Experimental music, photography, and adventures

Life as a shoe

Wednesday, August 30th, 2006

Michael came home yesterday in a shitty mood thanks to this lack-of-nicotine business so we decided to go for a bike ride together. We went to the Bloomington Rail Trail. The idea that they simply tore out the railroad tracks, threw down some gravel and made a trail is ingenious. I really liked it there. The problem that I have with biking is that I’m not in very good shape and I just started riding again after a 10-year lapse. Of course, this means I went from riding a bike with a basket and a horn around the playground near my grandparents’ house to trying to keep up with this mountain biker of mine. I’m not very good and when I’m riding places with lots of roots and rocks, I get scared and it’s not much fun to be freaked out the whole time. (Crashing twice and walking away with enormous bruises doesn’t help either.) Anyway, this place was great because it wasn’t insanely difficult. Unlike Michael, I don’t find the prospect of riding through creekbeds and up and down ravines particularly appealing. However, I also don’t really want to ride the roads in the zillion apartment complexes and neighborhoods where we live. So easy trails surrounded by trees, creeks, barns (and the occasional trailer) are really appealing. I hope we go back again soon.

We watched a movie together the other night for the first time in ages. We have never gone out to see a movie together, primarily because 1. it’s expensive, 2. we hate crowds, 3. it’s nicer to watch a movie in a place where your feet don’t stick to the floor. However, we often watch movies together at home (thank you, Netflix) until life just got untimely. We watched Alfred Hitchcock’s “Notorious,” and part way through, this took place:

Me: “That mom is such a biatch. I hope someone calls her that to her face.”
*movie continues*
Me: “Damn, no one has. How come no one ever calls someone a biatch in black and white movies?”
Him: “Sorry, sweetie, I guess they’re just dated like that.”

I don’t know why but that killed me.

Last night, our new neighbors (a couple Muslim fellows who refused to shake my hand presumably because I have a Christian vagina) came over. We heard a knock and Dawood/Dagwood/Dahwud (I call him Dudewood) brought over some turkey mignons (whaa?). He explained that he just bought them and didn’t realize they were wrapped in bacon. So he gave them to us. We considered that perhaps we should bring him the blood of some Jews in return but we didn’t have any on hand.

Disclaimer: I really like (and have had friends) who are both Muslim and Jewish; I just have a sick sense of humor. Also, Dudewood seems quite nice.

Other disclaimer: That was the only time in my entire life that I’ve ever said “biatch.”

One Response to “Life as a shoe”

  1. i, squub Says:

    You REALLY need to say Biatch more. Seriously. What kind of life could you possibly be living if you aren’t even saying “Biatch.”

    For example: You could’ve told Dudewood, “Thanks for the baco-turkey things, Biiiiiatch. Blown up any buses lately?”

    I don’t think that’s offensive.

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