Free wheelin'

Today is Tuesday, which is automatically good because it's not Monday. Also, I had a morning so splendid, I simply had to write about it:

After getting up for an early walk with my dog, followed by strategically organizing my guest bedroom closet, I enjoyed my peanut-butter-honey-wheat-toast with African roobois herbal tea. I refinanced my car (I'm saving $40 per month!) and mopped my floors. But even better: I had the best bike ride ever....

About a month ago, I made the commitment to forsake my car for the ol' Fuji road bike. My reasoning had several prongs:

• By my calculations, my poor-graduate-student-self could save about $35 a month in gasoline
• I could also cancel my monthly gym membership...doubling my savings
• My shrinking carbon footprint would be the envy of all my bearded, granola friends

I always enjoy my friendly waves to fellow cyclists, fellow fighters against the evil of motor vehicles. There's a camaraderie. Unity. Solidarity in the battle. I've also learned a few lessons:

• Hills are not your friend. My vintage Fuji is uber-cool, looks great but also somewhat impractical for a bike commuter...the bike is so old, the gear shifts are actually at the center of the handlebar stem. Shifting is not graceful, or easy. This is compounded by hills.
• Traffic lights are not your friend. Rather, hills with traffic lights are your worst enemy. By far, stopping at a red light at the crest of a hill (Stassney and I-35, I'm talking to you!) makes me want to weep...just imagine if you will the trickery of pedaling enough to maintain upward momentum, but not too much that you cruise into the intersection and get yourself flattened.

Oh, and a word to non-cyclists with whom I share the road:

• don't shout at me to get on the sidewalk. Seriously, I don't shout at you to get on a treadmill, do I?
• don't honk at me as I struggle uphill. I mean really, throw me a bone here.
• as you fly by me, gently grazing my arm with your side mirror, please keep in mind that my Fuji and I have a combined weight of oh, say, 140 pounds. That's about 1/bazillionth of you and your tank. I don't want to die.
• also, yes, I am allowed to ride in the middle of the lane. In fact, that's where I'm supposed to be so that ass clowns like you can see me better.
• if you're that bothered by bicycle commuters, you should probably move to Dallas.

K-so.

Man, I tell you what: in the words of my friend Stacy May, "bloggin' -like pimpin'- ain't easy." My grad school classes are back in full swing and I suddenly remember what it's like to have a precariously limited social life. Fortunately, for the remainder of my degree I'll pretty much just be taking writing workshops, which I love love love. That also means anytime not spent at work is spent, well, writing. As the saying goes, be careful what you wish for.

The biggest event of my last ten days of life has been meeting the boyfriend's dad and his girlfriend for the first time...visiting from good ol' foggy London town. OK, not foggy London town at all actually, but England nonetheless. I really wasn't nervous because:

• Parents looooove me
• Grandparents loooove me
• Hell, everyone loves me

We did all the usual Austin stuff: ate shredded rabbit leg and braised pork belly at The Odd Duck, saw the South Congress bats, went wine tasting in Fredericksburg, and had drinks at The Driskill. But most importantly, we introduced them to a culinary delight that they (tragically) have been missing for their seven decades of life on Earth: QUESO.

This was a moment of which I had only dreamed: the opportunity to bring the most greatest food ever to a sweet old English couple. It was like a mission from God. Suddenly, I understood the reason missionaries "go to the savages." This was truly a Genesis moment, like taking two people on a desolate, dark planet and saying, "Let there be Light!" My friends, queso is Gospel to me.

I could hardly contain my excitement as we ordered margaritas, a bowl of queso AND guacamole (I wanted to tell them that in Austin, we like to fold guac into our queso, but not wanting to overwhelm them with too much sheer awesomeness, kept them in separate bowls). I eagerly awaited the reaction to their first taste of heaven. And you know what?

They weren't really blown away.

Strike one for Texas. I'm not really sure how one's toes don't positively tingle at melty, spicy, cheese but I'll blame it on England. Clearly, their taste buds lack the necessary receptors needed to appreciate queso. Or maybe in true English form, they thought it best to downplay their wondrous amazement. Regardless, I basked in the glory of my (low key) conversion, my spreading the good word, and knew that deep down they appreciated -nay, admired!- my good taste and benevolence....

On Earth as it is in Queso. I mean, Heaven.

Amen.

Babysit.

It's Wednesday and I feel fully recovered from an "alter-ego" themed party at my house Saturday night and an 80s dance party downtown on Sunday night. I also spent Saturday evening doing something I haven't done in years: babysitting.

All in all, an easy time because I more or less just put the girls to bed, then worked on a reading assignment for my Literary Journalism class. Actually, the whole experience kind of made me feel like being an 8th grader again. It also made me think of the very worst kids in the entire world that I had the great, reeking misfortune of babysitting in the late 90s....

See, babysitting is always kind of hit or miss. The second Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, I sat for two girls that were literally angels. The very first time I ever sat for them, they each gave me a kiss goodnight, said "I love you" and informed me that they hoped some day I might find my very own unicorn, because I was the best babysitter in the world and God would send me just such a magical creature as my Earthly reward. Even the dog, Winston, was curiously kind and well-mannered: I would open the back door and he would only walk on the tile...never a single paw on carpet or rug. Their parents also had a bad-ass stocked refrigerator and paid me $12 an hour, in cash. Sweet gig.

Of course, this scene starkly contrasts with the big "miss" of my babysitting days: the first Texas neighborhood that our family lived in, was home to three little devils. I have completely blotted their names from my memory (recommendation from my therapist) but the family unit contained one clueless father, one nagging, neurotic, medicated mother, two screeching daughters and a rambunctious son.

Funny enough, the parents had an entire bookcase of parenting books. Quite literally a library of "how not to raise three devils" and yet, they managed this Olympic feat. I remember distinctly this stupid effing M&M jar, which was the kids big treat...after dinner they were each allowed to have as many M&Ms as their age. Seems fair, right? Wrong. The fatal flaw in this holy treat system is overlooking the fact that most toddlers hate fairness. Let's be real: they are the center of their own universe and no one should have as much as them. Case in point: today, I cannot tell you how much I had to convince Tot #1 that she did, indeed, get many, many more strawberries than her little sister. So, giving one child 3 candies, one child 5, and one 8 is just plain stupid, something even my 13-year-old brain was able to understand.

Anyhoosen, one evening after allotting just the right number of candies to each kid, the middle threw a fit, as the older had more candies. In one quick flash, that glass jar was shattered on the ground in a sea of "melts in your mouth, not in your hand." Nothing a little broom couldn't fix. But then came bath time, and this family used these really odd soap flakes. Ya know, because liquid or solid soap would just be too difficult? Whatever. Anyway, the fatal flaw in this soap plan is that soap flakes -unlike liquid or solid soap- have the unique ability to be transformed into a projectile in the hands of a toddler, thanks to its powdery consistency which is easily handled by tiny fingers and I'm sure feels absolutely delightful being launched through the air...ever seen a tyke and a bag of flour? Yeah. So there they are, all three in the bath tub when the oldest takes both hands, and in yet another quick flash, tosses a fistful of soap into the eyes of the littler ones. Screaming. Crying. Burning, red eyes. Pretty sure the little boy threw a punch.

After all this, the parents wrote me a check, paying me $6 an hour. A check. To a 13-year-old. What the crap am I supposed to do with a check? I still had a mason jar for crying out loud, with a piece of paper taped to the outside outlining my savings plan for a palomino horse or Nissan Z car. They might as well have paid me in clothes pins. Useless. Absolutely useless.

Oh, and their refrigerator sucked, too.

Wait for me! Wait for me!

Holy hell, when did it become September? And where did my blog go? Ah, here it is! Yowza. As a writer, my personal commitment was to blog every day for no more than 20 minutes...the challenge was to make my everyday, mundane life something interesting -and sometimes funny- to read about, with very minimal editing/re-writing.

Well, here I am after a two week dry spell and I'd like to explain myself: You see, about two weeks ago is the moment when Nugget #1 decided she had outgrown naps. This means gone are the two hours of midday freedom, where after I clean up the zoo -I mean, house- I can sit down for a tiny sliver of time and free write. Now that time is spent inventing games like "vacuum snacks" and (the not so cleverly named) "scrub the sink" in order to have a productive day before I leave.

The realization of my neglected blog also makes me marvel at where this year has gone. It seems like just yesterday I was running down 6th street, in purple tights, sequin top, and red heels and counting down at The Red Eye Fly...but that's another story.

So why is it that time flies if we're having fun, but also seems to positively soar the older I get? Sure, I'm having plenty of fun but geez, does it really have to be going so quickly?! NPR has a great piece on some different theories for this phenomenon.

Currently, I'm looking into solutions for manipulating time. Thus far, some sort of time machine seems the most logical means to this end. Particularly, I would like to add a few more hours to my day that is already full of interning, working, and night school-- slow down nights, so I can get a full seven hours of sleep, speed up the time it takes to receive my spring tax return, and slow down the fine lines appearing on my forehead.

Unfortunately, I've scoured Craigslist and Ebay and my time machine dream may never be fully realized (although I did find this little ditty, the price is right but it's not really my style)...looks like my best bet is a pesky thing I keep hearing about called "time management" which involves making "to do lists" and "monthly goals" and "five-year-plans." Blah.

Maybe flying by the seat of my pants ain't so bad after all.