The Fastness of it All

I slept Saturday night.

It may have had something to do with driving to Farmington, eating things I shouldn't have and getting sick, driving home from Farmington, and hitting 3 holiday parties all around The Lou that did the trick.

It may have had something to do with my "pain management assistance".

I slept until 11am.

It was glorious.

Regardless, the pain was there when I awoke and was amazingly acute throughout the day.

The icy air didn't help. Not. One. Little. Bit.

Tonight, I will not sleep.

I am freaked out by how fast it is all happening.

I can see it in his eyes too.

...and Ty's.

Thursday I woke up and had to crawl around the house because of some "vertigo-like" symptoms.

Jay had to drive me to Edgewood to drop off the toys.

He had top drive me to work the next day so that I would not miss that stupid meeting.

He constantly searches for ways to eliminate my pain.

Constantly he deals with my tears, my vomit, my freaking out over the changes happening to my body, my scars, my constant falling and fainting, and now the losing of my hair.

Yep. That's my newest freak-fest.

My hair.

Going.

Going.

Going...

Gotta love that.

We find it all over the place.

I see it in the mirror.

In pictures.

In his eyes.

I'm ready and I'm not.

I don't want anyone to have to deal with this.

He will mistakenly think that I want him to leave.

I want to protect him.

I want to protect my children.

My friends.

Myself.

I am anguished over this.

Where did my strength go?

Why does it hurt so horribly?

When will it stop?

Why can't I take a vacation day from it?

Just one day off...

One day so that I can feel "normal".

One day so that I can get things done.

Play with my children without having to stop for air.

Ride my bike.

Laugh.

Sleep.

Live.

Why must I stop living so that I may "live"?

Why is it never enough?

When will it get better?

When will I be free?

Even If She Stays...

"...can I ask you one thing?" he said. "Call her more often. She doesn't have a whole lot of people to talk to. Only a few friends. (antisocial)..."

I thought for a moment. She needed me. Now. Again. Why was I so put off by this? I had forgiven her years ago. Hadn't I?

"...As far as mom goes, we have the relationship that we have and it is what it is. I have always loved her and always will, but there is a comfort level that we both respect when dealing with each other and mom can't handle what is going on with me right now. It's better for me to protect her. She's never been very strong and although I used to resent her for that when I was a child, I am now protective of her...like you are...", I replied to him.

All via email of course because why would we have actual human interaction in this family?

He is so young and so old now all at once. How did he get that way? She raised him so differently. She stayed for him. How did he get that way?

Is it the price we pay for having her as a mom...even if she stays?

Can any of us remember a "childhood"?

Jennifer can.

Jennifer was set free.

Jennifer was 3.

Yet...

Of all of us, Jennifer is the one who is most like "her" when she was at her almost worst...

...except Jennifer would never leave her children.

Jennifer is defined by her children and has no separate identity.

Is that because our mother left her as if she didn't exist?

Should we count Jen among the casualties of our childhood deaths of the soul?

Because Jennifer is so much like our mother, I have removed her from my life.

One of "her" has always been more than I could bare.

How did Jen end up like her?

Jennifer had a childhood, but no mother.

Jennifer had a father, but no mother.

Jennifer had love, but no mother.

Jennifer was always protected from it all.

Jennifer was always the "victim" in our mother's choice to go.

Poor Jennifer.

It was somehow understood that she would leave me.

I was old.

I was almost 10.

I had no mother, but I was 10.

I had no father, but I was 10.

I lived with my grandpa and lesbian aunt before being gay was "cool", but it was OK because I was 10.

"When your mother calls, don't tell her about anything that's bothering you. Talk to me. We mustn't get her upset. She can't handle it," he said every Sunday night before that magical phone call.

I could handle it. After all, I was 10. 2 digits. I had a boom box and a mauve 12-speed Raleigh.

I could handle it.

I puffed out my flat little chest with pride at that knowledge.

I could cook now. I could plan a meal. I could make my own icing and bake heart-shaped layered cakes for my grandpa. I could burn the shit out of butterscotch pudding like no other. I could polish silver. I could wax the furniture. I could set the table with the good china. I knew how to get the spots off glasses and make sure there were no water spots on the faucet. I could do laundry. I could iron every little pleat in my Catholic school uniform. I could sew buttons on work shirts and pajama tops. I could curse a blue streak in Italian. I was 10. It's a pretty big deal.

Every night for 2 hours I would dance my ass off in front of our mirrored wall in the living room, acting out every ballet and Broadway play that I had ever seen. All for his amusement as he read The Journal and rested his eyes. He never asked me to lower the volume.

This convinced me that he was deaf. And blind.

His eyes watered when my mom told him I would move to Florida for high school.

I had only witnessed his crying once before. That was when our dog was hit by a car. I knew he loved me.

Jennifer was the lucky one.

She never asked for Jennifer to come back.

She left her alone. She stayed out of her life.

This is how I knew she hated me.

My carefree days of no yelling, not watching suicide "attempts", and no snide remarks about my late father were about to end.

Cue the razors, pills, revolvers, and temper tantrums...our mother was in a relationship.

Back to walking on egg shells.

Back to awaiting the other shoe to drop.

Back to hiding her pills, dulling her razors and praying that she wasn't stupid enough to play with her department-issued revolvers.

(She was stupid enough...but somehow lucky enough not to kill either of us.)

Is that a gray hair...? I'm 13, dammit!

POOF!

14 now and motherless again.

She wasn't dead.

She was two blocks away in a condo.

She drove past our house every day and never stopped.

I saw her a few times a year.

Never at her request.

She rolled coins for my 16th birthday because I didn't deserve real money.

No gift. Just rolled quarters.

My gift was her not calling or seeing me for my birthday.

Or my dance recitals and competitions.

Or my graduation.

She saw me cheer once. Once.

The next year she cancelled a check to my drill team for my uniforms and costumes just to embarrass me.

She was never there when it mattered....or even when it didn't.

Some man was always more important and ruled her crazy little world.

Men. And horses. Not her children.

She told me to leave as soon as my grandfather's funeral was over. I was 17. I was the only one who had spoken to her. Embraced her. It was a slap. It hurt. It was the last time it would hurt.

I know why I was never a child. But what about him?

She stayed for him. Raised him. Gave him everything. EVERYTHING! She talked to him. She LOVES him. How did he get to be so old at not-yet-18?

Is this the price we pay for having her as a mom...even if she stays?

For You to See Me

For you to see me, I have taken drugs that mask the pain to allow you to focus on my eyes and the love and laughter that live there.

For you to see me, those drugs need to go away, as my body now relies on them to get through it instead of getting stronger.

For you to see me, I do things to my body that I shouldn't...because I am alive!

For you to see me, I have to limit that more and let myself heal, but I need you to remember that I am alive.

For you to see me, I need you to hold those images and my laughter in your head during those moments when I am curled into a ball and crying in pain or you are holding my hair as I get sick.

For you to see me, I need you know that no matter the pain, I will get up. I have to. No matter how stupid or selfish it seems to you.

For you to see me, I need you to see the pain but see past it to the girl inside who is laughing and just waiting for that gasp of air to crack another joke.

For you to see me, you must know that the joke will always come. The smile. The giggle. It's all there.

For you to see me, I need you to know that I can weather any storm, and have and some days you are going to have to believe in that.

For you to see me, I need you to lean on me a little bit so that you can rest and stay strong too.

For you to see me, I need you to see that it relaxes me to make things better and easier for you, even if that's not what you think you need.

For you to see me, I need you to allow me to protect you to a point because in doing so, it helps me.

For you to see me, I need you to understand that for me, as hectic as you think it is, I need to cram it all into a day.

For you to see me, I need you to see that I see you and all of your fears, concern and love. I hear you and I understand all that you are feeling.

For you to see me, I need you to believe that I am stronger than this and that I am not today or any day soon giving up this battle and I will beat it.

On the day that I don't, I need you to remember that I tried my ass off...and see me for that.

Lost-ish

My head is swirling right now.

Psychocross season has started and I jumped in head first...right into an addiction, it seems. I love it. Two things have fucked this right up for me:

1. The robbery that happened in the lot at practice sends me into a panic attack almost every time I arrive. I have to throw up. I shake. I don't even park in the lot anymore, but passing it starts the mess immediately. I feel like "they" are hiding watching me practice so that while I am gone they can take what is left of my stuff. I hate that I have let it affect me. It has brought up old panic from violations past. It super sucks. Last night was the first time I got to relax at practice because it was rainy, wet and muddy...and cold, so I knew those pussy-assed, lazy effing thieves wouldn't be hiding anywhere outside. I had a fantastic practice and was sorry to see it end.

2. On top of that, I started feeling really physically bad last week. I assumed it was nerves at the start of cx racing and the fact that my first race would take place in WI (where I have never raced) and in front of a boy (a badass racer) whom I dig. No teammates would be there. Just me, the boy, my bike, and what I thought were my nerves. I tanked my race. I had the most awful stabbing pains, my heart rate was not at it's normal racing pace, and no amount of pain relief actually relieved the pain. I tried to smile, but I am pretty sure the boy thought I was constipated.

I woke up Sunday (still in WI) surfing the crimson wave. Fantastic. (Oh yeah! How ya like me now, baby?) OY! Regardless, I was hellbent on having a great time, and we did. We hit the MTB trails in the cold and I truly enjoyed watching him ride. I however, struggled...with the pain and with how much to tell him about said pain, but rode on. He knew. I am apparently not a good faker. (Wait that made me think of something else and I have to giggle.) My one accomplishment that ride was apparently making it upright without putting my foot down through something called "The Litter Box". Uphill and sand is all I will say there.

*smirk*

Anyway, as I drove home Monday morning in an amazing amount of pain (and a bit loopy from that/Aleve/too little sleep), I started to feel the "warm wateries" of impending vomit. In the beginning, I would pull over and vomit. Then I ran out of napkins and had to make actual stops. I had had coffee. That had to be out by the first vomit, so imagine how fun the subsequent vomitfests actually were. NOT! Halfway home I stopped to get a sugar-and-hell-laced orange Hi-C from McFatties to help balance my sugar and spinning head. (Note: Hi-C burns when coming out of your nose!)

I got back to The Lou in time for a meeting and continued my day feeling like absolute ass. For some reason, I went to cross practice. (I have issues, dude.) It seemed to give me the charge I needed. I think I needed to not suck after Saturday's race. It helped. The next day, I went to work and felt pretty happy about things, but really tired. Then I got nauseous. Then I started tossing cookies again. Then the blood started. Straight to the medical center, many tests and a few days later and I am looking at potential issues that I cannot beat the crap out of anyone for. I am no longer taking in solids and have to repair my body.

I am at a loss. I am a quality v. quantity girl. I would rather die today on my bike than live to 100 in a bed pissing and shitting myself with people taking care of me.

I am told that I am selfish. What about my children?

What about them?

My children love me. They know (not think) that I love them.

My children would never understand a mommy who laid in bed being sick.

My children would never understand a mommy who didn't play hard, with them or with her bikes.

My children will never remember a mommy who laid there and did nothing.

I will never understand the selfishness of people who would rather me be alive and miserable and in excruciating physical pain because they cannot bear the pain (what pain?), than to see me alive for whatever amount of time happy and loving life.

When it's your turn to fight, you can fight however you want, and I will be there to support you...in one way or another. This is my fight. Put it in perspective.

Don't waste your time (or mine) being angry at me because I am not doing what you wish I would. Life's too short.

Hmmmm... I guess I'm not really lost. I'm right here.

Gateway Cup 2008 - Team Revolution Interview

The Idea of Me

The idea of me is that I am intimidating.

I am unapproachable.

I am a "tough" chick.

I let everything roll off my shoulders.

Nothing affects me.

Nothing hurts me.

I do not feel.

I am dead on the inside.

I am a "pretty" girl who can snap her fingers and get what she wants when she wants it.

I am a princess.

Yeah?

Really?

Just once I would like something handed to me.

Just once.

I would love for that something to be along the lines of remission, financial freedom, or a guaranty for my children that I will be there to watch them graduate, get married, have babies...

I do not want diamonds, shoes, purses, cars, or bikes.

I don't want promises of a fairy tale that appeals to you and not me.

I don't want to fit into your box.

I don't want anyone to buy me anything.

I don't want anyone to do anything.

I don't want anyone to give me anything.

...or attempt to save me.

I just want to be treated like I am a human being capable and deserving of love, understanding, and the same respect that you expect from me.

I don't want you to explain to me the many ways in which you can "satisfy" me. You can't.

I do not want you to ask me my stance on one night stands. (Am I not deserving of more than a fuck to satisfy your selfish needs?) Seriously?

I am not a bitch or a cunt or a snob because I won't sleep with you. I am a girl with a lot of common sense and a little more self-respect than you may be used to. Deal with it.

No, as a matter of fact, it isn't flattering to be asked out by people who only see my face or some other physical attribute they find appealing without having a clue as to who I am on the inside.

Can you tell me one thing about me that you cannot see with your eyes?

Would you still find me attractive, cool, funny, silly, if I didn't protect you with my laughter and constant smile?

Would you still love me, want me, need me if you heard me scream and cry out in the pain that never goes away and is at best a dull throb?

Tell yourself what you must, I know who I call in the middle of the night when the pain closes my throat, burns my eyes and makes me tear at my own flesh and bite my lips to keep my children safe from a pain that they should never know...

I am not the enigma you have created in your mind.

I am just a girl.

If you cut me, I will bleed.

If you hurt me, I will cry.

You cannot buy me.

You cannot fix me.

...and my tiara was knocked off when I was a child...

I am better and more real than your idea.

Pickles and Penis Lollipops

The other day Tina was talking about pickling and how her mom makes the "best pickles" ever!

Maybe because it was early and my caffeine had not yet hit me...

Maybe because I am a die hard New Yorker with ZERO filters at times...

Maybe because I was raised partially by my mother...

I blurted out, "At least your mom makes pickles. My mom made penis lollipops."

What? It was funny. Seriously.

There was silence for a second and then Anna's mom (who works with me) snorted and started cracking up. Tina followed.

I felt bad for a minute because I make a lot of jokes about the mom my mom used to be, even though she is now as close to normal as I had ever wished for as a little kid.

Thankfully, she knows that I poke fun at some of the more outlandish nonsense she pulled back in the day. She really was like a little kid who I constantly had to encourage to act her age. I think I finally have her acting a cross between 26 and 80. It's a coin toss most days.

That being said, my mom (ever the entrepreneur) used to make and sell adult chocolate in our kitchen. It was the year I was 8.

At any given time I would walk in the door from school and the smell of melting chocolate would hit me like a brick in the face.

I would open the refrigerator and be met with pink chocolate boobs with red chocolate nipples, penis lollipops of all shades, and the most disturbing of all...

A chocolate Easter bunny with a giant penis!

(I am fairly certain that this might be why that big eared rodent has always freaked me right the fuck out.)

For some reason, my mom thought it would be an excellent idea to not only keep her chocolate creations in the family refrigerator instead of a separate one, but she also thought my (very Republican) Grandpa would absolutely LOVE a chocolate bunny with a penis.

*scratches head*

Once I made the statement to Tina, I was reminded of a few days prior when I walked into Hershey in Chicago and had that same nauseated feeling I did as a child...I just didn't make the connection.

It dawned on me as I sat there.

I have never really liked milk chocolate.

I have never liked the visual of penises.

I do not even want to discuss that fucking bunny!

As an adult I started to ponder why MY mother, of all mothers, would decide to make sexual chocolate. My mother hates sex, uses it as a weapon, and I am fairly certain she has never had an orgasm and at this point likely never will.

*sigh*

Did she realize that she was going to screw up 3 very important things for me?

I have dated men who have wanted to use chocolate syrup to make body sundaes and I can tell you, 'that dog don't hunt'!

I sat there sad for a minute.

It had been a funny statement, but the depth of it is entirely fucked up.

Now that I have let the image seep back into my consciousness, I can't get it back under the rug.

Unbeknownst to my mom at the time, I saw my first penis when I was 7. It freaked me out. So much so that the smell of it is still crystal clear in my head. The fact that she had these penises in the refrigerator damn near brought me to tears all the time.

Now that my mom and I are close, we joke about the lollipops and I don't think I could ever tell her how much she fucked me up. Honestly, in the grand scheme of things, the lollipops were nothing!

More than for me, I started to feel sorry for my mom.

At least I know what's wrong.

She tried so many things for so long and will likely die a prisoner of her own fear and failure. She just wanted to be good at ONE thing. Now she doesn't care. And in not caring, she somehow became a better person and a more "normal" mom.

I called her to ask her if the Penis Bunnies really existed or had I dreamed them...

She started cracking up and went into great detail about the many molds and how much fun the candy was to make. She sounded like a little kid.

An hour later I received a call from her. She had gone online and found some molds. She hasn't found the Penis Bunny mold yet, but when she does, she will send me one.

I choked on my sip of wine, shooting some out my nose and piercing my sinuses...

"Gee, Mom. Thanks! I can't wait!"

I shivered as I hung up the phone and then shook my head with a small smile.

Some days are just like that.

CHiPs and Rocket Science

The Chronicles of a Chronic DNF'er

I am not a racer.

I enter races.

I ride in the races.

I often stop mid-race and "DNF" (Did Not Finish).

Usually this happens in criteriums. I finished my road race.

Here's the dealio...

I entered my first road crit in April of this year. I was not prepared and pretty much did not know what to expect. I soon found out.

I was trembling at the start on the freezing April morning and honestly considered peeing my pants simply for warmth. I had ridden the course over and over the night before with Steph and felt comfortable with it. I knew the inclines and I knew the turns. I knew where the suicidal squirrel liked to play/screw with us. However, on race day, I was scared shitless.

The whistle blew and the racers took off. I had to chase them from the start and was unfamiliar on what the strategy was supposed to be. I got panicked. I started to hyperventilate. I got dropped pretty dammed fast. F**K!!!

I kept riding, but not knowing (at the time) what to do when I saw the field coming back around, I pulled over to the side and stopped (yes, STOPPED!) to let them pass. Apparently, what I was supposed to do was NOT stop and jump back in on someone's wheel and simply be down a lap. So when Carrie screamed, "Jump on, Cory!" I looked at her like she was effing nuts. Hmmmmmm...dead stop to futha mucking fast was not likely from this old gal. So I started riding, but in no way was I even close to the field.

I mentally waved "ba-bye" as they zoomed on...

As I approach the final turn for that lap, a sweet, tall bald man cheers me on and tells me that I can do it. I think, "Jeeeze! Even that guy knows that I suck!"

That thought makes me cry.

(I will later find out that the sweet, bald guy was Phil, Steph's hubby, but as I had only met him once and he was in his cycling gear, I did not know who he was.) Steph and I will laugh about this the next day.

I made it around for my third lap but was so mentally toast that I dropped out, rolled over to the sidelines to my friends, took off my helmet and burst into tears.

(Holy crap.)

That did not stop me from entering another crit a couple weeks later.

This time I hung in for longer, but had already been dropped and was about to be lapped for the 2nd time when I pass Carrie and the elite team and they are cheering, shouting encouragement to us from the sidelines...and then my boss (and team sponsor) yells out, "You're doin' good, Cor!" and under my breath (once I have passed him and am out of earshot) I mumble, "Shut the f*ck up, Bob."

I then start hyperventilating again...and burst into tears.

Karma much?

*snort*

Needless to say, I DNF'ed that friggin' race as soon as I finished that awful lap.

(This shocks you, yes?)

I had done better than my first race, but still pretty awful and I was pissed.

THIS IS JUST NOT FUN!!!!

I was screaming this in my head (SCREAMING IT!) and wondering why I had ever started racing when it was making me dread being on my beloved, beautiful bicycle. Ughhhh!

"I am not a racer", I said to Steph. If I wanted to be, I would be. Something in me must not want it or it would be there.

I like to go fast. I like to push myself. I like to play with my recovery. I like to manipulate my body.

I do not like stress.

I do not like the unknown.

It freaks me out.

Maybe if I knew what to expect, I could relax and just race...but I hardly think so. You're sort of not supposed to "relax". Maybe I need to smoke a big fattie before I race or chug bong water... Not sure.

Sooooo...for whatever reason, I entered a road race (The O'Fallon Grand Prix).

I'm not certain as to why, except that I enjoyed the idea of not going super f*cking fast in a circle. I liked that I could get dropped and not have the same people see me suck over and over and over again each lap.

I liked that I could suck without witness and that although my time would clearly indicate my suckage, I would not have to endure their visual scorn or pity for/at my suckage.

I was sick as a dog the night before the race and possibly fell off the toilet and slept on the bathroom floor.

I was dehydrated and physically and mentally exhausted.

(Seems like a FANTASTIC time to enter a 28 mile road race, yes?)

I drove out to the race with Steph and Phil and literally decided to race because it was better than sitting in a 90+ degree car for an hour and a half while everyone else raced. I got the added bonus of being able to switch categories to the Masters Women after I registered. (They gave out free Depends undergarments instead of t-shirts...) Just kidding.

All I had to do was:

1. Not poo my pants

2. Not Crash

3. Finish the effing race

I was golden.

...until 3 miles in when the panic thing happened.

This time I was pissed.

I knew it would pass, but I knew I had to ride alone. (Not ideal for a race, but totally ideal for my heart.)

I worked past it and the rest of the 25 miles were pretty OK. I stopped a couple times to throw up and once to remove articles of clothing as the temperature was at times 97 degrees...and once to cross my legs and squeeze my knees together and mentally will my intestines not to make me poo my shorts. (It worked...or I scared the sh...nevermind.)

The last 500 meters was a hill, so that was fun.

I finished!

I felt great!

(Yay me!)

OK, so then...

I see that VeloForce is putting on "Dirt Crits" at Castlewood State Park.

I am NOT an MTB chick.

The last time I had ridden my mountain bike was March 2007.

Ty LOVES mountain biking.

This is something Ty and I can do together! Cool!

Why I thought I should jump into an MTB race when I had not touched my mountain bike in over a year is beyond me.

The race starts and I am between Ty and Susan.

I knew Susan and I could catch Ty in the hills because we were stronger. Unfortunately, Ty wiped out on it and went over the side. Holy sh*t!

He was OK, but now "Mama Bear" had her panic on. That was my baby!

We keep racing but I am no longer focused.

I hit a tree root and go airborne and crash down on my entire right side.

Unfortunately, my left foot was still clipped in and that made something magically painful happen to my left knee. I get up fast so that the other racers, including Ty, can get by and I get back on and continue riding.

My left foot is going numb and is a bit tingly.

I pedal on and come up to the creek that I am supposed to cross.

I must have thought they said "crash", because that is exactly what I did.

Wiped right the f*ck out because I couldn't get my now numb left foot out of the clip when I started to lose my balance on the unfamiliar terrain of loose rocks.

I am happy to see that there is a photographer there at that very moment with his camera poised to exploit my suckage.

(Oh GOOOOOOODY!)

I figure I am going to simply now pick up my bike and run across the creek with it.

I am confused by the weight of this monster and realize that I have become too accustomed to the carbon of my sweet and sexy road bike.

*sniffles like giant pansy*

I'm pretty sure I said some pretty choice words at that exact moment as I feel my knee tremble under the weight.

"You may as well walk up the hill now," says some snarky, non-racing bastard with a smirk at the creek.

"Oh, ya think so, wise ass?" I think to myself and imagine pushing the fat bastard into the creek face/belly first.

What I actually say is, "Thanks!" and give him my best damsel-in-distress-aren't-you-the-big-effing-hero-look laced with pure sugar and magic.

I climb up the hill and pull over for a second to look at my left knee.

It looks like I have 2 knees...on the left side. That cannot be a good thing. I hop back on the bike and ride on. I cannot clip in. I cannot move the knee or feel my toes. I "one leg drill" it back to the "almost start" and take myself out of the race.

I of course, DNF.

This time I really don't care. It's almost funny at this point and I think I am expected to DNF. At least I had a "battle wound" this time to show for it. I felt good though. It was wicked fun.

Fast forward a week...

Another Dirt Crit. It pours rain 5 minutes prior to race time. Fantastic.

I have puddles in the front of my shoes at the start. Ty and I agree that we will take it slow as it is as slick as slug sh*t. The course goes the opposite way that week. We know there is a drop into the creek this time. A now muddy and slippery drop to add to the rocks. SWEET!

We are somewhat stuck behind this one dude and we work with him a bit and think positively...

1 lap down. Cool.

Just as we ride past the officials, the dude we were stuck behind DNFs. He just rides off the course to his car as his buddies razz him about "getting back in there". He doesn't.

We hit the drop to the creek again and I hit the side with my left foot. It then won't clip back in and I tank at the creek and have to walk up. I try several times to clip in and cannot. I pull over and grab onto a tree and try to force my foot in. No go. As I am covered in mud and have mud in my eye, I think that I have lost my cleat. I pedal on, but now feel less confident.

Dammit! I was having fun! I was DOING it!

I get to the close of lap 2 and realize that I will never recover while not clipped in and slippery, and soaking f*cking wet. (I say "f*ck" a lot, huh?)

I DNF.

...but...

I am wicked bouncy about the blast that I am having.

I am covered in mud.

I am a little stinky.

Next Thursday can't come quick enough!!!

*makes zooom zooom high pitched fast forward sound*

It's next Thursday now... (Last night.)

Hmmmm...

I had suffered a panic attack the previous night on the Team Rev ride.

I knew we were racing the course the same way as we did week 1. It was cake.

I felt lethargic. I waited until the last imaginable moment to register for the race.

I chug a Roctane GU and wait for "it" to happen.

I roll up to the start and am still not entirely certain that I am going to actually start. I really wanted a nap.

"Ultra endurance energy gel"? Holy hell! If this is energy, I am pretty sure I must have flatlined just prior to taking it. I yawn. Twice.

"20 seconds...", the official calls.

*sigh*

Too late to roll away now. I guess I better ride.

*yawn*

Even as we come up on the first turn, I see my car and look longingly at the empty bike rack and want to put my bike up on it...

I roll on.

Ty is ahead. I know I will catch him on the hill. I do. We hit the creek. We nail it. We haul ass over the lip and head toward the climb. Ty stops and I am forced to crash the wall or hit him and possibly rip his leg up/off. I go left and hit the wall.

Did you read that? LEFT. I crash LEFT. Slam my LEFT knee ito a pretty rock and I am quite sure I said something resembling, "Well, there goes my effing knee. I'm out."

Ty feels awful.

I tell him it's not his fault. It wasn't. I didn't afford him the space to get up that climb.

I tell him to roll on and I pull off to check the damage.

I jump back in.

Just as I come up to the close of lap 1 and am about to DNF, I reconsider.

Screw it. I didn't log enough miles this week and need the work out.

I come up on that creek again and nail it. Just as I fly up the hill, I see Ty over to the side. He has crashed. He is pissed. He screwed up his wrist. (Did I mention that he is pissed?) I ask him if he wants to ride together. He takes some time and we roll on.

I am unaware that he is no loger behind me when we close lap 2 until I get there. The official says, "You're done."

I am puzzled. It's 3 laps. That was 2. I may not be George W. Bush, but I have the Math down. I am NOT done.

I call out to Traci that Ty is hurt and may DNF and to look out for him. She does. I roll on. Slowly. Sort of bored.

This "energy gel" shit is like that bowl of bong water I imagined earlier. I know I wanted to chill, but this was ridiculous. I chilled like mad. You could have put a basket with a puppy on the front of my bike and it would have been OK.

I let some B racers fly by a couple times, see Karen, cheer her on, and then follow her. I hit the creek and nail it knowing that I will not see my injured son there.

I am in the home stretch now. I sprint to the finish, feeling pretty happy that I did not DNF and see my little boy waiting at the finish, injured and mentally beating himself up.

*sigh*

It's just a race.

Next week, we will both finish...or break something trying!

The Same Dead Beaver and The Non-Poopy Pants

A white truck pulled over on Hwy 100, the driver got out, stopped traffic, and scooped up a dead kitty from the road. Until that moment I was completely clueless that someone actually had the job of scooping up road kill. I'm not entirely sure what I thought happened to road kill, other than it getting super smooshed into the road and eventually washed away with rain and tires. When I ride, I see dead animals all over the place, so I am not completely dense in my not realizing that there was a person who held this job.

What does his business card say?

Does he tell his children what he does?

Where do the dead animals go?

As this happened one block before the coffee shop and I was not fully awake, I may have contemplated this for longer than the average caffeinated folk would have.

Then I got told yesterday (completely randomly by someone who was not in my head on the morning that I discussed the above with myself) that the State of Missouri has decided NOT to pick up dead animals anymore due to the constantly rising price of fuel. I wanted to thank them for seeming to consider our tax dollars, but on the other hand....EWWWWWW! A few weeks ago, Steph, Sam, and I rode past a dead beaver on the side of the road. And while Lisa would say that that is a fantastic name for a punk band, I am not excited to know that the same dead beaver (a better name for a punk band) may just be there when we ride by tomorrow.

See? I've been thinking about stuff more important than destroying complete strangers' lives by deleting them from my MySpace page. *snicker*

So then there's that. Oy! The drama. I did it. So what? I left the page open for a while so confused people could catch up and then I made it private. Oh well. I deleted people who I either didn't know, didn't get me, or posted too many effing bulletins. I wouldn't care if they were interesting bulletins, but they weren't. All I was learning about many of those people was that they were either angry, sad, victims, or a sad cocktail of it all. I didn't delete anyone with a bike. At least not on purpose. (With the exception of a few Lance Fanatics.) Marone a mia!

There's still one person I need to talk to regarding the "major" changes, but I chose to not write her until I could write something nice. That day has not yet arrived. I am afraid she will come to her own conclusions before I get to her, and that might be the better way for her to go. I know I am being passive/aggressive. I know. Tell me something that I don't. However, after being faced with her love for confrontation, what would be the point in trying to convey an articulate point of view to her. I do not communicate with people who lack communication balance. It is exhausting. I'd rather run the NYC marathon...braless...on the first day of my menstrual cycle...with a regular absorbancy...nevermind...you get it. If you don't, well...WOW! I hope you are wicked pretty!

Speaking of races and discomfort, I raced in my first ever road race this past weekend! (Yay me!) I bet you think I am going to pat myself on the back and gloat. Nope. I know I posted the podium pics. It's more of a joke between Stephanie and I on how I was going to taunt my ex-husband ("Super Cyclist Extraordinaire") with my Grand Prix podium while he brags about all his riding miles and gets larger and larger and is on the committee organizing the Tour de Donut. (Seriously. It's a real event!) Ehhhhh, it's all in good fun and we like to tease each other. His event is allegedly really fun and they always have a good turn-out...but then again, StL is one of the fattest cities in the nation, so there's that. At least the donuts aren't deep fried...oh...wait...

OK, so the skinny on the race is pretty funny. To set it up, I had played golf all day Friday with clients. We drank a few mojitos. I had salmon, green beans, smashed potatoes, and raspberry sorbet for dinner. (Yummmy, right?!?!) I then went to get a relaxing massage to make sure I fell asleep at my scheduled time so that I was well rested for the morning.

I came out of the massage to a friggin' storm that would have frightened Christ himself. Then there was effing hail. I love when my beautiful car and freshly massaged/relaxed self get pelted with giant balls of ice. It gives me that warm and fuzzy feeling...much like being married. I then had a less than pleasant conversation about "feelings" and "how much I suck but never the right thing" with someone French while driving home and crawled into bed. While on the phone being a girl about the conversation with the French person, I started to feel physically uncomfortable. That escalated to painful discomfort...which escalated to acute abdominal pain.

For a moment I thought my appendix was exploding and possibly having babies. I crawled to my bathroom in a sweat. I started to get that distant, tingly feeling where you can hear stars in your ears... I sat on the toilet and the room started to spin...sort of. I ended my phone call. (I know. I know.) You don't need to know what happened between then and this next part. Use your imaginations. I really can't say if it was all day in the sun, bad salmon, nerves, getting pelted with hail, or all of the above, but I slept on the bathroom floor while doubled over in pain and dehydrating.

At some point I passed out and bit my tongue. I have a huge bruise on my thigh so I don't know if I fell off the toilet or what, but I think I'd rather not know. (If you have met me, you will assume I fell off the toilet.) I woke up and drank Gatorade like Tatum O'Neil smokes crack. (Is it too soon to make that joke?)

I drove out to the race with no intention to race and ended up switching cats to ride in a less fierce group. I threw up twice and spent the last 6 miles trying not to poo my pants... (I was successful in dehydrating myself just enough to not poo my cycling shorts but not dehydrated enough to pass out in front of a truck while climbing that last effing hill 1000 meters from the finish....ummmmm...YAY!)

...and that's the all too glamorous story of my race and the past week or so as a whole.

Today, my kidneys are recovering and I am writing snarky blogs. The end.

Deserving

"I don't deserve this!"

How many times have I listened quietly as someone expressed that thought?

I listened to my mother ask that question regarding her own life when she called me after finding out that I had been diagnosed with cancer in 1999. I hung up on her.

I have listened to countless female friends ask the same question after some ridiculous and unimportant romance has hit the skids and they have been left alone after breaking every covenant that makes a relationship real.

I have listened to people vent about the unfairness of a spouse or significant other who has cheated, or become an addict, or turned out to be a sizable professional failure.

I have listened to people vent about the unfairness of all they have given being taken for granted.

I have listened a lot over the past 8 plus years to others venting and ranting and raving about "deserving" and "unfairness".

I always laugh.

I am a snarky bitch.

This I know.

Why?

Because the people bitching are not usually people who have been through serious shit, they just think that they have.

They are victims of their own circumstance and at least partly responsible for the shit that has befallen them.

Guess what, Pumpkin. He/She didn't commit to your whiny, needy ass because:

a)you fucked him/her within the first 5 hours of meeting him/her in person.

b) you got stupid drunk and showed your "10 cat crazy" side.

c) after fucking him/her on the first meeting you laid in his/her bed describing the breakfast you were going to cook him/her and babbled on about the fun that you were going to have in the future.

d) you bought him/her a watch, iPod, dog within the first month of knowing him/her. (Hint: 10 dates and 20 fucks does not equal an iPod, watch, or a dog...even at Christmas.)

I hate to quote John Mayer because although he is super physically hot, he is such a fucking poser that he makes me vomit. That being said, he is snappy with the phrase or two and one stands out:

" ...Take all of your so called problems, Better put 'em in quotations..."

Right the fuck on!

I know women who were getting fucked by family members when they were 4 years old.

I know women who have been beaten within an inch of their lives.

I know men who have lost their wives to a disease that would not be beaten.

I know men who have had their brains cut into to save their lives.

I know women who were abandoned by their parents when they were young children.

I know a woman who fought everyday to hold on and to breathe and to not feel pain and in the end she lost.

Not one of those people have I ever heard say, "I don't deserve this!"

They didn't.

Who does?

What is this "deserving" that I hear so much about?

Everyone (yes everyone) deserves to be happy and un-tortured.

Everyone (yes everyone) deserves to be healthy and without pain.

Deserve?

You don't deserve to be dumped?

You don't deserve to be cheated on?

You don't deserve to have to raise your children alone?

I assure you, you do.

You deserve it.

If I can see my life as an adventure and be grateful for the things I have learned along the way, so can you.

I can tell you why you should kiss the person and thank them for cheating on you or leaving you. I surely can. Likely, it is the extreme they went to to make you see how wrong they were/are for you.

Likely they wanted you to see it more than you wanted to. If you were to take a step back and look, would you see all the signs that were left along the way?

I don't mean to be an ass, but it suits me. I will say that I will gladly take your cheater, your addict, your finances, your spouse that won't fuck you, your spouse that will fuck everyone but you and trade you....for just a moment. I know at least 30 other people that would offer the same...for just a moment. Because I, like them, have learned that it could always be worse. And we are all happy to afford you that cute little lesson.

I was 7 years old the first time some asshole would try to stick his dick in me.

Deserve?

I was a brat for sure. I constantly left my toys all over the floor of my bedroom and threw away my dinner. Deserve?

My mom left when I was 10.

Deserve?

Dead dad, dead dog, dead grandpa, dead husband. Dead. Dead. Dead.

Deserve?

Single parent at 20.

Deserve?

Cancer as a birthday gift on my 27th.

Deserve?

Chemo. Radiation. Surgery.

Deserve?

I may not be there when my daughter loses her first tooth.

I may not see my son graduate high school.

What is this deserve that you speak of?

Is there something that I did in my mother's uterus that made her hate me upon sight? Made her want a sunny life in a tropical climate instead of taking care of her children?

Were we too loud? Too quiet? Too ugly? Was the constant need for groceries more than she could handle?

Was I too sexy at 7 with my Dorothy Hamill haircut and ripped Gloria Vanderbilt's that a high school aged boy could not resist my gap toothed charms of tripping over sidewalk cracks on my duct taped roller skates?

Was I too successful at 26 and taking care of my young son that some powerful being had to put my shopping in check with an adorable touch of cancer?

Did a company car equal 4,000+ stitches, chemicals pumped into my body to destroy me further, radiation to fry me from the inside, and an eternity of disfigurement? Was it my karma?

Tell me! Tell me! Tell me! What is this goddammed "deserving" that people rant about while decrying the life that they have been dealt?

I am exhausted by it.

I have lost everything. EVERYFUCKINGTHING!

And I have gotten it back and lost it again. *Repeat as needed*

So fucking what!!!!

Yes, I'm sorry sugars, but you do deserve to have your eyes opened. Your life freed. The hassle lifted.