My sister-in-law, Leslie and I were trying to figure out when we got the same Trek Antelope bikes for Christmas. I think it might have been 1989. Both of us were really delighted. I knew she was getting one but I had no idea I was getting one too. Lo, these many years later, her sons rode hers into the ground and mine finally needed new tires and tubes. I won't pretend they were worn out, they weren't, but twenty-five years is a long time for rubber to last. Being married to a cycling enthusiast, I never had to service my own bike until now. You should see my beautiful city tires and new red basket. All I need is an air horn and I will be a menace on the road. (She's the little old lady from Minnesota, the terror of Excelsior Boulevard... go granny, go granny, go granny, go!)
And now that summer is here I am out on that bike trying to remember which gear to use and when to start shifting. I fell today trying to balance at a light. Bunged up my left thumb, have a goose egg on my thigh and terribly bruised ego. Of course ten cars saw me fall but I jumped up quick and reassured everyone, "I'm fine, thanks for asking."
Today I rode into Minneapolis to the Workforce Center at Chicago and Lake, about 13 miles round trip. It took about 45 minutes going (downhill) and about an hour coming back (uphill). My quest is to find ways of getting where I want to go without too many hills to climb. I am not above walking the bike across busy intersections and up a steep hill. So far I've found gentle inclines. But that is not all I've discovered.
Lilac time is just about over. Now peonies and iris scent the air and bush and hedge roses are blooming like crazy. I've noticed that the real difference in curb appeal riding through higher and lower income neighborhoods comes down to edging lawns and pulling weeds from sidewalks. Lots of peonies and perennials in the poorer parts of town, but maybe not the time to really keep up the gardening, or they could be rentals and the landlord doesn't cut the grass as carefully as a homeowner.
It is so easy for me to talk myself out of riding the bike. I just have to think of a hill and I get discouraged. But I have $70.00 invested in new tires and tubes and these are going to wear out before they dry out. And as a metaphor for my life, I am going to be active and wear out before I dry out. Tomorrow dancing to the Bodacious Babes of Swing and Saturday I'm escorting a friend to a union dance. Best of all, spending time with my daughter and her husband and my two grandsons. What a wonderful way to spend the solstice! Sum, sum, summertime!
Friday, June 21, 2013
Monday, June 10, 2013
Porn
What is porn? It is obscenity. What is obscenity? In the famous words of Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart, "I know it when I see it." He did not try to distinguish between soft and hard core, but it does make me think. Because I think I unwittingly watched some hard core food porn. It was called Man vs. Food.
In the particular episode I saw, the host tried to choke down massive amounts of hot food. The sauces were so spicy he had to wear gloves to protect his hands and anywhere those hands might touch. Yet he shoveled it into his mouth which is much more sensitive than his hands. He was in pain and people were urging him on, almost like fans at a cockfight. It was fascinating in a train wreck kind of way. They showed huge portions of cooked meat soaked in extremely hot barbecue sauce and we all said, "Eeew." What could have been nice was now obscene. I saw it and I knew it.
At one point I turned to my twelve year old grandson and remarked that for most of the world, man vs. food meant getting enough. He thought about that while we watched. I've been thinking about it too. What is the difference between that show and others that show people enjoying food all over the world? I think the operative word is enjoy. The best burger or creme brûlée doesn't cause pain to the eater. It is eaten with gusto and appreciation. It is not a spectator sport. I see a distinction between a pie eating contest at a picnic and a hot dog eating competition for cash. One is fun, the other work.
I was once invited to a 50th birthday party at a sports bar. The hostess hired the entire place for the whole evening, and, I don't know why, thought it was a good idea to have all those many televisions playing porn. I guess her husband, the birthday boy, liked it. I was pretty shocked. I didn't know where to look because everywhere I turned those monitors were showing things I didn't want to see, and I especially didn't want to see them in high definition! I've seen sexy movies and this was not sexy. To me it was anti-erotic and I left soon after wondering why I attended.
I don't deny anyone their right to watch what they want. If I see the marquee says XXX I am pretty sure what my ticket buys. And now I know if a show is called Man vs. Food to change the channel. Because just like Justice Stewart, I know obscenity when I see it.
In the particular episode I saw, the host tried to choke down massive amounts of hot food. The sauces were so spicy he had to wear gloves to protect his hands and anywhere those hands might touch. Yet he shoveled it into his mouth which is much more sensitive than his hands. He was in pain and people were urging him on, almost like fans at a cockfight. It was fascinating in a train wreck kind of way. They showed huge portions of cooked meat soaked in extremely hot barbecue sauce and we all said, "Eeew." What could have been nice was now obscene. I saw it and I knew it.
At one point I turned to my twelve year old grandson and remarked that for most of the world, man vs. food meant getting enough. He thought about that while we watched. I've been thinking about it too. What is the difference between that show and others that show people enjoying food all over the world? I think the operative word is enjoy. The best burger or creme brûlée doesn't cause pain to the eater. It is eaten with gusto and appreciation. It is not a spectator sport. I see a distinction between a pie eating contest at a picnic and a hot dog eating competition for cash. One is fun, the other work.
I was once invited to a 50th birthday party at a sports bar. The hostess hired the entire place for the whole evening, and, I don't know why, thought it was a good idea to have all those many televisions playing porn. I guess her husband, the birthday boy, liked it. I was pretty shocked. I didn't know where to look because everywhere I turned those monitors were showing things I didn't want to see, and I especially didn't want to see them in high definition! I've seen sexy movies and this was not sexy. To me it was anti-erotic and I left soon after wondering why I attended.
I don't deny anyone their right to watch what they want. If I see the marquee says XXX I am pretty sure what my ticket buys. And now I know if a show is called Man vs. Food to change the channel. Because just like Justice Stewart, I know obscenity when I see it.
Thursday, June 6, 2013
Owned by a Siamese Cat
There is no easy way to say it; I'll just come right out and admit that I am owned by a Siamese cat. I own Piper, a Maine Coon, and as mellow as the day is long but Little Mister Mischief owns me. It must be true otherwise why am I out of bed and feeding him at 5:30? I can usually sleep through his little tricks to wake me but, endlessly inventive, he's thought of a new way.
My fingertips were over the edge of the mattress when I felt a little rough tongue. On the edge of consciousness I pulled my hand back and continued sleeping. Not long after, Little Mister jumped on the bed and started to roam around me. I knew enough to ignore him and then he started licking my shoulder. If I was wearing a summer nightie I could understand it; my shoulders just might be delicious. We are having unseasonably cold nights and I am still wearing long sleeves to sleep. It is a very weird feeling to have a cat licking my nightie right by my ear. Yeah, I was up and I only have myself to blame.
Piper was found by a friend in a drainage pipe. We figure he and his sister were thrown from a car. He was only twelve ounces and covered with fleas when I got him. Once he stopped being bitten he took to biting me when we played. It is the nature of kittens to roll around with each other and nip. No other kittens around, he would nip my arm and scratch me. You might as well tell water not to be wet as soon as tell a seven week old cat not to bite. I knew I had to get him a companion.
I met a man in a well lighted parking lot by his place of work. There, in a box in his car, was a sleeping ball of fur. He had a vet's certificate showing he'd had his kitten shots and was healthy and cost less than a kitten from the Humane Society. Without waking him, I handed over the cash and brought a Siamese kitten home. He and Piper became fast friends, wrestling, nipping, sleeping together. My arms began to heal.
I used to have a little Siamese cat named Baby. He would snuggle under my arm or follow me around calling "maaa, maaa." My daughters were eleven and fifteen at the time and he was just what I needed, a dependent small creature who needed me and didn't act like a human adolescent. We thought he was so clever at the time. As he aged we realized he was one of the sweetest, albeit stupidest cats we'd ever known. He always found a lap to sit on. I remember one time when my parents were visiting from NY, my father found himself, maybe for the first time in his life, petting a cat on his lap and he could not figure out how he got there. That was my baby boy. Watching him decline and die was very difficult. This new cat was a different kettle of fur.
My first cats were named David and Anastasia. They were followed by Slinky, Parsley, and Pepper (another monumentally stupid kitten.) Marshy and Lily were named by my young daughters. Baby's real name was Gaston, named for the antihero in Beauty and the Beast because "every last inch of him was covered with hair". I just couldn't think of a name for this new one and went through several until I found one that fit. Little Mister Mischief, Little Mister for short. His name says it all.
Little Mister is just about three years old and is getting affectionate in his own way, not that he ever actually cuddles. He has the quietest purr of any cat I've ever met. It is like the lightest of breaths, just on the edge of hearing. He loves drinking from the bathroom tap and frequently sleeps in the sink. His favorite activity is splashing the water in the toilet and I've trained myself to put the lid down or suffer the consequence of sitting on a wet seat. He frequently observes me in the shower by sitting on the edge of the tub between the liner and curtain and putting his head around to watch the shower spray.
I recently applied for a job that involved a lot of traveling. I didn't get it but I did a lot of thinking about what would happen to my cats. They would have to go to other homes. When telling my daughter about the rejection I said that I guess the cats would be staying. It did get me thinking, though. Could I live a life without cat hair and cat puke and a litter box? Could I start thinking of new carpet? Yeah, I could.
Wait! What? A pet is a commitment for life; their life, as long as it lasts. But as someone who has seen a long marriage end and has done a little dating, I am seeing it more as a relationship. Sometimes it's over or the fit just isn't right. I'm not about to throw my kitties from a car. We will live in harmony. I will brush the bed off before I sleep, keep a towel on the armchair and continue supporting Purina and Arm and Hammer. But as I sit here in the early morning, I know the seed of a cat free life has been planted.
My fingertips were over the edge of the mattress when I felt a little rough tongue. On the edge of consciousness I pulled my hand back and continued sleeping. Not long after, Little Mister jumped on the bed and started to roam around me. I knew enough to ignore him and then he started licking my shoulder. If I was wearing a summer nightie I could understand it; my shoulders just might be delicious. We are having unseasonably cold nights and I am still wearing long sleeves to sleep. It is a very weird feeling to have a cat licking my nightie right by my ear. Yeah, I was up and I only have myself to blame.
Piper was found by a friend in a drainage pipe. We figure he and his sister were thrown from a car. He was only twelve ounces and covered with fleas when I got him. Once he stopped being bitten he took to biting me when we played. It is the nature of kittens to roll around with each other and nip. No other kittens around, he would nip my arm and scratch me. You might as well tell water not to be wet as soon as tell a seven week old cat not to bite. I knew I had to get him a companion.
I met a man in a well lighted parking lot by his place of work. There, in a box in his car, was a sleeping ball of fur. He had a vet's certificate showing he'd had his kitten shots and was healthy and cost less than a kitten from the Humane Society. Without waking him, I handed over the cash and brought a Siamese kitten home. He and Piper became fast friends, wrestling, nipping, sleeping together. My arms began to heal.
I used to have a little Siamese cat named Baby. He would snuggle under my arm or follow me around calling "maaa, maaa." My daughters were eleven and fifteen at the time and he was just what I needed, a dependent small creature who needed me and didn't act like a human adolescent. We thought he was so clever at the time. As he aged we realized he was one of the sweetest, albeit stupidest cats we'd ever known. He always found a lap to sit on. I remember one time when my parents were visiting from NY, my father found himself, maybe for the first time in his life, petting a cat on his lap and he could not figure out how he got there. That was my baby boy. Watching him decline and die was very difficult. This new cat was a different kettle of fur.
My first cats were named David and Anastasia. They were followed by Slinky, Parsley, and Pepper (another monumentally stupid kitten.) Marshy and Lily were named by my young daughters. Baby's real name was Gaston, named for the antihero in Beauty and the Beast because "every last inch of him was covered with hair". I just couldn't think of a name for this new one and went through several until I found one that fit. Little Mister Mischief, Little Mister for short. His name says it all.
Little Mister is just about three years old and is getting affectionate in his own way, not that he ever actually cuddles. He has the quietest purr of any cat I've ever met. It is like the lightest of breaths, just on the edge of hearing. He loves drinking from the bathroom tap and frequently sleeps in the sink. His favorite activity is splashing the water in the toilet and I've trained myself to put the lid down or suffer the consequence of sitting on a wet seat. He frequently observes me in the shower by sitting on the edge of the tub between the liner and curtain and putting his head around to watch the shower spray.
I recently applied for a job that involved a lot of traveling. I didn't get it but I did a lot of thinking about what would happen to my cats. They would have to go to other homes. When telling my daughter about the rejection I said that I guess the cats would be staying. It did get me thinking, though. Could I live a life without cat hair and cat puke and a litter box? Could I start thinking of new carpet? Yeah, I could.
Wait! What? A pet is a commitment for life; their life, as long as it lasts. But as someone who has seen a long marriage end and has done a little dating, I am seeing it more as a relationship. Sometimes it's over or the fit just isn't right. I'm not about to throw my kitties from a car. We will live in harmony. I will brush the bed off before I sleep, keep a towel on the armchair and continue supporting Purina and Arm and Hammer. But as I sit here in the early morning, I know the seed of a cat free life has been planted.
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