Just a Big Biker Baby

Thought for the day:  You haven't lived until you rode a Harley down the interstate with a big grin on your face and had a bug fly in your mouth.  [anonymous]

[morguefile]

Yeah, I suppose I could do that. You know, fly down the road on a motorcycle with a big grin on my face.

As long as the bike had training wheels.

And I had the road entirely to myself.

Maybe.

The reality is, if I'm flying down the road on a Harley, the only reason a bug can fly into my mouth is because my mouth is stretched wide open in a terrified scream.

Yeah, some biker babe I am. More like a big biker baby. See,  I'm not a biker chick; I'm a biker chicken.

It hasn't always been this way, but see, I don't have a very good track record with motorcycles. The first time I ever got on one was as a teenager, when I wasn't afraid of anything. Of course, my parents had forbidden me to get on a motorcycle, but what can I say? The boy was really cute in a rebel without a cause kinda way, so when he asked if I wanted to hop on and take a spin around the neighborhood... I hopped on.

[morguefile]

And, um, the foot pegs weren't down. I'd never been that close to a motorcycle in my entire life, and I didn't know any better, so we rode around the neighborhood, with my legs dangling as if I were sitting on the back of a bicycle. Sure, it felt a little awkward, but mostly I felt... cool.

Until I tried to slide off the bike, that is. See those things in the picture? They're exhaust pipes. In case you don't know it, exhaust pipes get HOT. Very very hot. When I got off, a good-sized patch of skin from the inside of my right leg stayed behind on that pipe. It, um, hurt. Really really hurt. I howled loudly enough to make half the windows in our neighborhood rattle... on the inside. On the outside, I didn't make a peep. Just smiled at the boy and thanked him for the ride. (Do you have any idea how difficult it is to walk away with the proper amount of hip sway when your bloody leg is on fire...?) And for good measure, I had to wear long pants most of the summer to hide the oozing burn from my parents. Oh, no, ma'am, I don't need to wear shorts, Mom. (pant- pant) I'm not too hot at all...

Even with that rather inauspicious start, I still had a thing for bikes, or more precisely... for the guys who rode them. There's just something about the look. The attitude. The hair. Even the dangling cigarette and greasy fingernails were mega-attractive to this wannabe biker babe.

Now then, let me tell you about Smarticus. He rode a bike, and had all of those deliciously attractive bad boy attributes... but to make things even better, he was actually a... good guy. A very good guy. And to top things off, he was smart and funny.

God help me, I didn't stand a chance.

[credit: Basem Wasef]

The first time Smarticus took me out on his bike, it ran out of gas.

I kid you not.

Then, it started to rain.

Nope. Still not kidding.

To this day, he doesn't understand how that could have happened, because he said he'd filled the tanks before picking me up.

Still, it honest-to-goodness did happen. And I thought it was funny as hell. (Luckily, it wasn't too far of a trek to a gas station.)

[morguefile]

When our younger son was in his early teens, he had a small 50 cc motorcycle... a starter bike, you might say. Smarticus thought I should get on and give it a try. After perfunctory directions, I did. In retrospect, I guess I didn't follow those perfunctory directions very well.

I may not have flown through the air like the dude in the picture, but I DID forget how to stop the darned thing. (Never a good idea.) I plowed through the bushes and came to a halt by running into the side of my suburban tank 1967 Mercury Commuter station wagon. (Whatever works, right?) That was the one and only time I tried to ride on my own.

[morguefile]

Faster, faster, faster, until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death.  [Hunter S. Thompson]

Yeah, well, no offense to the late Mr. Thompson, but I never got to that point. The very last time my tush straddled the back of a Harley was about  thirty-five years ago. Let's just say Smarticus embraced the thrill of speed far more than I did, and I decided it wouldn't be a good idea for us both to die on a motorcycle when we still had kids to raise.

[morguefile]

A few years after that, I got the phone call no one ever wants to get. One of Smarticus' biker pals called to tell me there had been an accident, and they're loading him in the ambulance now. 

No speed involved. A guy driving a truck claimed he didn't see the bike. 

At that point, my on-again-off-again love affair with motorcycles was officially over. NO MORE, I said.

[morguefile]

It'd be different if it we lived somewhere where there's lots of open road...

THAT would be fun, exhilarating even. THAT would feel like freedom. THAT would be like the way it was when we rode a bike all over Oahu when we met in Hawaii for R&R back in 1970.

[morguefile]

But the reality is, we live near Atlanta, traffic capital of the world. (If it isn't, it should be.)

I'm talking wall-to-wall traffic, lots of in-a-hurry truckers, and way too many people who don't see a motorcycle. 

Still, all these years, I've been aware of my husband's lustful wandering eye. I've seen how his eyes light up whenever he spots a hot-looking... Harley. (sigh)

Then, about a month or so ago, my brother emailed me to see how I'd feel if he were to give his Harley to Smarticus. (I mean, how utterly cool is it that he ran it past me first?)

Anyhow, here's the question. Given our history, what would YOU have said? What would YOU have done? I mean, if I kept my trap shut about it, Smarticus would never have been the wiser...


Okay, so I'm a sap. I told him about it right away, and I'm telling you, his eyes lit up like a kid's at Christmas. Bottom line? He's not a child, and I'm not his mother, so I decided it wouldn't be fair to keep denying him something I knew he wanted so much. I love him; he loves motorcycles. End of story. So I caved. My brother came to visit us this past week, and he brought the bike with him. And we all (ta- DA!) lived happily ever after.

Especially Smarticus. Think he's happy to have another Harley back in the fold again...?

                                                      Um, yeah, I'd call that happy...


Initially, I figured I wasn't gonna be getting on the back of that thing, no way, now how. But I dunno. Maybe it's never too late to become a real biker babe. My decades-old faded black Harley tank top still fits, so who knows...? (And I do look a little better than this gal...)

Maybe it's time to let go of the fear, and embrace the fun, the adventure... and Smarticus. (Believe you me, this big ol' baby would be holding on tightly!) Maybe. Just maybe.

                                   Until next time, take care of yourself. And each other.


                                                                                   

Misplaced Fears

Thought for the day:  From ghoulies and ghosties and long-leggedy beasties and things that go bump in the night, Good Lord deliver us.  [Scottish saying]

This haunted house, allegedly voted the number one attraction in Kissimmee, is open all year around, so boyfriends and ghoul friends don't have to wait until Halloween to be scared half to death. (And what, I ask you, happens if a person is scared half to death... twice???)

 It's located in Old Town, a nifty place in Florida that has unusual shops and attractions, eating and watering holes, amusement park rides, and an old-fashioned arcade. Every Saturday night, there's also a decent-sized car show held there, so Smarticus and I try to stop by for the show whenever we're in town. Since it was so close to Halloween, some of the cars were appropriately decorated when we went this year.

And of course, appropriate music was playing in the background ... like The Monster Mash. But none of that was really scary. It was just fun.

How about THIS? On our way to Bok Tower Gardens, we passed a sign for Spook Hill. We saw something about this unusual place on some TV show a while back, so we wanted to take a quick detour to check it out.

Here's a closer look at the sign describing the legend of this weird stretch of road that seems to defy gravity. Not sure what the scientific explanation is, but the car definitely rolled... and it sure seemed like we were going uphill...

Again, not scary. But fascinating.

Wanta hear scary?

We were back home prior to Halloween, and appropriately enough, I celebrated the day by doing something that's really ghoulie and ghostie scary for a lot of women. I had a (shudder) mammogram.

Okeydoke, time for a rerun of last year's post about getting a mammogram, which was titled, Oh, Crap! It's That Time Again:
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Thought for the day: Since men undoubtedly invented the mammogram machine, I think it's only fair that women should be given the opportunity to invent an equally delightful machine to test men for testicular cancer.

As much as I dislike having to compress anything I've written, as much as I hate having to scratch through any of my words, I'd rather cut another 10,000 words from my WIP than do what I have to do tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I get my up close and personal annual compression. It's (gulp) mammogram time.

OMG! It's that time of year again.

Alas, I forgot to forgo caffeine like I usually do the week before the big test, so I may regret that, but in preparation, I have been dutifully doing my exercises. Not the running around the block or stomach crunches kind of exercise. I still stink at doing that. But there are certain specialized exercises that can help any woman psyche herself up for her annual appointment with the torture machine. Out of the kindness of my heart, I share them with you:

EXERCISE #1

Put a pair of metal bookends in the freezer, and leave them there overnight.

Invite a stranger over to help.

Next day, strip from the waist up.

Have the stranger place one of your breasts between the bookends. (This may require considerable stretching.)

Have him/her smash them together and hold.

Repeat with the other breast.

EXERCISE #2

Open your fridge door and place one breast between the door and appliance.

Ask your biggest, strongest friend to slam the door on it, and to lean on it for a few seconds for good measure.

Hold your breath while (s)he holds the door shut.

Repeat with other breast.

EXERCISE #3

Go into your garage at 3 AM, take off all your clothes, and lie on the cold concrete floor. (If you don't have a garage, the driveway will suffice.)

Ask a pal to slowly back the car over your boob. 

Turn over and repeat with the other one.

What a guy!

OK, so maybe I exaggerate. (But not by much.) 

Here's a poem that's been around for years, so you may have already seen it. Unfortunately, no one seems to know who wrote it, but now is the perfect time for me to share it with you. It's called

 ODE TO A MAMMOGRAM

For years and years they told me,

Be careful of your breasts,

Don't ever squeeze or bruise them,

And give them monthly tests.

So I heeded all their warnings,

And protected them by law.

Guarded them very carefully,

And my bra I always wore.

After thirty years of astute care,

My doctor found a lump.

She ordered up a mammogram

To look inside that clump.

"Stand up very close," she said,

As she got my boobs in line,

"And tell me where it hurts," she said.

"Ah, yes! There, that's fine."

She stepped upon a pedal.

I could not believe my eyes!

A plastic plate pressed down and down,

My boob was in a vise!

My skin was stretched and stretched,

From way up under my chin.

My poor boob was being squashed

To Swedish pancake thin.

Excruciating pain I felt

Within its vice-like grip.

A prisoner in this vicious thing,

My poor defenseless tit!

"Take a deep breath." she said to me.

Who does she think she's kidding?

My chest is mashed in her machine,

And woozy I am getting.

"There, that was good," I heard her say

As the room was slowly swaying.

"Now, let's have a go at the other one."

Lord, have mercy, I was praying.

It squeezed me from up and down,

It squeezed me from both sides,

I'll bet she's never had this done,

Not to her tender little hide!

If I had  no problem when I came in,

I surely have one now.

If there had been a cyst in there,

It would have popped Ker-pow!

This machine was designed by man,

Of this I have no doubt,

I'd like to stick his balls in there,

And see how they come out!

***

On a serious note, breast cancer is nothing to laugh about, and every woman should be diligent about getting those annual mammograms, no matter how much we fear or dislike them. I've lost several dear friends to breast cancer, and I'll bet you have, too. Do yourself and your family a favor: if you haven't had your test yet this year, call and make that appointment. Please. And men, make sure the ladies in your life take care of themselves, too. It's perfectly understandable to be terrified of the Big C, but it's irrational to fear the mammogram. Face those fears, embrace your life, and get that test!

                                  Until next time, take care of yourselves. And each other.