Rachel and I decided to get together for a Thursday evening bike ride. Never mind the fact that there were tornado-like wind wind conditions. Never mind the fact that there were menacing rain/snow clouds. Never mind the fact that we were going to ride on the men-having-sex-with-men-in-the-bushes trail. We were going to go on a bike ride. We put on our matchy-matchy jeans-and-navy-hoodies outfits and set out on the trails.
We passed the llama/pig/emu/goat/peacock/chicken farm. We saw a muskrat (?) swimming in the water. We even saw a pied-billed grebe. We went on a golf course. We went under a scary overpass. We did everything with no flats. It was wonderful.
And when it was done and we were back at Rachel's house, we felt so good about our physical activity that we decided to go out and get a pizza and an order of Italian cheese bread from Little Caesar's. And then we watched The Office. And then I was ready for the ride home, before it got too dark.
But when I got to my bike, I found the back tire completely deflated. And then I felt my soul deflate, too. Upon inspection, I found about three thorns in the back tire. Did I mention we were on paved trails the whole time? The front tire was still inflated, but I found about six thorns sticking into it. You know what's going to happen when those come out.
Rachel checked out her bike to see if my curse was extended to her, but her bike looked fine. So I decided to inspect her bike. The back tire was fine, but the front tire was completely deflated with several thorns sticking into it.
I'm thinking that Guido and I are going to have a rough (and expensive) summer.
The Devil Wears Cicada
How to become a fashion designer:
1. Make a bag. It doesn't matter if the bag is huge and non-functional. It just matters that you follow a cute pattern and use a slightly expensive interior decorating fabric.
2. Bring the bag to work. It doesn't matter if you're just an editor, as long as you work for a company that also produces bags and leather fashion. Oh, and it also helps if you happen to go to work early and arrive at the same time as the woman who is in charge of the bags team.
3. Let said woman admire your bag. Said woman will ask the resident Italian bag designer to talk to you about your bag.
4. The resident Italian bag designer will come to talk to you about your bag. Then he'll start looking around your office. At this point, it helps if you've decorated your office and included samples of graphic design work that you've done. Blush when the resident Italian bag designer asks if you do interior decorating, and come up with some humble answer about how you decorate your own spaces, yadda yadda yadda. When the resident Italian bag designer asks if you know how to use Illustrator, show him a few samples of stuff you've done on your blog. As long as you've got your blog up, show him a few of the interior design things that you've done. You know, like your bedroom.
5. When the resident Italian bag designer says that he would like your help in designing bags---specifically designing fabric patterns for linings---tell him you would be interested in doing that.
6. Meet with the woman mentioned in steps 2 and 3 to talk more about your new responsibility of designing fabrics and bags.
7. Kick back for an hour every day in the middle of the day. Browse clothing sites that you like. Look at bags, shirts, anything fabric. Open up Illustrator and draw. Try not to feel guilty for how much you are absolutely loving your job.
8. Have a really great brother and sister-in-law who happen to have friends who have another bag company. Make sure brother and sister-in-law brag to their friends about all the things you can do, including your new work in fabric design. The friends will ask if you're interested in doing freelance work for them. And you are interested. And life is good.
Seriously, though, my life is so cool right now. I'd love to put up samples of what I've done for you all to see, but I don't feel right about that, since the samples are basically the property of the company I work for. But hey---when a bag is produced using my fabric, I assure you that I'll post a picture of it for you all to see.
And here's a picture of the bag that started it all. No, I'm not talking about Ho-Bag Switchback. I'm talking about that enormous bag slung over my shoulder. (There's also a not-so-enormous bag that Switchback is holding---I bought that pattern and will be making that bag in the near future.) But a quick story about my enormous bag: I had it with me shopping the other day, and I bought something at Office Depot. As I was paying, the cashier guy commented on how large my bag was. I told him that it's so huge, sometimes I lose things in it. Then I went to Sur la Table and tried to buy a gift for El Senor but couldn't find my wallet. I awkwardly spent a lot of time searching and searching through my enormous bag to find the wallet. There was no one behind me, thank goodness. I told the cashier that I probably forgot my wallet over at OD. So I went back to OD and asked if they had my wallet. They didn't. I spent about five more minutes searching through my cavernous labyrinth bag and found my wallet. When I went back to Sur la Table, I told the cashier that it was, after all, at Office Depot.
1. Make a bag. It doesn't matter if the bag is huge and non-functional. It just matters that you follow a cute pattern and use a slightly expensive interior decorating fabric.
2. Bring the bag to work. It doesn't matter if you're just an editor, as long as you work for a company that also produces bags and leather fashion. Oh, and it also helps if you happen to go to work early and arrive at the same time as the woman who is in charge of the bags team.
3. Let said woman admire your bag. Said woman will ask the resident Italian bag designer to talk to you about your bag.
4. The resident Italian bag designer will come to talk to you about your bag. Then he'll start looking around your office. At this point, it helps if you've decorated your office and included samples of graphic design work that you've done. Blush when the resident Italian bag designer asks if you do interior decorating, and come up with some humble answer about how you decorate your own spaces, yadda yadda yadda. When the resident Italian bag designer asks if you know how to use Illustrator, show him a few samples of stuff you've done on your blog. As long as you've got your blog up, show him a few of the interior design things that you've done. You know, like your bedroom.
5. When the resident Italian bag designer says that he would like your help in designing bags---specifically designing fabric patterns for linings---tell him you would be interested in doing that.
6. Meet with the woman mentioned in steps 2 and 3 to talk more about your new responsibility of designing fabrics and bags.
7. Kick back for an hour every day in the middle of the day. Browse clothing sites that you like. Look at bags, shirts, anything fabric. Open up Illustrator and draw. Try not to feel guilty for how much you are absolutely loving your job.
8. Have a really great brother and sister-in-law who happen to have friends who have another bag company. Make sure brother and sister-in-law brag to their friends about all the things you can do, including your new work in fabric design. The friends will ask if you're interested in doing freelance work for them. And you are interested. And life is good.
Seriously, though, my life is so cool right now. I'd love to put up samples of what I've done for you all to see, but I don't feel right about that, since the samples are basically the property of the company I work for. But hey---when a bag is produced using my fabric, I assure you that I'll post a picture of it for you all to see.
And here's a picture of the bag that started it all. No, I'm not talking about Ho-Bag Switchback. I'm talking about that enormous bag slung over my shoulder. (There's also a not-so-enormous bag that Switchback is holding---I bought that pattern and will be making that bag in the near future.) But a quick story about my enormous bag: I had it with me shopping the other day, and I bought something at Office Depot. As I was paying, the cashier guy commented on how large my bag was. I told him that it's so huge, sometimes I lose things in it. Then I went to Sur la Table and tried to buy a gift for El Senor but couldn't find my wallet. I awkwardly spent a lot of time searching and searching through my enormous bag to find the wallet. There was no one behind me, thank goodness. I told the cashier that I probably forgot my wallet over at OD. So I went back to OD and asked if they had my wallet. They didn't. I spent about five more minutes searching through my cavernous labyrinth bag and found my wallet. When I went back to Sur la Table, I told the cashier that it was, after all, at Office Depot.
Sunday Bike/Stroll
And so it begins.
You may remember that I had a few bike incidents last year. Like popped tires. And more popped tires. I didn't even blog about them all, but I think that there were probably about four to five popped tire incidents. Every time I'd pop a tire, I'd call El Senor, who'd come over and replace a tube for me. He's the best.
This morning, I decided to go on a Sunday morning bike ride with Guido. I really thought that it was a nice, Sabbath day appropriate activity. I mean, believe me, I'd enthusiastically cast the first stone at anyone who would think it's okay to ride a road bike or a mountain bike on the holy Sabbath---those activities are clearly sports---but a cruiser? A cruiser has "Sabbath-Worthy" written all over it.
About a mile and a half into my ride, however, I noticed that dear Guido wasn't riding very well... There seemed to be some resistance. I looked and saw, of course, a flat rear tire. I phoned El Senor to tell him (with Ole Trusty, El Senor would come and pick me up, but Guido doesn't fit in or on El Senor's car). Then I walked the mile and a half home. My Sunday bike ride turned into a Sunday stroll. So maybe God doesn't think that riding a cruiser on the Sabbath is appropriate.
(NOTE: While I was strolling home, I reflected on the Jews in the old days who could only walk a certain number of steps on the Sabbath. Then I thought about what would happen if you used up your step quota before you were home. What would you do then? I thought really, it would be best if you used up your step quota at the top of a hill, and your home was at the bottom of the hill, because then you could just lie down and roll, letting gravity do all the work. Then you could crawl through the threshold of your home, because crawling is not walking.)
Anyway, El Senor laughed at me when I walked through the door. In fact, we'd even been joking before my bike ride about how many tires I've popped and the fact that I'd probably pop another one soon. We've determined that he bikes a couple thousand miles between popped tires and I manage approximately fifteen. Anyway, being handy and useful, he replaced my tube for me, and brought me the offending thorn that had popped my tire. A thorn!! How can I avoid those? It was two milimeters!
Anyway, I've had all day to think of this, and applying the principle of Occam's Razor, I've determined that El Senor has been pricking my tires with pins so that they pop. He does this so that I am reliant on him (men need to feel needed). He found the tiny thistle on our porch and brought that to show me as the "cause" of my popped tire. But I know the truth. I know the truth. It's really the simplest answer.
You may remember that I had a few bike incidents last year. Like popped tires. And more popped tires. I didn't even blog about them all, but I think that there were probably about four to five popped tire incidents. Every time I'd pop a tire, I'd call El Senor, who'd come over and replace a tube for me. He's the best.
This morning, I decided to go on a Sunday morning bike ride with Guido. I really thought that it was a nice, Sabbath day appropriate activity. I mean, believe me, I'd enthusiastically cast the first stone at anyone who would think it's okay to ride a road bike or a mountain bike on the holy Sabbath---those activities are clearly sports---but a cruiser? A cruiser has "Sabbath-Worthy" written all over it.
About a mile and a half into my ride, however, I noticed that dear Guido wasn't riding very well... There seemed to be some resistance. I looked and saw, of course, a flat rear tire. I phoned El Senor to tell him (with Ole Trusty, El Senor would come and pick me up, but Guido doesn't fit in or on El Senor's car). Then I walked the mile and a half home. My Sunday bike ride turned into a Sunday stroll. So maybe God doesn't think that riding a cruiser on the Sabbath is appropriate.
(NOTE: While I was strolling home, I reflected on the Jews in the old days who could only walk a certain number of steps on the Sabbath. Then I thought about what would happen if you used up your step quota before you were home. What would you do then? I thought really, it would be best if you used up your step quota at the top of a hill, and your home was at the bottom of the hill, because then you could just lie down and roll, letting gravity do all the work. Then you could crawl through the threshold of your home, because crawling is not walking.)
Anyway, El Senor laughed at me when I walked through the door. In fact, we'd even been joking before my bike ride about how many tires I've popped and the fact that I'd probably pop another one soon. We've determined that he bikes a couple thousand miles between popped tires and I manage approximately fifteen. Anyway, being handy and useful, he replaced my tube for me, and brought me the offending thorn that had popped my tire. A thorn!! How can I avoid those? It was two milimeters!
Anyway, I've had all day to think of this, and applying the principle of Occam's Razor, I've determined that El Senor has been pricking my tires with pins so that they pop. He does this so that I am reliant on him (men need to feel needed). He found the tiny thistle on our porch and brought that to show me as the "cause" of my popped tire. But I know the truth. I know the truth. It's really the simplest answer.
I Drive
(Note: This post is about me buying a bike. Now that I own a bike, I can buy this shirt from threadless, which has always been available in my size and has always been sold out of El Senor's size, and that I've held off buying because El Senor wants it so badly and because wearing this shirt without owning a bike would be dishonest.)
Last year, I would ride the bus or take my bike to work or the grocery store or school. I prided myself on being independent and environmentally friendly. I congratulated my fellow coworkers who bussed to work or biked to work like me. We'd tell each other how we were protesting gas prices by using alternate forms of transportation. Of course, we all knew that the underlying reason for our environmentally friendliness was that none of us had cars.
In August, I inherited my car Clicky from Captain Fabuloso. At the same time, I returned Ole Trusty, the bike I'd been borrowing from Captain Mom. (Ole Trusty wasn't actually trusty---it wasn't the bike's fault at all, but I managed to pop a lot of tires on that bike, even after El Senor gave me industrial-grade tubes that could "run over nails." They couldn't, I found out.)
I'm not sure what exactly it was that made me need to buy a bike instead of a bed this month. (I keep putting off my purchase of an adult bed---because I don't want to grow up?) It was probably my trip to Heather's house where her beautiful bike sat in her living room. After admiring her bike, she invited me to go with her to bike around the Bear River Migratory Bird Refuge this month. How did she know about my secret bird watching passion? Really, she had me at "Bird Refuge." I simply had to buy a bike.
The bike-buying process was interesting. First off, I missed all the stores on the first day (Monday) because apparently bike stores like to close at 6:00. They cater to the unemployed or non-business class. Or students, but whatever. My first attempt at bike shopping was thwarted. El Senor recommended a place for me to try the next day.
On Tuesday, I set out again and tried several different stores. As a non-biker, going into a bike store can be rather intimidating. It wouldn't be so bad if a store employee didn't immediately rush up to you and ask if they can help you, when you really know they're asking, "What the hell are you doing here?"
Anyway, the first store I tried had what I was looking for at prices I wasn't interested in. I kept looking. The second store didn't have what I was looking for, but had prices I was interested in. I kept looking. The third store, and by far my worst (read: most intimidating) experience, was El Senor's recommendation. First of all, to get into the store, I had to walk through a flock of 40 spandexed road cyclists who were getting ready to head out on a ride. After passing through that gauntlet of judgment, I walked into the store, made eye contact with an employee, and started looking at bikes. Now, I'm not exaggerating here: Not five seconds after I was through the door, she came to me and asked, "Did you find what you were looking for?" The question caught me off guard, really, because five seconds into a store, one does not expect to ask if one has been successful in one's shopping. I can only assume that I was asked because it was obvious that I didn't belong there. I told her I was looking for a cruiser. She informed me that they had no bikes of that style, but I was welcome to look through a catalog. I left.
And ten seconds after initially running the gauntlet of judgment, had to run it again, while every cyclist felt a confirmation of his or her judgments of me. I was feeling pretty bad about it so I started to text El Senor. I wanted to say, "Your bike store recommendation sucked." But when I looked at what I had written, my phone said, "Your bike store seafoodmeatgoo." And then I started laughing maniacally all by myself, which again, probably reconfirmed all the judgments the cyclists had made about me, but I didn't care. Seafoodmeatgoo. That's funny. Instead of correcting the message, I sent it to El Senor as-was.
I found cycle success at Cyclesmith. First of all, the employees were not intimidating at all. They were really nice and sweet. I was shown the 2006 Raleigh Retroglide NX3 Cruiser, and because it was last year's model, it was $300 instead of $410. I wanted a women's frame, but because I'll be getting a free trunk-mount bike rack from Viktor, the men's frame was actually a better option for me. I took the evening to think about it (it was already 6:00 anyway, so they were closing).
After discussing this sweet ride with El Senor (who owns three bikes) and having my decision approved, I called Cyclesmith first thing in the morning so that they could hold the bike for me and prevent all unemployed/non-business/student people from buying it. And as soon as I was done work (let's be honest---I left early) I met El Senor at Cyclesmith to purchase my beauty. Apparently, over the course of the day, three people had tried to buy the bike. Luckily, it had my name on it.
Because the bike's fenders prevented it from being mounted on El Senor's car-top bike rack, I decided to immediately take the bike on its inaugural ride. The ride home was 6.5 miles (downhill), and it gave me time to get to know my new love. Of course, since it's a men's frame, my bike is male. So after spending 6.5 miles with him, I decided to name him Guido, which in Italian literally means "I drive." Since purchasing the bike Wednesday evening, I've taken it on six rides. I've decided to commute to work by bike now (4.5 miles). It's fantastic. Also fantastic is parking my sweet bike in my office and getting compliments from everyone who passes by. Mostly fantastic is the sense of superiority that I can now feel, knowing that my driving to work doesn't damage the environment at all. Now I actually have the choice to drive, but I can make the choice to do something better for the environment and better for me. So suck it, gas guzzling car drivers!
(Note: This picture shows Guido parked in my living room. Sorry it's not the best photograph you've ever seen. One thing El Senor and I didn't think about was where to store Guido when I'm not driving him. Like I said, El Senor has three bikes, so our storage space is pretty much filled with those. For now, I'm just lucky that I have one empty wall in my bedroom, because that is where I park my dearest, sweetest, loveliest Guido.)
Missing Redras
The other day, El Senor came from the mailbox with a package. He said to me, "I got a package, unless you know someone in Texas." I said that I didn't know anyone in Texas. And then he made me keep thinking and I realized that I knew Redras in Texas. The package was from Redras!
The package was my birthday present... only three months late. (What she didn't know is that it came just in time for my three-year home-from-the-mission anniversary, so she could have claimed it was for that.) But the package pretty much solidified her status as my best roommate ever (again, apologies to others who have lived with me). Every item in the package had meaning. Allow me to share with you what I received:
1. Three CDs: Two CDs of Bach because we watched our boyfriend Mark Ruffalo once in a movie with Yo-Yo Ma playing cello stuff in the background. And we both liked it. One CD was Billie Holiday and then an interview with David Sedaris on his ability to do Billie Holiday impressions. Redras and I are both Sedaris fans, so the meaning of this was immediately obvious.
2. One package of brownies. Last summer was the summer of popsicles, partly because it was also the summer of no air conditioning and repeatedly broken swamp cooler. In Redras's own words, "I included the brownies for two reasons. First, sending popsicles is unfeasible, and second, around the first week of February I was trying to motivate myself to just send the freaking package already, so I thought that if I bought brownies to put in that would make it more Valentine-y and then I would HAVE to send it in the next week. My strategy backfired." (Note: Redras could have also included some Coldstone ice cream, because at least twice a month, she and I would make a trip for ice cream. At least twice a month. Get it?)
3. Mots d'heures: Gousses, Rames. Oh, now this is a story. The last week that Redras and I were living together, I emailed her the following poem:
Un petit d'un petit
S'étonne aux Halles
Un petit d'un petit
Ah! degrés te fallent
Indolent qui ne sort cesse
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu'importe un petit d'un petit
Tout Gai de Reguennes
She never said anything about it, and our last evening together, as we were cleaning out and clearing out our apartment, I said to her, "Did you ever get that poem I emailed to you?" Redras said, "Oh, yeah, that. I looked it over but didn't really have time to read it carefully." So I explained it to her. I started by reciting it out loud---imperative to understanding this poem. I repeated it again and again until she got it. See, the poem, though composed of French words, is actually Humpty Dumpty. The French words mean something completely different, but phonetically, they actually make the English version of Humpty Dumpty. It's incredible and it's funny. And after Redras and I had a good laugh at how cool it was, a look of extreme embarrassment crossed her face as she said, "I have to confess something! I did read it! I read it again and again, but I didn't get it, so I lied to you and told you that I barely looked it over!"
Well, the third item, Mots d'heures: Gousses, Rames (Mother Goose Rhymes) is a collection of several phonetically English, but transcribedly French Mother Goose Rhymes that Luis d'Antin van Rooten wrote. So cool Redras. You get points for thoughtful gifts!
4. A shirt with Bob Sagat's face on it. This made me laugh. And laugh, and laugh. Redras is the best. See, I confessed to her once that I had a crush on one of our professors (she never understood the crush). One day a couple months ago, I was flipping though channels (a very Redras-ly thing to do...) and I thought I saw the professor on tv. I went back to that channel and realized it wasn't the professor. It was Bob Saget. I immediately emailed Redras with a Freudian analysis of my crush on the professor, saying that obviously, my crush on the professor came from the fact that my subconscious linked him to Bob Saget, the beloved father figure on Full House, a television show I watched as a child. So Redras made me a shirt with Bob Saget's face. She said that she would have made it with the professor's face on it, but she couldn't find a picture of him in a high enough resolution. To this, I responded, "I LOVE that I have a Bob Saget shirt, and really, I'm glad it was a picture of him and NOT the professor b/c as funny as it is to have Saget on my shirt, it would just be CREEPY to have our professor hovering over my boobs at all times."
So Redras, you're the best. I can't wait till you move back up to SLC and into the condo. I know that El Senor won't mind having another roommate, especially since you're much better at doing the dishes than I am (you were always a good little dish fairy). Let's just not tell him until you actually move in, though.
The package was my birthday present... only three months late. (What she didn't know is that it came just in time for my three-year home-from-the-mission anniversary, so she could have claimed it was for that.) But the package pretty much solidified her status as my best roommate ever (again, apologies to others who have lived with me). Every item in the package had meaning. Allow me to share with you what I received:
1. Three CDs: Two CDs of Bach because we watched our boyfriend Mark Ruffalo once in a movie with Yo-Yo Ma playing cello stuff in the background. And we both liked it. One CD was Billie Holiday and then an interview with David Sedaris on his ability to do Billie Holiday impressions. Redras and I are both Sedaris fans, so the meaning of this was immediately obvious.
2. One package of brownies. Last summer was the summer of popsicles, partly because it was also the summer of no air conditioning and repeatedly broken swamp cooler. In Redras's own words, "I included the brownies for two reasons. First, sending popsicles is unfeasible, and second, around the first week of February I was trying to motivate myself to just send the freaking package already, so I thought that if I bought brownies to put in that would make it more Valentine-y and then I would HAVE to send it in the next week. My strategy backfired." (Note: Redras could have also included some Coldstone ice cream, because at least twice a month, she and I would make a trip for ice cream. At least twice a month. Get it?)
3. Mots d'heures: Gousses, Rames. Oh, now this is a story. The last week that Redras and I were living together, I emailed her the following poem:
Un petit d'un petit
S'étonne aux Halles
Un petit d'un petit
Ah! degrés te fallent
Indolent qui ne sort cesse
Indolent qui ne se mène
Qu'importe un petit d'un petit
Tout Gai de Reguennes
She never said anything about it, and our last evening together, as we were cleaning out and clearing out our apartment, I said to her, "Did you ever get that poem I emailed to you?" Redras said, "Oh, yeah, that. I looked it over but didn't really have time to read it carefully." So I explained it to her. I started by reciting it out loud---imperative to understanding this poem. I repeated it again and again until she got it. See, the poem, though composed of French words, is actually Humpty Dumpty. The French words mean something completely different, but phonetically, they actually make the English version of Humpty Dumpty. It's incredible and it's funny. And after Redras and I had a good laugh at how cool it was, a look of extreme embarrassment crossed her face as she said, "I have to confess something! I did read it! I read it again and again, but I didn't get it, so I lied to you and told you that I barely looked it over!"
Well, the third item, Mots d'heures: Gousses, Rames (Mother Goose Rhymes) is a collection of several phonetically English, but transcribedly French Mother Goose Rhymes that Luis d'Antin van Rooten wrote. So cool Redras. You get points for thoughtful gifts!
4. A shirt with Bob Sagat's face on it. This made me laugh. And laugh, and laugh. Redras is the best. See, I confessed to her once that I had a crush on one of our professors (she never understood the crush). One day a couple months ago, I was flipping though channels (a very Redras-ly thing to do...) and I thought I saw the professor on tv. I went back to that channel and realized it wasn't the professor. It was Bob Saget. I immediately emailed Redras with a Freudian analysis of my crush on the professor, saying that obviously, my crush on the professor came from the fact that my subconscious linked him to Bob Saget, the beloved father figure on Full House, a television show I watched as a child. So Redras made me a shirt with Bob Saget's face. She said that she would have made it with the professor's face on it, but she couldn't find a picture of him in a high enough resolution. To this, I responded, "I LOVE that I have a Bob Saget shirt, and really, I'm glad it was a picture of him and NOT the professor b/c as funny as it is to have Saget on my shirt, it would just be CREEPY to have our professor hovering over my boobs at all times."
So Redras, you're the best. I can't wait till you move back up to SLC and into the condo. I know that El Senor won't mind having another roommate, especially since you're much better at doing the dishes than I am (you were always a good little dish fairy). Let's just not tell him until you actually move in, though.
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