; they’d all had it fresh for dinner the night before, after it simmered along through the miles) and then got togged up to fulfill the brilliant plan for dropping cars convenient to the ride finish and simultaneously getting in a leg-stretcher of a ride back to the bus.

The guy who took our picture (coming soon, promise) said “Good thing you’re going now — I just looked on the radar and there’s a storm coming in.” Which made us all happy, because weather coming in now means it’s all gonna blow on through before tomorrow: Rain tonight, but clearing with a 50% chance of showers for the big day.

After Richard cooked dinner — blackened salmon, risotto and grilled asparagus — and then dessert — fresh blueberry somethin with ice cream over — and a few beverages and some lies and tales we got in our jammies and got settled in for the night.

Torrential rain on a metal roof is not exactly conducive to sleep, but the earplugs helped, as did the knowledge that it was blowing on through and we weren’t gonna have to ride in that mess.

Bright and early we packed up, unhooked and headed off to the start, in Lenoir, a piece down the road. The rain looked like it was planning to clear off any time.

Richard pilots the bus down the narrow NC roads; the sweep of the huge windshield wipers is slow and would put me into a hypnotic trance in about three minutes if I had to drive. But I don’t, and it’s not a heavy rain, which means it’s blowing on through and we aren’t gonna have to ride in that mess.

We pull into Lenoir and immediately find karmic parking outside the fire station, where the sight of riders pumping tires and attiring themselves in kit clues us in that we can’t be far from where we need to be.

At 10 we are at the start. I’m wearing a short sleeve shirt, arm warmers, knee warmers (thanks Sarah!), and my heavy Gore-Tex vest. I have the zip-off sleeves for the vest in my rear pocket, along with food and Accelerade powder. The rain has stopped and the sun is making its presence felt if not seen.

As I stand there, unable to hear the announcements, I begin to notice that I am one of two people wearing anything other than short sleeves and shorts. And it’s getting warmer by the minute. Crap. I roll down my arm warmers. I don’t have time to ride back to the bus for my lighter vest. I’m gonna sweat my ass off. Well, I can ditch the sleeves, at least, which will give me room to stash the leg and arm warmers later.

Okay, that’s a plan. Thanks to our karmic parking, I hand the sleeves to a cute firefighter and tell him I’ll pick them up at the station after the ride. (The SLEEVES, people. I’ll pick up the SLEEVES.)

We roll out. Riding through red lights legally is like eating chocolate in bed and being given a pass on the calories AND the cavities. I’m with my crew, and I’m happy. There’s a vast expanse of bright lycra on a shifting sea of bikes as far as I can see in front of me. Lotta money rolling down that road. I do a quick estimate: 800 riders, average of, say, 2K per bike, um, 16 plus five zeroes. 1.6 million bucks, conservatively, of carbon, titanium, aluminum, unobtanium and plain old steel. It’s a pretty sight, indeed it is.

About this time, it commences to sprinkling. Not enough to kick a roostertail off the wheel in front of me, but enough to make me roll the arm warmers back up a tad.

My goals for the day are 1) to spend as much time riding with my peeps before we get separated by the climbs that will kick in at Mile 56, and 2) to eat steadily, so I don’t bonk.

For a good bit of the first 60 miles I’m with one or another, or more, of my crew. I get separated from Richard early, when he has a wardrobe malfunction, but wait at the first rest stop long enough for him to get back with us. Keith, at six-four or maybe -five, is gorgeous to ride behind, providing both complete windblock and a line that never wavers; I instantly trust him enough to sit three inches off his wheel. That is, when it’s not raining hard enough to put a roostertail in my face.  Which it now largely is.

Gregg and Todd are generally ahead of us a bit; we see them briefly at aid stations. The rain continues. It never pours, but it comes down, and down.

The climbs begin. What I’d seen back in August on the elevation chart sent out had looked like a thirteen-mile climb with no relief in grade beginning at Mile 56. On the road, we climb a bit and then it levels out, climb and level again. I am ecstatic. This is nothing. I’ve got gears to spare. I stop at every aid station and eat something. After the second stop, I debate waiting on my crew, but I’m starting to get chilled when I stop, so decide I’m better off at my own pace. I don’t hurry. I chat as I pass people, which I am suddenly doing a lot of.

It rains. The sky is unremittingly gray. I amuse myself by leaning over toward someone I’m passing as we climb and saying conspiratorially, “I think it’s clearing.” I get great reactions. I vary it, but the theme remains the same. After a while I start singing “I see bluuuuuuuuue skies ahe-e-ed” as I come up behind people. I get laughs.

The rain is relentless, and I think longingly of those Gore-Tex sleeves, sitting dry in a firehouse. I’m not freezing, but I am tense with the cold, and when it’s time to descend I get colder and more tense, my body remembering its recent slide on wet pavement.

As the miles tick on, the fog gets thicker. It feels surreal, to be riding and not see another soul. For stretches at a time visibility is ten yards or so.

Hannah from Charlotte comes beside me on a flat stretch. She was part of the fast pack, an hour behind us on the staggered start, but eventually got dumped off the back of the train. She is young, and astonishingly strong. We trade pulls. She announces “This FUCKING SUCKS.”

At Mile 70 I have the jolting realization that I am only two-thirds done. Which means I have to do this for half again as long. Which does not sound fun. I decide the ride should be called Bridge To Bridge Across A Freakin’ Moat.

And I decide that I am not going to buy into Hannah’s attitude. It is adverse out here, indeed, but it does not fucking suck. I am cold, I am wet, my neck and shoulders hurt and I can’t feel my toes, but I am fully alive, and that is good. And you know, I bet that’s a gorgeous view off that overlook there. I’ll have to come back another time and see it.

Hannah and I see more and more cars going by with tagged bikes on them, signaling that more and more people are parting with their desire to finish, and choosing instead to simply be done.

The descents are bad for me. The visibility is so poor at times that I’m leery of getting up speed, in direct contradiction to my deepening desire to be finished as soon as possible. The spray on my glasses obscures my vision too much, so I have to take them off and squint to keep crap from flying in my eyes. I’m tense and numb; I’ve lost trust in my ability to stay upright on wet pavement, and I have to fight my fear, which wells up no matter how much I try to remind myself I know how to do this.

I lose Hannah somewhere on a long descent, and pull into the next aid station. She had eschewed them, eating instead while riding, and it feels good to be standing upright. I stand under a tent.  The half PBJ tastes so good I have another. And some grapes. And a cookie.

As I pass people now I do not sing, I do not banter. I murmur Hey, and never even look at their faces.

I am now officially really, really cold; rainwater drips steadily off the end of my nose. At Mile 90 or so I find myself in pace with another rider. He asks how I’m doing; I say My friend, I am PEACHY. He laughs. This is his tenth year, and he has on full-finger gloves and full tights, and I am deeply covetous. We ride a time and agree to stop and stretch, and my shoulders unclench a bit. I never learn his name, and somewhere in the surreality we get separated, but sharing those miles with someone was huge.

At times the fog clears; at times it’s completely socked in. The air is so wet I don’t even know if it’s raining any longer. When we see the sign marked Mile 100, I’m elated. In a few more miles I know I’ll turn off onto the final climb up Grandfather Mountain. Suddenly a phalanx of volunteers pop out of the fog, but I realize I’m clueless: left or right turn? I ask, and someone points me toward the gate.

I know some portion of the climb from here is going to be at a brutal grade, and I know there’s a possibility that at this point a standing climb will make me cramp. If my legs cramp badly enough, I will simply fall. I really, really don’t want to fall.

I sit as long as I can, grinding up, and then it gets too steep. I stand through the first switchback. Pre-cramp twinge, but I’m okay. I pull off into a parking area and put my feet down. Breathe. Clip back in, gain momentum on the traverse angle, then turn uphill again.

It’s long, and there are three sections in all where the grade demands coming out of the saddle. Each time I stand I try to send calm energy into my legs.

I can hear cowbells, and shouting. I can’t see a freaking thing. I remind myself that switchbacks are deceptive, and they could be a long way away. And then I can see them through the fog, and there’s a sign that says Finish Line Just Ahead, and I round the final switchback and cross that line.

I am the 195th rider over, and the 6th woman.

An interesting statistical breakdown: They cap the race at 800 registrants. About 200 woke up and decided it was a good day to see a movie instead. Watch some golf maybe. 299 total finishers means only every other rider who clicked in at the start made it even to the bottom of Grandfather Mountain (there’s an alternate finish line at the base for those who miss the cutoff time).

Only one of our crew had to abandon. Gregg, whose job took him around the globe a couple times this year, made it to Mile 70 before the evil conditions and the miles he hadn’t been able to log in training caught up to him in the form of unrelenting leg cramps.

Todd finished 10 minutes in front of Richard, who finished 10 minutes in front of Keith. And I am amazed, truly in awe, that they could ride that ride without having the opportunity to train on anything close to the kind of terrain they were up against. It is a testament to their strength, and maybe more to their determination.

And we all got warm, eventually, and drove down the mountain to where Junior was waiting with hot showers and cold beverages.

And I was a little blue yesterday. There are those times when things don’t live up to your expectations, and afterward there’s the dusty taste of disappointment. And then there are those times when things exceed your expectations, and afterward it is, well, over. And you wish it weren’t.

Thanks, guys. You really know how to show a girl an unforgettable time.

before the pain

Some of you may remember my public announcement of intent back in August to ride the Bridge to Bridge Challenge. Today is Friday, and unless something dramatic and unforeseen occurs between now and 10a on Sunday, I’ll be rolling on with the rest of my crew: Richard, Keith, Todd, and Gregg. We’re converging on North Carolina from points north, south, and west.

And frankly even if something dramatic and unforeseen DOES occur, it’s going to have to top Richard’s pre-ride visit to the ER with a kidney stone of a few years ago, because that didn’t keep him from saddling up the next morning. The bar for wimpitude has been set.

D&U aside, I’ve done a reasonable number of training miles with some reasonable chunk of them vertical in nature. And this morning the scale read 130.6, which means I met my other Publicly Stated Goal of carrying a few fewer pounds (6.8 of them to be exact) up that freakin’ mountain. So I’m about as ready as I can expect to be for 105 what in hell was I thinking miles with 11,000 what in hell was I thinking feet of elevation pain gain.

And the truth of it is, this crew isn’t in it for time, but for the TIME, if you know what I mean. And I fully expect it will be a large one — rain or shine.

Yeah. Since the forecast is fifty-fifty, do a little dry dance for us, wouldja please, maybe tip the scale a bit our way?

challenged

Most days I get around to reading a couple of blogs. I have maybe two dozen that I try to keep up with; some of them obligingly don’t post very often, though others leave me feeling naggingly inadequate as I ponder the question of where, exactly, I might find the time to post every single day??

Anyway, I popped over to Book Nook last night. I’ve been delighted to notice that lately Kate’s posts have found a segue from reading material into a more general look at life. This is good news for all, because she is insightful and fun to read.

In yesterday’s post she transitioned from finding time to read to a commentary on her struggle to get to yoga class, and then followed with this: “Can you challenge yourself to find the time to do something good for yourself this week?”

What a FANTABULOUS idea. Love love love it.

All on its own it’s a great concept, but she says she’ll do a giveaway if she gets 10 responses. And I bet you a chocolate-chip cookie it’ll be something cool, because she is the kind of person who will leave a just-right something on your doorstep, just because. So hurry on over and commit in writing to doing something good for yourself this week.

Me, I’ve pledged to go to bed by 10:00 every night, a goal that managed to elude me all summer long, because I am a happier, healthier person when I don’t stay up until late o’clock night after night.

And since, per usual, there’s laundry all over the bed and it’s after 9:00 already, I gotta run. Ciao!

to veer

Were you up early enough to catch the sunrise this morning? Did it rise in the west maybe?

I ask because last night we’d planned to attend the premiere of this very cool new bike movie showing at the new art museum in town (the one with the, um, eye-catching architecture, feel free to click). We wanted to ride our bikes to the premiere, partly because it was a bike movie and partly because we believe in ridin not drivin when we can, but really mostly because I’d heard that they were having VALET PARKING for bikes. And that, in my book, is just too good to miss.

And because we wanted to ride down, the plan was to hire a sitter who would come HERE, to our house, as opposed to getting my MIL to cover the gig, because that meant we’d be expected to feed the girls and pack up their jammies and toothbrushes and take them THERE, spending some amount of time deemed appropriate on both ends visiting, ourselves, before bringing them home to wake up in their own beds. Because that’s the way it works. It is immutable and we do not ask the why. One might equally question gravity or photosynthesis.

But since, after umpteen calls, there was no sitter to be found, we called the MIL who obligingly said sure, we could bring them over. So we did. And then drove home again and got on our bikes and rode down, because we couldn’t possibly pass on that valet parking thing, even though it meant reversing the whole silly sequence on the back end.

We got settled into our seats and were well along into the fun when the MPM leapt up like something had bitten him on the butt and scurried out the door. He came back in but I wasn’t seated next to him so I couldn’t pinch him to make him give me the scoop, and he sat oblivious to the numerous “WTF??” looks I was beaming pointedly at him across the seat backs.

But after the lights came back on and we were collecting our bikes from the valet (THIS WAS EVERY BIT AS COOL AS I IMAGINED), he said, “Yeah, my mom called.” I waited for the bad news: the girls wouldn’t go to sleep, my FIL had fallen, something. She wouldn’t call for no reason.

What she’d called for, as it turned out, was to suggest that maybe the girls could STAY OVERNIGHT. Both of them. All night.

So indeed, I find myself this morning wandering about in a state of disbelief and, yes, questioning the stability of physical reality in the rest of the world.

And because I myself slept in well past sunrise, y’know, I just thought I’d ask: east? west?

naked

Okay, the disclaimer: this is the topic of the day for Kate’s Wednesday Madhouse. If you clicked looking for some full-on or even partial-on nudity, I’m afraid you are in for some serious disappointment.

With a nod to the fact that I have what might be considered by some to be an embarrassing abundance of on-topic stories that I could tell on myself, I bring you the following thoughts instead. Because who really wants to hear about waterskiing hijinks on Lake Powell in my 20s, after all? Right. Thought not.

The Nekkid Truth

I believe in kids spending some delightful portion of their early years in the state we refer to around these parts as “nekkid.” As a new parent, I gave it some consideration and decided that the end of untrammeled nekkidness should arrive along about the fourth birthday or so.

And then Megan turned four, and I simply couldn’t fathom that there was any reason on god’s green earth that she should be instructed to clothe that precious skin. So I said, well, when she turns FIVE, that will be the time to put the foot down, and the clothes on.

And then she turned five, and that sweet nekkid body still didn’t seem like anything that needed covering.

And then I started to wonder if maybe I had veered unawares onto some crazy hippy granola head-in-the-sand road, and I should make the MPM or someone pick an arbitrary number and force me to stick to it, because I wasn’t in touch with reality and might well find myself in a few years telling her sure, go ahead and run around the yard nekkid, but pick that bra up first and put it where it won’t get stepped on.

And then the summer after she turned six, one day she came downstairs and I looked at her and heard myself say, Oh no, Missy, you go get some clothes on before you play in the back yard.

Why, I don’t know; it isn’t as if she looked any different, or had started asking questions, or anything at all, really. I just knew. It was time.

And in retrospect, my heart aches a little, because I know full well what’s to come, and know that that day marked the beginning of the end of a state she’ll never know again: total, pure, body unselfconsciousness.

All too soon standing in front of the mirror will cease being a study in exuberant admiration, giving way to the sharpening focus of the Eye Critical. All too soon she will come into the awareness of others’ awareness of her body; too soon into the awareness of what that means in our culture; too soon into a lifelong relationship with her body marked, most likely, by the desire for bigger, smaller, other.

Oh, beautiful girl, I hope you will embrace your naked self as you did your nekkidness. If I could give you that gift, my love, oh, I would.

and the winnah is…

I’m a day late, but it’s time to announce the results of the drawing I posted last week.  I’m pleased to say that lots of people read that post on anaphylactic shock — which was my real goal, to Spread The Word — but (astonishingly!) only a handful were tempted enough by the Fabulous Prize of a box of Quick-Melt Benadryl Strips to put their comment in the ring.

Now on to the results, which I must preface by stating that because I have produce coming out my ears that is quietly, as produce will do, clamoring for my attention (anyone need a tomato or ten?), and because I am really just too dang lazy to employ an Official Randomization program, my unofficial randomized drawing result was achieved by asking the MPM to pick a number between 1 and 11 (the number of comments received).

And then making him pick another when he chose 8, which was my own comment.

And then making him pick another after he chose 2, which would have made Becky the winner, ‘cept she had preemptively declined to be entered cos she’s already packin’ the strips.

At which point he — looking a tad weary of the task — chose 9, making the delightful Kate of Book Nook the Official Winner in the First-Ever Fraught “This Could Save Your Life” Drawing.

I’ll be getting that fabulous prize to her shortly.

Anyone with a beef about the process undertaken to obtain these official results is hereby directed to take it up with the lawyer I keep meaning to put on retainer.  ‘cept I think he’s in Moldova right now.

family-photo Friday

School starts next week for us, that good old-fashioned Tuesday-after-Labor-Day deal that I think was like federal law or something when I was a kid, cos I don’t remember ANYONE ever going back in mid-August like some of y’all been talking about, and I feel for you, I really do, because that’s just not RIGHT.

But anyhoo, nuff about you.  Back to me.

Summer 2009 brought with it a whole new exploration of leniency in bedtimes, which I suspect means it is going to be an ugly few first weeks as everyone gets readjusted to 6:45a.m. wakeups and in-your-own-bed-now-Missy.   Because the leniency has extended not just to the hour, but to the venue as well.

They get magically transported at some point, so they always wake up on their own mattress, but we’ve allowed virtually any variation on the theme of bed for falling asleep:   a nest (or “pallet” as Megan favors the term) on some floor somewhere, comfy chair, pile of stuffed animals…  hey, knock yourself out, kiddo.  Just fall asleep, huh?  Cos it’s drawing nigh onto MY bedtime AND MOMMY NEEDS HER ALONE TIME.

Usually their attempts at tandem launch veer quickly into a fatal failure mode, but last night was an exception — and they were so dang cute we let them stay all night.

Check out the substantial nest Megs created for herself.  And don’t miss the hands.  On three, in harmony:  awwwwwwwwwwww!

zzzzzzzzzzz.....

does your mother know you’re wearing that?

I walked into Target last night and just after snagging my red cart, as I  rounded the corner past those bonus bargain buys, I fell on the floor dead. It was tragic indeed, but the service was lovely and I have to say that they made me look so natural. Except with more makeup than I normally wear.

To blame for my most untimely passing was a girl, whose age I estimated at not quite legal, sporting this T-shirt:

same shirt, different girl

Oh, I endorse the sentiment, don’t get me wrong.  I’m all about body positive.  But color me prudish, in rainbow shades if you wish, because I’m going on record saying that I don’t feel this is a shirt to be worn at Target.  Maybe especially not by a nubile young teen.

Wear it as a sleepshirt to amuse yourself or your bedmate, or perhaps even at your Pride festival, but I beg you:  do not wear it in a general public venue.  It’s a little ewwwy.

And as a mother, it scares the shit out of me.

It’s The Buzz Giveaway!!

Okay, you have Becky, the lovely Suburban Matron, to thank for this, my first-ever Blog Giveaway.

In conjunction with my last post I am hosting an exciting Giveaway opportunity!  Click here to go to the post, and see my reply to Becky’s comment.

Woohoo!!  Just think — YOU could win!  In fact, your odds are fantastic… leave your comment on the original post, please.

this could save your life.

If you ride a bike regularly, chances are at some point you’re going to get stung by a bee.  There’s the classic bee-flies-in-your-helmet number — sometimes it flies out with no further ado, but more often it gets pissed off at your head for being in its way — and there’s my experience a few years ago of one smacking into my quadricep as I was travelling 40 or so mph on a descent.  I don’t know if the stinger was driven in especially far due to the speed at impact or what, but my leg swelled up like a football.  Very attractive.

And then there was my Sunday ride.  Three of my favorite people to ride with, a gorgeous route, perfect weather…  and one little buzzy thing drilling my buddy Frank dead between the eyes just before we started the long descent into the small crossroads town that marks about halfway.

He was stoic, but we could tell it wasn’t your average honeybee-in-the-clover sting.  We’d planned to stop at the small local gas station/convenience store anyway, so we pulled in to get him some relief in the form of an ice cube or two.

It was locked up tight, but happily after a few minutes of waiting the owner pulled in and said sure, he’d open a little early for us, and we got snax and ice and such and sat chatting.

And after a few minutes Frank mentioned that it was the weirdest thing, but he was starting to feel sort of itchy.

Well then.  We got some Benadryl in him, and rode somewhat sedately the rest of the way home.

Now.  Here comes the soapbox.  My blog, my box.

A decade or so ago I personally witnessed full-blown anaphylactic shock in a sizeable adult male, which I can tell you is an experience that will stick with you for the rest of your days.    And I will tell you too what the docs at the ER told me in the aftermath of that event.

If you are stung by something and you swell up big as a football, but it is AT THE SITE of the sting, do not fret yourself.

If you are stung and you get a reaction, no matter how seemingly innocuous, that involves any part of your body AWAY FROM THE SITE of the sting, know that this is your kind, gentle WARNING.  Call your doc immediately and Do Not Pass Go as you run, not walk, to the nearest drugstore for your very own Epi-pen.

Because that reaction — some hives on your stomach, itching of your hands or feet, or groin (sorry, Frank), or head — is letting you know that your body is reacting SYSTEMICALLY to that venom.  And that, friends, is a problem.  Because each time you are stung, your reaction will almost certainly escalate.   (We’ll step aside from discussion of the various types of stings and venoms and sensitivities, and just go with the take-home lesson here).

Take that man whose full-blown reaction I saw.   Fact:   He is alive and fully functioning today ONLY because by the grace of god and/or sheer serendipity (take your pick) someone at a party going on next door had an Epi-pen.   Fact:   His only prior reaction — which he’d never even thought of again — had been that his head itched after he was stung.

Am I writing that clearly enough?  Sting #1:  Itchy head.  Sting #2, years later:  Full collapse and airway failure.  In minutes.  In a six-foot-four, 200-pound male.  Requiring the Epi-pen, and, when the ambulance finally arrived, two additional shots of adrenaline.

Know too that a life-threatening anaphylactic reaction may very well take place at a dizzying speed.  You will not have time to drive home to your medicine chest, find your Epi-pen and take it out of its box.  In fact, you may not have time to go to your car and remove it from the glovebox.  Carry it with you.  Everywhere.

Really.

Addendum: Don’t miss the exciting GIVEAWAY — see the reply to Becky’s comment, below, and then leave your own to enter the random drawing!