Have You Ever Been to Bike Hell? I’m the Mayor
I suck at riding bikes. I can keep myself upright on level ground well enough, but this mountain biking stuff that people around here do is intense. And because we live in a mountain valley, most of the trails go straight up about 1,000 or so feet, and then straight back down. I am truly awful at it. I fall off the bike. I hurt myself. And I don’t like to continually remind myself that I’m actually incapable of riding a bike, so I don’t do it. I don’t mountain bike. And I am probably the only person in this county who doesn’t. This is a problem because my husband not only mountain bikes, he is the mountain biking poster child. He thinks every problem a woman could possibly have is easily solved by spending just a little time in the...
Read MoreHey Wombat Face
It’s almost that time of year – when my husband shaves his face. His extreme athletic adventures call for an extra layer of insulation on his face. It really has kept him from getting frostbite on some of those longer ski races. But in the summer, it all goes away, and I get to see his glorious face and skin for a whole 6 months before he buries them in whiskers once again. I can’t wait. I’ve actually had it on my calendar. He does this thing each year on shaving day where he doesn’t just shave it off all at once, but instead goes through a series of stages with corresponding character reenactments. First maybe a long Fu Manchu and then a silly moustache and then he takes on different persona to go along with them, and this cracks me up....
Read MoreNot Charles, Martha
I always wanted to have great adventures and then write about them. This was my dream for myself, back when I was a kid. From as early as I can remember, I wanted to be Charles Kuralt, and I’m pretty embarrassed but also a little proud to say that I didn’t even know who Martha Stewart was until I was a junior in college and this kid who was very clearly gay yet pretended to ask me out anyway and who, on our date, cooked a perfect dish of fettucine alfredo and treated me to a videotaped demonstration of Martha Stewart ironing and folding fitted sheets. Until that day, I thought everyone wadded up those bottom sheets and threw them to the top of the linen closet like I did. I bet that’s how Charles Kuralt would have done it. He wouldn’t...
Read MoreMy Daughter the Cat
I am going to tell you for moment about my ten-year-old daughter, my middle child – because I am deeply in love with her, and I am fairly sure that she keeps the world spinning. She has a tan, small face and tiny features like a mouse or a squirrel. There is a smattering of freckles across her nose like someone has been flinging wild oats out to the horses. Like her mama, she needs her quiet time. If she gets overwhelmed, she might really let you have it, yelling and screaming at one moment, then taking a moment alone to recollect herself and then reemerging moments later like some kind of beautiful, kind, sweet thing. A thing transformed. “Oh, hello. I love you,” she will say when she comes back to herself, even if she never left but has been...
Read MoreThe Greatest of Fruits
My son, who would prefer to eat nothing but chicken nuggets and chocolate pudding, decides that his new favorite food is grapefruit, and since this one of the healthiest things he’s put in his mouth – ever – I went straight out and bought a five pound bag of ruby reds. So we’re sitting at the table mowing down this bag of grapefruit and my kids are extolling its virtues. They squeeze the fruit into their bowls and then slurp it up. My husband says, “It’s great fruit, isn’t it?” “Yes, it’s really fantastic,” I say. My son says, “I love it, but the name is weird. I mean, it’s nothing like a grape. And a grape is already a fruit.” “It’s one of life’s great mysteries,” I say. “Wait a...
Read MoreWe are Mamas
I’m sitting having breakfast with some mommy friends this morning and there’s a table of 10 young men, early 20s, guzzling coffee and scarfing piles of eggs and toast and fried potatoes, just as we are doing. And one guy, at the farthest end of their table appears to be sleeping, sitting upright, but sort of slumped over at the neck, his head lolling forward near his plate. More than one of us mothers at my table notice this, but we live in a resort town, where young men such as these tend to drink Tequila or Wild Turkey or Jim Beam all night, stopping only when dawn signals that it is time for some grub. It is not all that unusual to see a guy passed out at the breakfast table. And who are we to judge? A moment later, I look up to see this guy sliding against...
Read MoreThe Promise of a Vagabond
So yes I have this simple life. And I love it. Oh yes, I do. And I have to remind myself of this so often of late because I have friends who are starting off on grand, slam bam adventures and I get a little jealous – just every now and then – of their escapades. When the economy took a dive, quite a few people in my town went looking for new digs. It’s a mass exodus, really. The other day, I came across an old Girl Scout roster from two years ago and saw that, in that time, more than half of our sweet Brownie troop has moved away. One family went to Florida, where they somehow ride roller coasters just about every day. One went to go and live at grandma and grandpa’s beach home. One family is setting off this week for ports unknown, though I’m told...
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