A Christmas Story

One time on Christmas Eve when I was around 11 or 12, I decided I would sleep downstairs on the couch and wait for Santa to come - to see, once and for all, if he was real or not.

I’d lie in wait and then while he was distributing the gifts I’d sneak a peek and maybe even jump up and surprise him or something.

For a few years around that time, my friends had been suggesting to me that he wasn’t real. But I still held out hope. And besides, even if he wasn’t real, I figured that “pretending” he was real around my parents would at least get me a few more years of extra presents from him. So really, I had nothing to lose.

But also, deep down, I wanted to believe in miracles and magic and fairies and the Easter bunny and prince charming and stuff like that for as long as I could. The world just seemed like a better place with Santa looking out for me. So my plan made perfect sense.

Sleeping downstairs on the couch would either prove that life was as magical as I’d wished for it to be or it would confirm what my friends had been telling me for years - that it was all a big farce and that santa was probably an alcoholic or something.



So for a few weeks prior to Christmas I spent some time sneaking around upstairs in my mom’s closets, finding secret presents not yet wrapped, but neatly stashed away. I figured I could also prove my theory of his existence by whether or not Santa or my parents gave me those presents. It was a good back up plan.

Either way, I would find out the ultimate truth that year.

On Christmas Eve, my parents left the three of us alone in the house for a few hours while they went next door for a cocktail party. We spent some time on the couch watching festive movies and around 10pm or so set out the milk and cookies and went upstairs to go to sleep. We were all anxious for Santa to come.

The plan was to lie in bed for a little while and wait for my parents to come home and go to sleep and then I’d sneak downstairs and wait.

But of course, I fell right to sleep.

I woke a few hours later to some loud noises downstairs - and decided I’d sneak down and catch Santa in the act right then. All that noise must have been him tying to get into the house. And so I snuck, ever so quietly and slowly, down the stairs.



I could see some sort of mayhem as I rounded the corner – stuff was laying everywhere. Wrapping was strewn about, a guinea pig in a cage, a big wheel half built, a bike on its side, skates without laces, hula-hoops and ribbon flung everywhere. But worst of all was that the glass of milk we'd put out for Santa was tipped over with all the milk spilled next to it.

His cookies were half eaten. And nothing at all was wrapped yet.

It was a mess.

Over towards the fireplace there were various pieces of clothing items that looked to be similar to my mom’s in a few piles on the floor. As I eased closer, I saw some empty beer bottles, a wine glass tipped over on the floor and an ash tray and some dirty socks flung on the bottom branches of the tree. What the hell had happened? I thought. Was Santa drunk or something? And why were my mom’s clothes everywhere?

And then I saw them.

On the couch.

Naked parents on the couch moving around a lot making their grunting noises.

Jesus Christ, I thought to myself. Here I am, trying to keep the magic alive for myself and figure out life or fantasy and Santa and what do I find, but my drunken ass parents, screwing on our living room couch.

And so I backed up and shuffled back upstairs into my room and slunk back into my bed. And I lay there, grumbling to myself about how they’d messed up everything and how I wouldn’t be able to see the real Santa again for at least another year, if indeed he even WAS real.

The next morning, after spending about half an hour jumping on my mom and dad’s bed trying to wake them from their Christmas Eve hangover, we finally all made our way downstairs. And to my surprise everything was neatly wrapped and organized and the beer bottles and cigarette butts and wine glasses and underwears and socks from the previous night were nowhere in sight.

And the first gift I opened that year was from Santa and it was the red shiny cassette player I’d seen up in my mom’s closet just the week before. It had been tucked behind the light bright that my brother had just finished opening.

As The Bike Wheels Turn, So Do the Days of Our Lives

I want to write about what it's like to finally be working in the bike industry, and how great it is, but it's 10pm at night and I'm too tired from riding an extra long bike in 40 degree weather, in jeans and a down jacket in the dark, grinding up 1100 feet with gears that are too big.

But maybe I'll try. Writing about it. Even though I'm so tired.

So, just so you know - it's just as much fun as you could have ever imagined.

And everyone who works there, rides a bike to work. In fact, they all ride extra long bikes to work. And all the magazines that are laying around are ones that I'd actually buy to have at my house. And all the food samples are from companies that I'd buy stuff from, to eat, at my house.

But I haven't seen anyone eating bacon yet.

And I think I might need a triple. Because the bags on the bike already seem to be like a pseudo purse for me - putting things in there, just in case, I might need something sometime. I think I may have even lost something on the way into work, like my knife for cutting bananas for my yogurt parfait breaks.

And then all that climbing to get home.

Today, I was so cold from riding down the hills to work, that I left my fleece leg warmers on under my pants all day. And I left my 2 wool shirts on all day. And I wore my down jacket intermittently throughout the day - but most especially each time I went out to the warehouse.

And in the holiday spirit, just as I was arriving to work this morning at the reasonable hour of 9:15 and turning the corner to pull into the driveway of the warehouse, I noticed a group of neighbors gathering festively on the corner, drinking some beers.

Get The Bacon

With cyclocross ...



Sometimes you suck really bad. Sometimes you're mediocre. Sometimes you feel good. Most times not. Sometimes you win. And sometimes you lose pretty badly. Me, mostly, I'm usually pretty mediocre. I guess you could say I'm consistently pretty mediocre. And then once or twice a season I'll have a really fabulous race.



But yesterday, I have to say, I was the suck. I got owned. I never felt like I got into a groove. And I felt a little out of control the whole time.

Maybe it was the wine hangover. Maybe it was the cold weather that caught me off guard that I didn't dress appropriately for. Maybe it was because I had the wrong bra on. Or maybe it was because I felt guilty for racing while Lulu was curled up in a ball in the camp chair barfing, with the onslaught of the 24 hour flu.



The nice technical stuff was fun and twisty and swoopy and rooty. But with the kinds of swoops and twists where you feel like you're constantly on the verge of doing an endo. And then there was the long, long, long, stretches of pavement which was just, well, long. Not to my advantage I tell you.

So I made the best of it.




And by the third and fourth laps, when I'd calculated that I was in LAST in my field I took the bacon feeds and the beer feeds and heckled back.



So spectacular was my slow motion crash into the tree because I couldn't get either foot into the pedal and had both feet up in the air as I rolled into it, that I mumbled some bad words. But at least I stayed somewhat up right. At the same time I was jumping off the bike to run down and back up, I noticed two other women on the ground, bodies flailing under bikes, muttering similar words.

So I ran around them.



And did the swoops and hills and sand and at the top of the hill where you feel like barfing, and there it was, the bacon. Which caught me off guard the first time - and I couldn't get close enough because I was actually trying to pass people and keep my head above water.

But after the next few laps, I was ready for the bacon. It was time for bacon. It's bacon time. And I took the bacon, after climbing that awful hill. And ate it. And immediately started gagging. And thankfully, someone saw, and gave me a can of tecate. And that washed the bacon down.



On my last lap, they yelled out to me to GET THE MONEY! GET THE $5 BILL!

And I didn't see any bacon. So I yelled back I DON'T WANT THE MONEY, I WANT THE BACON. And lickety split a bacon bottle was set up right as I arrived and they all yelled GET THE BACON! And I got the bacon. And they cheered SHE GOT THE BACON!


(bacon pic by scotty paz)

And then I put the bacon in my shorts. And I finished my last lap with bacon in my shorts.

Fruit Punch and Stuff

My sixth grader is in sixth grade.

And except for the first day of school a few months ago and my inability to deal with the fact that he was starting sixth grade that day and the way I teared up every time I talked about it, things have been going pretty smoothly.

He likes caf. He likes all his teachers. He thinks having a locker is cool. He has a posse of four kids that he hangs out with. He's diggin' playing his trumpet. His grades are good and he's learning some cool stuff.



And up until now he's had no interest in school dances. Which is perfectly fine by me. Because I remember the things I used to do at school dances - even in 6th grade.

I have the sense of humor of a 17 year old boy, so I remember being in 6th grade pretty vividly.

Anyway, at first he thought dances were mandatory. He'd read about them in the school handbook. And he thought that you were forced to dance with the girls in some sort of square dance, waltz time way. And that you had to dress up. There was a lot of talk and angst about it at first - until I realized his confusion.

No, they're not mandatory I explained. You can go if you want, but you don't have to. Dad was just teasing you.

And Lulu, the 9 year old, also tried to help by explaining it to him in more detail. And how you just hang out with your friends and drink fruit punch. And punch each other. And maybe dance with your friends in a circle when a song comes on that you really like. But you don't have to if you don't want. You can just sing along to the music if you want.

I don't know how she knew this. She's already decided that in a few years at her first 6th grade dance, that's what she'll be doing - going with a bunch of her best friends. And she already knows how she's going to do her hair.

But he didn't believe her.



But then he found out that two of his friends had actually gone to the first dance of the year. And they liked it. In fact, they'd loved it. Because apparently there was a DJ playing cool music and all the lights were turned off except for the disco ball which spun around and all the bright red and orange lights flashed around on the walls. And you get glow sticks and bracelets and necklaces.

And they goofed off a lot.

And you eat as many free brownies and cookies as you want. And you drink as much soda as you want. And there's even pizza for a buck.

And no one really even dances. Except for some of the 8th graders. But no one pays attention to them anyway. And you talk about how you like or don't like the song they're playing. And then maybe you try and show each other a few crazy dance moves.

And so now he wants to go on Friday. And he wants me to give him $5 so he can buy pizza for all his buddies.

And I'm trying to talk Morgan into going to chaperone. Because I might cry if I chaperone. And then the poor kid would be hecka embarrassed.

Left Turn

Today, I quit my job.

It was around this time last year, when I got laid off from my other job.

And I spent the next 7 months or so, goofing around and riding my bike and volunteering and gardening and dropping my kids off at school in my pajamas and eating hot pockets and having a mid life crises.



When you're a middle aged mom, having a mid life crises doesn't necessarily mean you go out and buy a sports car and leather jacket and get a boob job and then leave your husband for someone half your age.



Or maybe it does.

But my husband's already younger then me and he's cute. And he works on all my bikes for me. And hello? Push up bras? They work just fine.



So I spent my crises thinking about where I wanted to go with my life. And what I wanted to do. And tried to steer in that direction. And I adopted a cat. And adopted a dog. And cooked dinner a lot. And even cleaned the toilet once.



And I did steer a little to the left to some extent, with a part time gig at the magazine. Which is fun. And which I love - enough to race in a cyclocross race in Las Vegas against pros and come in last, very last, out of a hundred people and and not be embarrassed about it.

Hello, I'm last.



Yet not quite as far left as I wanted to with the full time job. Really, I thought I'd be content, working in the same industry I'd been in for 15 years, somewhere else, doing something a little different but kind of the same.

But it's not working for me. It's not my passion. And I wanted to make a difference somewhere. And do something good. And not be a drain. And feel good about it. And ride a super long stretch bike to work every day.



So now, here I am, a year later. Leaving it, quitting my job (no, not the magazine job. i'm still there).

Taking a sharp left turn, with a new job, in the middle of a recession. In a state that has almost the highest unemployment rate in the country. At a small local company.



And it's all about getting people out of their cars and onto their bikes and making it easy enough for them to do it. And helping them do it. Part advocacy, part bicycle & bike part manufacturer.

Now I just need to get a pink merino wool poncho to wear on my bike commute and to the farmers market on Sundays when cross season is over and then the transition will be complete.