The Silver Bullet: a holiday story

When I was in college, I dated a quietly conceited fellow who has since earned the title of “Last Gearhead (bike geek) I Ever Want To Know Well.” Yet, for all his charming faults (ladies, if they shave their legs more often than you do, …please run.), he introduced me to the beauty of the bicycle, and the thrill of cycling (some years before Lance Armstrong got a rock star complex, thank you very much). Cycling had also been something that had interested both of my parents in their younger days, so it felt quite natural to gradually become enamored with the sport. What did not feel natural was that the prettiest bikes cost more than my crap-ass Saturn LS, and had half the wheels. And so, the years passed, and now and then, I’d walk into a bike shop and there would be rows of sparkly, gleaming bicycles murmuring “hey baby, wanna go for a ride? I can take you places you’ve never been before.” And I longingly replied, “You look so sexy, but I just can’t afford you today.” And that was that. I’d watch friends and strangers on their fancy bikes, and wonder how I could justify the expense, but no justification ever seemed sound. Besides, I traded in my Asturn for a Subaru Outback, and that was all the Xtremattude I could afford.

This Christmas, while I was fully expecting a ring, Mr. Bump instead surprised me with the most beautiful silver bicycle this girl has ever seen. I arrived at his house after returning from a trip to my parents’ home, and after unloading the car, he told me we had to go pick up my present, that we had to take my car, and that we were going into the city. I was confused. Why do we have to take my car? Is it big? Rings aren’t big, and we can fit Christmas trees in your car. Why do we have to go into the city? But no answers presented themselves. And so we drove. And drove. And ended up in front of a Staples. By now, confusion was no longer adequate, and I was forced to resort to mystification. What’s in Staples?? Is he buying me a shredder? A bookshelf? A binder display? Why’d we have to come all the way to this Staples, when there’s one right by his house? And then I saw it: the bike shop. I almost soiled myself.

We walked in, and there it was: shiny, tiny and waiting for ME! I admit, I cried a tiny bit. There were modest, but public displays of affection. The clerk had to walk away and give me a few minutes while I blubbered about and smiled like a fool. It’s a road bike, just like I’ve wanted for so long. The kind you can’t help but look like a badass on. The kind with the pedals that attach to your shoes. And in a year, when I am able to attach myself to my bike and detach myself from my bike without slowly, helplessly tipping over and falling onto the curb (this sucks for two reasons: it really kind of hurts, and more importantly, it makes you look a knob), I’ll let you know. And then you can look at cyclists zooming along and wonder to yourself “Is that Clabber Girl on her Silver Bullet?” Yow-Wow.

Absent Minded Professor: tragedy behind the moniker

My what a day I have had! At least, I think it was today… and I’m pretty sure it was me…

This morning, I ran across the street to buy some milk for my coffee. The total was $1.17, so I handed the cashier a five, three nickels and two pennies. Then, somehow thinking that since the pennies were exact, I would receive no change, I thanked her and started to walk away. The lovely woman said, “Hey! Lady! You gave me a five!” I replied by looking back at her while continuing to walk and said “huh?” My mouth was hanging open at this point, and I imagine I resembled a dairy cow: curious, brainless and drooly. She looked at me and did one of those sassy little head jiggles from side to side, as if to say “oh no you di-uhnt!” Instead, she said “You. Gave. Me. A. Five.” Having worked counter positions in the past, I knew she was thinking “How come I’m sitting here earning $5.70 an hour, and they pay wombats like her to educate our best and brightest? our hope for a better future?” I closed my mouth and sheepishly collected my change.

But wait! The brain damage is worse than you think.

This afternoon, I hastily packed today for an overnight trip to a research station. Here are the items I included:

1 toothbrush and floss
1 tube of toothpaste
1 comb and assorted shower things
the latest Harry Potter book
1 iPod, plus charger
Law & Order Season 4 DVDs
laptop
Papers to grade
gloves
socks
clean underpants


That’s it folks. You may ask yourself where are her pajamas? Where is her change of clothes for the next day? Where is her pillow (my glorious destination supplies no linens, and thank goodness I forgot to take the sheets home last time I was there!)?

What does it say about me that I remember 3 kinds of entertainment, and forget my clothes? No, don’t tell me… I’ll probably forget.

How I broke my New Year's Resolution...

You may have gathered from previous postage that Mr. Bump and I are rather close, in an exclusive, long-term, sig-O sort of way. You may also have the impression that we are not engaged. If you have this impression, I'd like to personally congratulate you on being sentient.

I'll spare you the gory details of how long this has been going on (trust me, your jaws collectively hitting the ground would cause a tsunami in micronesia), sufficed to say, dag gum it, I'm ready to get me hitched! Unfortunately for all involved, Mr. Bump is a bit late in arriving at this conclusion. And given the fact that everyone we know (including strangers we meet and have known for all of 10 minutes), looks at him bug-eyed and asks the obvious question "why aren't you married, yet?", I suspect that he is aware of his retardation (this word means "the act proceeding slowly." I am not calling mr. Bump names).

For some time now, I've been a little suggestive, perhaps mildly insistent, that he get his bump in gear. This has had very (VERY) little effect. And like any rational human being, upon realizing that Mr. Bump is unlikely to be swayed by pressure (what's that you're shouting? Thumbscrews?!), I decided that I would back off for a bit. As New Year's was drawing near, I thought I'd get all proactive and make an early resolution not to nag the Bump-Man about marriage.

Yeah. Right. I became the only human being to break their resolution in negative 14 days. I checked, and Guiness has no record of awesomely short-lived new year's resolutions. I'm a champion, people. Did I mention that I crumbled in front of The Internet? Yes, well, I might add that Mr. Bump is the only confirmed reader of this blog.

I'm sure most men, and some women who stumble upon this will no doubt think to themselves "That chick's down right bonkers, I wouldn't marry her. Hell, I'd dump her ass right now." Fair enough, I know that the ol' rolling-pin-wielding-bride-to-be isn't exactly romantic. But trust me, when his little brother sweetly intones that "dude, you're not getting any younger"... you'd snap too.

mmmm... Hi!

Hello!

Did you miss me? Wait... lemme guess. You missed me like...

...like the desert missed the rain!

no?

...like a junkie misses a fix!

no??

...like lost luggage!

still no??!

wait, I think I've got it: like you missed that slightly surly cashier who didn't look at you once during the entire trasaction?

I rule.

Vacation was very nice, thank you for asking.

Mr. Bump out-did himself with a very touching present (not a ring) that I will tell you about soon.

I also overheard the A-number-1 best excuse ever for farting in front of relatives, courtesy of my mom (remember: mom = awesome). It went down like this:

Us: blah blahbitty blah blah (talking about stupid stuff)
Mom: Pfffbbbtttt...bttt.
Us: suddenly silent, staring at mom.
Mom: (turns bright red) I couldn't help it, I-I have a cold.

That! ladies and gentlemen, is why I love my mother.



And now for something completely different.