The Thighmaster Route to Kona

My own private Portlandia

2012-02-15T15:14:00.003-06:00

The reason why I suddenly found myself in Portland visiting Kim is a story for another day. So for now just let me segue into the fact that I hate Escalades. Hate. Them. In fact, because my yuppie wildlife-hating neighbors who moved in 10 years ago, have not just one but TWO Escalades (a maroon one, and the white extended cab version), the Escalade has become a stand-in for me as a symbol of excess. Of wildlife-hating gut rehab yuppie excess.

So you’ll all understand why, as I was making my way last week to the car I was borrowing from Kim’s boss, I burst out laughing.

Yep, an Escalade.

Maroon.

Big huge honking thing that I needed a rappel hook to climb into, it’s that huge.

In Portland, of all places.

But the fun was just beginning, as the Escalade and I have been stumbling our way across this lovely burg for the last week. To wit:

The No Bag Adventure

There I was, heading to the Scuzzy Fred Meyer grocery store to pick up the staples: kale, chocolate, and booze. As I was walking to the entrance, I stopped, horrified.

I had forgotten…..my bag.

Yes, the ubiquitous canvas shopping bag that is de rigeur in Portland. EVERYONE has a bag. Everyone. Even the woman who was outside the Scuzzy Fred Meyer as I was walking in, who was chugging some nefarious substance out of a 2-liter bottle nestled in a plastic bag, even SHE had her canvas shopping bags. Fuck. What to do, what to do. Could I haul everything off in my arms, bypassing a bag altogether? No, then there’d be a chance I’d drop a precious bottle of alcohol.

I could feel people looking at me askance. All the people with their bags. Even the homeless-looking people shopping at the SFM had bags. I had suddenly become a pariah in Portland, the worst kind of person, a bagless person driving an Escalade. Hell, why didn’t I go club some baby seals on the way home while I was at it? Argh!

In the end, The Cancer came through for me yet again. Because I was wearing my Fuck Cancer hat when I got to the checkout, and looked sufficiently surly yet winsome, so whatever look of “don’t mess with me and aren’t I pathetic take pity on me” that I managed to plaster on my face, it worked. I didn’t even get carded. Got my paper grocery bags without being stoned.

This time.

Next up: A miracle happens in Portland

RAGBRAI redux

2012-01-30T14:45:00.005-06:00

So there I was Saturday night, taking a break from my usual hectic schedule of squiring HRH The Kone around to meet with all the celebrities, heads of state, and other hangers-on that clamor to meet him on a regular basis. And of course I was eagerly waiting for the announcement of what this year's RAGBRAI route would be. Would it be insanely hilly? More endless riding amidst the cornfields (a given) and the mountains that Iowa is purported NOT to have?

Imagine my delight when the new route was posted, and it turned out to be one that would bypass the so-called boring parts of Iowa. Or as the article put it:

"RAGBRAI, which has given thousands of bikers the opportunity to piss in area residents’ yards and disrupt traffic for over thirty years, has long been criticized for its over-emphasis on farmland and other lame Iowa shit. With 2012’s incarnation of the annual event, though, officials have managed to minimize the time spent in Iowa."

Behold, the new route:

Yes, pretty much bypassing Iowa entirely! Such brilliance!

(For the record, let me state that I LOVED biking through Iowa, in spite of the 120 degree temps. Cornfields, small towns, wonderful people - can't wait to go back.)

Now, the best part of this article were the comments people made. To wit (names redacted to protect the innocent):

Edmond says:

10/27/2011 at 8:30 pm

Is this the first time the ride will go out of state? I thought it is GBR Across IOWA!

Reply
- me says:
  
  01/10/2012 at 3:21 pm
  
  This is an Iowa event. Why are you going into another state? Como on don’t do that!
  
  Reply
Margaret says:

01/07/2012 at 3:31 pm

Let’s keep the money in Iowa. It has always been a ride across Iowa so let’s keep it that way.

Reply
Skip says:

01/15/2012 at 12:40 pm

WTF?

Skip, Iowa City
Rachel says:

01/23/2012 at 12:46 pm

RAGBRAI is the “Great Bike Ride ACROSS Iowa” so why leave the state?? If we leave the state, this may give people a reason NOT to do it……

Reply
An Iowan @ Heart says:

01/28/2012 at 5:50 pm

I agree with all of the people above who say the ride should be across IOWA…this has to be a joke.

Now I have to say, this type of thing just makes me love Iowans even more. Not only do they immediately come to the defense of the beloved RAGBRAI, but they also believe the printed word. It's not just them - after I posted the above on Facebook, one local friend did ask if it was true, and her husband noted that "RAGBRAI has to be in Iowa, otherwise it doesn't make sense!"

Umm, yes.

So, look for me this summer toodling across parts of Iowa - small parts, according to the above map - and I'll be the one with deeds to bridges to sell the locals folks. Though hell, who am I to talk? I'm the one who got more and more loaded down last year, buying every button, tchochke, and "I heart boobies" bracelet made by the local urchins. I think we know who the real smart people are here......

A Christmas Carol-ish

2011-12-25T10:48:00.006-06:00

Background

I hate being cold. Really, I do. I’m very delicate that way. But what I hate even more is having a $900 heating bill for one month, which I had one winter. It wasn’t even unusually cold that year, not for Chicago, but prices for natural gas were even more through the roof than usual.

So of course, I’m very conscious of the need to keep the heat at reasonable, i.e. low, temperatures. Or rather, at least the 66-68 as dictated by the city, since I have a tenant, Kathleen, and for some reason the politicians won’t let me freeze people out, dammit. But even with having an adjustable thermostat and keeping the temps down, I still wind up with heating bills that are $500+ a month during the winter. Which sucks.

And while Kathleen is a great tenant, she’s also the type of person who is always cold. Always. So I stopped letting the temperature adjust down, and just keep it at a constant 68-70 these days, which is highway robbery in my book, but it’s the most I’m willing to do. Oh, I know Kathleen still thinks it’s cold, but I’m not made of money here.
Present day

The Kone and I are snuggled on the couch, having our ‘nog and bonbons, when there’s a knock on the door.

“Harrumph,” I mutter, “who pray tell could that be?”

Kathleen, at the door looking all shivery like a wee street urchin: Hi, umm, it’s pretty cold out there tonight, about 14 degrees, and windy, and it’s kind of cold upstai….
Me: ‘Tis a fine excuse for picking a man’s pocket every December!

(I find it helpful to transition into Dickensian speak at such times.)

Kathleen: But……you’re……not…..
Me: Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses??
Kathleen: Bu….
Me: Bah! A humbug I say! A humbug!
Kathleen: But…..
Me: Good day!
Kathleen: But it’s not da….
Me: I said, GOOD DAY!

Slam!

I look at the thermostat and drop the temp down a notch, just because. Hmph.

Even later that evening

The Kone has wandered off for his nightly ablutions, and when he comes back, he as usual insists I move over so he can have my spot on the couch.

Me: Koney, you’re such a sillums, my little Chunkers, you…….wait……what’s this?

Kona is maneuvering so he’s buried under the blankie, and now, he’s trying to nestle his head under there as well.

Me, horrified: Koney! Are you cold? Is my poor little monkey-chunky a bit chillums? No no nonononono……….this cannot stand! This will not stand!

I run to the back of the house, make sure the heating element back there is cranked up, then dash back to the front and turn the little space heater on. Then, the coup d’grace, I beeline to the thermostat and crank that puppy up. Then pile more blankets on The Kone so he doesn’t get a chill, and so he defrosts from the block of ice he had surely turned into. Poor baby.

And so, as The Kone and I snuggle on the couch with the furnace blasting, heating bills be damned, and I wonder how we can get that really big turkey to Bob Cratchit on Christmas morning for his poor wife to slave over plucking and cooking as if she doesn’t have enough to do with the blasted Christmas pudding….the words of Tiny Tim come to mind.

“Papa, you hold old mistah Scrooge down while I kick ‘em!”

Okay okay, not those. Not from when Scrooge was still in his pre-ghostly-visitation Republican let-them-eat-cake phase. But the later ones.

“God bless us, every one!”

Yeah, those.

Merry Christmas to all…..

The cup (of alcohol) runneth over

2011-12-24T12:31:00.005-06:00

So Grandma and I managed to make it through the Thanksgiving holiday relatively unscathed, as we went to Normal Brother’s place and had a cheerful, gala sort of day with him and his family. That was actually the one fly in the ointment, so to speak: Grandma isn’t happy unless she has something to complain about. But Andrew cooked up a feast, everything was perfect, Crystal and Scarlett were helpful, and even the dogs were well-behaved.

The only time that Grandma could show that her methods of doing things are far superior was when Andrew’s wife Angela was trying to crush some almonds for the stuffing version she was making, and she was doing so by putting them in a plastic bag and pounding on them. Grandma was having none of it, and took over the task, using a knife to chop up the almonds.

But other than that, seamless.

This presented a problem though when I was driving Grandma back to her place. Normally, this would be an hour+ drive of one lament after another – but now? Poor Baba had nothing to work with. Oh, she tried. She certainly did try:

Baba: ....як вона там с оріхамі..... (what she was doing with the nuts)….

Then she’d lapse into silence. Then 10 minutes later, the same thing, then more silence. She was completely stymied by Normal Brother and his family’s competence.

It was almost sad.

Then the day before I was leaving California, I craftily decided that Baba and I and her friend Rosemary would go to dinner, so that I could pay for Rosemary as a thank you for picking me up from and taking me to the airport. But first, we had to decide on a place.

Me: I don’t care, where do you guys want to go?
Baba: You decide.
Me: Okay, is there a good fish place around?
Baba: Kentucky Fried Chicken!
Me, patiently: Okay, we are NOT going to KFC. Seafood maybe?
Baba: Marie Callender’s!
Me: Okay, fine.

So off we head to Marie Callender’s, which I had never been to as an actual restaurant, though I’ve seen their frozen food in the stores. And apparently Rosemary and my grandma had been there enough times to know what they served, so this seemed like a good choice.

Until we got to the restaurant.

Me: Baba, what do you want to have?
Baba: I don’t know! I have what you have.
Me: You won't like what I have. Look, they have everything. Chicken pie, pot roast, beef stroganoff.
Baba: I don’t know!
Me: Baba, how in the world can you not know what you like??
Rosemary: You once had the fried chicken, right?
Baba: Kentucky Fried Chicken!

They then lament that the KFC that used to be nearby is no longer there.

Me: Okay, they have fried chicken, do you want that?
Baba: Hamburger!
Rosemary: What’s that place across the street, The Islands or something, where we’ve gone before for burgers?
Baba: Yes, hamburgers!
Rosemary: But theirs are less expensive. We should have gone there – we could have gotten less expensive burgers.
Me: Baba, do you want a hamburger?
Baba: I don’t know!
Waitress: Hi, and welcome to Marie Callender’s! Can I start any of you off with a…..
Me: YES, please, for the love of god, just bring me a mojito as quickly as possible……

Several mojitos later, we were all having a lovely time, even as my grandmother and Rosemary continued to discuss the demise of KFC, and what a fine establishment that was. Then the check came, which I grabbed up. Rosemary was having none of it.

Me:….but you have to let me pay! You do so much…
Rosemary: If you pay I’ll just leave this $20 as a tip.
Me: But I’ve already left a tip. That’s silly!
Rosemary: I’m leaving the $20 as we speak, see?
Me, to waitress: Can I get another drink? Maybe to go?

It takes a village

2011-12-12T10:58:00.004-06:00

I was shocked, nay dismayed, to find that my grandmother didn’t have a drop of alcohol in the house. What the hell happened to the older set having a tot of brandy in the evening as part of their constitutional?? Where have the principles on which this country was founded gone?

And another thing: where exactly WERE the bottles of water in the frig coming from? Grandma had told me to not drink the water from the sink, but the bottles of water in the frig weren’t new; their squishiness seemed to indicate that these poor bottles had been used for quite some time now. Hmm. Then, a call from my mom.

Mom: Blah blah, blah….
Me: Blah blah! (whispering) Psst, so I have to know. Those bottles of water, where are they coming from?
Mom: Well they…
Me: Because the water from the sink is supposedly a no-no, but we’re not buying water, so….
Mom: Oh, your grandma goes to the fountain near the pool and fills the bottles up there.
Me: So she goes to some fountain and fills the bottles with the exact same water that’s piped into the houses?
Mom: Well….

Okay, so we’ve established I seriously need some likker.

But this means I need to head to the grocery store on what’s now the DAY before Thanksgiving, Shit. I can only imagine what chaos this’ll be. But, emergency times call for emergency measures. Courage.

At Ralph’s Grocery Store, down the road from LeisureWorld

Hmm, the parking lot doesn’t seem insanely packed – maybe the store isn’t open? But no, it’s open, and as soon as I walk in, it’s like stepping back in time, to a world where people were kind and smiley and nice, especially around the holidays. In other words, a world that doesn’t exist anymore. Clearly, I have died and am now shopping in heaven. Oh well. Easy come easy go. I wonder how pricey the Cheez Doodles are up here?

Dead or not, I need my alcohol, so I find the likker display – where another sign points to the presence of a celestial spirit, as the spiced rum I want is on sale! Whee! A dilemma presents itself though – the really big jug, i.e. the optimal one, is highly discounted if you have a Ralph’s card, which I do not. Then the smaller bottle is almost the same price as the mega one, which irks my frugal Ukrainian sensibilities. Hmm. I finally decide that I’ll rely on the kindness of strangers at the checkout in helping me deal with the no-store-card situation, and pick up the mega jug-o-rum.

I wander around the rest of the store, and discover we all seem to be tourists here at Ralph’s. A woman actually asks me, “Are you local? Do you know where I might find the stuffing?” Another kindly person who overhears steps in to help her, and I realize that all the local people are shopping at Costco. So here you just have all the out of-towners, on vacation, NOT having to cook for 32 irate relatives for Thanksgiving. No wonder we’re so benevolent.

But then, the moment of truth: the checkout. The guy scans my rum and asks me if I have a Ralph’s card.

Me, smiling winsomely yet regretfully: Nay, I do not, kind sir – if I lived here I’d certainly have a card and shop only at this fine establishment, but I’m from out of town.

I’m about to up the ante by putting on the Sad Cancer Face, when the woman in line behind me pipes up: “Oh, you can use my card!”

Well then.

Me: Why thank you, that’s so sweet of you!
Nice woman: Oh, no problem. Where are you from?
Me: Chicago. And I’m visiting my grandmother, hence the need for the big bottle of alcohol.
Checkout guy: Amen to that!
NW: Oh, do I ever hear you! I’m stocking up as well!
Bagging guy: Yep, don’t wanna forget the alcohol, no sirree.

And we all smile at each other jovially, having found the ultimate common ground, i.e. the need to get likkered up to deal with one’s relatives.

Who ever said there’s no such thing as holiday spirit?

Hi ho, hi ho, to Costco we will go……

2011-12-11T12:17:00.005-06:00

I’m not quite sure exactly at what point it was in my trip to Grandma’s for the Thanksgiving holiday that I lost my mind entirely – I just know that it happened. Maybe it was the accumulated effect of getting all sorts of beauty advice from the residents of LeisureWorld that caused my mind to snap. From my grandmother, standing there demonstrating to me over and over how I should apply moisturizer to my face, to her neighbor Rosemary who dragged me over to make me apply something to my hair to hide the apparently glaring grey strands (ahem, premature grey, of course).

Maybe it’s all the snickering I’ve been doing every time I drive onto the LeisureWorld property, onto Golden Rain Boulevard.

Whatever it was, all I know is that 2 days before Thanksgiving, I had this actual conversation with myself:

“Self, Costco will be insanely crowded the day before Thanksgiving – but if we go on Tuesday, it should be pretty quiet. We’ll go and get that all-important pumpkin pie.”

So you see what I mean about the crayzee setting in. Because of course 94-year-old Grandma would insist on coming with.

The happy holiday scene at Costco 2 days before Thanksgiving

“Hey, watch it, ASSHOLE!” I snarl as we almost get run down by someone in the parking lot. It’s total chaos, of course, and Grandma forgot the handicapped parking card so we’re off in Siberia, slowly trundling our way to the entrance, trying to navigate through the hordes of people at the outside food window buying their insanely cheap Costco hot dogs and churros.

“Now Baba,” I note, “we’re just going to get the pumpkin pie and maybe a couple of other things and that’s it, okay?”

Grandma smiles serenely. “Yes yes!”

Okay, whew, in out, how bad can this be?

Two steps in, Grandma is off and running, so to speak. Towards the shirts. Boots. Trying to convince me that I need boots that are exactly like the ones I’m wearing, but newer. Trying to figure out what kind of shirts Normal Brother might wear. Apparently she wants to do all her Christmas shopping in one fell swoop. Sigh.

We somehow manage to wend our way to the back of the store, which is when Grandma has to go to the bathroom. As in now. Apparently the expired food is still having an impact on her digestive system. She heads off to the bathrooms at the front of the store, walker and all, while I look at my shopping list and realize I only need a couple more things, including the (ahem) big jug of EGGNOG which my own Costco in Chicago does not have! Oh, the humanity!

I pick up these things and start making my way back towards the front, keeping an eye out for Grandma – after all, she has a walker, how fast can she be? I don’t see her, but get into a line where I have a clear view to the bathroom so I’ll see her when she comes out.

After I pay, I head over to the bathroom and look inside, and……no Grandma? WTF?

I’ve lost Grandma.

At Costco.

With masses of people in a pre-holiday shopping frenzy. Shit.

I careen up and down the aisles, wondering, how the hell did she get so far? So fast? My grandmother, even at 94, likes to act all doddering and slow when someone else is around to see, but left to her own devices, it’s pretty clear she’s a speed demon.

Because yes, I eventually find her, all the way at the BACK of the store.

Grandma, looking at me beatifically as she stands next to a pile of shirts: “You want shirt?”

I so need a drink…….

To grandmother’s house we go…..

2011-11-29T14:18:00.005-06:00

So this year as opposed to my usual sojourn to Boston, I decided to head to California for Thanksgiving, to spread cheer amongst additional little people, and to make myself useful. Even more useful than usual, that is. I would stay with Grandma in Seal Beach, then be her designated chauffeur on Thanksgiving Day, driving her back and forth to Normal Brother’s place, in Tujunga.

I know, I know – the extent of these sacrifices I make of my time and effort, it’s astounding. But that’s just how I am.

Of course, this trip to Normal Brother’s on Thanksgiving was only going to happen if we survived that long. Because as soon as I got to Grandma’s, it became clear that food poisoning might be imminent.

Take the stuffed cabbage, or holubtsi, as we call them. I loooove stuffed cabbage – that’s one of the few Ukrainian dishes I can make really well, modeled after my mom’s way of making them, because no other kind I’ve tried ever compares. And naturally Grandma makes them the same way. So the night of my arrival, I was all set to happily dig into my plate of holubtsi, when my mom calls.

Mom: ….and blah blah…..and this and that……and oh yes, remember to be careful about what you eat. Grandma has a tendency to keep food that’s expired. That’s probably why she’s had an upset stomach and been running to the bathroom for the last 2 weeks!

I swear I am not making this up. I pause with a forkful of stuffed cabbage on its way to my mouth.

Me: Umm…..what kind of food?
Mom: Oh, one time there was the ground beef that she left in the frig for over a week, then decided to put it in the freezer. Ha ha, that was something!
Me: Umm….but……..
Mom: And the sour cream! She left THAT on the counter, and it was already old! Make sure you check the expiration dates on everything!

Shit. There’s my 94-year-old Grandma, smiling at me beatifically, waiting for me to dig into the stuffed cabbage. So it’s the feelings of Grandma – and for someone who likes to trash talk and complain about pretty much every other person under the sun, she gets her feelings hurt VERY easily – or my entire digestive tract at stake here. That’s an easy call.

Me: Дякою, Баба. Дуже смачного! (Thanks, Grandma. Very tasty!)

She then tries to push on me the blintsi (crepes), which unlike the holubtsi, do taste kind of……off. Like the flour or butter she used wasn’t quite fresh. Sigh. At least the sour cream is okay, I hope. I sidle over to the counter to surreptitiously take a look at the sour cream container. Which…….has a Country Crock lid. Sigh again.

Oh well, down the hatch. What can you do?

Though it’s interesting to note that when I posted this adventure on Facebook, about my mom belatedly telling me about grandma’s problem with paying attention to expiration dates, it turns out that pretty much EVERYONE has a grandmother-with-spoiled-food-like-on-Hoarders story. Everyone.

From Shannon: “My Gram always had these...containers...she used to pack up her care packages she'd give me when I'd leave her house. They were usually some type of former food container that had been re-used about 100 times.”

To Jen: “Hoarders!!!! My grandma sent leftovers home in used kool whip and country crock containers. I think that is a grandma thing too.”

To Andi: “Omg. I was just talking about that with my family! Little old Swedish grandma insists on cooking the whole meal for holidays and last year was... questionable, to say the least. This year her eyesight has gone even more... so she doesn't see dirty plates etc.”

Then Lisa reminisced about her Baba, who I knew, leaving meat and cheese out on the counter until it was eaten, and Debbie chimed in about the bottle of salad dressing at a family dinner at grandma’s that had an expiration date of 5 years prior. And of course, Andi and I have in common grandmothers who clean and dry paper plates and paper towels, as if they’re meant to be reused. The “universal elderly money-saving technique,” as Andi puts it.

Somehow this makes me feel better, as if we’re all part of this vast network of grandkids of aging relatives taking our lives into our own hands so as to not make the elderly feel bad. It really does take a village…..

Next up: Why taking your 94-year-old Grandma to Costco 2 days before Thanksgiving is a Very Very Bad Idea....

Never did no wanderin’….

2011-11-13T20:02:00.008-06:00

One of the things that I learned at (ahem) Wharton is that a sure bet in advertising or any kind of marketing is to go with kids or dogs. That basically applies to anything, really – when in doubt, kids or dogs.

So! There I was with Noreen in town to do the Chicago marathon, and of course, as part of her pre-marathon prep, I had a full schedule of activities and other things to do for the week that would make sure she showed up at that start line on Sunday in optimal shape. Normally I charge the big bucks for this kind of advice, but for friends, I do make exceptions. At least on occasion.

This meant that after she got in Monday, on Tuesday we went to a winery. On Wednesday we went and walked miles around downtown, and had Chicago-style pizza at Due’s.

Thursday, I proclaimed it to be Big Fun Day. That is, Big Fun Day for The Kone, which involves a trip to the huge-ass dog park in Lake Forest, the one that’s 44 acres of fenced-in forest preserve, then a trip for hot dogs. Oh sure, some of you may be saying, but Miss Tasha, how is this different from any other day for HRH?

Big Fun Day, or BFD, dawned bright and sunny, so off we went. I made sure that Noreen wore running-appropriate attire, so that she could run after Kona a bit as part of the ramping up portion of her marathon training plan. This was all uneventful yet much fun, in keeping with the spirit of BFD.

Then, off to Superdawg, whee! Where The Kone got his double-cheeseburgerski, while Noreen and I had the Superdawgski and onion chips. Perfect pre-marathon food, clearly.

As we were driving through the suburbs after our glorious Superdawg visit, I had the brilliant idea of hey, we’re near my old stomping grounds! Let’s really top off BFD and go for a walk in the woods near my old house, where I used to take Hudson all the time, and where I’ve taken The Kone on occasion!

Not to foreshadow or anything, but this was a really stupid fucking idea.

This path that goes through the woods, I always let Huddy off leash, and he’d go running through the woods like a deer, occasionally running back to make sure I was still there, then running off again. Many many times I took my Hudkin there over the years, and never a problem. There aren’t any big roads nearby, so he could take off and only find more woods, and a creek, where he’d stock up on water. Same for The Kone, though being the momma’s boy that he is, he never wanders far from me at all.

And so it was this time. We all wandered along, went to the creek, turned around, with Kona the whole time in my sight. Or rather, him keeping me in his sights, because that’s the kind of momma’s boy he is.

So when he first disappeared into the bushes and trees, I wasn’t worried. At all. I heard him rustling around in the bushes, as Noreen and I stood there chatting. Rustle rustle rustle. Suddenly, no rustle.

“Kona?” I call. No answer. “Kona!!” I yell, more loudly. What the hell?

I go trudging through the trees, to where there’s a slope on the other side, that goes down to railroad tracks. I know this. There’s a freight train that goes by on occasion, but rarely. Still no sign of The Kone. I go sliding down the hill to the tracks.

“Kona! KONE! KOOOOOONE!” Where the hell could he have gotten himself to?? There’s no sign of him, no telltale rustling sounds, nada.

I stand on the railroad tracks so that I can get a better look around, and peer up and down the tracks. No sign of him….wait, what? What the……..is that his little butt all the way off there in the distance? Hustling his way down the tracks, trotting along purposefully, with I think a stick with a bandanna sack tossed over his doggie shoulder? It IS! What. The. Fuck.

“KONE! KONA!”

He’s totally ignoring me, still trotting away, from what I can see off in the distance. Suddenly I have the words from a song from A Mighty Wind going through my head:

Never heard the whistle of a lonesome freight,
Or the singing of its driving wheel,
No I, never did no wanderin’
Never did no wanderin’
Never did no wanderin’ after all

“KONE! Get back here! There are NO PETITE SCONES on the RAILS!” I yell.

"KOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONE!" I wail.

I’m running down the tracks as I’m yelling, and I don’t know if it was the increasingly frantic sound of my voice, the mention of scones, or the realization that leaving the comforts of home was a Really Bad Idea……but as I’m running, it appears that he might have at least stopped. Turned around? Started to come back? YES!

As he trots up to me, I scoop my heart back up and shove it into my chest, and then snap the leash on The Kone before he gets any more brilliant ideas about riding the rails to the carefree freedom of a hobo’s life. I don’t yell at him, because you’re not supposed to yell at your dog when he comes back to you, plus I’m so astonished by this whole incident that I’m basically speechless.

“You….you…..the rails…..taking off…….hobos….wanderin…..” I babble, still shocked. “The call of the rails! What was that?”

We get back into the car to head back into the city, and Kona collapses in back as if he’s the one who almost had a heart attack. Hmph. The entire drive, he's snoozing away, no doubt dreaming about what might have been, while I just keep looking back at him and shaking my head. Riding the rails? Really?

That evening I exact serious punishment on my boy, by giving him one less marrow bone to gnaw on than usual. Severe, yes, but he needed to learn his lesson.

Then, two more days of eating our way through Chicago, from Italian beef, to pie ala mode.

Needless to say, Noreen kicks ass in the marathon. I, on the other hand, am still in recovery mode.....

Why I’ll always be single

2011-10-12T09:00:00.002-05:00

I always figured I’d meet PerfectMan in one of the usual ways. For example, a "meetcute", whereby we’d be walking our respective dogs near a duck pond, when the dogs see the ducks and go bonkers running around and the leashes get tangled around our legs and PerfectMan and I go tumbling into the duck pond and fall instantly in love, sodden hair and all, while our pups gambol and frolic about happily.

Or PerfectMan would fall in love with me through my blog and would start sending me gifts and cards that would seem creepy if they weren’t from someone with the amazingly good taste to love my blog, and then PerfectMan would be accidentally arrested for stalking when he gets a little overzealous but someday we’d laugh and laugh over how I maced him the first time we actually met as he snuck into my backyard to plant some unusual varieties of tomato plants for me, his true beloved.

Like I said, the typical ways.

But I’ve recently come to the realization that even if these scenarios were likely to happen – and I’m not saying they’re NOT, but The Kone and I aren’t exactly in the habit of daily strolls near duck ponds – that I wouldn’t exactly be batting a thousand in the man-keeping department after that.

Why? Well. I’m glad you asked.

I came to realization #1 when Kim and Melindy came to stay with me and The Kone in May for Kim’s Birthday Extravaganza. I figured that Melindy could have the spare bedroom, and Kim and I could share my bed, and Kona would graciously allow Kim to have his usual spot, while he slept at the foot of the bed.

I was clearly smoking crack when I came up with that little rosy scenario, because this is what actually happened:

On night #1, I had the brilliant idea that I’d sleep in my usual spot on the left, and when Kona saw Kim in his spot on the right, he’d sigh but jump up to sleep across the bed at the end. So Kim and I get into bed first, and I encourage Kona to follow, as I pat the foot of the bed, where there’s plenty of room. He stares at me. Goes to Kim’s side (aka his usual side). Goes to my side. To Kim’s. Ignores me patting the foot of the bed. Then he eventually does decide to jump up after about a half hour of this…..jumping up where Kim is, totally ignoring the laws of physics that say that 2 objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time.

He does that a lot.

So Kim’s sitting forward, and he’s behind her, with absolutely no inclination to move. So I get out of bed, at which point my beloved sweet momma’s boy of a dog who can’t be without me for seconds…..nestles into my spot, sighs contentedly, and promptly shuts his eyes. I think he even started snoring.

I sleep on the couch. The rest of the time that Kim was there, she got into bed on the right, and The Kone had no problem whatsoever occupying MY usual spot. So much for the whole “I can’t let you out of my sight, momma!” routine that he likes to use. Hmph.

So there’s an issue with the bed routine, should I be dating PerfectMan for 6 or 10 months or so and deign to let him sleep over. But wait, that’s not all! Because quite frankly, I’m not even sure we’d make it to that point.

You see, Kona and I have this, well, routine. Which would kick in after, say, I’m out on a date, and decide to invite PerfectMan in afterwards to sip some fruity cocktails and watch Hoarders, while we talk about how astonishingly funny I am, in a wittily ironic and bitter way.

The problem would arise when we step into the house, because this is what would happen, as I envisioned in Realization #2, as this is what happens every single time I come home, whether I'm gone for 30 minutes or 2 hours:

Kona would come running up and jumping, all excited. Then he’d dash to the back of the house, holding a shoe or toy or something/anything in his mouth, and I’d have to run back there to let him out. At which point he’d barrel outside, do a lap around the yard, then barrel back in. Then he’d pick up a shoe – preferably one I would have just kicked off – and he’d run and scamper around the house while I chase his little puppybutt around like a lunatic saying “Who’s got the SHOE! Oh boy! Who’s got the shoe??”

Oh yeah, and Kona expects some kind of treat or leftover when I come home after an evening out with friends, so I’d snatch out of PerfectMan’s hands whatever he thought he’d be having for lunch the next day, and give it to The Kone.

Then if PerfectMan hasn’t already left enough of a vapor trail as he quickly departs the loony bin, we’d attempt to snuggle on the couch while following the aforementioned Hoarders/TashaAccolades plan……with Kona sprawled out in between us, pushing at us with his little pawsums as he takes up more and more space on the couch in an enfeebled attempt to eke out just the slightest bit of comfort.

Now personally, me, I don’t see why any of this should be a problem, but hey, maybe that’s just me? Probably. None of this really fits in with the romantic little cocoon one hopes to be ensconced in after a date with PerfectMan, not when you add the running-around-the-house-chasing-Kona bit. Oh well. Priorities, right? It’s not like my whole life revolves around HRH The Kone or anything……

Flying the Tasha skies

2011-10-11T10:33:00.006-05:00

Ah, so much to catch up on, so little time! Where to begin? Well, how about with the trip to Philly to see my Cancerchicks at a conference, which started out with a cropduster powered by a generator? But I get ahead of myself…..

So there I was in the American Airlines terminal, waiting for my plane to Philly, which is of course delayed. Mechanical issues, of course. Which is always worrisome, because what with the fines they give airlines these days if they’re late, I imagine them frantically slapping things together with duct tape, just to get the plane off on time.

We finally get onto the plane, which is a tiny little кукурузник, and I’m already peeved not just because of the delay but because the plane is SO tiny that there’s no room in the overhead bins for any of our wheelie bags. Then the true fun begins.

Captain: Okay folks, this is your captain speaking. Sorry about the really loud noise at the back of the aircraft! That’s the generator we had to plug in to power up the plane, since we couldn’t get one of the engines to work.

I swear I am not making any of this up.

He continues.

Captain:…..so we put in a new computer card and plugged in the generator and hopefully that’ll get us to Philly without that one engine!

The girl sitting next to me and I look at each other.

Girl: Okay, I didn’t need to know any of that.

Me: Umm, yeah, me neither. Not really on a need to know basis.

Girl: Down an engine?

Me: Plugged in a generator?

The whole plane is unusually quiet.

We manage to take off, and other than some major turbulence, the flight is pretty uneventful. Then as we approach Philly, sort of, I notice that the plane is starting to circle. Our illustrious captain speaks again:

Captain: Well folks, we were slated to get into Philly relatively on time (because we now cushion the schedule with an extra half hour just in case), but then we got word that there’s a boat in the harbor, so they’re rerouting all of us until they can get that boat moved. Shouldn’t be too long!

Again, the girl and I look at each other.

Girl: A boat?

Me: Blocking the planes from landing? WTH?

We finally land – finally! – and as we sit there on the runway, yes, another message from Captain Cropduster:

Captain: Okay folks, we need to wait for our chance to taxi in, but in the meantime, so that our generator doesn’t overheat, could those of you sitting near the windows close the shades, and make sure those air vents are open? Thanks! Should have you in in a jiffy.

I start laughing at this point. Seriously? Close the shades?

Me, to my seatmate: See, this is par for the course for me. I’ll tell my friends waiting at the airport for my plane to get in about our кукурузник plane powered by a generator delayed by a boat, and they’ll just say, oh yeah, we figured as much.

Sure enough. I call Cori to tell her I’m waiting for my wheelie bag to be dumped in the gangway, and explain the delays.

Cori: Well, it IS you – this doesn’t surprise us. At all.

Let this be a warning to the rest of you – if you see me at the airport, you might want to rethink your travel plans…..

The Portland Pattypan Gods speak?

2011-09-19T12:22:00.007-05:00

So once in a great while I like to head out of Chicago and share my greatness among the little people far and wide. After all, the gifts such as those I possess shouldn’t be contained within such a small area, n’est-ce pas? (that’s French for “Tasha, are you on crack again?”)

Thus, over Labor Day weekend, I decided to head out to grace the city of Portland, Oregon with my presence – to visit beloved CancerChick friend Kim, who lives there, and meet up with equally beloved CC Melinda, who was flying in from Ohio. In a fortuitous turn of events, I managed to get the very last ticket to Portland on United using my miles. Hmm, interesting. I mean really – they try to scare you on the website with the “there is ONE ticket remaining, buy now or you’re screwed!” thing – but in this case, it was true.

So off I went, whee! Kim came to pick up me and Melinda at the airport, and we head out to the parking garage, where I got the first indication that Portland exists in some weird time-space warp that is so unlike Chicago as to be scary. Or rather, it just confirmed how absolutely fucked up Chicago is.

Because we get to the garage-ticket-paying thing, and I pull out my wallet, ready to be the polite guest and pay for the stuff that our wonderful host wouldn’t incur if we hadn’t foisted ourselves on her. I figured it would be what, $26, maybe $28? You know, like in Chicago. And Kim had surely been there almost an hour.

We patiently wait for the machine to tell us the total owed.

$2. Yes, $2.

I promptly put away my wallet. “Hell, you can pay that!” I cheerfully say to Kim. I am nothing if not the most considerate of guests.

We then proceed to have one of the most amazing weekend ever, truly. I never laugh so much as when I’m with my CancerChicks. Katie joined us on Friday, and then Debbie came down from Seattle on Saturday, all of which led to us having the most amazing and brilliant conversations, replete with astonishingly wonderful ideas, like this one.

Me: Hey, we could totally do a doggy food truck here! Think about it, people would love it, especially since this is already food truck central! And we could have special things based around Kona and Lucy and Daisy.

Kim: Yeah, like….

Me, interrupting: I have it! Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies! Because everyone knows me as Miss Curmudgeonly, so it would all blend seamlessly, and….what?

I noticed that Melinda is looking at me with that long-suffering “Tasha you’re insane” look on her face.

Melinda: Umm…..do you realize that Kurmudgeonly Kona’s Kookies spells out……KKK?

Thank god I have my friends to save me from myself.

But the truly remarkable thing happened when we went out to dinner on Saturday night. The Portobello restaurant we wanted to go to was booked, so we went to another cute place, Café Haydn or something like that, which had an outdoor seating area under a beautiful gazebo. After we ordered our drinks, I noticed that they had a lawn area to the side, with gardens in raised beds, so I got up to wander over there and take a look.

I’m walking along, noticing the nicely trellised lemon cucumbers, the lack of tomato plants (sigh), the…….wait, what? Is….is that what I think it is????

“Oh my god, oh my god, give me my camera QUICK, before it disappears!” I’m practically hyperventilating as I bustle back to our table, waving my arms and demanding someone hand me my camera.

Melinda: What the heck did you find? A tomato?

Me, breathlessly: No!

Kim: A…….pattypan?

Me: YES!

I grab up the camera and run back, and lo and behold, the pattypan beauty is still there, perched on the railroad tie, like a beacon from heaven in all its glory. I swear I am not making any of this up. It’s bizarre. This lone lovely pattypan, right there at this random restaurant – when there’s not even a squash plant in sight, because I look closely.

Is it a sign? Is it one of many signs I’ve been getting, like my deciding to read the latest Outside magazine (which I never do), which names Portland as one of the top places to live? Actually, THE top one, right after Chattanooga (which, really, what the hell?)?

Would it be crazy to pack up and move to Portland in part based on a sign from a squash? Does the fact that the idea of moving from my sedate comfortable ordinary life scares me shitless mean I should just go ahead and do it? I have no idea.

We left the pattypan there, as I didn’t think it would be right to relegate it to an ordinary end, like being cut up and grilled. That seemed a bit….ignominious. Better to leave it in its exalted state, right where I found it.

Of course, no discussion about Portland would be complete without mention of Miss Lucy, Kim’s most adorable and wonderful pup. I’m happy to report that Kim runs a tight ship just as I do, ever the strict disciplinarian. Then there were the daily jaunts to Papaccino’s, the best coffee shop EVER, and the trip to Breadquarters, aka home of Prisoner Bread, and last but not least, the visit to the incredible rose garden, which wowed even me, aka someone who’s generally ambivalent about roses.

Portland – Chicago – Portland – Chicago. Hmm. I need more signs. Off to the store now to get alphabet soup – I will report back. Though I kinda feel like god or fate or whatever is out there is right now saying "Oh for chrissake, now you want words written in alphabet soup??? I gave you a fucking PATTYPAN, wasn't that enough?? You people!"

Oh, and if I do move to Portland, I need insta-friends, so please, blogosphere, send some cool people my way. M’kay, thanks.

In honor and memory

2011-09-11T07:45:00.003-05:00

I was going to add some commentary here, but....no. Let this speak for itself.

From The Onion:

God Angrily Clarifies 'Don't Kill' Rule

September 26, 2001

NEW YORK—Responding to recent events on Earth, God, the omniscient creator-deity worshipped by billions of followers of various faiths for more than 6,000 years, angrily clarified His longtime stance against humans killing each other Monday.

"Look, I don't know, maybe I haven't made myself completely clear, so for the record, here it is again," said the Lord, His divine face betraying visible emotion during a press conference near the site of the fallen Twin Towers. "Somehow, people keep coming up with the idea that I want them to kill their neighbor. Well, I don't. And to be honest, I'm really getting sick and tired of it. Get it straight. Not only do I not want anybody to kill anyone, but I specifically commanded you not to, in really simple terms that anybody ought to be able to understand."

Worshipped by Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike, God said His name has been invoked countless times over the centuries as a reason to kill in what He called "an unending cycle of violence."

"I don't care how holy somebody claims to be," God said. "If a person tells you it's My will that they kill someone, they're wrong. Got it? I don't care what religion you are, or who you think your enemy is, here it is one more time: No killing, in My name or anyone else's, ever again."

The press conference came as a surprise to humankind, as God rarely intervenes in earthly affairs. As a matter of longstanding policy, He has traditionally left the task of interpreting His message and divine will to clerics, rabbis, priests, imams, and Biblical scholars. Theologians and laymen alike have been given the task of pondering His ineffable mysteries, deciding for themselves what to do as a matter of faith. His decision to manifest on the material plane was motivated by the deep sense of shock, outrage, and sorrow He felt over the Sept. 11 violence carried out in His name, and over its dire potential ramifications around the globe.

"I tried to put it in the simplest possible terms for you people, so you'd get it straight, because I thought it was pretty important," said God, called Yahweh and Allah respectively in the Judaic and Muslim traditions. "I guess I figured I'd left no real room for confusion after putting it in a four-word sentence with one-syllable words, on the tablets I gave to Moses. How much more clear can I get?"

"But somehow, it all gets twisted around and, next thing you know, somebody's spouting off some nonsense about, 'God says I have to kill this guy, God wants me to kill that guy, it's God's will,'" God continued. "It's not God's will, all right? News flash: 'God's will' equals 'Don't murder people.'"

Worse yet, many of the worst violators claim that their actions are justified by passages in the Bible, Torah, and Qur'an.

"To be honest, there's some contradictory stuff in there, okay?" God said. "So I can see how it could be pretty misleading. I admit it—My bad. I did My best to inspire them, but a lot of imperfect human agents have misinterpreted My message over the millennia. Frankly, much of the material that got in there is dogmatic, doctrinal bullshit. I turn My head for a second and, suddenly, all this stuff about homosexuality gets into Leviticus, and everybody thinks it's God's will to kill gays. It absolutely drives Me up the wall."

God praised the overwhelming majority of His Muslim followers as "wonderful, pious people," calling the perpetrators of the Sept. 11 attacks rare exceptions.

"This whole medieval concept of the jihad, or holy war, had all but vanished from the Muslim world in, like, the 10th century, and with good reason," God said. "There's no such thing as a holy war, only unholy ones. The vast majority of Muslims in this world reject the murderous actions of these radical extremists, just like the vast majority of Christians in America are pissed off over those two bigots on The 700 Club."

Continued God, "Read the book: 'Allah is kind, Allah is beautiful, Allah is merciful.' It goes on and on that way, page after page. But, no, some assholes have to come along and revive this stupid holy-war crap just to further their own hateful agenda. So now, everybody thinks Muslims are all murderous barbarians. Thanks, Taliban: 1,000 years of pan-Islamic cultural progress down the drain."

God stressed that His remarks were not directed exclusively at Islamic extremists, but rather at anyone whose ideological zealotry overrides his or her ability to comprehend the core message of all world religions.

"I don't care what faith you are, everybody's been making this same mistake since the dawn of time," God said. "The Muslims massacre the Hindus, the Hindus massacre the Muslims. The Buddhists, everybody massacres the Buddhists. The Jews, don't even get me started on the hardline, right-wing, Meir Kahane-loving Israeli nationalists, man. And the Christians? You people believe in a Messiah who says, 'Turn the other cheek,' but you've been killing everybody you can get your hands on since the Crusades."

Growing increasingly wrathful, God continued: "Can't you people see? What are you, morons? There are a ton of different religious traditions out there, and different cultures worship Me in different ways. But the basic message is always the same: Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Shintoism... every religious belief system under the sun, they all say you're supposed to love your neighbors, folks! It's not that hard a concept to grasp."

"Why would you think I'd want anything else? Humans don't need religion or God as an excuse to kill each other—you've been doing that without any help from Me since you were freaking apes!" God said. "The whole point of believing in God is to have a higher standard of behavior. How obvious can you get?"

"I'm talking to all of you, here!" continued God, His voice rising to a shout. "Do you hear Me? I don't want you to kill anybody. I'm against it, across the board. How many times do I have to say it? Don't kill each other anymore—ever! I'm fucking serious!"

Upon completing His outburst, God fell silent, standing quietly at the podium for several moments. Then, witnesses reported, God's shoulders began to shake, and He wept.

Asshole like me

2011-09-09T16:28:00.005-05:00

Those who don’t know me well might think I’m seriously curmudgeonly and mean in real life. That I snarl at kids, elbow aside the geriatric contingent as we’re all filing into Denny’s for the blue plate special, look for flies so that I can pull off their wings.

Be all of that as it may, I do try to live my life as a good person – and at this point, I can only say: what the fuck was I thinking? What was the point? I’ve recited my litany of woe and bad luck enough here such that I don’t feel like repeating it, because quite frankly, it’s pretty damn depressing. Suffice it to say that my friends call me Schleprock, and have honestly suggested that I find a shaman or someone else who can help try to remove the curse that’s been hovering over me for years.

But through it all, my sunny nature has managed to soldier on and assert itself. It’s not in my nature to be mean and bitchy, though god knows I’ve tried. I’ve left notes for myself: “Be bitchy!” Yet somehow it never takes, kind of like my attempt to take up smoking so that I’d have at least one vice that would make sense with the cancer history. Nope, no luck with that either, sad to say.

But now? I'm done. Now with my rage and depression having no bounds, I’m finding that being bitchy is coming a bit more naturally. To those who don’t understand why I’m taking the garden thing so hard – though I think most people do – part of it is because it’s been one crappy tomato growing season after another these last years. Let’s start with 2008, though the years before that were supremely crappy too, mostly due to a horrible garden plot out by my mom’s in Huntley, a plot that was replenished every year with “mulch” from Stan’s House of Toxic Garden Stuff thanks to the Sun City gardening committee.

But 2008 – that might have been okay if not for that pesky cancer thing and, more importantly, the brain injury that had me not quite knowing what a garden was exactly. So the tomatoes fell by the wayside. 2009 was the Year Without a Summer. 2010, I went on the GAA (Great Alpian Adventure) in August, and missed the prime harvest weeks. This year though – ah, this year. I refused to go out of town for all of August, and there were tons of tomatoes, and there were still tons to be had because it was a late growing season.

Not to mention all the work that went into my garden. Those who think it’s fine for people to steal things from community gardens apparently think that gardening is an easy endeavor, just throw some seeds down and things grow like magic. Never mind the backbreaking work for months on end – especially this year when there was such crappy weather in spring that things needed to be replanted 2 or 3 times.

Plus I don’t get the “it’s okay if they were stolen by someone who was hungry and really needed them” mentality. I’ll remind those folks of that if they’re ever robbed, that the thieves must have simply needed their stuff more than they did. That’s okay, right?

So! Point being, I am now embracing my new life as Bitchy Person.

This means that all the things that once came naturally will be no more, from the basic to the more complicated. Holding doors open for people? Bam! Let their lazyass selves learn to fend for themselves. It’s a cruel world out there, folks. Open your own fucking doors.

No more letting people with just a few items get in front of me in the checkout line. What am I, the lowly paean to your kingly self? I don’t think so.

I will embrace asshole driving. Now I drive….assertively, shall we say. But I’m not one of those clowns who cuts people off or on the highway goes over to the on ramp in order to scoot ahead a few cars. Yep, now that’ll be me as well.

No volunteering at food pantries, or donating food to them in general. No volunteering for anything – what am I, Mother Fricking Teresa? Sheesh. I’ve got things to do here, people.

No more chit-chatting with random people, like the good folks of Iowa. Well, okay, I might still chat – but I’ll be glaring at them as I do it, a fulminating glare no less.

No spare change to the Streetwise guys, ever. I’ll become a lousy tipper – 15% and not a penny above. If there are free samples somewhere, I’ll be one of the cretins who load up completely, not leaving anything for anyone else. Hell, maybe I’ll take up extreme couponing, and start clearing shelves with aplomb? A girl can dream.

No more being so gosh darn nice about things, like today when I was stuck waiting for a prescription that should have been ready. Oh sure, I might have said “no problem” when the pharmacist apologized, but I said it with a steely edge that I’m sure will impact her for weeks.

Okay, so I’m sure I’ll still stop on my bike rides to help turtles across the road, even if they’re massive ungrateful snapping turtles that try to bite my wrist off. That’s just their nature, unlike people, who have a choice as to whether they’re going to steal someone’s months of hard work and labor from their garden.

I am also already formulating my Garden Protection Plan for next year, if I even do bother having a garden. Yes, this is the first year, after the last 9 years of crazy tomato growing and crappy seasons, that I’m seriously considering packing it in. But if I do garden again, you can be sure that somehow, some way……the Clanging Monkey Toy of Doom will be involved. Beware.

Garden, interrupted

2011-09-08T00:03:00.007-05:00

My first post back after my long hiatus was going to be about my finding a group of cyclists I can hang with – that would be the Sun City Cycle Club, i.e. the octogenarian set. Then I was going to write about my most amazing awesome time in Portland, OR with my beloved Cancerchicks, Kim and Melinda, and we were also joined by Katie and Debbie for part of the time as well. I couldn’t love these girls more than if they were actual sisters.

Then there might have been something about the magnificence of The Kone, then more training tips for the little people, and so on.

But all of that came to a screeching halt today, when I went out to my garden in Skokie for the first time since getting back from Oregon. The last time I was out there was last Tuesday, and at the time there were so many tomatoes, billions of them, that I pleaded with my Tomatoettes to go there and pick some so that they wouldn’t rot on the vine. Even though I was going out there every 2-3 days to pick them, there were still billions. So many that I gave baskets to friends, my doctors, charity auctions, neighbors, my mom and all her friends, the folks at Starbucks, and so on.

We’re talking a lot of tomatoes.

The pattypans, I have to say, were an underperforming lot, but there were a couple of those, and a few zucchini too. But the tomatoes, the glorious tomatoes! Ah, they were beautiful. Literally hundreds of pounds of them, waiting to be picked.

And so they were. But not by me.

Because I went out there today, and as I was walking closer I thought hmm, how odd that I don’t see millions of tomatoes as I usually do. Then I got to the plot, and saw….nothing. Not a single fucking tomato. No ripe ones….no green ones even. The plants were completely stripped bare, and it looked like the lazy POS scum-sucking douchebags just clipped the vines, as I guess that was easier than picking them individually.

I wandered up and down every row, in shock. Noticed that the zucchini and pattypan plants were trampled, and of course, no squash. But the tomatoes! I should have been picking tomatoes for the next 2 months if the weather had cooperated, but now? Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s all gone.

While I usually don’t see anyone when I go there, today there were a couple of women from the neighboring plots – one of them was sweet and offered me some of her tomatoes, and the other almost got her head cleaved open by a shovel wielded by yours truly. Because quite frankly, when you’re totally devastated like that, the following platitudes aren’t helpful:

“That’s the risk of a community garden”
“Gosh, I’ve already picked so many this year, I don’t know what to do with them any more!”
“I just love gardening, it’s a fun hobby for me” – after I mentioned how much hard work and time and money I had put into the garden

Because yes, the risk of a community garden is that some lazy-asses come and take stuff, but we’re talking taking a few things, not an entire garden plot of stuff. And yes, I’ve picked a lot already, but I should have been able to pick a hell of a lot more. And yes, I too love gardening, but I also like enjoying the fruits of my labor, dammit. You know, after spending months growing plants, hundreds of hours planting and weeding, thousands of dollars on supplies.

I should have been able to enjoy my own fucking tomatoes. Even if I just gave them away.

And now I can’t. And for that, I hate people. I hope you tomato thieves burn in a fiery hell, slowly and painfully. I hope you’re cursed by the money you made selling my tomatoes. I hope your lives become like one long Stephen King novel, where the clanging monkey toy portends all kinds of doom.

As for me, I’m going to go cry now; my sadness at the garden destruction is overwhelming. I put my heart and soul into my garden - it's one of the few bits of happiness in my life. To me happy is The Kone, riding my bike, friends and family, the garden. Because I sure as shit don't have a hell of a lot else going for me. And now the garden.....is gone. And did I also mention that now the IRS is saying that they made a “mistake” in the papers they gave me before, and now I supposedly owe them over twice as much? Yep, happy happy joy joy.

If I ever have anything resembling the slightest bit of luck some day, the shock of it might truly kill me.

The Year of the.....what??

2011-08-15T11:38:00.010-05:00

I knew that after the glorious conclusion of the exalted RAGBRAI, it would be too hard to go back to cold harsh reality in one fell swoop. So, forward-thinking person that I am, I made plans to go to the Indiana State Fair with some of the Cancerchicks, namely Cori and The Rack, Melindy, and Angela, who actually lives in Indy and on whose doorstep we’d be showing up.

Now, I knew that this year’s State Fair would have a tough time living up to the Glory Year, that is the Year of the Tomato, in 2009. Ah, I remember it as if it were yesterday – the world seemed a shinier, happier place, bright with optimism and hope. Yes, we can!

But then, tomatoes have that effect on people, being the fun, whimsical, even jaunty little fellows they are. Who doesn’t love a tomato, really? Other than Communists, that is. So clearly that year they had a lot to work with, the State Fair Decorating Committee. And decorate they did! Everywhere you looked, tomatoes! Tomato plants tucked into planters, tomato sculptures, tomato needlepoint, tomato souvenirs – I still cherish my tomato coin bank and tomato coaster.

Thus, you can imagine that I was a bit skeptical when I read that this year was going to be the Year of the Drab Soybean. What the heck can you do with a soybean?? But I thought, those Indianans are a crafty, wily bunch, and they’ve had years of experience with this. I’m sure they’ll come up with something.

So off Cori and I went in her Taylor-Swiftmobile, still cheekily decorated after she took her daughter to the concert the night before (aka “Honk if you love T-Swift!”), into the warp in the time-space continuum that is I-65 that goes from Chicago to Indianapolis. Consider yourselves warned when you too travel this route, that the actual miles driven twist and expand somehow so that 3 hours seems like 9, and every 50 miles seems like an eternity. If I’m ever told I have just a week to live, I’m going to spend that week driving back and forth on I-65….because it will seem like I’m living forever.

We do finally make it, lo after some 5 days of driving, and hie ourselves off to the fair, where my first mission is to find some kind of food-on-a-stick, the staple of all fair food. But first, pictures! There to greet us in all his soybean glory is Bennie the Bean, so of course we seize upon this photo opportunity, and Melinda posts the pic of the 2 of us on Facebook.

The reaction is immediate.

Kim: Umm, why are you guys posing with a boob?

Jan: I’m with Kim – that really does look like a boobie!

Me and Melinda, in unison: We know.

Things continue along in this vein, with us taking pictures and our worldwide fans exclaiming at how this year’s theme seems to be designed just for us! The only thing better than the beans are the beaver shots we’re taking for Angie. Apparently Montreal is the beaver capital of the world or something. Who knew?

It’s pretty obvious though that the poor State Fair Decorators became a little disheartened and discouraged by the task at hand. Again, tomatoes = jaunty and fun. Soybeans = staid and bean-like. Drab, even! The little rotunda in the middle of the fair that was so cheerfully festooned 2 years ago with tomato memorabilia is a mere shadow of its former self. We go into one of the buildings and the crowd is clustered around the – what else – Red Gold tomato booth, clamoring for a bit of cheer and extravaganza. I discuss the situation with the Red Gold guy behind their counter.

Me: Ah, tomatoes. No wonder you guys are being mobbed – not much competition there with the soybean, eh?

Red Gold Guy: Everyone does love a tomato.

Me: Yes, I fondly remember the glory days from 2 years ago, the Year of the Tomato at the fair.

RGG: Sigh, I was here for that. It was magnificent.

Me: It was, wasn’t it? I feel bad for the poor folks tasked with the soybean decorations. There’s not much there to work with, is there….

RGG, diplomatically: Soybeans are…..challenging.

The day continues in typical fashion. We make fun of Cori for buying salad on a stick, which consists of basically lettuce. I break a child’s heart by winning the squirt gun game, even after he has his mother whispering tips into his ear. “Aim high!” Alrighty then, lady. There are no whimsical soybean coin banks. No coasters. No tomato plants growing the Nipsy Russell. The best we can find are buttons that proclaim this the year of the soybean, and when I pin it to my shirt I look like I have a third boob. You can tell that even the can sculpture people were gripped by malaise, nay despair. For Tomato Year, the Canstruction exhibit had the most amazing things made out of cans: ferris wheels! The Starship Enterprise!

This year? A truck. A box. No really, a box. Not that I blame them.

Still, we do what we can, and head over to the Pioneer Farm area to see what kind of a ruckus we can stir up. This is the kind of place where I always get myself into trouble – and today is no exception.

Because of course the first thing I make a beeline to is a stand where two adorable urchins in gingham dresses are selling…..something. Turns out it’s sorghum. What the hell is sorghum, you ask? Even now, I have no idea.

Me, to genuine farmer standing there at the booth too: What do you use sorghum for?

Farmer, who starts channeling Forrest Gump: Oh, lots of things! You can put it on pancakes, or on cornbread, or on toast. Goes with apples, or bananas, or even pears. Peaches! Bananas, melon…..here, we’ve got a sheet that tells you all the things you can do with sorghum.

Me: Do you make all of it yourself?

Farmer: Ayup.

Me: Well, I...

Farmer: Got lot of vitamins and minerals too, nothing better for your health....

Sigh. How can I look at these jars with the little homemade labels on them proudly pronouncing that this is sorghum from Pumphrey’s Farm, and not buy some? I can’t, of course, so off goes a jar of sorghum into my bag, to add to the whipped honey and all the other homemade stuff I’ve bought. Which is one of the reasons I love the IN State Fair so much – they have actual vendors like this, rather than the WI State Fair which just seems to have a lot of people selling sham-wows and the like.

(Though it’s perhaps a bit telling that later, back in Huntley, when I try to pawn the sorghum off on my mom by acting as if I was all generous and such in buying it for her, she’s having none of it: “Sorghum? What the heck is that?” Again, sigh.)

We manage to leave the fair having partaken of an inadequate amount of fried food, though all were in agreement that the fried green tomatoes (of course!) were the best. That evening at Angela’s, we have tomato sandwiches (of course!), which are delicious, and then sadly, Cori and start heading back to IL the next day.

Where we see for ourselves just how cursed I-65 is. Because I glance over at one point, and see what appears to be a burned out truck, over on the far

shoulder. Then we see two police cars blocking off the road. Then we see a backup of cars. Which turns out to be…….Twelve. Miles. Long. And there’s an exit right before the accident where cars are being funneled off, but the next exit isn’t until 10 miles away, and there’s no one there telling these poor people that they should get off NOW before they get stuck for hours.

Because I look this up on Cori’s iPad…….and that road has been closed since 3:45AM. And it’s now 1PM. Nine. Fucking. Hours.

Oh my god.

And it’s still closed.

And I’m getting confused trying to find THIS story because there’s a story about another accident on

I-65 that happened on Wednedsay, aka the day we were headed down to Indianapolis – and that one shut down I-65 for about 11 hours.

And we missed that by about 15 minutes.

Oh. My. God.

Both of those accidents happened at a point where traffic was slowing down due to construction, or where traffic was moving down to one lane, and a

truck plowed into those who had slowed down so heed these words – if you’re ever traveling on I-65 and

traffic slows, be looking into your rearview mirror and be prepared to bolt off the road, just in case. Apparently there’s something about the stupor of driving on I-65 that makes people forget that oh yeah, I might have to slow down or stop at some point. Then of course Saturday night was the horrible and tragic stage collapse at the IN State Fair – so I’m kind of feeling like Cori and I somehow left a trail of calamity in our wake.

We did manage to bring joy and happiness to one small corner of Indiana, however – this was when we stopped at the Fair Oaks Dairy, to break up our 10-hour car ride back home. This place is known for its homemade ice cream and cheese, though I’ve never seen the actual making of the cheese. This time though there was an actual convict-looking person behind the glass in the dairy-making section, so I guess that’s a start.

Anyway! We’re perusing the cheeses, and a chipper young man is peddling cheese samples: “Try some cheese! Gouda! Gouda is known to help fight cancer, so get some cheese and prevent cancer!”

Cori and I look at each other, grinning.

Me: Sorry, it’s too late.

Cori: We both have had cancer. What can cheese do for us?

He looks stumped for a moment. But then:

“Get your cheese here! Help prevent a second round of cancer!”

We then suggest that they should wrap the cheese up in pink and pink ribbons and really push the cancer-fighting thing, and the girl behind the cheese counter loves this idea.

“Hey, that’s a great idea! Especially in October or whatever month it is, we can do a whole display of pink! Really push the cheese and the cancer thing! Omg, that’s brilliant! I should SO get a raise for thinking of this! Where’s our manager? Hey, I should get a raise for this great idea I came up with!”

Thankfully the deliciousness of the cheese and subsequent ice cream makes Cori and I forget the fact that our idea has been stolen and we’ve been shuttled off to the side, like chopped liver. But if you stop at the Fair Oaks Dairy in October and it’s a vision in pink, well, you’ll know why….

Afterthoughts

2011-08-10T09:30:00.001-05:00

We load up the car, and Ann and I set off for home, with her having changed out of her cycling clothes, and me, not.

Ann: Aren’t you dying to get out of your bike shorts?

Me: No, I think at this point I’ve become one with my shorts. It’s all very zen. Plus, I’m too damn tired to bother. And I’m just so glad to be not on a bike, that what I’m wearing doesn’t even matter. Ah, bliss.

That night, I unpack my stuff at my mom’s, as I contemplate calling in a hazmat team for my dirty clothes, which have been added to a plastic garbage bag all week. In the heat and sun. To the point that now, I think they’re composting.

I then pick up The Kone, for a joyous reunion, and head to bed. Round about 7PM. Hey, what’s wrong with that??

The next morning

6AM

The Kone has clearly become unaccustomed to our usual routine, which dictates that HRH sleeps in as long as Momma sleeps, so I get up early to take him out. Amazingly enough, I step outside and yes, my immediate thought is this: hey, it’s a perfect day for a bike ride! Really. Not hot yet, not at all windy, some cloud cover. Of course, I can only muster up the energy for Kona’s walkie, so I tuck this thought away and go back to bed.

I don't think I could bike another mile if my life depended on it.

9AM

I deliberately cut up my bagel with cream cheese and lox into small pieces so that I can eat it with a fork, careful to not have it touch my puffy and burnt lower lip, and then after finishing this exhausting feat, I slump my head over to rest it wearily on my arms. So. Tired. And. Exhausted.

Mom: So would you ever do this ride again?

My head pops up in surprise. “Well of course, why wouldn’t I?”

My head goes thunking back down to the table, as I mumble “of course next time I’ll train by putting my bike in a sauna, and camping out in the backyard in a sweltering tent with someone blowing an airhorn into my ear at regular intervals. Oh, and nothing but slushies as fuel. Yep, I’ll be so ready. And pie. Lots of pie……”

* * * * * * * * * *

To speak of RAGBRAI as if we were hot on the trail of world peace out there, well, maybe that’s not quite so. And yet. There was something heartwarming and amazing to see, about this incredible sea of tens of thousands of people doing what they love, riding their bikes, through these small Iowa towns that went all out to greet us, putting an incredible amount of effort into this. Everyone got involved, from the church ladies baking their pies and cinnamon rolls, to the fire stations cooking up pancakes and burgers, to the American Legion and other groups, being so sweet and tolerant about all these sweaty, stinky cyclists in their midst.

Then there were all the people who sat out there with their sprinklers going for us to ride through, the kids handing out Freezer-pops as we rode by, the massive flags put up in every town to soar above us, and even the Iowa State Patrol manning the intersections, who all had music blasting from their cars. Rock on, Iowa State Police!

I filled out my survey form for RAGBRAI, and when they asked if there was anything I’d improve or anything I thought wasn’t great, I couldn’t think of a thing. I know, me! The mind reels. The only annoyance was in the cyclists who refused to ride right and created dangerous situations at times – but I’m not sure what else the ride organizers could do about that other than reminding people oh, say, constantly, as they did. You just can’t fix stupid.

I’m not quite sure what I’ll remember most about the week, because it was such a blur of insane heat and humidity and yet total awesomeness. But one memory that does stand out is this – after I had stopped in one of our pass-through towns and was pressing on, I was doing my usual routine, of looking at the houses to see if there was anyone sitting out front that I could wave to, as there often was. Then I saw an elderly woman looking through the curtains at the spectacle outside her house, and so I waved to her. As soon as she saw me, she waved back, as excitedly as if the Pope himself were riding past. That is, if the Pope were a complete idiot, which apparently he’s not because I didn’t see him riding across Iowa the last week of July.

I’ll also think about how amazing it is that something like this can bring in much-needed cash to these small towns, as so many of these groups were raising money for things like a new roof for the church, equipment for the firefighters, a trip for the band. All great things that I was happy to support, just as I always tried to buy things from local sellers rather than some of the places that set up at every festival or country fair. This led me to trying smoked grilled peaches in Colfax, and a most excellent sno-kone in Elkhart, and buying more water and popsicles than a person should be allowed in a lifetime.

And yes, it was insanely hot and humid. Crazily so. This was in fact the 2nd hottest RAGBRAI week in the 39 years that this ride has been going on. But really, that just made it more epic - plus, I'd rather have insane heat any day over rain. Not only is rain sucky and dangerous for the cyclists, but it would have been horrible for all the townspeople to have all their efforts rained out. So heat? Yeah, bring it.

Something like this can’t really compare to the majesty of cycling in the Alps, or in the lush countryside of Mallorca – but then, it isn’t a fair comparison. RAGBRAI is indeed unique, and it stands on its own merits. If you love cycling and country roads and, well, all kinds of Americana in the unlikeliest of places, then this is the ride for you. And if it restores your faith in humanity a little tiny bit along the way, so be it.

And in the end, what’s the only way I can sum it all up? Yep, you guessed it.

Best. Week. Ever.

Davenport or bust!

2011-08-09T19:27:00.005-05:00

Saturday

Whee, here we are, Saturday, and it’s time to pack up the tent one last time. Anyone who doesn’t understand the pure joy of that has never been camping for a week – in a different spot every night.

I tell Ann I’ll meet up with her in the town of West Branch, Land of Superlative French Toast, and off I go.

For the rest of my life, I’ll have a love-hate relationships with this small town in Iowa. Because it’s here that my superstar camera, which survived the calamitous fall from my bike at 40 mph, decides to stop working after I take a picture of a house and some flowers. Damn.

And yet, it is here, in this same small bucolic town that I meet a fine couple, the Petersens, who finally are able to show me what Iowa is all about.

That is, lying.

Okay, okay, maybe not. But this is how things unfold. I find the French toast church, and am gratified to see a long line, especially since this place is a block off the main street, and let’s face it, us cyclists, we’re a lazy bunch. Bike 500 miles across Iowa? Sure, but don’t expect us to walk a few feet to the other water fountain or porta-potty.

So I’m standing in line, and start chatting with this lovely couple in line ahead of me, who are in town to pick up their brilliant daughter. Why brilliant? Well, because she started the ride the day before, and after the long hot brutishness of that day, decided to have her parents pick her up in West Branch instead of slogging the rest of the way to Davenport. Hell, if I could get someone to do that for me, I probably would as well.

We’re talking, and then their daughter shows up, and she’s lovely as well, and after we get our food they invite me to join them at a table, which I do. Where the Petersen daughter (I don’t think I ever got her name – if I did I don’t remember it!) tells us that this heat in Iowa is worse than any time during the 2 years she was in the Peace Corps……..in Kenya. Yes, that’s how hot it is.

These are instantly my favorite people in the world, because really, what’s better than someone who validates your notion that you’ve been suffering more than anyone in the entire history of the world has suffered, that very week as you’ve sweated your way across an entire state in the grips of a massive and unrelenting heat wave? Nope, nothing better. I’m just sayin’.

And then Mr. Petersen makes the inevitable comment, as we start talking about the rest of that day’s route into Davenport.

“Oh, it’s not hilly from here on out.”

I look at him skeptically. Any and everyone who’s told us this during the week has been a) wrong, or b) delusional.

“I’m skeptical,” I tell him.

“No really! I promise! Oh sure, there are a few rollers, but that’s it, at least until you get into Davenport.”

Hmm. I want to believe them, I really do, but I’ve been burned sooo many times before. Still, they do invite me to stop on by if RAGBRAI ever goes through their own town of West Liberty – “we’re in the phone book!” they tell me. So at least if they’re lying I can track them down and have words.

Of course, they can track me down as well, since I tell them about my blog, but I assure them that any reference to "Iowa" and "hell" in the same sentence relates ONLY to the heat.

Which is true.

But I look at their nice, genuine, open faces and am lulled into a false sense of security. Plus, these wonderful people have watched me as I cut up my orange slices into small pieces and carefully ate them without having anything touch my lower lip - as I explain to them “Ah buhnt ma wower wip” – and are too polite to tell me that I’m completely retarded. So that’s a big plus in my book.

That is, until I set out again, and not 5 minutes later? Yes, a big hill. I shake my head sadly. “Et tu, Mr. Petersen, et tu??” I ponder what it is about the Iowa heartland that causes this kind of rampant fibbing – is it learned as children, when they’re describing how tall the corn is? The Margaret Mead in me wants to study this further, to get at the root cause of this proflig……oh. Oh, never mind. It’s flat all of a sudden. Thanks Mr. Petersen!

Iowa has one last kick in the teeth for us, however, in the form of a fierce headwind, the entire way back. Thank god there are still fun stops along the way, like the lovely town of Walcott, where I sit down next to the hand-carved glockenspiel to listen to some festive German music and rest my feet. I get into a discussion with a woman from the providers of said glockenspiel, the American Schleswig-Holstein Heritage Society, as she’s surprised that so many cyclists are so fascinated by this.

Me: Well, not only is it cool-looking and has fun music…but you’re also set up nicely in the shade here! That’s in great demand these days.

Woman: Oh, then I guess it’s a good thing we moved it from where they originally put it, out there by the ball field in the blazing sun.

Me: Trust me, that was an excellent idea.

Then I notice that I have a message from Adrienne, who wants me to call Melindy to make sure everything is okay, since our Cancerchicks haven’t heard from her since the night before. Which leads to probably the only time I’ll ever have a chance to say this in a conversation:

Me, to Melindy (who’s fine): Hey, it’s Tasha! I’m still in Iowa! Sorry it’s kind of hard to hear, but I’m sitting right next to the glockenspiel!

Eventually, after sitting there for a while and bobbing my head in time to the music along with everyone else, I set off again for Davenport. Where yes, it does get hilly again, but we’re almost at the end! Whee! But, boo. But, whee! But……wait. Shit, is that something wrong with my bike? It’s suddenly shifting like molasses, slow and clunky. Do NOT tell me there’s something wrong with my bike just 2 miles from the finish? I keep looking down, puzzled, trying to figure out what’s going on. Then I realize.

It’s so hot the tar is melting.

On that oh-so-appropriate note, I toodle on into Davenport, where our route takes us right to the riverbank, to dunk our tire in the Mississippi. Which I figure I might as well do, since I’m here and all. I do, and it’s pretty cool, and then more thanks to Mr. Petersen reminding me that St. Ambrose University is at the top of a big hill that’s around 12 blocks long. Because that’s where the charter company is dropping off our stuff, and so instead I get directions directly to the parking garage where I left my car a week ago.

Which takes me along the bike path that meanders along the river, and is a lovely way to end the week…..until another RAGBRAI cyclist heads into the path right in front of me. I do what’s usually considered the helpful thing in such circumstances – I scream – and she lurches out of the way.

Her, weakly: Heh heh, sorry about that….

Me: It’s okay. It’s been a really loooong week…..

Her: Yeah, and can you imagine if it would have ended like this, an accident at the very end…

Me:………on the bike path no less!

We both laugh, a little maniacally. Ah, the camaraderie of RAGBRAI lives on.

Ann did not have the benefit of the Petersens, and so after I get the car and happily drive up the hill to St. Ambrose, I meet up with her there some time later, cursing the route that ended on a big uphill. There’s clearly something to be said for chatting with the locals….

Next up: the aftermath….

Bikemageddon

2011-08-09T16:24:00.006-05:00

Friday

Clearly Ann and I peaked at around Day 2 or 3, because now, Day 6, we’re lucky if we hit the road by 6:30AM. Slackers. Generally I’ll set out, then Ann catches up with me as I stop to take pictures of yet more sunset-over-cornfields, or big cows, or other points of interest. This works out well, as we meet up in the first town and divide tasks, as we do when we hit the town of Brooklyn. She sets off for the biscuits and gravy line, while I go in search of kringla, yet another Scandinavian treat that’s popular in Iowa.

Or so they say. My befuddled mind doesn’t question this at the time, but I wonder if that’s part of the RAGBRAI planning?

RAGBRAI planning meeting in Brooklyn, Iowa

Mayor: Ayup then folks, we all know how dem der cyclists like the kitschy odd things, like windmills and such. Too late to put up a windmill, eh – so hows ‘bout some kind of weird Danish food? A cookie or

sumthin’?

Bill the Town Event Planner: I procured this dusty cookbook tome from the library: “101 obscure Danish Delights for Every Iowan Kountry Kitchen”!

Mayor: Let’s have a look see. Hmm. You betcha. Oked-dokey den, write out a bunch of these on the “who’ll be mayor next” dartboard, and we’ll pick one out that way. Ayup, the old-fashioned way.

Hence, kringla. Of course, I have no idea why the good people of Iowa are suddenly speaking in some kind of pidgin-Canadian patois, but as I’ve said many a time before, I am here merely as a scribe, recording things exactly as they happen. Mine is not to question why.

And besides, who am I to argue with buttery homemade cookies?

* * * * * * * *

When we regroup, Ann also posits the theory that there are some kind of RAGBRAI clinics for kids and other volunteers, where they’re taught the fine art of salesmanship. Because the biscuits-and-gravy girl did a damn fine job of shepherding hungry cyclists to her people’s booth, with a “Get your biscuits and gravy, over HERE, not THERE! Right THIS way!” As Ann and others obediently complied.

I try to get to the bottom of this later, but am only told that there are some kind of “workshops” where the RAGBRAI people talk about food safety and such. Hmm. Who knew that all those 4H activities could turn farm kids into such excellent and convincing salespeople?

* * * * * * * *

In pretty much every town I wind up having a conversation with some of the local folks – I’m just chatty that way. Plus my research-driven mind wants an answer to the burning question: what exactly do Iowans think of RAGBRAI? Pain-in-the-ass or strange-but-cool spectacle? Or both? Generally, the people I speak to seem to think that the ride is a positive thing, the cyclists are nice and well-behaved, etc. Then of course they ask me the unanswerable question, especially when they find out this is my first RAGBRAI:

Nice Iowan folk: Oh, your first one! So how do you like it?

Me, as I’m collapsed in a sweaty heap next to them: It’s both miserable and hellish – I’ve never been so hot in my entire life….

….then adding:

“….but it’s also the most amazing, cool thing EVER! I love it! I’ll definitely be back next year!”

I think I leave quite a few people (including myself) questioning my sanity.

This is also the day I FINALLY enjoy the wonder that is the walking taco. It’s so excellent that I decide I’m going to steal the idea and make it my own. No one from Illinois has ever heard of it, so why not? Soon, at a festival near you: Miss Tasha’s Glorious Traipsing Taco! You heard it here first, kids….

* * * * * * * *

Strangest question I hear today: “Is that a mole?”

This throws me for a few seconds. Do I have a mole on the back of my neck or something? And if I do, whose business is it of anyone? WTH! What an odd question! Then I remember….the sloth! Ah! Poor little Slowpoke gets no respect. A mole indeed. Hmph.

* * * * * * * *

I have to say, this concept of sticking the longest day on the Friday of the week – well, not the most brilliant, if I do say so myself. Oh sure, it’s only something like 78 miles, a pittance, but at this point? Yeah, everything hurts. I’m tired. Dehydrated. And my feet are KILLING me! I’ve had this hot foot problem as long as I’ve been cycling longer distances, whereby my feet burn and feel like they’re going to burst into flames, then get so hot and painful that I have to get off my bike and massage my feet.

On RAGBRAI, it’s so bad that the feet start hurting pretty much when I start out for the day. I start taking off my shoes and walking in socks through the towns, to stretch my feet out a bit. Nothing helps. It’s a tough call as to what hurts most on this ride – my hands, my feet, my butt? WHO again thought this was a good idea? Other cyclists are getting a bit punchy too. At one farm where a bunch of us are camped out in the shade, the question "I wonder if there's a shorter route?" brings the response "Yeah - by car." Which has us all in paroxysms of laughter. We're an easily amused bunch these days.

That night while at the campsite in Coralville, someone is walking around handing out flyers with a map of West Branch, our first pass-through town for the next day. In addition to the map, there’s a flyer for French toast being sold by some church – “the best French toast in the world!” Or maybe it said in Iowa. Iowa County. Okay, maybe in West Branch. At that church. Whatever. I admire the marketing push, so I make sure to put the French toast church on my mental agenda.

That night after my cold-water shower in a communal shower room with no lighting, I’m almost gleeful. One last night of camping! This whole pack-up-your-stuff-every-morning routine is getting a bit old. Note to self: next time, bring along Camping Sherpa to do all that stuff for me, or cultivate cycling friends with an RV…..

Heat, sweat......and pie

2011-08-07T21:17:00.004-05:00

Thursday

Mind over matter. It’s all a matter of attitude, and yes, even though this is day 5 of little sleep on a sticky air mattress and biking in heat indices of 125 or so – why, what’s wrong with that? Whee! I bound around the tent, getting ready, putting my various supplies in my back jersey pocket……or trying to……what the….oh. I have my jersey on inside out.

It’s going to be another long day.

* * * * * * * *

So this obsession with pie – not that that’s a bad thing mind you – is something to behold. I’ve learned, much to my amazement, that rhubarb pie is the big seller – unless you get to a town early on, it’ll all be sold out. Really, rhubarb? Where I come from, we treat that stuff like a weed, or like something you leave on neighbors’ doorsteps in the middle of the night. Here in RAGBRAI-land it’s a delicacy, which just goes to show you that you can get people to buy pretty much about anything.

And never let it be said that the townspeople don’t take this dedication to pie seriously, oh no. I quote from the Des Moines Register, which has a daily page dedicated to RAGBRAI:

Nine Churdan community organizations united to make the pie-tasting experience a reality for riders coming through. “They told us we needed pie, so we made pie,” Churdan Library Director Shari Minnehan said. “We were told it was an important part of the experience.”

Well. ‘Nuff said.

Today is another day with a lot of climbing, and as usual, it’s insanely hot and brutish. People are really starting to piss me off with their complete lack of understanding of the whole concept of “ride right.” It’s bad enough on straightaways, but on those screaming downhills where I blaze past most people, it’s unacceptable. Next time I’m going to attach a sign to my bike that says “I’m fat and I’m surly and I’m faster than you, so get the hell out of my way!” Plus I have a whole year to design the patented Leftiminator, which will be a Speed Racer-like device that will attach to the front of my bike somehow, whereby any left-riding miscreants will be summarily shoved out of the way by a large cudgel that will shoot out, clearing a path.

Oh sure, some cyclists might wind up in a ditch, say, or in traction, but my new motto is “if you’re not right, you’re not my problem.” Case closed.

But then as I’m thinking evil thoughts, I wind up in a bizarre conversation that has me shaking my head in befuddlement the rest of the day. There I am blitzing along (as opposed to toodling, because hey, it’s early in the day yet), when I hear a question seemingly directed at me:

Guy cyclist: Hey, did that wheelset come with that bike?

Me, puzzled: Who, mine? Why yes.

GC: Because that’s a really nice wheelset – really great. And you’re a really strong cyclist!

I have no idea what to say to any of this.

Me: Umm, thanks?

GC: Awesome wheelset! Those will last you a lifetime!

Me: God willing and the crick don’t rise!

Okay, I don’t really say that, but it’s what comes to mind for some reason. Is that what pickup lines sound like on RAGBRAI? “Hey, nice wheelset, baby!” Still shaking my head…..

Later that day is a visit to the Templeton Rye distillery, a listen to a great marching band in Mitchellville, a couple of pictures of Annabelle the Traveling Cow, a chat with a local lady about how beautiful her phlox are, and a purchase of popsicles from a couple of nuns, right in front of a gazebo where all the towns mailboxes are. In other words, a typical RAGBRAI kind of day.

Of course, my life would not be complete without at least one major mishap each day, so today’s is this: there I am blazing down a hill at around 40 mph, when we go over a bridge that has seams that aren’t quite as fitted as they should be. I see the people in front of me yell as they go over this bump, but it’s too late to slow so over I go too, and shit, there goes my camera! Damn damn damn.

I pull over, and am aided in my search by another cyclist who’s also pulled over because he lost his phone. We’re picking up various things – I’ve picked up a handful of AA batteries before I realize that hey, my camera doesn’t even take AA batteries. My compatriot, he comes up to me with his findings.

Other guy: Here, I grabbed your camera out of the way, and here, you also lost this.

He hands me a brand new bicycle tube, still in a box. I start laughing.

Me: Thanks, but…..that’s not mine.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Positive – mine is in a little bag under my seat. But here, do you want some AA batteries?

So my camera is rather crushed, but I’m more upset by the possibility that I might have lost my RAGBRAI photos than about the camera itself. I’ve found a camera card, but who knows if it’s mine or if it’ll still work? I cobble the camera back together, and damn, it doesn’t work.

Until it does. Yep, after several more tries, it decides to start working. Yay! This pretty much counts as a miracle in my book.

* * * * * * * *

One of the best roadside signs I see is the one that echoes our thoughts exactly as we’re nearing Grinnell, our next overnight town. Because as soon as you start getting close to any overnight town, you also wonder WHERE the heck is this damn place?? So the sign that says “Where the hell is Grinnell?” (2 miles ahead!) – that says it all right there.

That night, I find my bicycle cookies at Yumi’s Bakery, and then we head to the concert on Main Street, where I see the most awesome sign, which no one else finds unusual: “No firearms allowed in beverage garden!” I gently nudge a police officer aside so that I can get a good picture of it, and find out that if they hadn’t put that sign there, then people could carry their firearms around willy nilly. Who knew?

Friday is going to be our longest day, mileage-wise. Longest. Day. Whee?

RAGBRWYNLGASWYLL

2011-08-05T14:53:00.007-05:00

Aka the Register’s Annual Great Bike Ride Where You No Longer Give a Shit What You Look Like. From peeling yourself off the air mattress in the morning, to curling up into lumpen balls of sweat anywhere there’s a shady patch during the ride, to going for a swim in a pool in the overnight town then looking at the long line for a shower in a trickle of cold water in a communal room and thinking – ech, pool, shower, same diff. Clean enough.

One member of the Slothians realized she had forgotten to bring a comb or brush, but managed to pick one up at a store……4 days into the trip. Me, I just keep my hair in a ponytail or braid, so a comb is kind of redundant.

And those people you see sticking their hands down their crotches? No, there isn’t a sudden epidemic of cyclists looking for a “happy ending” – it’s just them putting on some chamois cream in broad view, no longer caring that this might be considered a bit unseemly in polite company. Whatever that is.

Then you have people white with sunscreen, slathering it on thickly in vague hopes of preventing more sunburn, or white lips due to the same slathering of Blistex (ahem), or pouring water down their shirts or standing there with watermelon juice dripping all over themselves and hey, who cares?

I’ve heard rumors that people actually hook up during RAGBRAI, and this leaves me a bit incredulous. Seriously? That must be true love right there, if you can look at someone else under such circumstances and think hey, now there’s a catch.

* * * * * * * *

Today, Wednesday, is our shortest day mile-wise, a mere 55 or so, so even though Ann and I are status quo in terms of getting up (not earlier, not later), I resolve to take my time today. Well, not that I haven’t been, but I’ve felt the pressure to try to finish so as to minimize time in the blazing hot sun. Today? Ech, whatever. So when shortly into the ride I see a huge what-appears-to-be-papier-mache cow by the side of the road (and such a happy looking cow too!), of course I stop. I take some pics and am walking back to my bike, when Ann goes by, yelling “Is everything okay?”

Me: Yeah, I was just taking a picture of the cow!

Ann, continuing to ride by: What coooooooooooowwwwwww……………?

Clearly Ann is a much more focused athlete than I am.

Then I stop to wish Owen a happy 80^th birthday, and chat with him and his veteran friends as they dispense slurpees for donations. Then there’s the 100-year old farm, which has a beautiful wildflower garden. I chat with the 92-year-old woman who still lives there, and farms it with the help of her kids, with 6 out of the 8 of them living within a few miles. This is all so amazingly cool. Even though it’s still insanely hot and humid.

One of the towns today leads to a quest for pie, because for miles and miles, we’ve been seeing signs that promise “Optimist Club’s best pie in the WORLD!” or something like that. So naturally, like lemmings, we’re all looking for this pie – which, as it turns out, sold out a few hours beforehand. What the hell, people get up and start riding at 3AM so that they can gorge themselves on all the PIE? Apparently so.

But as I’m trudging down the street, dejected, what do I hear but Ann as she’s hanging out on the sidewalk, and yells the magic words: “Tasha – pie?”

Pie?

I clump over, where there’s the horrifying sight of one of the Optimist Club women about to throw away an entire pie! Good god! She must be stopped!

Optimist Club Woman: See, it’s underdone a bit, so we can’t really sell it.

Ann: I already had some – it’s really good.

I look at the pie, some kind of yummy-looking berry concoction, which looks pretty damn good to me. I feel I have no choice – I rescue the pie from its sad fate. This is probably the least selfish thing I do all week.

The lovely woman also gives us a handful of forks, so Ann and I camp out on the sidewalk, eating pie, making friends as we offer it as well to those sitting around us seeking shade. Now, I’m not saying pie is the great unifier or anything – though wait, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Would our government really be in such sad shape if they sat down and

worked things out over pie? I think not.

* * * * * * * *

One of the coolest things I see on this whole trip is in the town of……I forget which. It’s not important, because it could have been any town. During the ride I had seen cyclists wearing Team Flamingo jerseys – hot pink, and usually with a feather boa draped around their necks or somewhere on their bikes. So I’m walking down the main street of one of our towns, past a nursing home where the front patio is packed with the residents, most of them in wheelchairs, and while they probably came out to witness the RAGBRAI spectacle, right now they’re rapt with attention. All listening to a Team Flamingo woman who’s standing there……and playing the violin. Beautifully so, I might add.

I ask a nearby TF person if she’s been carrying her violin with her on her bike this whole time, and the answer, of course, is yes. And here she is, making the day of all these elderly people, who are

spellbound. It’s a moment that’s beautiful and perfect in its simplicity and wonder. I get a little teary and sentimental as I watch and listen, but then I yell FREEBIRD to break the spell, and all is back to normal.

Okay, so I don’t really do that, but pretend that I did. I don’t want my reputation as a bitter and cynical and mean person to be shattered or anything. I am NOT a softie, hear??

* * * * * * * *

That evening after setting up in Altoona I decide that this is the 2^nd best town in the world, after Griswold of course. The Altoona Rec Center actually has nice showers, with good water pressure and water that’s not freezing cold! And lots of them, rather than just 2. I know, the mind reels! So I’m in a happy frame of mind (hey, I’m easy these days – the other day the purchase of Blistex was enough to make me view the world as one big shiny wonderful ball of fun) when I go off to the concert venue to meet up with beloved Cancerchick Sally, who lives in this awesome town.

Before I go there, I stop off at the mobile internet computer trailer to check the weather – and cackle with laughter when I see that even now, still, at 7PM, there’s a heat warning: “Stay indoors!” And the heat index is still 109. Though they are predicting that later the “temperature will plummet into the 80s.”

I am not making any of this up.

I meet up with Sally, and after we hug, she tells me “oh my gosh, I’m sorry I’m so sweaty! We biked a mile to get here, and I was just dying!”

I just look at her. Seriously? Apologizing to ME, the original lumpen ball of sweat, that you may have an indiscernible drop of sweat on you somewhere? Because Sally looks fabulous, as always, while I’m sunburnt, with a white lip, bedraggled and droopy. It’s, umm, quite a look.

Sally is of course as delighted as I thought she would be with her “I heart Boobies” bracelet, as I know how she too supports cancer. Though I’m sad to report that I’m completely lame and soon head back to tent city, so I can get some fitful sleep before, yet again, waking up at 4:30 AM.

Are we having fun yet?

Iowa, less hellish today than yesterday

2011-08-04T12:31:00.005-05:00

Tuesday

4:30AM

My alarm goes off, and I promptly shut it off. What the hell, it’s still pitch black out!

4:45AM

Luckily, we have a backup – Ann’s alarm goes off, and we spring into action. Okay, we get up, slowly, but we do get up. The sun will not foil us today, by golly! We get our stuff packed up and loaded onto the truck like the efficient camping machines we are, and are on the road as the sun is just peeking out. Aah, so cool, in spite of the usual 99% humidity….

7:30AM

Well, that didn’t last long. I do my usual vampire screech as the blazing sun comes out and starts burning my skin, thanks to the nasty sunburn. One thing I do have to say about being burnt to a crisp – it gives me faith in my fellow man, people, cyclists, whatever. Because there I’ll be cycling along, and hear “Hey, do you know you’re getting a nasty sunburn? Do you need some lotion?” over and over. Total strangers, trying to save me from my own stupidity. I think I’ve found the heartbeat of America, here among these blistering hot cornfields.

8-something

If there’s any one real tragedy about this week so far, it is this: the fact that it’s too damn hot to eat. All these awesome foods everywhere, and I manage to get in one decent meal first thing, and then…….nada. Just slushies. Sno-kones. Gatorade. Yes, I’ve basically transitioned to an all-liquid diet for the rest of the day. That truly sucks.

This is why in the town of Lanesboro I make a beeline for a table that says “Gatorade and water” on it. There are two adorable little girls sitting there, who are, unbeknownst to me, ready to hit me with the hard sell. Because I ask about the Gatorade, and their response?

Adorable Girl #1: That’s over there, but here look at these bracelets we have for sale! There are sparkly beads and these light up in the dark…

Me: Umm, but…..

Adorable Girl #2: And see these you can put on your bike spoke, and they’ll be all sparkly…

Me: I just wanted Gat…..

AG1: And did I tell you that these glow in the dark?

Sigh.

Me: You girls must have spent a long time making these, huh?

AG2: Oh yes, hours and hours.

Sigh.

Then I spy (of course) a bracelet that says “I (heart) boobies” on it. And I start chuckling, because we all know how I hate not just that word but that phrase, because really, what does any of that have to do with breast cancer, which is the supposed point? AG1 notices me looking at it.

AG1: Those are to support cancer.

Well. And who wouldn’t want to support cancer? I wind up buying a bunch of things from them, at some bargain price, and realize that this is why I’ll never be rich. Because so far this week I’ve spent my money on food and beverages, yes, but also donations to fire stations, buttons that churches are selling, pie I was too tired to eat, and so on. I might as well have Sucker written on my forehead. Ah well.

Today is still as insanely hot and humid as ever, and it’s a longer day, but somewhat less hilly, so I guess that all evens out in the wash. And heck, I guess by now I’m somewhat used to the feeling of biking in a sauna or furnace, plus there are certainly enough things to distract a person. Like the wonderful people – not just the cyclists, but the local people themselves.

Take the pig farmer, for instance. There’s a big sign – “newborn piglets up ahead!” – so of course I have to stop at this farm where yes indeed, there are a bunch of piglets in a little pen out front. People are swarming around them, taking pictures and such, and I get one in as well, but then I think of Kim, and WWKD. So I start grilling the poor farmer.

Me: Isn’t it too hot out for the piglets?

Nice Farmer: Oh, I only keep them out here for about a half hour, then swap them out.

Me: Oh, that makes sense.

NF: Plus pigs actually like it when it’s about 85 degrees – they like the heat.

Me: Oh, I didn’t know that! That’s good to know. So then I assume the piglets are well taken care of? Because you know, I saw that video……

“That video” is the one made undercover by the group Mercy for Animals, which shows the barbaric treatment of pigs and piglets at a massive pig farm. It’s horrible and disgusting, and after watching, I decided I wouldn’t eat pork unless I knew where it came from. Meaning, I’d rather pay a lot more for the occasional pork I eat, than eat mass-produced pork from those kinds of slaughterhouses.

The farmer knows exactly what I’m talking about, too.

NF: Oh yeah, that was terrible, there’s no reason for anything like that.

Me: It was horrible.

NF: We’re just a small family farm here, we don’t treat any of our animals like that.

Me: That’s good to know!

We chat for a while longer, and then what do I see? Yes, it’s Spoke Bracelet Guy! Omg, it’s like spotting the Yeti!! I bid farewell to my new farmer friend and go bounding over to SBG.

Me: Omg, it’s you! I’ve found you! You’re like the Yeti!

SBG: Umm…..

Me: My friends told me all about you – you’re a legend in your own time!

SBG: Well, that’s good! Of course I’m not quite as famous as the Pork Chop Guy…

Me: Oh, you just wait, my friend. I’ll write about you in my blog, and the ensuing fame and fortune, well….all I can say is, be prepared.

He seems suitably impressed – or scared, hard to tell which. But I do get my wrist measured, and then poof, a spoke bracelet magically is on my wrist, for a mere $6! This could very well be the bargain of the century. My life is now complete.

Well, except that I still have many miles to bike in the blazing sun. By my estimates, the last 15 miles of each day’s ride are actually around 118 miles, based on some warp in the time-space continuum and how long it takes me to complete them. So it appears that this week I’ve already ridden about 400 miles. I am such a stud.

Plus I’ve now come to the realization that not only am I really badly sunburned, but my lower lip? Yep, fried to a crisp as well. Which leads me to yet another stellar example of how wonderful the people of Iowa are – because there I am, going through the town of Paton, which is yet another small Iowa town of probably around 200 people, that has pulled it all together in spectacular fashion for RAGBRAI. Seriously, every single town we go through has put a ton of effort into greeting us all. It’s truly remarkable. It’s sad too, in a way, because with most of these historic towns many of these gorgeous old buildings are boarded up and there’s not much going on in terms of commerce. But the people? Salt of the earth. To wit:

Paton – I’m walking through an intersection and there’s a woman there, a volunteer, directing people as to where they can find food, drinks, etc. She seems like a good person to ask about my lip problem.

Me: Excuse me, can I ask you something? There wouldn’t happen to be a pharmacy or drugstore in town, would there? Because (and here I stick out my lower lip), mah wip is aww buhnt.

Nice Iowa woman: Oh no!

Me: Yes, it’s vewy painfuw…..

NIW: Unfortunately there’s no pharmacy here – there’s only about 2 stores in town, the closest big town is Boone.

Me: That’s what I figured, I just thought I’d ask.

NIW: But I think I have some Carmex in my car! Do you want me to go take a look?

So this woman is willing to go schlepping off to her car to see if she has lip balm for an idiot cyclist who managed to get horribly sunburnt on Day One of a week-long bike ride across the state.

Now THAT is Iowa.

* * * * * * * *

I ride my usual 240 miles that day, and that evening we head into town, with our first stop being a

Walgreens. Where it’s basically Idiot Cyclist Central, because everyone there? Yep, buying the exact same stuff. Sunscreen, aloe vera gel, lip balm. They have extra staff on hand to direct us (me) to the Blistex section. We stand in line telling our fellow cyclists where to find this or that lotion or gel. It’s a beautiful thing.

That night, I take my newly-purchased Tylenol PM and prepare for a night of, well, not quite blissful sleep, but something resembling sleep nevertheless. I mumble good night to Ann. Then…

BRAAAAAAAAP! BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

“What the hell!” I say as I sit upright. “Who’s the damn fool blowing an air horn in our ears??”

Nope, no air horn, but apparently our camping site is pretty much right next to the freight train line going through town. And it sounds like the conductor is having fun honking greetings to all of us RAGBRAIers.

My Cousin Vinny comes to mind.

I start laughing, a bit hysterically, but still, laughing.

I love Iowa.

Iowa, the Portal to Hell

2011-08-03T16:01:00.006-05:00

Monday

5:15AM

Ann’s alarm didn’t work, so we don’t get up until after 5, dammit. Already late, sigh. It’s still dark out, but at least we’re starting out an hour earlier than yesterday, so that should help, somewhat. Maybe.

Random thoughts

· Okay, so we get a break from the sun thanks to a nice cloud cover, which doesn’t take away the fact that it’s still about 200 degrees and 110% humidity, but it helps. That is, until the blazing sun comes out again. At which point I start yelling “No! No sun! GO AWAY!” I feel like a vampire.

· So there’s one basic rule on RAGBRAI: ride right. Is this so fricking hard to remember? Apparently it is, because I wind up yelling at people a LOT. Okay, so it’s mostly (all) in my head, but the temptation is almost overwhelming. This is what I say: “Passing on your right!” Relevant subtext in my head: “Because you’re a stupid idiot who shouldn’t be so far over to the left! Dumbass!”

· To the guy on the Cervelo tri bike with the Zipp wheels: Dude. Let’s be real here. We know you’re trying to buy speed, thousands of dollars worth - but even if it’s so important for you to be 14^th in your age group instead of 18^th, this isn’t a race. No one gives a shit when you finish. Really. Zipp wheels, seriously?? Umm, not that I’m cranky or anything, roasting under the blazing sun – I just honestly don’t understand this. There’s a reason those are called race wheels, and it’s not for a 7-day ride across Iowa.

· In a similar vein, what’s with the people who start out at 5AM, zip through all the towns, only to finish by 10AM or earlier? What’s the point? If you’re not going to hang out in the small towns and check out the sights and chat with people, you might as well just stay home, put your computrainer in a sauna, and ride for hours on end there. Again, I don’t get this. Aren’t we all here for the pie?

· Day 2 of unrelenting hills. The next person who ever tells me how flat Iowa is will be promptly beaten with either a cudgel or a frozen ham. Whichever one I happen to have handy.

· Speaking of hills, our bucolic days 1 and 2 here are actually hillier than any day of riding on Ride the Rockies, which people speak of in awed and hushed terms about how much climbing there is. Suck it, Colorado, Iowa has you beat. I am strangely proud of this, feeling a kinship with my fellow Midwesterners.

We roll into our first town today, Elk Horn, and the first thing I see is a……windmill? And mermaids? What kind of alternate reality IS this? Turns out that the town is known for its Danish heritage, which includes the aforementioned windmill, and lo and behold, the selling of aebleskiver! My god, what a marvel! I jump into the aebleskiver line immediately, no fool I.

Okay, so the reason I know what these things are is because once upon a time I gave a friend an aebleskiver pan as a gift, not quite sure why, though said friend never made them for me as promised. So you can damn well bet that when I saw them being sold, I was all over that like a cat on a hot potato, as they say. And while standing in line for my Danish Pancake Balls, I start chatting with one of the many local volunteers, a guy wearing the town t-shirt, also sporting a Viking helmet and joshing about his beer gut. Fun times. Then he turns around, and on the back of his shirt is written……Mayor? Really?

Yep, he’s really the mayor. Seems to be doing a damn fine job of it too, as far as I can see.

Plateful of yummy aebleskiver later (where the guys making them are using everything from nail files to knitting needles to rotate the little balls), I explore the rest of the town, and lo and behold, what should I see but a guy sporting pink ribbon schlock! Ah, Cori would be proud. I accost him immediately.

Me: Excuse me, but do you mind if I take a picture of your jersey? My friends and I, we like to take pics of all the (tacky schlocky) pink ribbon stuff we see.

Guy: Uh, sure.

Me: Thanks! You know, we’re all about the whole breast cancer awareness (and what a fricking joke that is) thing.

Guy, looking puzzled: Uh, okay.

Hmm. I kind of suspect he has no idea about the BC connection at all, but only bought the jersey because it says “beer” on it….

The day grinds on, hotter and hotter, hillier and hillier, until drastic measures are called for. What does this mean exactly? Well, when I stop in one town and head into the Legion Hall for some pork chop on a stick, on my way out I spy through a doorway a…..meat locker? Could that be cold air? I take action, of course. Meaning, I step right into said locker, even though there’s already someone in it and it’s kind of a small space with basically just room for one person to walk into. He looks behind him, and I smile winsomely.

Me: Hey, so, how ‘bout them aebelskivers?

Him: Umm….

Me: I’m just, uhh, err……wanting to compliment the Legion on their fine selection of frozen vegetables! Yes, that’s it! Nothing like some fine frozen veggies, yes sirree.

Him, understandingly: Pretty hot out there, isn’t it…
Me: Oh……my……god……………….

Then later, somehow I’m finally nearing our overnight town, Carroll, albeit at a snail’s pace. Dripping with sweat, as I have been all day. I’ve never taken so long to bike this number of miles. Pedal pedal pedal.

Then….what ho? An oasis of water? Maybe?

Yes, just a few miles out from Carroll, the enterprising folks who live next to what’s basically a retention pond have set up a table to take the princely sum of $1 to let people swim. I debate this for about 2 seconds, then pull over. Mucky water? Hell yes. There are only a few people when I get there, but then, as is the case all week, as soon as I decide to take part, so does everyone else. I kid you not. The water is tepid, seaweedy, muddy on the bottom, not too deep…..and heavenly. I have several conversations like this:

Other person: This water is kind of mucky.

Me: Do you care?

OP: Hell no.

Me: Me neither.

You know it’s insanely hot when swimming in mucky water in full cycling clothes seems like a grand and brilliant idea. That night it stays so hot and humid that I get a Tylenol PM from Mary Beth so that I can get a modicum of sleep. I have honestly never been so hot in my entire life, for so long. My last comment of the evening to the girls:

Me, to Ann and Mary Beth: Why? Why?! Omg, the heat, the hills, the humidity! And then, number ONE on Miss Tasha’s Hierarchy of Cycling Suckiness: wind!!! Make it stop! Give me something to work with here!

Maybe Tuesday?

Whee, RAGBRAI!

2011-08-02T10:04:00.008-05:00

Sunday
4:30AM

Clink….clank…..rustle……

What the hell?

It’s still dark out, yet people seem to be up and about already, taking down their tents, packing up…..even hitting the road already. This seems a bit extreme, to say the least.

Me, to Mary Beth: Why the heck are people getting up and leaving so early? This is vacation! It’s not like it’s a race or anything.
MB: Yeah, I don’t get it either – we never wind up leaving before 7:30 or 8.
Me: That makes a lot more sense.

We start out, just us and a sea of thousands of other cyclists. So cool! So awesome! So…..SHIT! AAAHHH!

Yes, 300 feet into the ride, some asshole on a recumbent bike decides to meander across the street from the right - right in front of me. 300 feet. He’s very blase about it, even as I watch my heart go jumping out of my chest and skip off to dunk its toes in the kiddie pool of Missouri River water – apparently one RAGBRAI tradition is that of dunking one’s back wheel in the Missouri on day one, and the front wheel in the Mississippi when you arrive at the end – but because the Missouri is so flooded they just transferred some water into kiddie pools for dunking. Which just doesn’t have the same je ne sais quoi, so I decide to skip it.

Anyway, there I was just starting out on this grand adventure, and as I have to swerve sharply to the right to not plow right into Mr. Idiot Recumbent Guy and go flying, I’m tempted to get off my bike and beat him to a pulp right then and there. Somehow, I refrain. It’s difficult.

Okay, whew, back on track, me and thousands of cyclists! Many of whom seem a little unclear on the “ride right” concept, but hey, it’s early, maybe they’re just a bit excited too. No big deal.

Eventually we make it to our first town, and I’m practically jumping up in down with glee. In fact, I am jumping up and down.

Me, poking Ann: Look at this! This tiny town of 200 people, inundated with cyclists as far as the eye can see! This is SO COOL! Who gets credit for convincing me to do this, you or Mary Beth? This is the BEST. I must take pictures of everything! Must. Take. Pictures. NOW!

Ann is a little bashful about taking credit for roping me into this most amazing awesome experience, but clearly that’s just her natural modesty coming out. Eventually we make our way through the town, after I’ve chronicled every moment on film, including taking a picture for Cori of a cyclist wearing a naughty nurse outfit, and then get going again. Damn, it’s humid today. And what the hell’s with all these hills?? Isn’t Iowa supposed to be flat?

It’s on one of those hills that I drop a chain – again – and am standing there by the side of the road trying to get it back on, which normally isn’t a problem. But it won’t go on – it’s somehow wedged into the chain ring. Damn. I keep working at it and am starting to despair, when someone pulls over on their bike. I look up, to see Mr. Tall and Handsome, framed in a halo of light, like an angel sent from on high. Okay, maybe that was the blazing sun talking, but still.

“US Air Force at your service!”

And it’s still early, so I’m not even hallucinating yet. Mr. Tall and Dapper looks at my chain for a second, tells me to shift the big chain ring, which I do….and voila! The chain goes back on easily!

Me, to US Air Force guy: Thank you! Omg, you’re my favorite person EVER!
USAFG: Happy to help. Here, let me give you a tissue to wipe your hands off..
Me: Oh, don’t worry about it, they’re so grubby from the chain grease…
USAFG: Aha, here you go, a tissue!
Me, in love: I’ll write about how wonderful you are in my blog, and then the world will know. My hero, sigh……..

He seems happy with this, so I set off again after this little love fest, where instead of the nice flat state I was expecting, it’s hill after unrelenting hill after hill. WTH?

11AM

The best town in Iowa, nay perhaps the entire world, is clearly Griswold, which is one of our pass-through towns. Why? Well, #1, the few miles that head into town are all downhill. This is a beautiful thing. Reason #2……you know, there doesn’t have to be a reason #2. That’s enough. Griswold, I love you.

12PM

The sun has been blazing in the sky for hours now. Hours. The humidity is insane. The hills, oppressive. And of course, as we bike on, the wind keeps picking up. Of course! What fresh hell is this? And this is only Day One.

It gets to the point where people are starting to look like refugees, camped out under any bit of shade under any tree anywhere. Me, I find myself getting to the top of yet another hill, then stopping to suck down water. At one point, there are a few other women standing under a little shade umbrella, and one of them sees me standing there nearby.

Her: There’s room under the umbrella if you want some shade.
Me: I’m….too…..hot….to…..move.

They start discussing what the temperature might be.

Woman 1: The temperature gauge on my bike says 112.
Woman 2: Mine says 104.
Woman 3: Someone else said theirs read 106.

When I see Ann again, I’m going to beat the crap out of her. Whose stupid idea was this anyway?? Riding our bikes through Iowa in the last week of July. WTH?

We go through more towns, which are adorable, but in spite of my determination to try all the wacky food that RAGBRAI is known for, I’m too hot and tired to eat. That’s pretty damn hot. Eventually I see Ann again in the town of Lewis, which has at its claim to fame the world’s biggest bike sculpture.

Me, to Ann, as we’re lying in the shade along with thousands of other dehydrated, exhausted cyclists: Ann. Picture. Over there somewhere. (I wave my hand vaguely in the air.) Supposed to be a bike. Can you take?
Ann: Where’s your camera?
Me: Left it with my bike. Too……heavy………

Then…

Me: We need to start earlier, to try to beat some of this heat. This is unbearable. 5AM…no, 4:30. Yes, we’re getting up at 4:30. So it has been spoken, so it shall be done.

We finally set off again, and I find myself asking the unanswerable questions, of no one in particular:

“I was told Iowa was flat! THIS ISN”T FLAT!”

And…

“I was promised a tailwind the whole way! West to east, people! What’s with the 30 mph headwind? WHO DO I TALK TO ABOUT THIS?”

I finally make it back to our campground in the town of Atlantic, and see Mary Beth all chipper at the pool.

Mary Beth: Hey, how’s it going? Isn’t this great? Are you having fun?

I have my face pressed against the fence, as I look at her.

Me: Grunt.
Mary Beth: Why don’t you go for a swim in the pool? It’s great!
Me: Grunt.
Mary Beth: It’ll be totally refreshing!
Me: Grunt.

You see the pattern here. I manage to stand in line for a shower, after which I’m just as hot as I was before. I can feel the heat still radiating from my skin – though, oh, that could be the massive sunburn I have, especially on my legs. Apparently one should reapply sunscreen all day when it’s so humid that one is sweating everything off. Who knew? Ouch. Apparently I should have prepared for this ride by doing all of my riding in an oven. Again, who knew?

Dinner: 2 pretzels. That’s all I have the energy to forage up. As I attempt to go to sleep, my brilliant marketing mind comes up with a new slogan for RAGBRAI, which I believe is infinitely more accurate than anything they have now.

Welcome to Hell.

T minus 2

2011-08-01T19:28:00.004-05:00

Friday

Finally, RAGBRAI day is here! Or CABRAC, as I prefer to think of it: Crazy-Ass Bike Ride Across Cornland. Whee! Yay! I can only imagine how much awesome funness this is going to be! This is the day we leave to drive to Davenport, camp overnight, then take a bus to the western part of the state the next day.

The drive manages to be uneventful, as does the process of setting up camp. It turns out that my own tent is somewhat Tash-Mahalian, i.e. huge, which wasn’t quite as I recalled it. Oops. At least we can put our bikes in there if the weather looks like it’s going to start sucking. Which is where we’re hanging out that night, in our tents, sweltering, when suddenly we see flashlights and hear an official sounding voice.

Officer: Excuse me, everyone listen up - there’s a massive storm coming in, it’ll be here in around half an hour, we’re recommending that people leave the campsite and go to a nearby shelter.

Hmm. We’ve set up our tents, which was a pain in the ass, we’re settled in for the night…..how bad could the storm be? We ask the officer his opinion.

Us: So what would you do?

Officer: Well, to tell you the truth….I’d leave. It looks like a pretty bad storm headed this way. And there are a lot of trees around here – you don’t want one falling on your tent.

We decide to stay.

That is, until the massive gust of wind comes along that almost blows our tents over. And we realize that it would be a sucky way to start off a week-long bike ride by, say, having a tree fall on our heads.

Just as we’ve made this executive decision, the police cars come along with their loudspeaker: “Please evacuate the camp now – a massive storm is headed this way. Please evacuate now, we are expecting 70 mph winds.”

Sigh. Off we go to, of all places, a local hockey rink. A hockey rink with artificial turf, no less. Of course, to my mind, this is just adding to the fun, the fun that is RAGBRAI! A bucolic ride amidst the serenity of cornfields, a relaxing sojourn where I become one with my bike, achieving a state of Zen heretofore unseen. Bliss awaits, so what’s a minor storm to stand in the way?

Saturday

I sit on our charter bus next to Blake, aka Random Bus Guy, who’s also doing RAGBRAI for the first time, with his dad who’s done it a number of times. We discuss our strategy for the ride, mine being the following: only eat food from church ladies, food on a stick, pork chops, and try a walking taco at some point. What the heck is a walking taco, you ask? Yes, I wondered the same thing. Apparently this is a concoction whereby they take a bag of doritos, crunch it up a bit, add taco meat and other stuff, and then you eat it right out of the bag. Naturally, Blake and I conclude that the perfect RAGBRAI food would be a pork chop on a stick from a church lady……in a bag. Let the quest begin.

Later, Blake tells me what is surely one of the funniest RAGBRAI stories of all time: his dad has been part of a team called It’s Not My Fault, or INMF. So one night one of the guys on their team came back to camp late after drinking, and is stumbling through the campsite looking for his group. “It’s Not My Fault,” he drunkenly shouts, over and over, waiting for someone to answer him back.

Finally, someone does.

“Enough with the guilt trip, asshole!” is the yelled response from some camper. “Shut the fuck up and go to sleep!”

This has me giggling for hours……

That evening

Yet again, we set up our tents, chuckling at the chaos of the night before. Today there don’t seem to be storms nearby, but it’s so damn humid that just standing there waiting for my bike to come off the truck, I’m dripping with sweat, as is everyone else. Is it really possibly to be this hot and humid when not in an actual sauna? People camp out as long as possible in the rec center that we’re right next to, which is blissfully air-conditioned.

That’s when we hear the tornado sirens.

Yes, tornado sirens. It’s a telling sign that when I text this to a friend who knows me and my Schleprockian existence well, instead of expressing alarm or concern, her response is “Lol, when are the hurricanes? The locusts?”

I’m not sure Iowa knows what it’s getting itself into, what with having me along on this grand adventure.

That night, after the all-important bike prep - which basically consisted of duct taping Slowpoke the Sloth to my bike (hello Team Sloth!) - I can hardly sleep. Okay, part of that is because it’s still insanely hot and humid, but also because I can’t wait to get started. Omg, finally! I couldn’t possibly be more excited! My first RAGBRAI!! I keep poking Ann and asking her why they didn’t make me do this before.

Me: This has all of my favorite things! Country roads, biking, food on a stick, small towns! This is SO cool….this will be the BEST. WEEK. EVER!

I've gone West, y'all

2011-07-24T05:00:00.001-05:00

....on the crazy-ass bike ride across the state of Iowa known as RAGBRAI. Please note that I will be without a computer, so if you hear of someone spontaneously combusting somewhere near Altoona, IA, well, that would be me.

Courage. I will report back when able.

My beloved country roads

2011-07-22T15:50:00.005-05:00

Here, why my country roads are the best place ever:

The beauty of nature – Sometimes it’s no wonder it takes me so damn long to get anywhere on my bike. Because I look over and see two blue herons in a cornfield, and stop to observe how graceful they are. Then I hear the piercing cry of a hawk - yep, stop there too. I also go in little circles so that I can get closer to hawks as they fly around. The baby cows all look up at me in unison as I go past them. It’s all so serene, peaceful, gorgeous……I’m not a particularly religious person, but sometimes I swear God is in them there cornfields. Plus there are the occasional oddities, like….

Camels. I’m biking along on yet another hot morning, and see a tractor coming towards me, slowly, with horse clopping along behind it. The girl driving it and I wave to each other as they pass, and I look over at the horses…..wait, not horses. Camels?? Yes, camels. And no, I haven’t been drinking while riding.

Crystal Lake Ski & Bike. I recommend to all of you that you get the clips on your shoes changed before they get to the point where they’re little nubbins and to clip in at all requires contortions of epic proportions. Because then one day in desperation you’ll try to put new clips on yourself, and will wind up cursing and screaming at said shoes when the screws won’t come out, and so you jury-rig the shoe in such a way that you hope it holds. Which it doesn’t, as the clip comes off and remains wedged in your pedal as you’re grinding up a hill, and the jury-rigged screw you used is digging into your foot. All while you’re out in the boondocks. Oops. So I head into CLS&B with my sad little shoes, plunk them down on the counter, and with the most pathetic face I can muster, say “help me!” The people at this fine store spring into action! Whereupon they discover that the one screw is stripped, so we all duck as they’re trying to pry that one out, and the other ones need special screws, but somehow in a joint effort they manage to get the old clips off and the new ones on (that I came in with) and victory is declared! I’m so happy that I pronounce them all my favorite people in the entire world – and this is even before they tell me they’re not charging me for any of this, which took quite a while. I love this place.

Apple. As with the bike shoes, I go into the Apple store, iPod in hand, and when they ask what’s wrong, I inform them that “we have a national tragedy on our hands.” Please note how I used the term “we,” to make sure they feel as invested in this as I am and to ensure that they work with me to come up with a resolution. Yes, it seems my trusty iPod, which has been with me everywhere for years, is no longer holding a charge. They go to check it out, and I set about my usual task, that of calling up my blog on all the computers. Hey, they wouldn’t have computers sitting out if they didn’t want me to do this, right? Anyway, it turns out my iPod’s battery is kaput, so we mourn together, and then I buy an iPod Nano, notably in a different color from the one I got my mom. Because hers now has 95% Ukrainian music and 5% Celtic Woman on it, and should our iPods get switched, I’m not sure whose head would explode first.

The kindness of strangers. Did I mention that I decided to start Ramping Up during a week of record heat and humidity? I think I did. Which is why I kept finding myself in the countryside with no water, because it was just that damn hot. One day I stopped at a garden center, where the nice woman gave me a diet Pepsi for free, as that was all they had. Another day I stopped at a farmhouse, where the nice man apologized profusely for water that’s “not very good, it’s well water” etc. – to which I told him it was the best water I’d ever had. Because it was.

Then there was the day I was riding past a farm and looking intently at the berry bushes in front, trying to figure out what they were. At the same time I see the sign about the organic raspberry farm, I also see a man waving his arms frantically, much as someone who’s shipwrecked on an island would do. Could Timmy be in the well and the barn on fire? I pull into the driveway and stop.

Him: Are you okay? Do you need some water? It’s hot!

Turns out his name is Mike, and he and his wife Ann own this adorable farm, Grace Farm, which not only has pick your own raspberries, but quilting classes, gorgeous quilting materials for sale, and all sorts of other neat things. After piling raspberries and water on me, Mike sends me off, telling me if it gets too hot and I get stuck, to call him and he’ll come get me. Salt of the earth, these people.

The gas station in Harvard, IL. On my rides at least I get to the point of no return – where I’ve gone far enough such that I need water to get back, even though it’s really too hot to ride further, but if I turn around now I’ll expire in a cornfield. So that was me, knowing that the town of Harvard was somewhere up ahead, many turns later, but not sure exactly how many miles later. When I finally got here, 28 miles in and my turnaround point on a 98 degree day, it was like arriving at Mecca.

The drivers. Yes, there’s the occasional Garbage Truck From Hell, but overall? I’d say 95% of the cars, trucks, etc. give me a very wide berth, plenty of space. And while I confess that I get a wee bit annoyed by signs telling drivers to “start seeing motorcycles,” because when I’m driving the vast majority of motorcyclists are weaving in and out of traffic, speeding at 100+mph, and how the hell am I supposed to see a speeding weaving fool? This is not true though for the guys on Harleys. I see a lot of them while riding, and to a one, they are always riding responsibly, at the speed limit, being good driving citizens. They totally rock.

My awesome friends. I love how no matter what kind of bullshit I come up with – true though it always is – they have an amazing ability to humor me. For example, after I had gone on a long ride on an insanely hot day, I found myself driving past the Sun City golf course, where people were actually golfing! WTH? My first thought – “What kind of idiots would be golfing on a day like today? It’s insanely hot!” I post this on Facebook, and my Alert Friends respond appropriately:

Jennifer: You would be pot or kettle?

Shannon, after I tell her that the golfers are more crazy than the cyclists, right?: "Oh...Of COURSE not as nutty as the golfers *mumbling-who walk at a snail's pace or ride around in a golf cart*."

And when I seethe with rage about the ZUCCHINI THIEVES who are plundering my garden, and issue a call to arms, the support is immediate:

Bridget: Here's what we need: about 75 feet of concertina wire, stakes, two or three claymores, maybe a bouncing Betty or two, noisemakers, fishing line, and a large burlap sack. Or just the sack and we can capture the thief alive to teach others.

Cori: Are you riding across Iowa to find somewhere to bury the body of the zucchini thief?

Kim: Definitely capture alive, punishment should be flogging through the streets of Skokie then and cut off his hand and put that on a stake in the garden to show others what their destiny would be if they too are a thief. Let the perpetrator live so that he can tell others to avoid the patty pan lot.

You can see why I have the friends I do.

My mom. My poor mom. She’s not too happy that Kona and I basically camp out at her place so I can go riding – as we leave her place a shambles, I putter around in the kitchen making my coffee at 5AM, Kona goes to wake her up also at 5AM in the belief that if he’s up, everyone should be up, etc. She likes her peace and quiet, and the orderliness of her house. The Kone and I, we ain’t all that orderly. Yet she puts up with us, worrying, picking me up when I have a bike malfunction that I can’t fix because I was a dumbass that one day and didn’t bring my tire changing stuff. So, thanks mom. And it was very cute how today she pressed some money upon me, telling me “here’s some spending money for your trip!” Love it.

All in all, I’d definitely say the positives outweigh the negatives – I can only hope the same will be true for this RAGBRAI madness, though I’m sure it will. And rest assured, I will be sure to adhere to my guiding principle, of “doing the stupid things, so you don’t have to.”

Country roads, fraught with peril

2011-07-22T14:39:00.004-05:00

Being the finely honed athlete that I am, I knew that RAGBRAI (aka the crazy-ass bike ride across the state of Iowa) wouldn’t be much of a challenge, and so I determined to step things up a bit. This means that I sat on my lazy ass for months, didn’t go near my bike, and pretty much ate bonbons all day.

Until about 2 weeks ago. When my finely-tuned Ramping Up process began, as The Kone and I moved into my mom’s abode in Huntley and began riding every day. Well, at least I did. HRH basked in air-conditioned splendor, as is befitting his station.

Now, I had no idea that I’d be Ramping Up during the biggest heat/humidity wave to hit the Midwest in 99 years. Nope, that part was a surprise. A pleasant one, to be sure! What doesn’t kill you makes you more surly and bitter, I always say.

The image of riding on country roads conjures up some bucolic scenes, cornfields, cows, one with nature, etc. And yet. I’ve discovered just how dangerous this pastoral scene can be, and here I’ve compiled a list of the inherent dangers so that you too can be alert as well, should you decide to go riding in the country and thus take your life into your own hands.

Garbage trucks – There I was toodling along when suddenly a garbage truck went zooming by so closely he almost took out an elbow. This is especially irksome when riding in the country on a straightaway when it’s clear there are NO OTHER CARS coming from the opposite direction. But as a friend noted – at least it wasn’t a bus.
Crazed birds. Again, toodling along, when I hear the Skittering Cry of Death somewhere above me. Of course, I do what any other normal person would do: I slow down, almost stopping, and start looking up. Lo, there’s a red-winged blackbird! Why, I’ve heard of them attacking cyclists but have never witnessed it – how exciting! I feel like Margaret Mead, studying the subculture of a species that….ow! Hey! No dive-bombing! I zip on ahead.
Dogs. Okay, so, knock on wood, I’ve never been attacked by a dog – generally they just want to run alongside my bike and have some fun. I either sprint to make it a race, look at them incredulously (in the case of a stubby little corgi), chastise them (in the case of a Dobe: “hey, I rescue you guys!” – as he slunk off), or hold out a leg for them to chew on if I’m really REALLY tired. So I don’t mind the chase. What I DO mind is when people have their dogs loose and they live on a relatively BUSY ROAD, and said dogs go running across that road to chase me. In this case I managed to shoo them on home without incident, but I’d be REALLY pissed if a dog got hit because he wanted to have some fun chasing me on my bike. So cut that shit out, people.
Being cropdusted. So I'm looking at a little plane flying overhead, and thinking wow, that's getting lower....and closer.....and lower......*cough* *cough*. Well, I've gotten enough doses of radiation to choke a horse - what harm can some toxic chemicals do anyway?
Quaint country cafes that are closed on weekends. To this I can only say: WTF? Is this even legal?? Town of Garden Prairie, I may have to rethink putting you on the list of Towns that Do Not Suck.
Dehydration. Okay, okay, so going for long rides when it’s 98 degrees and 95% humidity might not be the best laid of plans. And yes, it’s kind of hard to take enough water with you when your closest potential spot for water is about 28 miles away. Still, if more cafes were open…..! I slump over my bike when I stop, and think fondly of France, where there are water fountains/troughs often enough such that you’ll never get thirsty. And if you do, why, there’s water trickling down from a mountain stream! Rough life they have over there. Sigh.

With all this, one might wonder, why ride in the country at all? It’s basically like Armageddon out there, no? In some ways, but there are also benefits as well.

(to be continued)

Cori's Rack Conquers Canada

2011-07-21T16:53:00.003-05:00

In a shameless bit of pandering to my vast Canadian readership (hello Alert Readers George and D!), I present to you our very own CancerChick Cori, taking Canada by storm, one Timbit at a time:

The close-up truly shows how the lone Timbit is quaking in the face of the Globes of Glory, as we call them, realizing that it's perhaps not quite worthy, in spite of being a bit of donutty goodness.

That loud wailing sound you all hear right now is all of Canada gnashing its collective teeth (the few that are left - everyone does play hockey, you know), because Cori's Rack has left the building. Sorry Canada - this national treasure is all ours.

This means war

2011-07-19T18:27:00.005-05:00

Normally, I’m a mild-mannered, some would say meek, person. This is what I’m known for. But there are certain things in my life that people do NOT mess with, at risk of sudden and painful death. Theirs, not mine. These things are patently obvious. The Kone. My bike. And, of course, the garden.

Ah, what can I say about the garden that I haven’t said before? How about this – that it is a huge honking pain in the ass. Really. Gardening is tough, brutal, back-breaking work. It’s expensive. I’ve spent literally hundreds of hours and thousands of dollars on my garden. And even though I have vague hopes of selling some heirloom tomatoes to restaurants, say, in August, this is definitely not a money-making venture.

But I love gardening. With a passion. It makes me happy, puttering around, digging, even weeding. There’s something very tranquil and soothing about the whole thing, being one with nature and all that crap. But I could certainly never be a farmer, because it’s all just too anxiety-inducing, with too many things to worry about. The weather! Hail! Locusts! I read recently that farmers are having a bumper year, and while normally I seethe with jealousy at other peoples’ good fortune, here I think, you go farmers!

Plus in addition to the natural elements, one has to worry about the scourges of society known as garden thieves. Yes, thieves. Much to my dismay, when I was out at the garden last week, I noticed that someone had stolen a zucchini. A zucchini of all things! Need I remind people that these are the erstwhile Rodney Dangerfields of the garden?? So I was puzzled, and yet, figured that perhaps this was a crime of opportunity, if not passion, by someone with an unnatural fondness for large, tasteless vegetables. I passed it off as a fluke.

Until. I went back to the garden Sunday, to weed and water in 98 degree heat and humidity (yes, there are those hours of back-breaking work again), and discovered – MORE zucchini gone! This time, many! J’accuse!

This, I thought, will not stand.

Because if someone is craven and baseless and degenerate enough to steal zucchini, then what’s going to happen when the heirloom tomato crop starts coming in? Or, dare I say it, the pattypan squash? Will this cretin be able to resist those bright yellow harbingers of hope and change? Hell no. Do I really begrudge someone a few squash? Damn right I do.

I don’t know where anyone might have gotten the idea that I’m some kind of Lady Bountiful, planting everything for the good of mankind or random garden marauders. This is so not the case – I am a mean, bitter, selfish person, and don’t you all forget it. Okay, so I might tell my fellow tomato aficionados at the garden to go ahead and try some of the different varieties, and sure I give tomatoes to friends, and yes, I do plant cherry tomatoes along the perimeter of the garden as a snack for my fellow gardeners – but those are the only concessions I make to pretending that I am not in fact the mean and selfish person that I naturally am.

So yes, that means that the zucchini may be large tasteless vegetables, but they’re MY large tasteless vegetables, dammit. That I’ve nurtured from seed and grown for months, fretting over them and coddling them and……okay, that’s a lie. Zucchini are pretty easy to grow – but that’s all the more reason for people to grow their own. Even an idiot could grow them, unlike, say, the pattypans, that require the skill of an artisan such as myself.

But I digress. Clearly, to nip this trend in the bud, I need a foolproof plan. Oh sure, all the usual things immediately came to

mind: land mines, insisting the Skokie police put a 24-hour guard on duty (hey, it’s the suburbs – what else do they have to do?), motion-activated klieg lights with sirens, etc. Sniper fire. Alert Friend and Reader Bridget has offered to take up this particular gauntlet, and this woman has the military cred, so I’m confident she’d do a good job. Barbed wire. Steel traps.

Then I realized: all of the above.

My mission is clear now. Society must be made safe for the hard-working gardeners of the world, who deserve to pick the fruits of their own labor. This one Thieving Zucchini Bastard can serve as a lesson to the other wanna-be garden thieves out there.

I will report back.

The long national nightmare is over

2011-07-08T16:15:00.005-05:00

Last night

I’m done. I concede defeat. I’ve managed to put together all my documents from 2009, the ones I can find, but for 2006? Forget it. Oh, I’m sure they’re somewhere, amidst stacks of papers, but I don’t even know where to start. And IRSLady Yvette is coming by at 10AM to collect what I have, so, I don’t think I’ll find the motherlode of documents before then. I’m just going to let the chips fall where they may.

This morning

You know you’ve been hanging out with the IRS too much when they know your lingo. My pal Yvette shows up this morning at the appointed time, and of course, as soon as she walks in, Kona wants to say hi.

Me: Kona, no jumpies!

Yvette: No jumpies! Good boy, no jumpies!

So we sit down, and I break the news to Yvette, that I have a bunch of stuff for 2009, but gave up on 2006, since it’s just too damn long ago. Amazingly enough, she’s sympathetic.

Yvette: Yeah, it can be hard to keep track of stuff from so long ago.

Me: Exactly – I mean, I’m sure it’s all somewhere, but I just can’t spend that much time looking.

She looks over what I give her for 2009, and then, lo and behold, pulls out her own documents – turns out she’s basically extrapolated from what I’ve already given her for 2008 to 2006/2009, and has come up with what I owe. We start looking at her doc, and she explains it all, but I of course just beeline to the bottom line, the total for all 3 years. Which I tot up in my head, and when I do, the voice of George Bailey sounds in my head.

“You wouldn’t happen to have 7 thousand bucks on you, would ya?”

Yep, somehow even though I make no money and am po,’ with penalties and interest I owe the IRS $7K. Shit. Yvette is still talking.

Yvette: So you can either sign this that you agree, or you can refute it and come up with other documents and receipts to substantiate your claims and oh, oh! No no, doggy!

Yes, as usual Kona has decided he loves Yvette, or at least is beseeching her to not put too much of a dent in his pig ear funds, and has placed his head on her lap. At least he’s not plunking his marrow bone there too, like he did last time. Thank god for small favors!

Basically, what’s becoming clear is that if the IRS chooses you for an audit, you have to substantiate everything to a ridiculous degree. Receipts alone (which I have) aren’t enough – you need stuff like emails to prove that a business dinner was a business dinner, for example. While they weren’t silly enough to contest any of the medical stuff, they’re disallowing a bunch of other things because, apparently, they just don’t believe me. Hmm. So even though I still have negative income even after these changes, I have less negative income, so I owe self-employment taxes on my lower negative income.

My head then spins off its moorings and goes flying across the room, as I dash up to get it, and Kona goes back to putting his head in Yvette’s lap.

$7K. I run through the cost-benefit analysis in my head. Sure, I could spend shitloads more time coming up with more receipts and proof, though Yvette would probably only accept part of it, so the savings would be minimal. I think of Cori, who has literally had the IRS agent show up at her door at random times, to collect papers. I think of the fact that if I contest this, it could be opening up a can of worms, that then they might decide to look at other years, which I know are on the up-and-up, but damned if I know where all the receipts and such are. I think of what a huge headache all this has been, how many sleepless nights, how much anxiety.

I think of the fact that I’m Schleprock, she of the perpetual black stormcloud.

I think all of this within the span of about 5 seconds, and come to a decision.

Me: Okay, so where do I sign?

We chit-chat for a while longer, me and Yvette. On the need to keep good records for everything, on my

cancer status, on her former career as an EMT. We’ve bonded. It’s a beautiful thing. She leaves, and I immediately head to Facebook to inform everyone of the verdict, as I’m sure they’re waiting anxiously. And once I do, my friends come back with helpful suggestions regarding my request for a high-paying job. To wit:

Sign up with an escort service. This could work, though I’m still waiting to hear if there’s a company that specializes in fat surly women with a very bitterly sarcastic sense of humor. Jennifer suggested finding a niche for escorts with inflatable boobages. Maybe?
Set up a TomatoCam or PattypanSquashCam. Pay per click? Surely I’d be rich in no time.
Merwyn suggested a survey or sweepstakes site. As he notes, “The last two have earned me a whopping 5 or 6 bucks over the past few months, and Tammy even won $30 off of Publishers Clearinghouse.”
Mark B.’s suggestion, which I kind of like: “You could always go John Galt and found a town in Colorado the IRS can't see with their satellites and spy planes.”
Motya had a brilliant idea, and then yanked it away: “dog dietician and fitness trainer? (see my status re: beulah on a diet) um, no.. you'd suck at that. i see how you indulge that konie. ;-)”
And finally, Amy W. had what I thought was the most promising idea: “I think you need to get hooked up as the spokesperson for the pattypan squash industry.” Though as of this writing she was researching this, and had gotten to page 6 on Google with nothing yet about a pattypan squash industry, just recipes and Farmville growing tips. Clearly, the pattypans need my help.

Later I call my mom as I’m headed out to her place, and of course, she too wants to know the scoop.

Me: $7K

Mom: Gasp!

Me: No no, it’s a good thing! It’s fine!

I run through my whole cost-benefit analysis, and conclude “….so you see, with my bad luck, this isn’t that bad of an outcome.

“But you must be so stressed and worried – let’s go out to dinner tonight!”

“Oh, I’m so not stressed,” I note. “Heck, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders – I couldn’t be happier. Whee! Drinks tonight to celebrate!”

Yes folks, it’s true. In TashaWorld, this is a good outcome. And not that I ever get all Pollyanish about anything, but in this case, rather than being pissed off about the fact that I shouldn’t owe them anything, and thinking dark thoughts about all the corporations that pay absolutely nothing in taxes while they’re soaking the little people…….I’ve decided to not focus on all that, and instead just think……it could have been worse. Yes. So be it.

I call Cori too, immediately, and she also celebrates with me, recognizing the joy inherent in not having an IRS cloud hanging over your head.

So what have we learned from all this? Basically, two things:

Don’t be the kind of dumbass who keeps bad records, or at least bad for the IRS’s purposes. Document everything, to the point of being annoying. Keep records forever; never throw anything away. Ever. Even if the Hoarders people show up at your door – throw yourself over your stacks of papers and make them drag you out to the dumpster along with the documents. Trust me on this.
Have a blog that’s sweeping the nation, so that you too have an excellent friend like my own Alert Reader George from Canada. Who, way back when, sent that indignant email to my congressmen, one of whom actually followed up with the IRS. They then sent a letter detailing why they were (ahem) harassing me, so I could self-righteously rail about the fact that yes indeed, the high medical expenses and such were a big part of what triggered this! Plus, the IRS letter ended with a point about how they’d work with me to figure this out, cognizant of the whole cancer thing, etc. and so on. So yeah, I think that helped. Sure, I wound up owing them money, but at least they’re were nice about it. Thanks George!

And that’s about all I’ve got. Oh, and it helps to have perpetual bad luck, so that you view things like this, a sudden bill of $7K, as a good thing. Just as I was happy over the flat tire – whee! – because I got the flat close to a highway exit, so too am I simply delighted here that I’m not having a lien put on my house. AND, I’m done with the IRS (knock on wood). That right there, my friends, is more than worth its weight in gold. Err, not that I have any of that around, no sirree……

Panic at the Wisco(nsin)

2011-07-07T15:18:00.010-05:00

I knew it would happen some day – that HRH The Kone would attempt to toss off the shackles that have been penning him in to a life of misery, and break free of his existence centered around oppression and cruelty. After all, if nothing else, I’m known for the tight ship I run here at Chez Tasha, so who can blame the poor little man? Certainly not me.

So there we were, the Kone and I, up in WI last weekend to deal with Idiot Brother. Which is a long story in and of itself, so let me interject here with this important rule of thumb: should you notice that a major body part, say a leg, is suddenly very red and very swollen, and you’re feeling feverish/chilled, you in all likelihood have a raging infection and should hie thee to a doctor ASAP. Just sayin.’ Rather than, for example, making your mother haul herself up to WI the night before she’s supposed to go out of town, to take you to the ER, even as you’re protesting the whole way, because of course, “nothing’s wrong.” Right.

We get up there, and after making sure The Kone is being kept in the style to which he’s accustomed (bread and water, cement floor), I head off to the hospital to see Idiot Brother. Before doing so, I open a side sliding door a little for some fresh air, leaving the screen door closed. Why this sudden need for fresh air? Well, here’s another important note: if you notice that there are pantry pest moths in the house, do not, I repeat do NOT simply ignore them. Because they will multiply, and you’ll be walking around through swarms of them, which is pretty damn annoying and gross for most people. Most people who aren’t my brother, that is.

So of course I had sprayed the shit out of the place with flying bug spray, and I didn’t want Kona to expire from the fumes. Hence, leaving the side door open.

I get home a bit later, after a frustrating visit with Idiot Brother who wasn’t quite able to grasp the whole “rule of thumb concerning infections and limbs that might need sawing off,” and as I step onto the deck, I stop in horror, as my heart goes leaping out of my chest and sauntering off jauntily. Because the screen door has been pushed out, and The Kone – as I discover after I go running through the house – is gone.

Oh. My. God.

Of course, I do what any normal person would do under such circumstances: I go running through the neighborhood, yelling my fool head off: “Kone! Kone!” I stop kids who are going fishing: “Have you seen a BIG RED DOG?” I contemplate calling Melinda or Kim, because of course the smart thing to do is always to call friends who live in Ohio and Oregon, respectively. I think I hear Kona barking, so I wonder – is he tied to a pickup truck? Being held hostage in a garage? Stuck in a well while the barn is on fire??

I run back to the house, thinking I’ll call 911 and get the police and National Guard on the case, but first I decide to take one more run through the house. And so I get to the last bedroom and open the door – and there he is! The Kone!! Much happiness ensues!

I’m guessing he did go outside to chase the damn squirrels which were taunting him on the deck, tired himself out, then decided to go into the bedroom for a well-deserved nappie and the door closed behind him. My poor baby!

We then head out for a walk, and while uber-relieved and happy, I’m also not in the mood for moronic Wisconsinites and their crazed dogs, which is all we’ve met so far on our walkies. So when yet another idiot comes walking along by the channel with a snarling fat mangy Chihuahua who’s lunging at Kona, and then this fool has the nerve to tell me “You keep that dog over there and away from us!” as Kona is just walking along sniffing a flower…….well. I may or may not have snarled something along the lines of “why don’t you keep your asshole POS dog away from us, m’kay?”

In other news: I have taken up drinking. Heavily.

A pattypan placeholder

2011-07-07T10:13:00.005-05:00

Yes yes, I know, it's been months since I've put up a new post - but I have them all written in my head. It's just a matter of getting them down on paper. Which I will, after my Long National Nightmare with the IRS is finally over.

This day could very well be tomorrow.

Well, sort of. IRSLady Yvette is stopping by in the morning to pick up whatever papers I've managed to dig up for 2009 and 2006, and at this point, I'm basically ready to tell them to just tell me how much I owe them, so I can be done with it all. I don't have time for this, people! Things to do! A garden to take care of! A Kone to cater to! The PATTYPANS!

Oh, and then I have to start my whole Ramping Up process for RAGBRAI, which is in, umm, 2 weeks. And so far I've ridden, umm, not so much.

So yes, my mom is delighted that I'll be moving back in with her as of tomorrow night, so that I can ride my little heart out in hopes of not dying while riding across Iowa. Or at least being able to make it from porkchop to porkchop.

So! Soon there will be a flood of important posts, trust me, ranging from the Kona Chronicles as he discarded his oppressive shackles and ran to freedom in the wilds of Wisconsin, to Miss Tasha actually having nice things to say about various institutions. And the ultimate question: now knowing that Lance himself will be riding part of RAGBRAI, will Miss Tasha be able to get her "Cancer Sucks, Dopers Suck Harder" jersey made in time? Questions, questions......

But in the meantime, I am using the time-tested tactic of posting distracting pictures, of Kona, the garden, and of course.....the pattypans. Enjoy.