Twisty

A Bicycle Built for...Me

I should begin this by making a small confession: I don’t know how to ride a bicycle.

I suppose that’s why the phrase, “It’s as easy as riding a bike,” has always gotten on my nerves.

It’s not that I never had an opportunity to ride. I grew up on a tree-lined, suburban New Jersey street – the perfect place to cruise around on a two-wheeler. Also, my parents had always made sure I owned a bicycle: a pink one, festooned with ribbons, equipped with a little flower-covered, plastic basket to hold my goodies. Perhaps they thought I would somehow teach myself to ride. However, being born the agility of a pile of rocks, this plan never quite came to fruition.

During a good part of my youth, my Dad was getting a graduate degree. (I won’t mention which. That’s his business.) As such, when he wasn’t working at his day job, doing his weekend gigs or attending class, he would spend the remaining hours of the day and night studying in the family basement, which was not so affectionately called, “The Pit.” As such, the time we spent together was always at a premium. So, we tended to spend it doing things we both enjoyed – chatting about music, talking about history and trivia, fiddling with the computer, eating fried foods at the local diner and shooting the crap about nothing in particular. Often we would do the latter while walking Barney, the family dog, along a high, grassy walkway that overlooked the Garden State Parkway. (I carried the pooper-scooper.)

Both bookish and decidedly un-athletic, I suppose the ritual of “Dad Teaching Daughter/Son to Ride Bicycle” just escaped our notice. That is, it did until my mother nudged (perhaps badgered) Dad to teach me to ride – sans training wheels.

So, the next Saturday, Dad (most likely bleary-eyed from a late-night study session) dutifully grabbed a trusty wrench, twisted off the training wheels and loaded my pink wonder bike into the family station wagon. Then, we buckled up and drove a quarter mile to my elementary school. Dad figured the empty playground, smoothly paved with black asphalt, would be a good place to practice my skills.

You may be closing your eyes right now and imagining the perfect Norman Rockwell picture – proud Dad clapping as knobby-kneed daughter rode on two wheels for the very first time. You couldn’t be more wrong. Instead, it happened more like this…

The first twenty minutes were spent strapping on multiple types of neon-yellow Velcro padding provided by my well-intentioned Mom. There were the knee pads, the elbow cuffs, wrist bands…the list goes on. Then, I, puffed up like the Pillsbury Dough Boy, managed to waddle over to the bike and throw myself on the seat. Then, Dad explained to me the fundamentals of bike riding. We discussed the principles of physics, the properties of balance and the fundamentals of coasting. I dutifully listened and asked insightful questions. This went on for about forty-five minutes.

Keep in mind, we were now there over an hour and I didn’t even ride the bicycle.

Essentially we were both operating on the same (very flawed) principle: If you explain things properly, it makes them easier to do. Dad and I figured that an intellectual discussion would help me magically discover my own sense of balance. My God, were we wrong!

I eventually did get to ride that day, albeit badly. Dad watched patiently and smiled as I rode in large counter-clockwise circles around the lot. (Never quite understanding the principles of balance and steering, I tended to veer to the left.) Somewhat surprisingly, I didn’t even fall, although with all the padding on I probably wouldn’t have noticed. I even managed to bump into a log and lose the car keys Dad had stowed in my little Strawberry Shortcake basket. (We later found them amid some crab grass and broken bottles at the edge of the lot.)

An hour or so later, we hopped in the car to take the short ride home. Although we enjoyed the time together, I think we were grateful to get back to the house and do what we did (and still do) best – eat and chat.

That was the last time I rode a bike.

This summer I’ve decided that it is about time I try it again.

I’m investing in the best helmet money can buy, grabbing my dear hubby, swallowing my fear (and a bit of pride) and taking, what I hope will be, a very good ride.

Please keep your fingers crossed for me – and Band-Aids nearby.

Wealth, Celebrities and the Cult of Self-Celebration

As a communication scholar, it is always helpful to look at popular culture to take the pulse of generations, communities and nations. What captures our collective attention, what we buy and what we watch tells a lot about who we are and what we value. I suppose this is why the glut of “wealth celebration” shows now cluttering our cable systems is so disturbing to me.

I suppose it was the E! Channel’s show,It’s Good to Be, that officially sent me over the edge. Each week this show focuses on a different well-known celebrity or celebrity couple and his/her/their extravagant spending habits. In the most recent episode devoted to Ben Affleck, the show calculated – to the dollar – the amount of bling (That’s “money” to all your non-Mtv watchers) he has spent on homes, cars and gifts. In my heart of hearts, I’m hoping Ben is sitting on his leather couch, in his fancy state-of-the-art home watching this in horror thinking how absolutely tacky it is for E! to dissect his spending habits and share them with the world. However, there is an equally good chance that he is tickled with glee that E! has given him a way to shamelessly show off his pricey goodies.

This idea of ogling rich people’s goods is not new to television. Back in the 80s, my mother and I used to watch the granddaddy of all wealth celebration shows – Robin Leech’s “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.” We would watch beautiful people, eating sushi (then, so hip!) and sipping champagne on their yachts. The whole show had a delicious air of exclusivity. You would always here the maitre d’ of some ridiculously fancy restaurant whisper to the camera, “We don’t usually let cameras in here, but, well…just this once.” However, what I loved about the show is that the folks on there never took themselves too seriously. As much as these folks loved the “champagne and caviar” lifestyle, many guests – and often the host – were quick to point out that it was all a tad excessive.

Sadly this is not the case anymore.

Now, celebrities are chomping at the bit to show off their homes and rides. On television staples like Mtv’s Cribs and BET’s How I’m Livin’, self-celebrating celebrities give television viewers an all-access tour of their digs. They painstakingly and enthusiastically point out subzero refrigerators, gold-plated fixtures and other fabulous examples of their glorious excess. However, it’s not the goodies that astound me. Rather, it’s their overwhelming sense of entitlement. How is it that some one-hit-wonder can, without a shred of irony, gush about his/her amazing achievements while swigging “Cristal” from the bottle and showing off an impressive collection of antique Rolls Royces?

At first I thought my contempt was fueled by envy. (I don’t want a ton of fancy swag! However, I would kill to get a PhD without worrying about keeping my 9-5 gig.) Then, I thought – for a fleeting moment – that I was sticking up for those less fortunate. (There are people who can’t afford to feed their kids and these folks are buying platinum toothbrushes?) In the end, though, I think I am just ashamed for these people.

It’s sad to see that – more than ever – we are judging others not by who they are, but by what they own. In today’s society, when social contact is becoming more and more rare and time is at a premium, we continue to invest precious energy in this crap.

These are very sad times indeed.

Wedding Pics

Today I braved more than my share of traffic to head up north and go pick up our eagerly anticipated wedding pictures. As part of our photographer’s package, she supplies neatly bound copies of every single picture. These are yours to keep. From this group, you then choose the pictures you wish to duplicate for your album, to give out to relatives, etc. (Note to Brides: Make sure your photographer does this! It takes quite a bit of pressure off of your final picture selection.) In total, she took 724 images, a really dazzling mix of color, black & white, formal and photojournalistic shots.

When she handed over the snug (but heavy!) brown boxes, she said…

“I have two observations about your wedding. Number one, the guests were exceedingly polite and very nice to work with* and number two, you were the most expressive bride I’ve seen in a while. You really look like you enjoyed the day.”

I thanked her and eagerly speeded over to my nearby parents’ house, so I could sip a Diet Dr. Pepper and take a quick glance at the pics before I braved traffic yet again.

The pictures were absolutely lovely. More than a few, I expect, will make it to frames that will adorn desks, mantelpieces and coffee tables for years to come.

However, here was the thing…

I have a goofy look on my face in almost all of them.

There’s one of me shooting an open-mouthed gasp to one of our guests after he made a silly comment and another of me rolling my eyes while recalling a fun memory during the Best Man’s toast. In another, I’m grunting as I shoved on J’s wedding ring**. After a lemon drop shot, my girlfriends and I pucker our lips while the camera snaps away. In yet another, I’m shoveling Kraft cheese slices in my face moments before the ceremony after realizing I never had a bite of lunch to eat. (I’m a fainter, so I have to watch the food intake.) There are close to a dozen shots of me, mouth open, listening intently to guests’ stories and then hugging them enthusiastically, face bunched up in a happy, little mess.

I guess the photographer was right. I may not look like a model, but I had one hell of a time!

* Apparently our guests were both polite and efficient when it came to table pictures. The photographer simply said, “Would you mind taking a picture? TJ and J would really –“ Before she could finish the sentence, they all snapped to attention and got in place. I figure they either must really like J and me or else feared some kind of post-wedding, parking lot smackdown.

** I usually don’t like to dish about J on here, but this is a very sweet story. Before the wedding, I had told him about the superstition that says you should never try someone else’s wedding ring on your ring finger, as it can bring bad luck.

Apparently my dear husband took my advice very much to heart because when we got fitted for wedding rings, he had them measure the ring finger on the wrong hand. Little did I notice at the time, but he was also trying on rings on the wrong hand. So, the first time he ever tried the ring on the correct hand was at our wedding ceremony. Lo and behold, it was way too small. To date, he seldom wears his ring for more than a few hours at a time because it squeezes his finger like crazy. Now that things have calmed down, we’re planning on making a much-needed pit stop at the jeweler.

Tome Troubles

My professor assigned us two huge projects, both due next week -- within one day of each other. As you may guess, I'm freaking out a bit. This is due to the fact that one of the projects requires a significant amount of research. It's not that I mind doing the research; it is the act of tracking down the research that can be a bit problematic, given that my graduate school has approximately seven, huge libraries spread throughout the state. Between work, life, school and my God-awful commute, I have little time to study, let alone haul my tired butt to several different libraries. This is further complicated by the fact the libraries are all operating on an abbreviated summer schedule. Below is a snippet of the conversation I had this evening at one of the libraries.

(I should tell you now that the sign outside of the library reads "M-TH - 9:00 a.m. to 9:00 p.m." This will become important very soon.)

8:17 p.m.: Circulation Desk

Me: Excuse me, I am a (Insert Name of College) student. I'm afraid that I left my library card at home. May I still check out books this evening? I have other identification handy.

Mr. Librarian: No. You can not.

Me: Are you sure?

Mr. Librarian: No. We can't change the policy for you.

Me: Errr..Okay.

(My class buddy graciously steps in and offers to let me use her card. The two of us race around the stacks grabbing the books we need.)

8:32: Circulation Desk

Me: (Huffing and puffing while placing a big stack of books on the counter.) Here you go! We would like to check these out please. (Hands Mr. Librarian friend's ID.)

Mr. Librarian: No. You can't check these out this evening.

Me: Why?

Mr. Librarian: The Circulation Desk closes at 8:30 p.m. It is 8:32.

Me: But the library is open until 9:00 p.m. I read the sign and --

Mr. Librarian: Yes, that's right. The circulation desk is closed.

Me: But I really need these books. I have an appointment tomorrow evening and the library closes early on Friday. Please...can you at least hold them for me? I can try to get here tomorrow during lunch --

Mr. Librarian: NO! The Circulation Desk is CLOSED!

Yep. Hope that guy gets the shits.

I was going to do some reading but really think I need to hit the hay. Hugs from Jersey!

Reunion

My, how time has flown!

It’s the Tuesday night after my college reunion.

Keeping a Blog is a great thing. Knowing that I plan to sit down at my li’l Gateway laptop forces me to think things out and distill information. As far as this reunion goes, writing this Blog is helping me to sort out the myriad of emotions that come along with reunions of any kind.

So, let me break it down into the lessons I learned from going to my five-year college reunion:

#1.) My body can’t take as much partying as it used to.
I’m only now beginning to recover from the crazy weekend. Yeah, we had a few late nights. Yeah, we had a cocktail or two. However, why is it that I feel like I’ve been run over repeatedly by the “A” train? I remember hauling my broken butt out of bed Monday morning thinking: How the hell did I do this for four years straight?

#2.) My patented “Hawaiian Punch & Advil” cure still works wonders.
Next time you’re hung over, have two Advils and two cans of Hawaiian Punch. Perhaps it has to do with the headache-fighting, orange-coated power of those non-prescription wonder pills? Maybe it has to do with red, hydrating powers of this sugary “juice product?” Regardless, it somehow has always worked for me. Perhaps it will for you too.

#3.) Dorms are icky.
I don’t want to talk smack about my alma mater, which is known for its beautiful campus. However, not every building can be a winner. The five-year alums stayed in the not-yet-renovated buildings. (I suppose the “Powers that Be” thought we recent graduates, used to earning low wages and living in squalor, would find these dwellings downright palatial.) These dorms, which now house freshmen, were once home to a number of different fraternities. As such, they’ve seen their share of use and abuse. Admittedly they were quaint on the first day. After that, I longed for the comfort of the local budget hotel.

#4.) No “Back to College” experience is complete without some illicit nookie.
My newly married status takes me off the market. (No complaints from me. Skeezy bar boys be gone!) However, my friend, Viv*, helped us meet the sex quota and gave us gossip fodder for, like, the next two days at least!

#5.) Long John Silvers is hands-down the fast-food king!
Even though our school had fantastic food, we would still dash off campus occasionally for some greasy goodies. This chain, alas, is not in the Jersey area. As such, we had to indulge while we had the opportunity. On Saturday afternoon, while nursing a wee hangover, Sarah and I introduced McGuire and Viv to the deep-fried goodness of the “Chicken Plank.” Mmmm… Thank goodness this place doesn’t have a chain in my area or I would need to buy me a tent dress or two.

#6.) No one has really changed all that much at all.
The first night you’re back on campus, you’re misled by the fancy jobs and nice threads of your former school chums. (“Wow, he’s an attorney? Last time I saw him, he was puking in the Recycling Bin!” & “TJ’s actually wearing shoes**?”) However, by day two, you realize that everyone has their exact same quirks – some funny, some annoying.

#7.) I still stink at beer games.
Feeling all saucy, I challenged McGuire to a game of Beirut. Being that we spent most of our time chasing the ping-pong ball around the floor, I’m guessing that in the end we each ingested approximately one pint of beer and about three pounds of floor sweepings. I swear that I’ll be coughing up hair balls until next year.

#8.) In the end, you gravitate towards your tried and true gal pals.
While it was great seeing all the old faces and places, at the end of the day I most looked forward to putting on snuggies and chatting it up with Sarah and Viv.

Well, that’s about all the scoop I can muster tonight. I’m pooped!

* I mention a number of folks quite a bit on the Blog. I’ve added the usual suspects to the new “Cast of Characters” section on the ride-side tool bar. As always, most names are changed for privacy purposes.

** I’m all about comfort. Back in the day, I used to walk around in a fuzzy pair of rubber-soled slippers. I called them my “Bavarian Wool Clogs.” Sarah still teases me mercilessly about it.

COLLEGE WEEK: *Bradley’s Patented Beer-Chugging Technique

Bradley explained this little trick to me at lunch yesterday. Truth be told, I’m not that much of a beer-from-the-can girl, as I much prefer vino or a cute, little cocktail. However, it is never bad to have a fun, little party trick up your sleeve that you can use to dazzle and amaze friends.

What You Need:
- Can of Beer: Any Size. Any Kind.
- Can Opener (I don’t mean the electric or the turn-y kind. I’m referring to the one you would use to pierce triangle-shaped holes in large cans. For example, my mom used to use one to open the industrial-size cans of Juicy Juice at Brownie troop meetings.)

What You Do:
- Flip over the can of beer so that the flip-top side is down.
- Use the can opener to poke a small hole on the bottom (i.e. wrong side) of the can.
- Suck out all the air through the hole you just poked.
- Flip the can back over so it is right-side-up again.
- Put the can approximately 4 inches from your mouth.
- Flip the top and aim for your mouth. (This is very important.)
- The entire contents of the beer can should shoot right into beer-guzzling gullet.

Why This Works:
You’re creating a vacuum. By sucking out the air, then opening the other side, you are essentially creating a “beer cannon.”

Cheers!

* Names have been changed.

COLLEGE WEEK: Beer Games

As mentioned many, many, many times on the site, my college reujnion is coming up this weekend. So, I thought I would post some fun stuff about beer games we used to play. So, grab a keg, a few pals and get ready for a night of drunken fun!

Note: I am, in no way, endorsing drinking for anyone who is under the age of 21 (or over the age of 21, for that matter). Be sensible. Don’t get in your car after playing one of these games. Don’t ask your five-year-old niece to be your Beirut (see below) partner. Got it? Here endeth mine public service announcement.

Some Overall Tips:
- Beer games can get sloppy. It’s common sense to wear crappy clothes. If you’re really a neat nick, you may want to play these outside.
- Cheap beer is best. Don’t waste money on the good stuff.

Beirut

The Object:
The object is to clear all of your opponents’ cups by sinking a ping-pong ball in each one. The first team to get a ping-pong ball in all the opponents’ cups wins!

The Twist:
For each ball you sink, the opponent has to chug that cup of beer.

What You Need:
- Big, rectangular table, approximately the dimensions of a ping-pong table
- 20* big Solo cups
- Keg of beer
- A couple of ping-pong balls

* Use 30 cups if you want to get really stupid or you’re a sorority girl!

Number of Players:
4 (2 People per Team)

The Set-Up:
Divide the cups in half. Each team gets 10 cups.

On opposite sides of the table, beginning from the table edge, set up the cups in a triangle pattern, like this…

TEAM 1
--------------------------------- (Edge of Table)
...........X X X X...........
............X X X............
.............X X.............
..............X..............

_____________________ (Middle of Table)

..............X..............
.............X X............
............X X X..........
...........X X X X........
--------------------------------- (Edge of Table)
TEAM 2

Fill each cup ½ to ¾ full of beer.

Each team will then go to opposite sides of the table.

The Rules:
- Teams and team members should take turns.
- Once a ball is sunk in an opponent’s cup, he/she has to remove the ball and chug the beer immediately and move the cup aside.
- Play continues until:
- One team clears all the other team’s cups.
- Everyone is too stumbling drunk to play anymore.

The Power Hour

The Object:
This isn’t a game so much as it is an endurance contest.

What You Need:
- A case or keg of really cheap beer*
- One shot glass per person.
- A watch with a second hand.

* Really. I mean cheap. One time Sarah and I played this with good quality, honey brown ale. Bad idea. After about 20 minutes we felt we had ingested, like, 6 loaves of bread. Cheap beer is less filling and has a bit less alcohol.

Number of Players:
Any. (The more the better!)

The Set-Up:
Give each person a shot glass and a supply of beer.

Select someone to be the official timekeeper.

The Rules:
- Drink one shot of beer each minute for an hour or until everyone gets bored or really stupid.

Pitchers of Bitterness

The Object:
This isn’t really a game so much as it is a way to vent and have some fun.

The Origin:
My friend McGuire and I made this up. He’s funny-as-hell but kind of the quiet type, so it was a great way to get him talking. The game doesn't have to be bitter per se. We just happened to be going through some stressful times when we started playing the game.

What You Need:
- A pitcher (or more!) of beer
- Some pint glasses
- A few good pals

Number of Players:
Any. (I’ve found that the best group size is between 3-6.)

The Set-Up:
Put a pitcher in the middle. Give each person a glass.

The Rules:
- Select a topic. Here were some favorites:
- “Things that Really Annoy Me”
- “Stupid Boys that Treated Me Crappy”
- “Most Memorable Stuff that Happened this Year”
- Fill everyone’s pint glass.
- Go around the table and everyone has to do a special (short) toast relating to the topic.

Examples:
- “Here’s to Professor McSnoozer for teaching the most damn boring math class I’ve ever had.”
- “Let’s do a toast to Jed, the best man I’ve ever smooched.”

- After the toast, everyone drinks.
- If someone repeats a toastee, the next person has to choose a new topic.
- The cycle continues until the bar closes.

It’s a great way to vent. This game is also a wonderful ice breaker.

Oooh, there’s so much more to tell! However, I got to get some work done.

More later.

Cheers!

Mr. Rudolph, May You Rot in Hell

Yesterday police apprehended Eric Robert Rudolph, a man allegedly responsible for committing multiple bombings: one at the 1996 Olympics (that killed one person and injured well over 100), as well as several others at gay clubs and abortion clinics.

If indeed guilty (which, based on the facts, doesn’t seem too much in question here), I hope he gets convicted and, if we’re very lucky, the death penalty. This way, our tax dollars will not be used to sustain his miserable life.

People like him disturb and sicken me. He feels that it he has been granted the moral authority to judge others and punish them accordingly, as if he has the right to carry out “God’s will.” (He has said this and more in his taunting letters to police and investigators.)

I guess I take this all very personally because I once had a nasty run-in with his sort. Granted, my experience (mercifully) involved people of a much less violent sort. However, these folks felt they too had the authority to judge, lash out and punish others for their supposed wrong doings.

My sophomore year in college, I was one of the few people in my immediate circle of friends who had a car on campus. This meant that, from time to time, I would help out my friends by providing an occasional ride to the doctor’s office, supermarket or train station.

One day, Michelle*, an acquaintance of mine asked if she might have a lift. She and her boyfriend were getting serious, so she wanted to act responsibly. This involved her getting tested for any STDs and putting herself on the pill. Michelle’s parents were putting several of her brothers and sisters through school, so money was especially tight. Also, she didn’t feel right calling up her parents and saying, “Hey, I need some bucks for birth control!” These two factors required a solution that was both discrete and economical. As such, Michelle did some research and found out that Planned Parenthood offered very low-cost medical exams and birth control. Consequently she had made an appointment and needed a ride.

Truth be told, I wasn’t pleased with her appointment time (8 a.m., Saturday) or the drive time (45 minutes). However, I did agree to help her out and didn’t want to back out.

I figured zoom, zoom – we’re in, we’re out. Nothing major. I was wrong.

The cozy little clinic was difficult to find, as it resided in a rather unsavory part of town. Despite the trash on the sidewalk and the dilapidated surroundings, the operators of the clinic did their best to make it look homey. The grass was freshly mowed, the building was neatly painted and, even from the distance, we could see that lace curtains adorned the few small windows.

I spotted a sign for clinic parking and pulled around the back of the facility. I hung a quick left and drove slowly down a narrow, gravel driveway and pulled into the first parking space I saw.

As my friend and I exited the car, a husky woman, clad in a reflective yellow vest, dashed over to the car. I found it odd, as I thought the lot too small to need parking attendants.

She smiled and wrapped her arm around mine. I glanced at her, somewhat unnerved by the sudden contact.

“I’m your escort,” she said. We both glared at her, surprised.

She said matter-of-factly, “There will be people on the way to the door who try to talk to you or touch you. Try not to listen. Don’t yell back. It only riles them up. Your best bet is to keep your head down and walk briskly. I’ll be with you the whole time. Don’t be afraid.”

Still somewhat dumfounded, we did what she said and began to making quick strides around the side of the building towards the front entrance. As soon as we turned the corner, all hell broke loose.

Behind a flimsy barricade stood five fiery demonstrators chanting, screaming and trying to grab us.

“Don’t kill your baby! Satan will come find you,” screeched one old woman.

Another leaned over the barricade nearly grabbing Michelle by the hair and beckoning, “You can’t do this. I’ll adopt your baby. In the name of Jesus, you can’t commit murder!”

The single man of the group just sneered at me and mumbled repeatedly under his breath, “Dirty bitch.”

One threw a either a rock or clump of dirt that narrowly missed out escort’s shoulder.

Seconds later we burst through the doors of the clinic, surprised and shaken.

“Is it this bad all the time?” I quizzed our escort breathlessly.

“Usually it is worse,” she deadpanned and slipped back through the door to wait for the next group of arrivals.

As I shifted nervously in my waiting room seat, pretending to read Cosmo, I surveyed the faces of the women who sat all around me. A few, I’m sure, planned to have abortions that very morning. Many looked so young and terribly frightened. I imagine the difficult decisions they’ve already had to face and then thought about the torture and indignities they had to endure just moments ago, suffering the jeers and taunts of demonstrators.

Then, my mind went to the members of the staff. How hard must it be for them to come to work each day, knowing that many people in the world would harm them without a moment’s thought, simply because of the nature of the work they do?

Now, close to seven years later, I am still haunted by this experience.

Today I think about Mrs. Lyons, a former nurse at a Birmingham abortion clinic. She was on duty the day Eric Robert Rudolph allegedly set off a pipe bomb packed with dynamite and 1 1/2 -inch nails. Lyons was punctured by hundreds of pieces of metal, a hole was blown out of her abdomen, her ear drum was ruptured and was rendered blind. Also her arm was so damaged; she now must use a rubber stamp to sign her name.

One only hopes there is a special place in hell for Mr. Rudolph.