Today was one of those days that remind us of why we live in an overpopulated, underwatered, overheated, could-be-paradise, cauldron of humanity called Southern California.  February in these parts is as close to heaven as is possible on earth.  By nine o'clock in the morning it was sixty degrees. 

Mike had acquired a bike that he wanted to test ride but it turned out to be too small for him so he opted to stay home and work on his guitar while Don Boon and I rode. 

The day was splendid and the trails were in prime condition after several days of gentle rain.  At the upper levy we encountered two young men who were building a launch ramp.  They had prepared the uphill side and were attempting to clear a roll out on the other side when we arrived.  They were wrestling with a boulder the size of a Lazyboy recliner without much success.  Fortunately two sturdy young men came walking down the trail about that time and offered to help.  With the extra tonnage behind them they rolled it down the hill directly into the path of the intended roll out.  We didn't hang around to see the outcome because the downhill siren's song was luring us onto the rocks below. 

Don let me lead the way down Tire Biter and I proceeded with as much caution as the trail would allow, out of respect for my new rims. 

After a half dozen pinch flats in as many rides, I renamed Burien's trail "Tire Biter".  Mike got so tired of fixing flats he bought me a set of tubeless rims and tires for my birthday.  The first time down Tire Biter on them I cut the sidewall of my rear tire and chipped my new rim.  Fortunately we were able to put a patch on the tire and it seems to be holding.  Mike added some air to my rear shock and I haven't flatted since. 

Don and I made our merry way through the twists and turns of the unnamed trail, riding just as fast as we could go without wrecking, reveling in the excellent traction. 

Back at the house I found Babs, Tues and Uncle Ted visiting with Mom.  They were just leaving to get some lunch at Cuca's so I slipped into some less fragrant clothes and joined them.  Cuca's has about the best albondigas soup around in case you're an aficionado.

None of my subscriptions have posted in ages and I'm suffering withdrawal symptoms.  I sit lethargically playing Spider Solitaire, listening in vain for my email notification telling me that their lives are still rich and exciting. 

What fascinating cases has the Surgeon...oops! I mean Governor General treated lately?  How is my Irish equestrienne faring in her studies?  Where is SunLove, now basking in the warmth of new romance, pedaling her lovely new bicycle?  Even my normally verbose sister is uncharacteristically quiet. 

Well, I'm doing my part, as much for my own amusement as anyone's. 

I read a blurb about the control freaks in the American justice system leaning on our Canadian neighbors to prosecute Marc Emery, a Vancouver businessman, for selling pot seeds on line.  Seems that they think it will somehow benefit society to put the guy in jail.  I can't quite understand why it's worth spending upwards of $50,0000 a year for five years to lock him up. 

Aside from the fact that marijuana is possibly the most benign of consciousness altering substances, and actually has some highly beneficial properties, the whole concept of criminalizing victimless crime seems like a huge waste of precious resources.  What many people who have no experience with street drugs may not realize, is that the reasons for criminalizing hemp had nothing to do with it's dangers but everything to do with economic competition. 

In the 1930s machinery was developed that made it economically possible to separate hemp fiber from the plant.  This meant that many manufactured articles, including paper, could be less expensively made from hemp than from other sources like trees.  Two American giants, William Randolph Hearst and the DuPont Corporation stood to lose a great deal of money as they had investments in forests and paper milling machinery.  Hearst used his publishing empire to convince the public that marijuana was evil and a danger to society. 

Evidentally the pharmaceutical lobby wasn't as influential at that time as there were at least twenty-eight medicinal products containing marijuana which were widely manufactured and distributed and were recognized as a medicine in good standing by the AMA.

I have my own idea that racism was a factor in the hysteria.  Because it was cheap, pot was the recreational drug of choice for African Americans and Hispanics and fringe elements like artists and musicians.  It was easy to create laws that mostly impacted only minorities.

And so, to this day, we are still prosecuting people for growing, possessing, selling or smoking a weed that does nothing worse than make you eat and fall asleep.  Seriously, there are no known cases of death, either accidental or intentional, caused by pot.  

The propagandist's purpose is to make one set of people forget that certain other sets of people are human.
Aldous Huxley   

Watching a movie on IFC (Independent Film Channel) I heard an interesting comment today:  "Piety is the standard by which we are judged, but it is the quality of our sins that sets us apart".  I've been thinking about the meaning ever since.

Sin is such an interesting concept.  I was taught as a child that we were born in sin and even our best attempts at righteousness were "as filthy rags".  Being a rather willful child, it was easy for me to believe that I was a sinner.  Now I have a different idea of what constitutes sin and the minor disobedience or the haphazard hygiene of a child doesn't come to mind.

 I'm beginning to think that sin may just be another person's behavior that we don't understand or as Mom used to say, "How great the sin that we have not committed".  I don't doubt that there are serious evil doers whose wickedness merits punishment, but if you consider how limited our choices are, given the influence of nature and nurture, you might wonder how culpable any of us are. 

Speaking of sinners, I was reminded of George W. Bush the other day when I read quite a different quote.  I'll paraphrase:  "It's not that power corrupts; it's that corrupt people are attracted to power".  The quality of his sins has surely set him apart despite his professed piety.

The company I work for ceased taking new business at the end of October.  As the office administrator (that's a glorified gofer who feels the heat whenever anything goes awry in a small office) I have the obligation to tie up all the loose ends and lock the door behind me.  The decision to close was one that took over a year to make, so it came as no surprise. 

Still, as the final day draws near, I feel the cloud of anxiety slowly creeping over my normally sunny outlook.  I'm finding it difficult to maintain that optimism I felt, and tried to convey to my staff, as I was laying them off, one after another as business slowed to a trickle.  "It's an opportunity to move on to something better", I told them.  I really believed it at the time.  But the cold reality of being unemployed and totally spoiled rotten by a great employer, makes the idea of looking for work a daunting prospect.  It's a bit like dating:  While it's exhilarating to put on your best Ann Taylor suit and WOW prospective employers with what you can do, you know that you will probably have to kiss a lot of frogs before that great job materializes. 

I'm tempted to just take some college classes and pretend to be unconcerned with feathering my retirement nest.  Is it possible to learn a new skill and hope to be able to earn a living at this advanced age?  Am I too old to learn new tricks?  And if I do manage to turn what I like to do into something that resembles work, will it no longer be fun?  (No, I'm not talking about riding mountain bikes professionally).  Travel writing would be the best but I could be happy writing instruction manuals or questions for driving tests.  You laugh, but somebody has to think up those ambiguous questions. 

My niece, Tuesday, is an inspiration  when it comes to looking for work.  It seems like she's been offered nearly every job for which she's applied.  When she describes her interview strategy it sounds like she does most of the interviewing.  By the time she walks out the interviewer is hoping they can afford her.  Maybe I'll hire her to find me a job.

The holiday season brings a special feeling to my bosom, guilt.  Yes, that's guilt, not gilt.  As a lost soul, I'm not torn between the material and the spiritual, as some profess to be (mostly on behalf of others, whom they think should be more spiritual).    No, my guilt raises it's uncomfortable visceral knot when, I so completely forget the season that I show up at a card party empty handed, wearing brown when the other players have donned their gay apparel.

My family has long ago learned not to expect prettily wrapped baubles and greetings of the season from me.  In fact, in my Calvinistic family, any overt display of generosity or sentimentality is suspect.  Mom rants, every time she's presented with a gift, on her belief that gift giving is an attempt to obligate the receiver.  On the irregular occasions that I present a present, the reaction is often one of nonplussed caution.  My niece on receiving a piece that was decorated with tulips (a nod to her Dutch lineage) in the flamboyant colors of her dining room asked, "Why are you giving me this?"   

The joys of the season are certainly not lost to me.  Indeed, opting out of the whole frantic pursuit of the perfect gift for everyone from the paper boy to my cousin's tenth child, frees me to indulge my favorite pastime which is simply enjoying the company of good friends and family.  The political problems of the world won't be solved by our discussions as we labor together in the kitchen, preparing the Christmas dinner from fresh, even homegrown, ingredients; but, we strengthen our family bond, tighten the gossamer threads that bind us together. 

Each time we share our ideas and opinions, we sort them out in our own mind, sifting the wheat from the chaff.  Our common upbringing allows us to look at issues from a similar angle while our diverse experiences introduce fresh aspects.  We are fortunate to have Mom and Uncle Ted with us, both of whom are intelligently opinionated, iconoclastic thinkers.  Scofflaws to be sure, reformed Protestant Reformed (or atheist, if you like), they view the offskeiden world with a jaundiced eye.  (The word "offskeiden" is my spelling of the Dutch word meaning "outsider", as we learned it, someone who is not a member of our cult/church) 

Suffice it to say, our kitchen conversations are seldom dull, NEVER politically correct, and frequently hilarious.  There is no topic too personal to examine, no foible too tender to spuet (another attempt at spelling a Dutch word meaning "to gently mock, or poke fun of") and nothing too revolting to describe.  The only unspoken rules are:  That one refrain from using profanity, which includes the words "crap" and "puke" (unless for shock value); that one be loving in criticism or abstain altogether (If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all); and that you leave any sense of self-pity at the street.  

Inlaws, outlaws and friends are welcomed and treated with tenderness only long enough to determine their squeamish threshold.  When our devout Aunt Marge used to visit, we would all remind each other not to say certain words that she found offensive even though they were common to our vocabulary.  Come to think of it, perhaps I flatter ourselves.  We aren't as kind as I'd like to believe as evidenced by the fact that none of our inlaws has stayed the course.  We're a clan of divorcees.

Well, I've rambled long enough to bore even myself and still haven't thought of a title for this so, I'll leave it up to you.

Well, I must say that none of my trepidation about the exam was warranted.  The exam room was warm, I waited on the table in the oh-so-becoming paper gown for just enough time to take the photos promised in my previous blog, and my dear Dr. of the diminutive hands was gentle and  considerate. 

He reviewed my lab results with me item by item, commenting on my good grades.  Blood sugar good, thyroid normal, cholesterol excellent, no anemia, but wait...this number on the liver test...not so good.  "Do you drink?" he queried.  My cheeks flamed with embarrassment, remembering that night of debauchery last weekend, two excellent shots of anejo tequila AND a glass of red wine with dinner.  I readily confessed to a glass of red wine almost every night and vowed inwardly never to touch tequila again.  Of course, I've vowed that before but that was hangover induced so it doesn't really count.  Now comes the part where you can appreciate why I really like this Dr.  In all seriousness, I asked him if I should discontinue my medicinal red wine.  The dear man said "No".  He thought that during the holidays with everyone else drinking and celebrating, my liver would tolerate the abuse better than my emotional state would tolerate the deprivation.  Ya gotta love a guy who appreciates the precarious balance between good liver health and good mental health.  (Disclaimer for my readers who don't know me:  that hangover was over twenty years ago.)

Enough of the dreary stuff, I know you're waiting for the sordid pictures.  This first one is my Dr.'s credentials.  He's old enough to be experienced (degrees issued in 1986 and 1989), young enough to stay awake all the way through the exam, old enough not to worry about what he's thinking while he's doing the breast exam, and young enough to enter his own chart notes on his computer. The next one is of the implement of torture.  I thought it was interesting that it was plastic instead of the old-fashioned steel ones we used in the Ob/Gyn office.  He explained that when you use only one or two a day (the majority of his patients are geriatrics) it doesn't pay to sterilize steel ones.  Besides, you don't have to keep a plastic one warm.  Bet you guys never thought of that! So take off all your clothes (I left my cool Defeet "Girls love dirt" mountain bike socks on), put the paper gown on (one gianormous size fits all) with the opening to the front, climb up on the paper-lined table, and cover your lower half with the paper lap robe. 

When the staff hears the paper rustle they know you're ready for the Dr. to come in.  Still he knocks politely to give you a chance to compose yourself.  "How are you today?" he asks congenially and you reply nonchalantly, as if you're not sitting with your tits clearly visible through the gaping arm holes of the gown.  Thank goodness I'm not the modest sort.  I can only imagine how awkward it must be for some of the women I know who can't even pee on the trail.  He starts with the parts you're used to having a fully clothed male examine:  eyes, ears, blood pressure, then the stethoscope burrows beneath the gaping gown.  Deep breaths, then lie down for the breast exam.  Might I suggest you reverse the order?  I confess, I enjoy the breast exam.  Then the perky young nurse comes in to chaperon the pelvic exam.  We chat amiably about her children and gossip about mutual acquaintances while the good Dr. goes to work.  I pride myself on my conversation skills at a time like this because it takes some concentration to relax the pelvic area, not alow any flatulence to slip by and express sincere interest in the nurse's three deliveries, two natural and one c-section.  Let's see the Channel 5 weather girl top that.

Tomorrow is the day of my annual tune up, aka a physical exam.  Having been a woman all of my adult life, I've learned to accept the idea that people occasionally will insert various and sundry items into my various and sundry orifices.  I have worked, in an administrative capacity, in an Ob/Gyn practice for several years and I've grown comfortable with my former coworker, a nurse practitioner, performing the always awkward pelvic exam, the somewhat pleasant breast exam and the truly icky rectal exam.  You can imagine my dismay when I called to make an appointment and learned that she had left Dr. Largehands' employ to work at a low-income clinic in San Bernardino.  Dr. Largehands' receptionist asked if I wanted to schedule an appointment with the Dr. in a tone that said she knew the answer before she asked 

Now, I have no objection to the $130 the clinic wanted to charge me to see my gentle friend with the delicate hands, and I was willing to pay the out-of-network lab to look at the smear (I don't think they call it a Pap Smear anymore), nor was I put off by the idea of hob-knobbing with people of the low-income persuasion; but, I won't drive to San Bernardino for anything less than a jury summons. So, I called my family Dr., a nice Chinese man with diminutive mitts, and made an appointment. 

Dr. W. is a really great guy.  He doesn't take himself too seriously and he does take my ideas about my own health care seriously.  When I complain about the aches and pains of aging, he half-kiddingly suggests that I quit mountain biking, knowing his advice will be ignored.  

So, if you would like, I'll let you know how everything goes.  I'll even post some pictures.  That should improve my ratings!  Or NOT!!!

A last minute reprieve came from Mother Nature, in the form of a good, old-fashioned, winter storm.  Truthfully, I can't remember the last time we enjoyed such a bountiful drenching but suffice it to say, there are probably many kindergartners who had never experienced such a thing. 

According to the weather reports, we are entering our seventh year of, not just drought, but record low-rain-fall years.  Many trees standing beside seasonal stream beds have given up the ghost.  Their more tenacious brethren cling weakly to life, shedding all but a few essential leaves.  The hills are beyond parched.  Even where they haven't been charred black by wild fire, they are as naked as Uncle Ted's chemo treated pate.  Wildlife like bobcats and mountain lions are forced to seek sustenance in more urban environments, like orange groves and Steve's tool shed.

While working at Steve's place (laying a new porcelain tile floor) Mike discovered an emaciated, juvenile bobcat crouching just outside the chicken run.  He was so weakened that he could only look on listlessly when Mike approached to within fifteen feet.  Mike's compassion overcame good sense.  He promptly served the young cat a large can of tuna which was snatched from his hand so quickly he almost lost it.  The cat continued to hang out, eventually moving into the tool shed, where Mike learned to put his cat food on the end of a long piece of plywood before sliding it towards the animal.  As the days passed, the bobcat gained strength and the veiled look that cats get in their eyes when they are sick diminished.  He began to forage on his own again, but since the natural pickings were still almost nonexistent, he came back to his soup kitchen every day.  One day, as you knew would come, he was gone.  Rumor came that someone had shot a cat a block away because it was "eating their pets".  As a devout cat lover I believe one should do what is necessary to protect one's pets, short of decimating what's left of beleaguered wildlife. 

But, this was not supposed to be a soap box oration but rather a celebration of the winter season.  The following collection of photos was taken yesterday along the route I jog.  A more perfect morning is hard to imagine.

Unlike most women, I hate shopping.  It's partly because I'm a tightwad, but it's more that I'm lazy and begrudge all the time it takes to educate myself enough to make intelligent choices. 

My mom has been gently nagging me to buy her a new TV for a while so I finally knuckled down and did some online research to find out what to buy.  Mom's needs are simple.  She watches Judge Judy, Jeopardy and Two and a half Men.  Based on my research, I had decided on a Sony Bravia S series, but when I got to Best Buy and compared the pictures side by side, I opted for the Sharp instead.  It took about fifteen or twenty minutes to get the attention of a sales clerk who kindly assured me that, despite the different specs outlined on the display information, they're all the same.  He suggested that I simply pick the cheapest one.  So much for my careful research.

A 32" LCD TV isn't very heavy but it is bulky and difficult to handle, especially when you're a 5'3" woman.  The sales associate loaded the box onto a cart and sent me off to the check out.  The box overhung the sides of the cart by a foot on each side and it rocked perilously as I carefully negotiated the maze from the back of the store to the front.  The configuration of the store aisles is such that it's impossible to travel a straight line.  A customer is forced to zig and zag up one aisle, over three aisles left, up another and then right.  The theory being, that if you see all of their DVDs on your way out, you won't be able to resist buying (I have to admit, I looked at the Cheryl Crow CDs, not because I thought about buying them but because she had dated Lance Armstrong).

So, after having shelled out $700. I proceeded to the exit where, the cashier had told me, I needed to show my receipt.  There I found four employees huddled in conversation who ignored me completely until I asked if they wanted to check my sales slip.  "No, we trust you", one of them said dismissively, making me wish I had pocketed one of the Cheryl Crow CDs (just kidding). I struggled out the door, keeping my fragile cargo balanced precariously with one hand, while I guided the cart down the ramp with the other.  Best Buy has a really crummy return policy so it was nerve-wracking knowing that if I dumped it in the parking lot, they wouldn't take it back.  

Outside it was an oppressive 90° and raining ash from the nearby forest fires.  I wasn't half way to my car when I was accosted by a professional beggar, who attempted to loosen my purse strings by tugging at my heart strings.  "Could you spare a few shillings, m'lady, to help the gangs?  It costs only $180 to buy a uniform so a boy, who would otherwise be committing various and sundry crimes, can play baseball.  90 percent of your cash donation goes to helping our gangs". 

By the time I reached my car I was fuming at the abysmal customer no-service provided by Best Buy and the insult to my intelligence by the beggar.  I rested the cart against the rear bumper while I transferred all the stuff I had bought at Costco from the trunk to the back seat.  Then as I prepared to wrestle the enormous box into the trunk, I noticed the instructions on the box admonishing me to keep it in the vertical position.  Before moving all the Costco stuff back into the trunk I measured the box to make sure it would fit into the back seat.  I determined it would with inches to spare.  I wheeled the cart around to the side of the car where it was now on a slope and wanted to roll away from the car.  So, balancing on one foot, holding the cart with the other, I coaxed the behemoth into the back seat while two employees leaned against the building and watched while they smoked their fags.  It never ceases to amaze me when people are so thoughtless.

Driving home, in the comfort of my air-conditioned car, I had time to reflect on how fortunate I was to be going home with a brand new TV when there are a million people living in shelters, many of whom won't have a home to go back to when the fires are finished wreaking their havoc.  I guess, whether you have big problems, small problems or no problems, you should always keep your perspective and your sense of humor.   

 A typical Sunday ride is usually a rather tame event, that is unless, one is accompanied by Guy. 

Mike, Guy and I set off in good spirits as the air was clear, the breeze cool and we were all well-rested, not having been on our bikes since last Sunday.  Guy complained that his hip was still a wee bit sore from his spill last week but otherwise he was in good form.  We warmed up slowly, enjoying some ribald conversation as we pedaled three abreast, up the deserted streets of Mentone.  At the rock barrier at 7-W we paused to film the action.  Mike slithered through the narrow passage without hesitation and Guy too, scrambled up and over the embankment on his second try.  I made no attempt, still suffering serious back pain from my gardening two weeks ago.

Near the top of the climb we all got split up, I took a shortcut, Guy got a flat, and Mike pushed on, not realizing that Guy wasn't with him.  The trail Mike was on runs parallel to a dirt road on which there was a modest-looking motorhome parked.  As he went by a young pit bull challenged him.  The owner made no move to control his dog so when the rascal grew more aggressive, Mike stepped off the bike and swung it between him and the dog.  Undeterred the mutt came at him again so he bent down to pick up a rock for self-defense.  Seeing his dog was about to have his head bruised, the owner finally tried to call him off without much success.  At last the guy got a chain on the dog and Mike rode on. 

When Mike met me at the top of the levy, I told him I had seen Guy (from the short cut trail, which is higher than the one they had ridden) down by the motorhome, off his bike.  When he didn't show up we went back to look for him fearing he'd been eaten by the dog.  We found him half carrying his bike which had a flat tire.  He was happy to see us since he didn't have any CO² cartridges with him, nor did he have a pump.  I gave him a couple of mine and we were on our way.

The trail we took down is a funny little trail.  It's not steep and, at first blush, it doesn't look difficult; but, because it's fairly flat, you have to pedal through some of the tricky rock gardens.  It's also as convoluted as a politician's answer to a question.   One of the more difficult sections has a series of turns that can only be ridden properly if you have just the right amount of momentum to bank your front wheel off the face of a rock that's a little taller than a curb.  If you hit the rock face at the right angle it lines you up perfectly for the next hard left turn.  If not, it catapults you straight into a rock the size of a beach ball.  I had warned Guy that when he wrecked in front of me on the climb I hadn't used him for traction because I could avoid him, but I couldn't promise I would be so considerate on the downhill.  With that in mind, he was feeling some pressure to stay out of my way. 

Yup, he missed the line, planted his front wheel to avoid hitting the big rock, and splat! OTB.  That's Over the Bars.  It was brilliant.  Fortunately, I didn't have enough momentum to clear the rock ramp so he was spared the indignity of having me run over him. 

He dusted himself off and climbed back on, little worse for the wear.  Personally, I think it loosened his sore hip up a little because he rode pretty good after that.  So, anyway, I figured I'd probably seen all the rodeo I was going to see for the day, but nooooooo.  We come to the big rock garden at Garnet and he sails into it with aplomb.  Thinking he surely must succeed, having filled his crash quota for the day, I follow him up the rock ramp, full tilt.  Oh, dear, it was a painful sight to see.  His lovely new Fox fork got scratched, not just the leg, but the stanchion too.  He was bummed and his bum was bruised too. 

Here's the film footage of the ride.  I edited the bloody parts out for the squeamish.