I’m sick with a cold or something and wasn’t up for doing much of anything today. Didn’t take a ride at all. Pretty much just lazed around with Sarah and watched some TV. It was nice to have a break from everything — but being sick sucks.
The other day, Michael was complaining about how the chain on his bike gets bunched up a lot.
Michael: You know, they have a name for that.
Me: What?
Him: When your chain gets all bunched up.
Me: Ooooh! I hope it’s chainstipation!!
Him: No, it’s chainsuck.
This is the first time ever that someone else has come up with some dumb word dumber than my dumb word. On that note, I have a new blog called Sarahdigm Shift. I know, I know, it’s dorky. Although our idea for a joint blog was nice one, Michael writes almost exlcusively about adventuring, whereas I do not. Hopefully, he’ll eventually write about other things but at least now I won’t be cluttering up his biking badassery with my “heh, chainstipation” posts.
I took a mental health day yesterday. One of those days when I woke up and said “Shitfuck, I can’t function.” Anyway, I slept late (gasp! 11:00!) and lounged around.
Last night Michael and I were going to ride at Hardin Ridge in Hoosier National Forest. Despite its claim to be easy, I wasn’t doing very well. As I’ve mentioned, I’m not particularly in biking-up-big-hills shape. Michael got a little frustrated because he said I wasn’t trying. For me, that’s like saying to someone who has carved a turkey at Thanksgiving dinner, “Here, perform surgery on this patient. What, you’re scared? Gosh! You won’t even try?!”
Anyway, he went on without me and that was fine with me. It was at a pretty spot near the lake but from what I understand the trail itself wasn’t that impressive.
Today is my first day of class. New school, new field, new campus. And I’m goofing around online. Same bad habits. Anyway, at the orientation for the School of Library and Information Science (SLIS, and its students are called *sigh* Slizzards), the dean said:
“Indiana University has the 13th largest university library in the nation. That might not turn you on, but it should.”
Oh, and the assistant dean is a woman named Ralph.
What have I gotten myself into?
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.”
Michael and I have decided that we should make this a blog that contains more than just posts about adventuring. I haven’t decided what to rename it so I’m just going to skip that for tonight and write.
I’m typing this on a real keyboard. And I’m clicking with a real mouse. You see, today I (err, Michael) set up my new computer. It’s a Gateway with a 17-inch flat-panel monitor some dual-core something or other that made Michael drool at Best Buy. All I care about is that it is 50,000 better than my four-year-old Compaq laptop whose U key stuck since day one. It’s faster and prettier and I can compute like the wind. I also ordered a Microsoft Natural Ergo Keyboard 4000 from Amazon. I’m going to type with much fanciness. It should arrive at my latest possible convenience since I consider myself a free super saver.
In unrelatedness, Michael and I were doing the got-distracted-by-life-and-Sarah-forgot-to-make-dinner business so we were at Denny’s at 11 p.m. tonight. Across from us was this guy talking to two fairly ugly girls. One looked like she walked out of a Green Party convention and the other ordered a steak “as bloody as possible” and eggs “as yolky as possible” (to people with language/eating skills — that would be “rare” and “sunny side up”). Now, this guy starts talking about how he would never walk outside barefoot and the only trails he likes are made of concrete. Michael, of course, calls him a girlyman and we continue eating our Zesty Creole and Two Sausage and Cheese Bowl. Then it happens.
“Why would anyone marry a soldier except for the money?”
Our girlyman has said what has possibly been the worst thing I’ve heard while eating breakfast at almost midnight at Denny’s. Perhaps he hasn’t noticed but soldiers make jackshit. They make more than what they’d made working at McDonald’s in the ghetto, but joining the military isn’t exactly a get-rich-quick scheme. These are also men who are willing to sacrifice their lives, to become killers/defenders/heroes, to be stationed thousands of miles from their families, to lose their sense of decency, to follow orders and save countries so that I can eat my damn sausage in safety and comfort.
Women marry soldiers because they’re human — and lovable — like the rest of us. Some woman out there finds that soldier sexy, intelligent, dedicated. I doubt a woman finds the girlyman to be any of those things …
