At Me, or With Me?

Dear Sirs:

I'm making the bold assumption that you're all men, because you've obviously made some bold assumptions about women, not the least of which is that if gear isn't pink, it's not for women. Women riders know this is not true, so you are either not women, you don't listen to the women riders on your staff, or both.

You know what? Stop it. I mean it. As a real-live, bona-fide woman rider, yes rider -- not passenger -- I can attest to the fact that many of us really don't like pink. Or pastels. Or flowery shit on the sleeves. You know what we like? Comfort, high visibility and protection. Did you watch too many Saturday morning cartoons in the 70s? Seriously, it seems like you model your women's gear after Penelope Pitstop's wardrobe. Again, stop it.

Don't get me wrong here, I appreciate the hell out of the fact that you finally learned that women are shaped differently from men, and that a smaller size of a men's jacket doesn't really fit most of us. Thanks for real women's sizes. I'd like to buy some of your pricey gear, but it's all...um...pink and pastel and swirly and gross.

Here's your reality check: We want to be seen. We want to be protected. We want comfort. While I'm sure pink and powder blue have many fans, the rest of us would like some of these nice-fitting jackets to come in a color found in the Crayola 8-pack box. You know -- something basic and visible. Bright colors = good.

Also? When you're through revamping your collections, please have a word with your compatriots in the softball world. I need new cleats soon and pink just ain't gonna cut it.

Thanks tons,
The Rhonda

It's absolutely no secret that smoness and I love our reality television. We have so many guilty pleasures in that regard that, at this point, they're just pleasures. Yeah, I'm looking at you, "Jerseylicious." Don't judge me, Internet. I didn't watch on purpose. Seriously. The TV was on that channel when I turned it on, and by the time I reached for the remote, I'd already lost too many brain cells to remember how to use it. So I watched about four hours of it. I still have flashbacks. But among these TV offerings is the show that started it all: "The Amazing Race."

I got hooked on "The Amazing Race" during its sixth season. I was stuck in a hotel room in Michigan, and it was on. The show has everything I love: teamwork, travel, goofy tasks, a few people to mock, and no practical use for backstabbing of others. I kept watching the show when I got home, and Lindsey was hooked. We watch together, and we choose who will do the Roadblocks, and which Detour we'd pick. We decided we should shut up or put up. We needed to apply, but we realized we were lacking the proper equipment to create an audition tape, namely a video camera and editing equipment. (Sad face.) But years later, and two weeks ago, we turned that frown upside down after Lindsey's uncle sent us a link to a site that told us "The Amazing Race" was holding an open casting call in Austin....the day we were already going to be in town for a softball tournament. Seriously, my rabid readership of eight, we looked just like this:


Oh my God! It's FATE! The universe is begging us to do this!

All we had to do was drive up, say, 24 hours before we planned, and sleep outside of an ampitheater. Somewhere in Austin. With strangers. "Cots. We need cots. Also? Possibly a gallon of Purel," Lindsey wisely proclaimed. So last Thursday, we loaded Sister Auto Immmaculata with two cots, sleeping bags, camping pillows, a cooler, a fabu presentation folder containing our photos and waivers, and all our softball gear and clothes we'd need for the weekend, and we set off to sleep on a sidewalk at unknown location outside of Austin just to be sure we'd get in to record a miniscule one-minute audition tape. How Amazing Racy of us!

The public was allowed to start lining up at 1 p.m. We showed up at about 11 p.m., thinking we were in the wrong place. Turns out, the ampitheater was at the Hill Country Galleria, an outdoor mall designed like a small town. There were few cars, but we saw some tents and realized this setup wasn't going to be too bad. The ampitheater is actually conducive to camping:


Photo by Urbangrounds.com

So we set up our cots, and settled in for the night, realizing we had a kickass place in line. You know what other ass I wanted to kick? The dude who showed up at about 2 a.m. who thought playing a ukelele and singing all night was a good idea. Despite the chilly night, we managed to sleep until after sunrise. I woke up covered in dew and surrounded by retail, but was still in a good mood. Until we realized, by hearing and talking to others, the Amazing Web Site neglected to mention we also needed to fill out and include the 14-page application with our fabu presentation folder. Shit! At 9 a.m. we pulled out our phones and started calling everyone we know in Austin to see if they'd care to be late to work to drive 30 miles from town to bring us two printouts. We were not successful.

At this point, I'd like to point out we arrived at night, so I really had no idea what buildings and shops were in our vicinity. But I looked up, and I saw the bestest sign in the whole wide world. Actually, you can see it in the photo above. Shining like a heavenly beacon behind the stage...or just in reflection of the rising sun: LIBRARY. Doh!

We'd made friends with the mother/daughter team ahead of us in line, and they'd actually emailed the producers of the show prior to the audition to be sure the website had complete information. They were told they needed the application, so they'd made an extra copy, which they let us borrow. We were at the copier as soon as the library opened. We took advantage of the a/c in the library while we filled out the voluminous application that would fill in the blanks created by our one-minute audition tape. I was eloquent. I used words like "unicorn" and "Ninja," and I compared my wife and myself to cartoon characters. I was in rare form, compounded by the fact I'd had little sleep and no coffee. We'll either be picked for the show, or there will be restraining orders. Not sure.

We performed a quick change into somewhat matching black tank tops, just in time for the line to start moving. As Team #47, we definitely secured our audition spot. We think we nailed it. At the very least, we weren't gimmicky. We were just our goofy selves. Which, really, should be enough. C'mon...we're awesome! So, if we suddenly disappear for about two months, you'll know Team Ninja is racing around the world for $1 million.

So, a few years ago, I was introduced to the disgusting strain of staph infection known as MRSA. Read about it here. So when I started feeling tenderness in my left ear Friday night, I understandably considered my body called another staph meeting. The swelling and pain progressed over the course of the weekend, and by Sunday afternoon, it was just pointing and laughing at whatever pain relievers, heat and potions I'd apply to it. By Monday morning, it was swelling enough that it was starting to plug my ear and affect my hearing. I called the doctor and, starting at 2:30 yesterday afternoon, I was punctured, bleeding, deaf, and taking my life into my own hands riding the Metro Fright Rail.

How did I get to that state? Here's a summary of my last few days, as seen from my Facebook posts, because I'm too lazy to write this all over:

Sunday @ 9:48 p.m.
I don't know what this thing is in my left ear, but it needs to get better, or smaller, before I lose my mind. Three days of on-again, off-again pain is wearing thin.

Monday @9:20 a.m.
Thank you, God, for letting my doctor have an opening this afternoon. If you don't mind one more favor: Could you please make this something she can slice and fix, please? PLEASE?

Monday @12:39 p.m.
Ear issue has been upgraded to "hurts when I chew," so 2:30 cannot come soon enough. I want relief, and I want to enjoy Fitz and the Tantrums tonight. http://fitzandthetantrums.com/music/

Monday at 3:00 p.m.
WARNING: Becky Cochrane should not read this.

Doctor visit only netted me an ear full of blood. Thingy is still there. A train ride later, and I'm in my ENT's office hoping his special ENT-y tools can help. Also? Hurts more now. Also, also? Hears less now. But that could just be the blood. FML.

Monday @5:30 p.m.
Aaand no joy in the draining department, but I did get my ear vacuumed. That felt interesting. Ear is completely plugged now, i am on a crapload of antibiotics to bring swelling down, and I really hurt. Just. Shoot. Me.

The bottom line is that my ENT didn't want to lance the thing, because he said it would only swell again. We're treating it with topical and oral antibiotics to bring down the swelling. My ENT also put a tiny sponge in my ear so that the drops would stay in contact with the point of infection. My ear is now completely plugged up, which means I can hear everything in my head, including my voice (Why didn't anyone ever tell me how annoying my voice is?), everything I chew (which still hurts a bit), and the swishing of water in my mouth when I brush my teeth (Water is not always a soothing sound). Also? I learned that, even with my good ear, I can't hear crap when in crowds. So, at least for the next 10 days, I'm in grave danger of being run over either by an unheard bus or crowd of schoolchildren on a field trip. Joy.

Back in late 2009 I shared with you the magical properties of my face and the resulting diagnosis. Which, it turns out, wasn't exactly true. That explains why the headaches just pointed and laughed when attacked by the epically pricey migraine meds. Then the headaches changed. I've had them daily for quite some time, and the question is simply whether they're bad enough that I can't function. Late last year, I started getting New and Improved Headaches! Now with Increased Snoring and Nosebleeds! That's odd. Rhonda's nose never bleeds at home. Or anywhere else. Ever. Alarmed by the new turn of events, I called my doctor.

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Anyone who knows me, knows the first thing to know about me is I'm evil. The second thing to know about me is I'm batshit crazy. Because that's the only reasoning I can use to describe the fact that Lindsey and I decided to run in the madness known as the Warrior Dash, and then play in a softball tournament.

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Last week, through the wonders of Facebook, I learned one of the most polarizing things on the planet is not politics. It's not religion. It's not even boxers vs. briefs. It's the spork.

The spork, the most wondrous invention known to man, has nothing to do with the Swedish Chef. It's a magical utensil that is part spoon and park fork. And, as I learned through someone's Facebook status and subsequent comments, the amazing spork is either loved or thoroughly detested.

I'm a huge fan. To me sporks are an existential symbol of man's duality. It is a utensil that both stabs and lovingly scoops. I can hold up a spork, look at Neo and say "There is no spoon," while still slurping up the contents of a bowl of soup. Sporks also serve as a symbol that I've made my bi-annual trip to Popeye's Fried Chicken, so they represent joy that I am about to devour some of the best dirty rice ever to slide past the portal of a drive-through window. The only thing a spork defies is proper place setting: Does it go to the left or right of the plate? The answer, of course, is "Seriously? It's a spork. Chances are, your napkin is made of paper, so this point is moot."

Sure, there are haters out there. Just Google "Spork hate," and you'll find them. My completely non-scientific bullshit reasoning based on nothing but observation is this: If you don't think the prongs are long enough to stab things, you're trying to put too much food on your spork. Slow down and enjoy your food. If you stab yourself with your spork while eating soup, chances are you'd stab yourself with a fork too. Maybe you should stick with finger foods. Clearly, then, the spork is for us evolved people who know the joys of savoring a meal without impaling our taste buds. Viva la spork!

Once upon a time, my readership of eight, I was in amazing shape. No. Really. I was in the gym 4-5 days a week, and I was a crazy cyclist who enjoyed nothing more than riding in big, 30-70-mile circles on the weekends. I had muscle definition out the wazoo. Seriously. I looked pretty good. I needed bandages, cuz I was cut!

Way too long ago, I wound up with a back injury that kept me out of the gym and off the bike. Then I got lazy and just fell out of my old good habits. My waistline grew a bit, and I knew I was sliding back to my former, pre-fit large size. Oh, did I fail to mention that, before I was fit, I was 30 lbs. heavier? Yeah. So not going back to that. With that in mind, for the last year or two, I'd been mouthing off about getting buff again. I started going back to the gym, but I wasn't motivated. Then I'd get motivated, but little things would get in the way of my being able to go to the gym regularly enough to make a difference, not the least of which was the sudden closing of the gym I'd been a member of for ten years. I found a new gym, and my motivation was renewed, but something still wasn't clicking. I wasn't making the progress I wanted. I knew I had to tweak my nutrition, but my old nutrition plan just wasn't working. Enter my brother.

For Chanukah 2010, he gave me a consult with his nutritionist. Ya know, most people would receive a nutritionist consult as a gift and say, "Dude. Seriously? That's insulting. Now give me that Twinkie." But he and I understand each other. He knows I hate Twinkies. Also? He could really come up with better ways to insult me than that. He's a crafty big brother that way.

During my initial consult, the nutritionist and I chatted, she weighed me, and then took out The Calipers of Doom<tm>. I was prepared for the results. Look. I know I'm not overweight, but I'm also not fit. I loved my four-pack, and I want it back. Do I care what I weigh? No. I care about body fat percentage, and that's what The Calipers of Doom determine. I also learned about fat pounds. Yeah, fat pounds would be how many pounds of your total weight is fat. For me? Thirty seven. Thirty seven pounds of me is pure, unadulterated, jiggly fat. In the grand scheme of things, it's not much. It's simply a translation of my body fat percentage in more tangible terms. It's also a 37-lb. gauntlet thrown at my feet. Challenge accepted, Sir Fat, Black Knight of the Bulging Belly.

After my first visit, and armed with a large folder of recipes and tips and valuable information, I made some major and minor changes. Bear in mind, this isn't a diet. It's a nutrition plan of healthy foods and sane portions. Lindsey's been on board for everything with regard to the meals we share and my renewed dedication to the gym. We'd already started eating healthier and eating more meals at home, so this wasn't too hard. I am, however, going through more eggs in one week than most families of five, but that's OK. Sugar's enjoying getting a couple of yolks now and then.

I stuck with the plan through my follow-up visit, during which I wasn't expecting to see much change. When the Calipers of Doom came out, I was surprised that most of my measurements had decreased. I lost 2% of body fat (aka 7 fat lbs), and I increased my lean body mass, which translated to an actual weight loss of 4 lbs. Again, I didn't see it. But I see my body daily. With that in mind, I decided to have Lindsey take a photo of me after each appointment so that I can track my progress. I took a cue from every weight loss show on TV, and posed in a pair of cycling shorts and a sports bra. Because, really? I can't think of any items of clothing that are less forgiving about showing flaws. I mean, cycling shorts may as well have blinking arrows and bell signals pointing out each of my trouble spots between the waist and knee.

My visits to the gym have increased, I'm still enjoying the nutrition plan, and with the advent of warm weather, I've gotten back in the saddle and am starting to go cycling again. Next Wednesday, I say bring on the Calipers of Doom and the Cycling Shorts of No Mercy. Me and my egg whites are ready to kick your asses. Grr.

I guess our local ABC affiliate, KTRK, decided that Mondays suck so much, they're just going to pretend the day doesn't exist. Here's our weather for the next seven days:



In other news, I hate politics, so during the next election year, I'm going to put my fingers in my ears and LalalalalalalaIcan'thearyoulalalalalalala.

A little earlier, my gorgeous wife might have implied that I'm attempting to start a cult. I feel I need to explain why, this morning, I was in the kitchen. Naked. Holding a candle.

Let's travel back in time to an era I like to call "6 a.m. Today." That's when I stumbled out of bed and made my way into the shower. Like most people, when I get out of the shower, I don't get dressed right away. After all, there are contacts to put in, teeth to brush, hair to gel, and lotion to BLIP. In this case, BLIP refers to the exact moment in time when the first of the heretofore unknown rolling blackouts hits your house, and you realize that, at 6: 30 a.m., without artificial outside ambient light, your bedroom is pitch black.

The expletives coming out of my mouth translated roughly as my realization of the following: 

• Our flashlight is downstairs.
• My cell phone (which can double as a flashlight) is downstairs.
• I'm naked.
• I have no way of getting down our freakishly steep stairs in the dark without possibly falling down them.

Necessity is the mother of invention, and Timex is the mother of Indiglo. So I fumbled my way to my dresser where my watches live, found my sports watch, and used it as a crappy flashlight to slowly make my way downstairs and into the kitchen where my phone charges. YOINK! With a better "flashlight" in hand, I easily found our Maglite.

My next step was to get a lighter and one or two candles so I could have a candle lit downstairs for Lindsey when she came back from walking Sugar. At this point, I had no idea she was stealthily planning her Ninja assault under the RubinSmo Manor gates. Just after I lit the candle, Lindsey came into the house clamoring for tools.

See? It's a very simple explanation. Now, if I'd been in the kitchen, naked and holding a candle and a jar of Vick's VapoRub? Then you could worry.

Quite a while back, Lindsey and I noticed a little, unassuming noodle house on Shepherd, nestled at the end of a tiny strip center. Since we'd recently gotten back from Thailand, and we love Asian food, we decided to give it a try. We've been hooked on Jenni's Noodle House ever since.

Jenni's stands out for a number of reasons. First and foremost, the food is incredible. Seriously, y'all, if I could slurp up a bowl's contents and then curl up in that bowl, I would. It's. That. Good. I've never been disappointed with a meal there. You know what else I love? They don't take themselves too seriously. One location hosts Kung Fu movie night every Tuesday, and then there's Madonna Monday. Their menu boasts items like Udon Know Me and Art Car Curry, named after the art movement so big here, and some menu items are named after people. Like Teddy, for example. As a matter of fact, so many people have asked about Teddy's Not Gay that they created a blog entry on their Noodle Blog explaining the name's origins. It's a popular dish, and everyone realizes the name is just part of the humor and laid-back attitude at Jenni's. Well, apparently not everybody.

On Monday, Jenni's posted a note to their Facebook page stating that they'd received loads of comments about Teddy's Not Gay. I'm guessing some people, who we'll call "THOSE people," are offended by it. Jenni's, being Jenni's, left the fate of the dish up to their fans, and the response was overwhelming. In short, every person commenting felt THOSE people need to get a life and lighten up. Me, being me, contributed by saying:

Look, I'm gay, and I think it's kind of funny. I think your other regular customers, gay and straight, think it's kind of funny. Anyone else just doesn't get it. If need be, you can change the name to "Rhonda's Totally Gay," or "Teddy's Not Gay, Not That Anything's Wrong With That."

Jenni's responded by calling my comment "Facebook Quote of the Day" and giving me a $20 gift card. I blinked dumbly a second when I read that, as the realization hit me...Whoa! Being a complete smartass just totally paid off. The next time my mom gives me "the look" for being a smartass, I can now say, "being a smartass netted me some noodly goodness." And goodness it was.

Last night Lindsey and I went to Jenni's to collect the gift card and have a little date night. I was going to order Teddy's Not Gay, but my delusions of solidarity fell by the wayside when the temperature fell by nearly 30 degrees. I wanted a bowl of hot spicy noodles. I decided to order something I've never had, so I went with the Shrimply Curry, which is a big bowl of udon noodles, shrimp, broccoli, carrots, green onions, sprouts and curry broth. Also, I suspect, just a WEEEEEEE little bit of crack. I could not stop eating. It's my new favorite dish there (Sorry, Infernal Chicken Curry). Almost every bite was accompanied by a heavenly eye roll and an orgasmic yummy sound. Lindsey would have been creeped out by that if she wasn't doing the same thing with her bowl of Miso Ramen. So there we were...facing each other...our only form of communication was in grunts and moans. I briefly contemplated tipping the bowl to my mouth to get the last drop of curry broth, but people at other tables had already cautiously moved away from us, and I didn't want to make a scene. I calmly put down my utensils, wiped my chin, and smiled. So Teddy's still not gay, and his dish remains on the menu. Also? I just had a happy ending in public and didn't get arrested. All is well with the world or, at the very least, my corner of it. To this, I say "Ramen."