My Dad Said You Were a Drama Queen

. . . . . running late for the early morning Sunday ride, the husband needs a lift in the truck. I'm not allowed to brush my hair or do anything remotely human-looking before driving the husband to meet 30 of his friends. Nothing. To make me look slightly presentable. With zombie breath in tow and my bewbies hanging to my knees - I just had a birfday, people - I jump into the driver side of thy truck. I'm a good sport. Mostly.

**********

. . . moseying on down the road; driving along in my automobile . . .

the husband: drive it like you stole it.
me: I just woke up and therefore it's probably a little dangerous for me to be driving like that ***wild-eyed abandonment***
the husband: ***snickers*** I know, right?
me: what are the chances that there is someone at the 4-way stop at this time in the morning . . . . . . who, I guess, isn't even going to bother to stop?
swerving around the old man whom, mind you, didn't stop at the 4-way stop himself
the husband: you're going to be turning right up here. . . .
me, slowing down to pull in behind old guy to make the right hand turn up ahead
the husband: punch it!
me: ***punching it*** that old geezer is thinking, "effing* kids these days!"

Come to think of it, maybe the old guy was late for the ride too? I mean, he turned so quickly at the 4-way stop, because, if you remember, he never even stopped, which in turn made him swerve into the other lane of traffic before righting himself back in front of me in my lane. B*st*rd.

Maybe he was just drunk. Double b*st*rd.

Finally, I'd like to finish by pointing out it was far too early for me to be pulling out my Kimi Raikkonen moves, which I flawlessly performed in a truck. But all's well that ends well. I'm safe and back at home with my hair now up in a pony-tail and my pegs are brushed. I can now go out in public. I'm safe. All ya'll are safe.

*technically, this is not exactly the word I used, but I'm a lady. So there.

Gives Her a False Sense of Reality

Within the last two days, the husband and I have been experiencing some beautiful weather here in our Longhorn City. Yesterday, it was a high of 82-degrees F and right now it's 55-degrees F. I thought it was much warmer than that, especially since our thermometer at home said 71-degrees. . . . Hm? Sneaky, sneaky weather.

Either way, the husband and I decided that, today, we should go for an actual outdoor bicycle ride. Maybe I'd even get a leetol bit of a tan and not look like the walking dead. Bonus!

Little did I know it would be against blowing winds from Zeus himself, God of the heavens, brother of Demeter, Hera, Hestia and Poseidon. Coming from the west-northwest at 31-miles per hour up to 41-miles per hour. That was fun.

Good times, I've got to tell you.

Shake and Bake Part II! "Is That a Catchphrase Or Epilepsy?"

Texas skies are sunny with a high around 92-degrees.

The husband is taking moi, against all advice and better judgment, on another bike ride today. Any takers on whether or not the she-devil will appear again? Or whether or not I'll burn off whatever I may have left of my nose hairs and eyebrows?

May God have mercy on his soul. . . . or mine. I don't know yet.

Shake 'N Bake, Baby

1 Sunday afternoon. 1 cyclist racer. 1 normal mortal. Two bikes. 94-degrees Fahrenheit. 3.5 hours. 45 miles. 30 SPF. Abundant water. No Alexander Vinokourov. No doping scandals. No team car support. No schloogus maximus'.

the husband: *pulling of to the side of the road while pointing north in the direction of a galaxy far, far away* I wish I could show you where we live from here, but the hill is blocking our view. . .
me: wow. We are that far from home? *utter astonishment*
the husband: yep. And we are heading that way *pointing south *
me: *turning my head ever so gently* BUT THAT'S A HUGE HILL! And,it'stheoppositedirectionofhome! *on the plus side, death is one of the few things that can be done just as easily lying down* [Woody Allen]

the husband: *laughing* I know!
me: that's so not funny. *grrrr*

*********** 5 minutes later ***********

me: *pedaling up previously mentioned hill* my heart rate is 175 *can't. find. air.*
the husband: I'm not even going to tell you mine. . . *laughing again*
me: what? It's . . . . like . . . . 130 . . . . , isn't . . . . it? *kill. me. now.*
the husband: more like 125 *still laughing*
me: that's . . . . just . . . . wrong . . . . on . . . . so . . . . many . . . . levels . . . . of . . . . wrongness. *it's impossible to experience one's death objectively*
the husband: *laughing - he's still laughing on a hill*

The husband even put his hand on my bum, no, no not to cop a feel, but to help push me up that hill. And, while I'm pretty sure it was a category 200, as mountain categories go, it felt like it was a cat 1. Or even an HC. In the Alps.

I'm not kidding.

[I hope the tour has a good rest day off on Monday, I know I will.]

When We Remember We Are All Mad . . .

I am in the great white north (AKA: America's Dairy Land State) until next week - visiting the parental units, other family members, participating in two epic bike rides and loads of other whatnot's. The husband joins me tomorrow. There is much to tell, such as the husband digging up our backyard, to then discovering a concrete swimming pool in our backyard, in turn leading him to rent a jack-hammer and now having a backyard swamp which is heavily guarded by southern alligators and prehistoric mosquito's. But that is a story that will wait until my return to the Longhorn City . . . .

Unfortunately, the [Tanning] "Butler" had nothing to do with it.

$25.00, A Piece of Pizza and Some Dignity

me: ow! *finally finding the husband at the computer looking up bike racing information*
the husband: what's wrong, baby?
me: ow! *pointing to my thighs*
the husband: *laughter*
me: seriously. The hills and I have an understanding. . . . . . . we hate each other. I tried to tell you. And, just to reiterate, ow!
the husband: are you going to be okay? *baby voice followed by more laughter*
me: no. *I am a baby*
the husband: it's good for you. . . . . What would you like me to do? *laughing and laughing and laughing*
me: you did this on purpose *almost, but not quite crying*
the husband: welcome to my world! *then with a ninja stealth-like maneuver deliberately taps my iliotibial band*
me: aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! *explodes through roof of house*
me: that's not funny! *musn't cry. mustn't cry. I'm not a baby. I'm not a baby.*
the husband: *laughing uncontrollably*
me: you'll pay for your sins. . . . . . . you'll pay. *limping off to a corner to lick my wounds*

Use It. Enjoy It. And Remember To Wipe Off The Sweat As a Courtesy to Others

I am very aware of my AWOL'ness these past few days. While I could give you a list of the things that have gotten in the way of your When the Godiva is Gone blog reading pleasure, I won't. Suffice it to say that I've been busy. Really busy. I am so supremely busy, it's taken me 5 weeks to get to the grocery store. Yes. I said 5 weeks. It got so bad that I didn't even have water in my fridge. Sure, the husband and I were able to eat out twice a day, but that is some serious jeopardy for the waistline as well as the fact that that even gets monotonous. I do like vegetables not strewn in butter soup now and then. Not to mention fresh fruit. I don't even like butter. . . .

Anyhow, I did manage to get to the grocery store twice yesterday. Once for lunch fixings and the other for dinner ingredients. In between, I managed to wake the graveyard working husband to attend the Pink Martini concert yesterday afternoon. Free tickets from a neighbor and a really good time. I still have the major grocery shop to finish, as well as to mow the yard and plant more bushes. I'm not even going to mention the flowers I have to plant - besides, the squirrels seems to think flower roots are their very own personal gourmet meal. I'm about to go and buy out this entire Longhorn city of its Cajun-burn-the-mouth-seasonings . . .

Finally, once the husband awakes today, we'll be hitting the CompuTrainer where he has informed me that I must begin to train on hills. For at least an hour. An hour of riding hills. Do you know what that will do to me?

the husband: you do realize that you have to start riding up some hills, right?
me: uh. *zombies*
the husband: you need to do that.
me: ugh. *zombies everywhere*
the husband: Jen. . . . *exasperation*
me: uh. I. Don't. Want. To.
the husband: it'll be good for you.
me: um. is there such a thing as easy hills? *what do you mean there is no tooth fairy*
the husband: *laughter*
me: seriously. I hate hills. I don't just sound like I'm dying going up a hill - I AM DYING.
the husband: it won't kill you.
me: what if I do die, then what?
the husband: you won't die.
me: what if I do?
the husband: you are not going to die riding your bike up a hill.
me: how do you know that?
the husband: because I do.
me: well, if I do die you're gonna feel bad. . .
the husband: You. Are. Not. Going. To. Die.
me: I could. . . .
the husband: cutitout! *walks away*
me: ugh. grrmph. mmmrzzzph. *more zombies again*

Currently, I am awaiting a call from my bank to inform me of my escrow situation where I can then politely turn around and share said information with my accountant. Taxes are such a lovely thing.

Today's list has only just begun and somehow is growing like sea monkeys.

I've Thought About This and You Are Not Going To Win

me: awww. . . . hon. . . . that's so sweet you came and found me. . . . *finding air and a great big smile*
the husband: you didn't ride up here? *slightly dazed and confused*
me: no-ooo. *oh crap*
the husband: so, you didn't ride your bike up here? *still hoping*
me: so. . . how was work? *note to self: must change subject*
the husband: so, you didn't ride your bike up here?
me: me? No. Um. I drove Coco Chanel and put my bike in the back seat. *super-duper crap*
the husband: you what? ! *face dropping past his bottoms hitting the store floor with a decided thump*
me: well . . .I, uh. I was running late. *loss of blood from entire body*
the husband: *crickets chirping*
me: why is your face on the floor?
the husband: *more crickets chirping*
me: I didn't do anything to Coco. *defiant*
the husband: you. put. your. bike. in. Coco. *laser death ray eyes*
me: I thought you'd be proud that I figured out how to . . . but. . .
the husband: don't.
me: but. . .
the husband: don't.

A few minutes later . . .

the husband: did you at least lay something down on the seat? *decidedly thinking*
me: um. No, but. . .
the husband: don't.

20-minutes later . . .

me: it's just a car.
the husband: I said don't. *maniacal laser death ray eyes*

I am now dead to you all, writing from beyond the grave.

Because I'm a Fun Girl Who Wants to Have Fun with a Fun Man

Today, the husband and I awoke a bit later than usual. I had planned to run 4-miles. The husband planned to ride 2-hours. But this time change thing has not sat well with me. I know I'm a handful when I am not sleep deprived, so I'm just going to just deny, deny, deny that I'm even more so every spring about this time of year when we have to spring the clocks ahead. The husband may disagree.

Somehow, he talked me into riding on the CompuTrainer instead of running. How he did it will forever remain a mystery to us all as I was on the wee bit cranky side of life this morning. I had once again regressed into cave man grunting. And since I am still on the Starbucks embargo, I still had no coffee. With a wash of the face, a bit of deodorant, and a brush of the hair and teeth out the door I was.

It takes about 15-20 minutes to warm up for these cycling sessions before one actually begins their course. For this one, I had planned to ride to keep my rpm's around 80 to 90. A good ride which isn't too difficult on a flat-road-with-no-wind. About 1/4 into my ride, I decided; however, to do interval training. For no other reason than I was inspired by the husbands training ride provided to him by his Nazi bike trainer. So, while he did his 20-minute intervals with a 10-minute rest period, I only did 2-minutes of intervals with a 3-minute rest period (5 intervals only). I. Thought. I. Was. Going. To. Die. Or puke. Sometimes it doesn't really matter which occurs as they're both equally dreadful.

Anyhow, about 45-minutes into our course ride, the conversation that popped out of nowhere went something like this:

"Honey. . . . if you trimmed down a bit you'd be a really good racer."
Me with laser beam death ray eyes calmly turned and looked directly at the husband.
"Well, uhhh. . . . you would. You, uhhh. . . . have a lot of power."