Alicia’s Adventures

Mistletoe, drive-thru nativity scenes, Christmas carols, stockings hung with care, candlelight Christmas Eve services, twinkle lights; it is, indeed, the most wonderful time of the year.  But only due in part to all of those things.  The other day I was strolling the aisles of Target and hallelujah, the Christmas candy is here!

Oh, joyous red and green peanut M&M’s, how I’ve missed you.  Your orange and black Halloween cousins leave a lot to be desired.  Really, who would eat a black M&M over a red or green one?  I can’t even talk about those lame Indiana Jones peanut M&M’s without marked disdain in my voice.  The colors were atrocious.  Lime green and baby poop brown with indecipherable symbols stamped on the?  Who’s idea was that?  

Little compares to the simple perfection of a candy dish brimming with red and green chocolatey peanut goodness.  I love Christmas peanut M&M’s more than regular ones because as I’ve mentioned before I have to eat M&M’s in even turns.  The regular ones have numerous colors to sort and then there’s the whole size issue.  The Christmas ones have three colors, red, dark green, and light green.  It really cuts down on my candy organizing time which means more more candy munching time.  Merry Christmas to me.

Another Christmas candy, I’m happy to welcome back into the fold is the minty Christmas tree nougat.  They’re just so pretty, all tucked into their clear wrappers.  Not to mention the plunge my face in cold water wake up call they give my kisser!  If only Santa would stuff the toe of my stocking with these little dazzlers, but no, Santa always crams an orange in the toe.  Sometimes an apple, too.  Santa must be in cahoots with my dentist.  

Back to the Christmas tree nougat.  My grandma, renowned for her Jedi candy ways, always had a glass jar of these candies when my family would descend on her for Christmas.  Grandma also has two swiveling club chairs in her sitting room.  I’d cram anywhere from three to seven of those chewy nougats in my mouth at a time and then beeline for the spinning chairs.  I’d push off with one leg propelling the chair around until I thought it was surely going over.  Then I’d tuck my legs up, tilt my head back and spin, spin, spin with sticky nougat dribbling from the corners of my mouth.  Ah, childhood; blissful and disgusting.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t give a nod to the mini candy cane.  While I’m not a fan of them all on their lonesome, there is nothing better than a mug of hot chocolate with a peppermint candy cane at the bottom.  On dry days I walk the three or so blocks to school.  Crisp winter air nips at my nose and steam rises off my mug.  Each slurp of the piping hot, minty beverage convinces me that it is indeed going to be a perfect day.  Until I step in an icy puddle up to my calf and soak my entire shoe, sock, and pant leg.  Crap.

Then there’s The Book.  The hallowed Storybook of Lifesavers.  Let’s all have a moment of revered silence…  Thank you.  The Book is a Christmas stocking must.  I love, love, love the sour Lifesavers and Lifesavers in any shade of orange.  I agree, the stories on the inside of the box are cheesy, but what do you expect from a candy wrapper?  Wait, I take that back because I love the cartoons wrapped around Bazooka gum.  And finding the Indian and the star on Tootsie Pops is awesome.  And at least Laffy Taffy offers the possibility of a chuckle.  

Time to step it up, Lifesavers, and entertain me.  If you’re taking requests, I’d like some trivia in the box.  For example, what is the most popular Lifesaver flavor?  It can’t be butter rum or cough syrup cherry, which I happily fork over to Terry’s BFF every year.  When were Lifesavers first produced?  Who’s idea was it to make that yucky white flavor?  And what exactly is that yucky white flavor supposed to be?  It’s certainly not something found in nature.  Are there any Lifesaver world records?  Who came up with the idea to use a piece of dental floss to open a roll of Lifesavers and how is it that I manage to pull the entire string out without getting anywhere close to breaking through the wax paper barrier?  And finally, how did Lifesavers get their name?  That kind of thing would be way more interesting than some plotless story that for whatever reason always has to include a reindeer, Santa wearing too much blush, an abominable snow yetti, a gingerbread boy, a talking Christmas tree, and the token creepy troll.

Sadly, I’m not a fan of all Christmas candy.  The candy corn for example is in it’s finest state when in it’s traditional yellow, orange, and white.  I like to bite the yellow part off first, then the little white shark fin tip, and then eat the orange middle.  Better yet, I like the candy corn pumpkins.  I nibble the stem off and then bite the pumpkin in half.  I DO not like that weird harvest corn.  Is the brown supposed to taste like chocolate?  If so, something has gone awry.  It’s like it’s chocolate ‘product’ like Velveeta is a cheese ‘product’.  Neither of them remotely resemble their ancestor.  I equal disappointment for the red, green, and white candy corn.  It has the added bonus of turning my tongue a sickly purplish gray so that after I eat a handful, I must head straight home to brush my tongue 9 times before I can be seen in public.  Plus these holiday wannabe’s taste like plastic and I know this because they taste like my night guard.  Night guard flavored candy-blecchhh!

I recognize that I have blogged about candy twice in like a week.  Yes, I’m proud of the restraint I’ve shown.  I think about candy on average thirty seven times a day, so to only have brought it up twice is progress.  So, now it’s time to chime in with your favorite Christmas sweets.  In the meantime, I’m going to eat a handful of Christmas tree nougats for breakfast.

Cyclocross season is so close, I can almost taste the mud in my teeth.  This season, I’ll be sporting cool new mountain bike shoes along with matching clipless pedals.  However, in honor of the beginning of cyclocross, it feels appropriate to relive the story of my first cyclocross race last December.  

I think my mountain bike feels jilted.  As you know, I have a sleek road bike, The Rocket.  What I’ve failed to mention in previous seasons is that I have another bike.  Yes, the red headed step-child of bikes.  Frank the Tank.  Frank is a hulking 40 something pound Giant mountain bike with a tricked out Judy fork.  That’s as much as I know about bike parts, so save us both from a very boring conversation and don’t ask about components or wheel size or any of that other stuff.

The past two years I’ve been smitten with the Rocket and our long, smooth, beautiful road rides.  Although I’m ashamed to admit this, whilst cycling on the Rocket, Frank sat unloved, unridden,and increasingly bitter in the garage.  If you’re not a cyclist, you’re probably a bit skeptical about the fact that bikes have feelings.  If you are a cyclist, then you are no doubt aware of the perils that a scorned bike can unleash.
 
On a Sunday in December I registered for my first cyclocross race.  Cyclocross is an unforgiving combination of mountain biking, hauling your bike over barriers, and then riding some more as fast as you can over a marked course.  Sometimes there are even things called “run ups” where you have to get off your bike and carry it while running uphill.  I don’t run.  Ever.  But there is a small group of unbalanced people who think this is fun. 

So, Frank and I started the race full of excitement.  (Actually, Frank was full of vengeance, but I was not yet aware of his state of mind.) Let me just state for the record that riding Frank for the first time in 2 years in a cyclocross race was dumb.  Very dumb.  Frank is equipped with platform pedals, not the kind that attach to your shoes.  I’ve grown quite attached to my bike.  Literally.  When I pull up on my foot, the pedal comes with me.  When I push for extra power, the pedal obliges. 

Not on Frank.  When I pulled up on my foot, the pedal spun around and impaled my calf.  Then I’d angrily slam my foot on the pedal causing the opposite pedal to spin forward and gnaw on my shin.  You’d think after one or two times, I’d learn and adjust.  You’d be wrong, my friend, so wrong.  Most of the time I was focusing all my energy on not crashing and so I’d forget that my shoes were not attached to the pedals and I’d try in vain to harness extra power by pulling up on the pedals.  Every single time those pedals would zip up and nail me in the exact same part of my legs. 

Despite the increasing amounts of blood and pain in the general leg area, I was actually having fun.  After completing 2 laps I was scraped, bleeding and bruised, but proud to have tried something new.  (Ok, so I got lapped and most everyone did 3 laps, not a measly 2, but still.)  Strangely, when I stopped riding, I found myself eager to do it again.  In fact, I thought “I should go mountain biking today.”  So I did.

About an hour or so after cyclocross, I thought Frank and I had made amends.  We’d splashed through mud puddles, cruised over rocks, and turned my legs into hamburger.  So after the race, I agreed to go on a short, “flat” 9 mile mountain bike ride with my team captains, Nick and Abby.  “There’s only one hill and the rest of it’s really flat.”  Nick assured me.  It turns out that Nick blocks out the parts of rides he doesn’t care for.  Either that or he was in on Frank’s master plan of torture.

The first half of the trail was full of steep inclines followed by way too technical descents.  Basically I dragged all 40 something pounds of Frank up and down hills for four and a half punishing miles.  I knew this was penance for the years of neglect.  That didn’t stop me from making several demeaning remarks about Frank’s weight.  He had just cause to complain about my weight, too, but Frank is a gentleman and kept his comments to himself.

After all that cajoling, grunting, sweating, pushing, and pulling Frank, I was rewarded with four and a half miles of the most beautiful singletrack I’ve laid eyes on.  It was smooth with some interesting curves and just the right amount of mud puddles.  It was blissful.  I loved every second of it and I have a feeling that Frank and I are friends again.  I hope.

I was hunkered down under my covers, dreaming the bizarre dreams that accompany a fever.  Suddenly, I woke up and discovered my pajamas were soaked in sweat.  I peeled them off and walked to the door that leads to the garage.  Wanting to air out my clammy skin, I’d not yet put on a second pair of pajamas.  No big deal.  Terry was on a business trip and I had the house all to myself.  As I walked to the door, I was feeling pretty good about the fact that I hadn’t spiraled into a tornado of body image issues.  In fact, I was feeling pretty darn good about my natural self.  

I opened the door leading to the garage and took a step toward the washing machine.  Before my feet could move another inch, I froze in horror.  The garage door was up.  I was naked.  In the garage.  For all to see.  Sweet, fancy Moses, I was naked in the garage for all to see!  I turned to hit the garage door button on the wall and as I turned, I glimpsed a white car in my driveway.  It was my mom.  My mom!  I was naked in my garage for my mom to see!  I slapped the garage door button and the garage door descended on my humiliation.  Did she see me in my birthday suit?  Was my step-dad in the car?  Dear God, make me a bird so I can fly far, far away.  

I threw my damp wad of pajamas into the washer and dashed into the house to put on a fresh pair.  I figured the doorbell would be ringing any second.  Thirty seconds passed.  A full minute edged by.  Maybe she was wrapping up a phone call or something.  Five minutes passed and I ventured out to the driveway.  No car.  No mom.  Oh man, she’d seen.  I’d created an Awkward Naked Moment and frightened my mom away.  Maybe she got an emergency phone call and had to leave right that second.  Yes, that must have been it.

So I scooted back into the house and waited to hear from my mom.  After all, I wasn’t going to call her and explain.  No way.  Not when there was still a slim chance she hadn’t seen my business.  I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up.  So, I waited.  And waited.  And fell asleep.  (It was the deep, dark hour of 9pm.)

I returned to my fevered dreams and awoke to my mother’s voice on the answering machine.  She was saying something about having offended me and she was sorry and she didn’t know why I wouldn’t come to the door.  I staggered out of bed with a hint of lucidity and played her message.  The message only served to confound me even more.  I wasn’t upset.  I was naked.  Wait a second, if she thought I shut the garage door because I was mad, then she must not have seen me.  Victory: my mom thought I was a jerk, not the neighborhood exhibitionist.  Hooray!

I’m pretty ok with people thinking I’m a jerk.  I’m not one of those people who needs to be liked by everyone, mostly because I don’t like everyone.  And I’ll be the first to tell you that sometimes I am a jerk.  But I didn’t really want my mom to think I was mad at her.  

Reluctantly I picked up the phone and dialed my mom.  Now, the trick was to explain what had happened without revealing too much.  I puzzled over how to guide our conversation away from you know what.  At first I thought I was going to get away with it.  She explained that she had knocked and rung the doorbell and upon seeing our cars at our house determined that we were home.  She’d decided to wait in our driveway until we emerged like groundhogs or something.  I filled her in on the fact that I was home alone, sick and asleep in my bed.  When she rang the doorbell, the noise must have roused me from my clammy nap.  I explained that when I saw her in the driveway, I assumed she was on her way in, not waiting for me to come out.

I thought I was totally in the clear and that I’d avoided having to confess, but no, the conversation continued and finally I couldn’t do it anymore.  I just don’t have the skills.  I exhaled and in one big breath laid out the entire embarrassing story.  My mom laughed and offered her sympathy.  

It was a near miss, people, and we should all learn from it.  Keep your garage door closed at all times and never, ever be sans apparel.  Not even in the shower.  Ok, that might be a little drastic, but I’m still shell shocked.

I’m sure my mom will be laughing about this one for a long time.  I will, too.  In the safety of my home.  Wearing layers and layers of clothing.

There’s that saying “It’s not the destination that matters.  It’s the journey.”  This is especially relevant to my life because I am always lost.  Always.  Even when I know where I’m going, I tend to fade into that fuzzy place.  You know the one.  When you snap out of it and see the road and think ‘How on earth did I get here?’  

The first time I got lost I was two years old and visiting my Grandma’s house.  I’d toddled after a gaggle of older siblings and cousins around the block at my Grandma’s house.  My cousins and siblings were older and faster.  My chubby legs couldn’t keep up.  I was left behind, pigtails bouncing, teetering along the sidewalk parallel to a busy street.  Luckily, I was found by a police officer who somehow figured out where I belonged.  In second grade, my brother and sister had to walk me to class every single day because I couldn’t figure out how to get to my classroom.  In high school, my family took a trip to Caracas, where my Aunt and I exited the train at the wrong station and spent the better part of the day getting back to our hotel.  Lost is my perpetual state of being.

Recently I was a passenger in a car that was desperately off track.  The driver admitted she was a little scared because she is never lost.  The notion of always knowing where I am and the inverse idea that being lost is scary was completely foreign to me.  When going somewhere new, I expect to make several wrong turns, drive by my destination at least twice, and make at least one phone call to a friend to guide me to said destination.

I firmly believe that personal weaknesses and personal strengths are one in the same.  I am stubborn.  While this can and does lead to trouble in my life, it also means that I fight tooth and nail for what is just.  I’m directionally clueless, which means I’m not the person you want leading any sort of group, but it also makes me a better teacher.

I get what it means to be clueless as to which direction to go next.  I know the fortitude required to backtrack into familiarity.  I know what it means to both hear and see directions and still wind up completely off the map.  I also know what it means to head in the wrong direction and wind up somewhere unexpected and beautiful.

When my students say ‘I don’t know what to do next.’ we backtrack to what they do know and plot a course from there.  And then there are those sweet moments when they look up from a piece of work and say ‘I didn’t know I could write like this.’  They have found a road that is all their own and the delight in that is palpable.  The destination is nice, but the journey is where discovery happens.  I can’t think of a place I’d rather be.  Even if I could, I wouldn’t know how to get there.

Two people walk into a bar.  At the bar are a dog, a baby and an Amish man.

On Saturday Terry and I met some of his co-workers at a local brewery to listen to a bluegrass band.  When we walked in we were greeted by the wagging tail of the owner’s dog.  Directly in front of us was a man wearing Amish clothing and the gift of beard.  Seated at the table with the Amish guy was a woman with a baby.  It was very Sweet Home Alabama.  You know the scene where Reese Witherspoon’s character sees an old friend and says “You have a baby…in a bar!”  

Although I know nothing about bluegrass, I thoroughly enjoyed this band.  They had great harmonies and good stage presence.  It was a fun night, lacking only one thing: a punchline.

I love candy.  This isn’t some juvenile crush like the one I had on Donnie from The New Kids on the Block.  Although, let it be known that I almost got in a fight in seventh grade at a NKOTB concert when the girl next to me had the audacity to tell me that she was going to marry Donnie.  Lucky for her, they started singing Hangin’ Tough at that very moment.  Otherwise, I might have had to scratch her eyes out or at the very least dump my soda on her Donnie t-shirt.

Anyway, back to candy.  To say that I have a sweet tooth is like saying I’m tallish.  All five feet eleven inches of me loves candy.  I keep candy in my car, in my purse, in my filing cabinet at work, in the freezer, and of course the kitchen cupboard.  Today as I munched on peanut M&M’s and chased them down with a few mini York peppermint patties, I started to ruminate, yes ruminate, on my favorite candies of all time.  Here are my current top six, excluding holiday candies which are, of course, a category all their own.

6) York Peppermint Patties:  The mini version of these are divine straight out of the freezer.  Better yet, on top of a scoop of chocolate ice cream.  The problem with these is that Terry likes them, too, and I am Very Bad At Sharing Candy.

5) Reese’s Bites:  These are the far superior cousin to the peanut butter cup.  The chocolate shell is just a touch waxy.  If you bite into the chocolate, it cracks off and leaves a little round pearl of magical peanut butter perfection.  These also increase in deliciousness when frozen. 

4) Gobstoppers: I eat these in two’s, mostly while driving.  I blame my previous car, a Subaru Forester, for my affinity for these little sugary marbles.  In the driver’s side door there is a pocket that cradles the jumbo box of Gobstoppers perfectly.  It’s like the designers of the Forester made that pocket for the express purpose of keeping that box upright.  Pure genius, because let me tell you, it is tragic when a box of Gobstoppers empties itself in your car.  For six months after the spill, Gobstoppers will roll under your feet at every moderately abrupt stop.  So, making sure to keep the box upright, I pop one in each cheek and let them dissolve until they’re a tad chalky.  When they reach that chalky state, they’re perfect for chewing, without chipping a tooth.  Gobstoppers are also a great cycling candy.  I like to dump them in a snack size Ziploc and carry them in my jersey pocket.  Again, keeping them contained is a must.  Two seasons ago I was straddling The Rocket at a stoplight, the perfect candy intermission, when the light changed to green sooner than I’d expected.  I didn’t seal the bag completely and by the end of the ride, those babies were rolling around free and easy in my sweaty jersey pocket.  All of the color had soaked into my jersey leaving little rainbow colored leopard spots.  The only other downfall to Gobstoppers is that they’re a horrible movie candy.  It is impossible to discreetly eat a box of Gobstoppers in the theater.  Plus it is very embarrassing when you jump at a scary part of the movie and the box goes flying and Gobstoppers roll all the way down to the front row.

3) Sour Patch Kids: These are new to my favorite candy list.  I tried them once a few years ago, but unfortunately I tried an old batch that had been exposed to the elements too long.  The air had hardened them to an inedible state.  At the urging of a friend, who is equally addicted to candy, I tried them again last year while riding somewhere out in the middle of nowhere.  I was sweaty, tired, and running out of energy.  A handful of Sour Patch Kids perked me right up and I was hooked.  Sour Patch Kids have the added pleasure of being different colors so I can eat them until all the colors are even and then nibble them in turns.  Sour Patch Kids don’t melt easily and they are in fact even better when they’re just a touch warm and a little bit soft.  The downfall of The Kids is that they’re indeed sour and when eaten in mass quantities, you’re guaranteed to lose the top layer of taste buds.  My husband has a friend who can’t turn down a dare.  Terry dared him to ingest a spoonful of the sour white crystals left at the bottom of the bag of Sour Patch Kids.  I swear he burned a hole in his esophagus, stomach lining, and intestines.  I’ve never seen quite a pucker, nor such exquisite pain inflicted by an innocent candy.  Way to go, Kids.

2) Mike & Ike’s: Ah, yes, my boyfriends, Mike and Ike.  These are about as close to candy perfection as you can get.  They are multi-colored for eating in evens, better when warm and soft, and not too loud for the movies.  My dentist HATES that I eat these because I have terrible enamel and sticky candy is a big no-no.  Unfortunately, my affection for Mike and Ike’s is not my worst offense when it comes to candy and my dentist.  In high school and my first year of college I worked for my dentist, cleaning rooms, filing, answering phones, and whatever other odd jobs needed to be done.  I worked there for three years and loved going to work every day.  It’s rare to work for someone with a sense of integrity, humanity, and humor.  My dentist has all three and years later I had the opportunity to fully appreciate his sense of humor.  I ceased working at the dentist office to become a teacher.  One day, shortly after Halloween, a student brought a mountain of Halloween candy to school and I’d offered to hold it until the end of the day.  No, seriously, I wasn’t going to eat it.  I’ll stoop pretty low when it comes to candy.  I may eat a Gobstopper or two off the floor of my car, but in my book stealing candy from a kid is the kind of sin that would send me straight to hell.  So, I’d shoveled my student’s candy in my pockets, but by the end of the day both of us had forgotten about it.  That afternoon I rushed out of my classroom to make it to my dental appointment on time.  After clipping that paper napkin thing around my neck, my dentist reclined the chair to look at my pearly whites.  As the chair shifted back, my bulging pockets began to rain candy all over the examine room floor.  It wasn’t just one or two pieces.  It was deluge of candy that lasted a good seven or eight seconds.  Go ahead and count out seven seconds.  It’s a lot longer than you think.  My dentist feigned outrage and we both began to laugh.  Like a druggie caught with a stash I held up my hands and insisted “It’s not mine.  Really, it’s not mine.  I’m just holding it for someone.”  This made my dentist laugh even harder and call all of the staff into the examine room to see the evidence splayed all over the floor.  To this day, I don’t think my dentist believes that it wasn’t my candy, but I really can’t blame him.  Now I’m careful to empty my pockets before each appointment.  I just hope he doesn’t ever check my purse.

1) Peanut M&M’s: I can’t explain why, but Peanut M&M’s are the king of all candies in my book.  Like my crush on Donnie, my affection for Peanut M&M’s isn’t at all rational.  They make a terrible cycling candy, melting in thirty seven seconds.  They are sure to cause dental peril when eaten frozen.  They aren’t even uniform size.  That means when I’m eating them I have to factor in color and size, eating the giant ones first, then the tiny ones, leaving the regular ones in happy even piles.  Really, with a busy schedule like mine, I can’t afford candy that kind of time, but still I buy and savor Peanut M&M’s like it’s my job.  Some things just can’t be explained, like the fact that NKOTB has reunited.  This year I will be glued to the televised reunion tour while munching Peanut M&M’s and Sour Patch Kids and Mike & Ike’s and…

Thursday mornings are my favorite mornings to be a teacher.  No, not because it’s almost Friday.  On Thursdays, all of the writing lessons from the week culminate and my class is a hive of writing, editing, and general excitement about playing with words.  This past Thursday, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, we penned letters to our big buddies thanking them for all of their help so far this year.  Some kids were thanking their big buddies for always telling them how smart they are.  Some expressed gratitude for hugs.  Some scrawled out appreciation to their older pals for helping them become better readers.  It was all very earnest and heartwarming.  

As they finished up their letters, kids were grabbing their AR books to read.  With my class focused on their letters, I took advantage of a calm moment to review sight words with one of my kids.  While listening to him read the words to me, I heard a meek voice “99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer…”  My head snapped to attention in the direction of Kylie, a sweet little girl who recently moved from Hawaii.  She has chocolate brown eyes, a tender smile, and is the embodiment of Aloha and all it’s goodness.  She sat reading her AR book.  I shook my head convinced that I must have been hearing things.  I returned my attention to the boy with the sight words.  Three words later I heard Kylie’s voice again “98 bottles of beer on the wall, 98 bottles of beer…”  WTF!?!  I knew I hadn’t heard wrong that time!  In three quick strides I was at her desk.  I asked to see her book for a moment.  Sure enough, this seemingly innocent book about a hippo going to summer camp had several pages of the beer on the wall song.  My jaw practically came unhinged.  

Kylie shrunk in her seat, detecting from my disturbed face that this meant trouble.  I assured her that I was not upset with her.  I explained that I was disappointed by the author and asked her to take the book directly to the librarian and let her know that it was an inappropriate book for our library.  Kylie obliged and happily traded her book in for better choice.

Now, don’t go getting all on my case about censorship.  There is an appropriate time and place to discuss alcohol with children.  I just don’t think a drinking song should be considered quality reading material for six year olds.  Call me old fashioned.  I am all about tackling issues in literature like stereotyping, bullying, and other topics that encourage introspection and character development, but I just wanted to grab ahold of that author and shake her!  Why on Earth would you write a children’s book that includes a drinking song?  I can’t even fathom the process the author, editor, and subsequent publisher went through as they deemed this acceptable for little ones.  Seriously, there must have been a crack in the time space continuum when they decided to print that puppy.  So, let’s recap.  Children’s books: good.  Children reading: good.  Children’s books about beer: bad.  Author’s who write children’s books including drinking songs: Shamefully bad and hereby sentenced to read 99 outstanding children’s books, starting with Charlotte’s Web.  Better put down that can of Bud and get cracking, Harriet Ziefert, you’ve got 98 more to read after that.

It started out as an average Friday morning.  Students filed in showing off their loose teeth and lugging their book boxes to their desks.  I stopped at each desk to check in with my kids and collect their homework.  Just then a father with special needs walked in.  In the middle of a conversation with one of my kids, the dad blurted out “Here’s her folder.  Do you want her papers now?”  I held up a lone index finger, the universal sign for ‘I’ll be with you in a moment’.  

After finishing the conversation with my student, I turned my attention to the waiting parent.  We had a quick conversation about where his daughter should put her homework folder and I turned to go about my morning business.  The father continued in an unmodulated voice.  ”Mrs. McCauley, I know what I’m getting you for Christmas.”  I wasn’t sure how to best reply, so I uttered a noncommital “Oh.”  Then he delivered a surprise verbal kidney punch.  ”I’m getting you the Costco jar of MIDOL!”  He smiled, so pleased with himself.  I stared, mouth agape.  I didn’t feel like I’d been a horrendous biotch.  It’s not like I gave him the OTHER finger or anything.  

As I stood totally unsure how to escape gracefully from this conversation, his face turned the blotchy crimson of a pomegranate.  In an even louder voice he stammered “I mean the Costco jar of Tylenol.  Not the other, you know, thing.”  This really didn’t clear anything up for me.  I stared at him, head cocked to the side, in total disbelief that this conversation was still going on.  He continued “You know because of all the headaches you must get.”  I do not have a poker face at all, so I’m sure my increasing look of incredulity was apparent.  I stood unable to extricate myself from the awkwardness and to my dismay he rattled on.  ”You must get a lot of headaches.  I didn’t mean the other thing.  I don’t want you to think I was saying anything weird or anything.”  Seriously!?!  This entire conversation was totally bizarre.  Unable to bear the possibility of any further comments, I said “Don’t worry about it.  I put my foot in my mouth all the time.  Have a nice day.”  I willed my legs to move me to the student sitting in the desk furthest away and to my great relief that was the end of the dialogue.  

Although I only get a headache approximately once a year and I am as fortunate when it come to other unmentionable aches and pains, come this December I’ll be commemorating the birth of the Christ child with the deluxe jar of Midol or Tylenol.  Who knows, maybe in the spirit of generosity and goodwill, I’ll receive both.  Take that, wisemen.

I am a pretty normal person.  I teach.  I ride my bike.  I watch tv.  I read.  I write.  And then I do it again the next day.  I love my husband and I have a wonderful group of friends.  That is my life and I like it.

Lately though, I’ve been finding myself at tables with these high caliber people.  For example, I was at a table with the director of The National Writing Project.  She is witty, poised, and apparently an avid ballroom dancer.  At that same table were regional directors, national speakers, and published authors.  And me.  I kept looking around in disbelief thinking how fortunate, if out of place, I was sitting at that table.

Today I found myself at a lunch with a group of women who are nothing short of amazing.  Their accomplishments include cycling the coast of California, opposing injustice in Darfur, and blazing trails for students with special needs.  These are women who should seriously consider adding superhero capes to their wardrobe.  I was listening to the conversations at the table, once again amazed that I was sitting with such a dynamic group of people.

I find myself surrounded by people who are smarter, more talented, and as a whole more compassionate than I am.  I know, I’m hoping some of it will rub off, too.  And I’m crossing my fingers that they will keep inviting me to their tables.

If you could have any one — and only one — bike in the world, what would it be?

If I could have only one bike in the world, it would be whatever bike could make me go fast.  I’m pretty sure it doesn’t exist.  Then again maybe it’s operator malfunction.

Do you already have that coveted dream bike? If so, is it everything you hoped it would be? If not, are you working toward getting it? If you’re not working toward getting it, why not?

I think if I really put my mind to it I could go fast on The Rocket.  And yes, I’m working towards going faster at my regular spinning classes.  I swear, my spinning instructor revels in my pain.  No, seriously, she does.  I’m in there sweating so much I’m creating my own rainbows, and she sits there grinning.  Then she tells me to crank up the tension.  I dislike megaloathe her.

If you had to choose one — and only one — bike route to do every day for the rest of your life, what would it be, and why?
I would choose Millville Plains.  It’s quiet and the plains do this beautiful chameleon type change as the seasons progress.  The wind also loves Millville Plains, which makes it challenging and never the same twice.  Plus I once saw a fully intact set of deer bones caught in the fence that parallels the road.  Spooky and very cool.

What kind of sick person would force another person to ride one and only one bike ride for the rest of her / his life? 
Only someone totally vicious.  Must be a relative.

Do you ride both road and mountain bikes? If both, which do you prefer and why? If only one or the other, why are you so narrowminded?
I ride both, but I prefer The Rocket especially at about mile 80 when I’m in the groove and the pavement is smooth glass.  When I ride Frank, the problem is that when I crash (which is frequently) the ground always feels like broken glass.  

Have you ever ridden a recumbent? If so, why? If not, describe the circumstances under which you would ride a recumbent.
I’m not into getting bent.  I should mention that I’ve been totally destroyed by many recumbent cyclists and also that they seem to be a friendly bunch, when I can keep up with them.

Have you ever raced a triathlon? If so, have you also ever tried strangling yourself with dental floss?

Yes.  Today I napped, snacked, and shopped.  My strongest leg was definitely the napping, followed closely by snacking.  I can sleep anywhere.  It’s a gift.  I am also a skilled snacker and possess the horrifying skill of eating mass quantities when I don’t have the slightest inkling of hunger.  Shopping is my weakest leg.  Shopping can be so temperamental.  Variables like body image, number of clearance racks, and checkout speed continue to wreak havoc on my times.  I have yet to strangle myself with dental floss mainly because I have a hard enough time wrestling myself out of my clothes.  I once had to cut myself out of a dress using the kitchen scissors.  True story.

Suppose you were forced to either give up ice cream or bicycles for the rest of your life. Which would you give up, and why?

Ice cream is my boyfriend.

What is a question you think this questionnaire should have asked, but has not?  How do I manage to fall over on The Rocket so much?
It’s a multi-step process that requires practice and total dedication to looking truly moronic.  Step 1: Do not familiarize yourself with your new clipless pedals prior to their inaugural ride.  Nope, save that for when you have to stop suddenly in front of lots of cars.  Step 2: Think about random stuff like your favorite Slurpee flavor, quotes from Dirty Dancing, and the benevolence that is the DVR.  This will cause you to completely forget that you are indeed attached to your bicycle.  This is really nice because when coming to a stop, you’ll have that look of sheer panic that people in cars really get a kick out of.  Step 3: Don’t ever check to see if your cleats are loose.  This will inevitably create a moment during your ride when it’s physically impossible to release your foot from the bicycle.  All bystanders will delight as you do the ‘one-legged-pedal-while-trying-to-unstrap-your-shoe’ move.  It’s a classic.

You’re riding your bike in the wilderness (if you’re a roadie, you’re on a road, but otherwise the surroundings are quite wilderness-like) and you see a bear. The bear sees you. What do you do?

I once saw a TV documentary about this very thing.  No, seriously, I did.  When the guy on the documentary came into uncomfortable proximity to a bear he got off his bike, held his bike up between himself and the bear and yelled “YO, BEAR!  YO, BEAR!”.  He lived to tell that riveting story, so it’s good enough for me.  Plus, I can only pull off saying the word ‘yo’ when I’m speaking Spanish.  Otherwise, it’s just really funny.  So, at least I’d be laughing before the bear delivered an impressive amount of doom.