September 2008 Archives

I don't quite know what to say about the last few days. It's one of those times when there's so much going on, both internally and externally, that I am at a loss. When I don't know what to think, I generally don't know what to say.

There's also the fact that much of what is going on is excruciatingly personal.

My legs felt the need for a rest, so I stayed at home, off the bikes, knitting and working, and IMing with a friend. She had good advice, and I fear it was one of those conversations where I took more than I gave back, and I hope to rebalance the equation at some point soonish.

I am changing so fast this year that I sometimes wonder what I will uncover about myself next. On the whole, it's a good process, even if the roads are occasionally bumpy.

Sometimes the bumps involve other people, and I falter and lose my way, and wonder what the hell I am doing in this part of the woods, and whether it's time to ditch this metaphor and look for something less mangled.

I had a weird weekend, with one thing and another. Some sad things. Some hopeful things. It left me feeling tired, and quite a bit confused. Mostly about what I want. Both of the people I talked to about it today kept asking me what I want. What do I want? I have very little solid idea.

Ultimately, of course, I'd like to feel happy and whole in my own skin.

I am not at all sure whether that means having a partner hanging out with me, touching that skin on occasion. I just don't know. I have certainly been wishing for some element of that, but every time I get close to thinking about getting close, it's too too close, and I just close up like a crab. A hermit crab.

My hair feels too long.

I made soup.

I'm always hungry.

I'm knitting some beautiful gloves for Special J. They feel soft and look subtle.

I danced around the apartment a little. I listened to Parliament on the train. I huddled on the couch like a little old lady, knitting away on toothpicky dpns. Somewhere, maybe, there is a man who'd be delighted by me, who is feeling lonely and working on his hobby, whatever that is, and thinking he's not sure what he wants from life, either. Maybe.

(I am thinking of no one in particular, mind you.)

Oh, fall! How you make me suddenly yearn for that which I've been avoiding lo these many months - entanglement. Something more than pure recreation. In short, someone yummy to snuggle up with.

How you make the cat suddenly want to spend all her time curled up in the little treehouse I built for her (yes, I am a very nice witch to my little familiar). How you send the cold rain against the windows like soft percussion. How you make me glad I have Gore-Tex. How you turn metal grates and manhole covers into sheets of glass in the streets.

How you make me hear Phil Liggett's voice in my head narrating as I pick my way carefully between road hazards on the wet, rutted, slidey pavement.

How you send me running for the all-Malabrigo diet. Today's helping, pictured above:

At bottom, merino worsted in Tortuga. (Yes, the colour name had a bit to do with my purchase of it.)
Directly above that, merino & silk (!), in Smoke, slated to be long fingerless mittens for Special J, because she needs cheering up.
To the right, on the needles (now off them and soaking in Kookaburra), a birthday neckwarmer for another friend in merino worsted, Azul Profundo.

I was a bit blue earlier, feeling a distinct lack of snuggling and other boy-requiring pursuits, but a certain redhead managed to take my mind off it by flirting up a storm with me whilst adjusting this and that on my bike. Made me feel better, even though it was just talk and will only ever be talk, with him. Thanks, sweetie. I needed that.

If once I gave way to Peter, I should go up like straw. - Harriet Vane

The trouble with letting yourself admit that you like someone is that then you can think of nothing else.

When you see him the next day, and he casually kisses your cheek (but no hug! where's my hug?) and asks how you are, in Spanish, and you respond in English, cursing yourself for not having learned Spanish while you were busily learning two other languages, and then pondering whether it's simply too, too extravagant to buy Rosetta Stone just so you can impress a boy....

Well, you see the trouble.

And then you wonder whether this giddyness has been there all along but simply held in check by your mighty reserves of willpower, or whether it's newly sprung because you admitted to yourself that you liked him, and then began to see everything differently.

Infatuation carries with it its own energy source, and once given its head tends to run off whither it wants to, dragging you and the reins along after it.

Speaking of which, my new bike is fast. Um, I know, it's never the bike that's fast; it's the rider. At least, that's always been my theory. Yeah. Turns out I was completely wrong, and so, apparently, is Lance. Well, in his case, I doubt it matters much what he rides. But in mine, whoa.

I got on that bike yesterday, and found myself shooting ahead into traffic almost without effort. It was very strange. Hills? What hills? How did I suddenly make it home in 30 minutes? It ought to take 50. What is going on with the universe? Paging Dr. Einstein.

"Nice acceleration," said one member of my handsome male posse (I am such a lucky, lucky girl. They offered to escort me on the first part of my journey so I could play with my new toy without needing to fight traffic quite as much). "Thanks," I said, unclear whether he was referring to me or the bike.

Zip zip, up the bridge. No need to get out of the saddle. Swoop!

"Holy fucking shit," said I at every intersection. Pardon me while I be a danger to myself and others for a few weeks getting the hang of the thing.

It's never gonna be normal, you and me. What you're signing on for is a storm at sea. - Zero Seven, Pageant of the Bizarre
How long does one wait after having been through one of those storms before getting close enough to risk another one?

Yesterday I rode into another state on my trusty bicycle, with a small posse of the fastest men I've ever met.

I must be crazy.

It was fun, it was exhilarating, it was a wee bit scary.

I discovered a few things along the way.

1. I am faster than I think I am.
2. I am not as good at climbing as I think I am.
3. I might actually like one of these guys.

Uh-oh.

No, really, uh-oh. I am not sure I can do this. I mean, I don't know if he likes me, too, but he might. (I get a lot of hugs when I see him.)

Here's the thing.

a) Boywich, for all that he is a wonderful, unique, precious-to-me human being, was hell to live with. I am not contemplating living with anyone ever again, and no that's not his fault, I am just clarifying that it's not the living-with that's important here, it's the hell.

b) How long does one need to wait after that kind of experience (and it was a LONG experience, not like a year of that but close to a decade of it) before getting entangled with somebody else, even to the small extent of being willing to let them into your heart at all?

c) Even apart from that, I have been doing Big Work in the last year, Big Work on Old Shit. That kind of work requires a lot of personal space. Can I date somebody during that? I mean, somebody other than an off-again, on-again sexy blonde playmate who would never in a million years get close enough to me to be (emotionally) risky?

This man is not the blonde. Emphatically not the blonde.

Not only is he not blonde by any stretch, but he is (from what I've seen) warm, sweet, interesting, and very experienced in the ways of the world and what that world can throw at a human being. Also handsome, in unbelievable shape, and quite close to my own age.

Crap, right?

Did I mention he has the most beautiful eyes I think I've ever seen on a human being?

He's also a friend whom I increasingly value as a friend, and if anything is going to happen between us I would want to make sure that we could still be friends if it didn't work out. CRAP.

PS. All photos courtesy of pocketcam, which has been performing a yeoman's job in my bike bag lately.

PSdeux. Reading back over this, it sounds like things were all bad with Boywich, which isn't true. A lot of things were good, which was why it lasted so long. It's just that the things that were bad, were bad.

Occasionally I envy the folks who live in beautiful Mediterranean climates, who get dry, sunny air year-round and can lie on the beach in December if they have a fancy to. But not in the fall. In the fall I love the hush that comes over everything, the way the world seems to hold its breath for a moment while the weather changes from soggy to crisp, and the night air chills the house, and the cat and I both begin to sniff the air for the smell of curling leaves.

I want apples, and I want them now.

I want to pluck them off a curving branch, beneath a blinding sun that's turning the leaves into jade. Today I went so far as to hallucinate myself a batch of apples in a city garden. but of course they were just red plastic lanterns strung on a branch.

Perhaps this weekend I can find a little bit of forest. I heard tell of one you can ride to, if you have the legs for it. I'm going to pack lots of snacks. And a map. And a little compass, just in case.

I also want wool, another sure sign of fall. Just when I begin to wonder if I'll ever have the urge to knit again, if that stash will have to be auctioned off upon my death, I suddenly find that I'm knitting hats for friends. Or little neckwarmers for biking. Or mittens. Or that drop-stitch scarf from Shannon's blue yarn.

Clickety click. Only that's not quite the sound, since the needles are wood and therefore a little quieter. I like that sound. It's subdued and homey. I wish I could teach Kitwich to knit, so I could listen to it properly.

That's all there is to tell, really. The bike rides were beautiful today, and a huge orange half-moon hung in the sky as I pedaled home tonight. No boys to speak of, but it's only Friday...

Today's theme: The difficulty of keeping one tiny cyclist sufficiently fed.

Exhibit A: my day in capsule form.

1. Wake up, slowly, grudgingly, and in stages.
2. Absorb a cup of very strong cafe au lait through my pores. Really, I have very little memory of making or drinking it, though I just washed all the dishes involved, so clearly I must have done both.
3. Eat (oatmeal).
4. Fiddle around trying to get a work email written before I leave, realize I don't have enough time and am now running late. Damn. Pump tires, quick change of clothes, etc. Wrestle self and bicycle out the door.
5. Ride like bat outta hell.
6. Arrive at appt. only 5 minutes late, all lathered up and panting. Congratulate self on not being hungry. Think: oh goody, oatmeal is the solution.
7. Do PT for an hour.
8. Get back on bike for quick zip to bike shop to consult about remaining parts. Arrive at bike shop. Realize am starving. Eat Clif Bar.
9. Realize am now late for getting back home for second appt. of day. Call to try and get out of it, since now all cute boys in the universe are in front of bike shop hanging out and kissing my cheek.
10. Unable to change appt. Hop on bike and ride away, cursing.
11. Ride like bat outta hell, dodging and being royally annoyed by rush-hour traffic.
12. Arrive home, even more starving than before. Change clothes, rush off (on foot) to deal with next obligation, listening to Clash on headphones and swearing under breath to self like crazy street person the whole way.
13. Come back, deal with next asinine obligation. In middle of doing that, client calls. Important client.
14. Rush off in mid-sentence while talking to client on cell phone. Really fracking starving now.
15. Read text sent in reply to text I sent to one of handsome boys asking what they're up to tonight. Had been contemplating riding back out after completing annoying obligatory task. Now really FRACKING STARVING.
16. Boys offer to pick me up food at vegan fast-food joint (where they are currently dealing with their own starvation issues; boys, being messengers, have even more reasons to be starving). Decline because have realized that there is no way I can survive ride to meet them without ingesting serious food first.
17. Throw together fastest dinner can think of with remaining semi-functioning brain cells (most of them have decided to go on strike due to lack of food). (Keep in mind that I just ate an hour ago.)
18. Inhale dinner. Realize: a) have to work tonight, so no boys. b) too tired to get on bike again anyway. c) low on milk for hot chocolate, yogurt to prevent yeast infections (all that biking - don't make me go into detail; you don't wanna know), and dish soap to wash pile of dishes accrued during day's eating.
19. Wash dishes. Watch House being snide and unbelievably sexy. Ungodly levels of sexiness. Holy fuck. His luminous blue eyes.
20. Think about blonde for 30 seconds. Dismiss thought.
21. Realize am too fracking tired to do work tonight.
22. Realize am starving.
23. Argh!

PS. Later addition: Don't worry, folks. There were two more meals after that. And yes, I've tried every possible combination of protein, carbs, fat, etc. I've also read up on the subject. I'm doing all the right things; this is just how it is to be a cyclist. You have to eat like a hobbit. Pardon me while I go make second breakfast...

Yeah, I pulled yesterday's post down. Sorry folks - sometimes I get bean-spiller's remorse. There's not even any logic to it. I read it and read it, and read it again, and couldn't find anything wrong with it (apart from a slight tendency to bitch) (though that doesn't normally stop me from putting a post out there), and yet still I didn't feel like sharing. Whaddya gonna do?

Nofink, as Basher would say.

Having a better day today, even though my new bike is still seventeen-eighteenths built and therefore in my bike shop as opposed to my living room being admired by all and sundry (better known as: me and the cat). But that's okay. I had a relatively good ride today on my main man, despite having needed to zip through midtown due to not having left enough time to get where I was going by my preferred outerboroughular route.

Yes, I made that word up. It's okay, folks, I'm a professional. (Writer, that is.)

Anyhoo, sun shining, fun with Big Trux in Chelsea (which sounds like stage-names for a pair of gay-bar bouncers but actually refers to impatient and slightly scary drivers of delivery trucks). Alles gutes, basically.

Rode home with some messenger friends, playing swoopy games on the bridge, and feeling about 6 years old doing so. Good clean fun.

The cat is currently obliging me by snoozing on a pile of greasy bike rags, which I find just so heartwarming for some reason.

PS. You know what it was? Oversharing about a certain lanky blonde. I'd like to keep some things to myself, after all.

The trouble with owning a really big brain, my darlings, is simply this: one tends to rely on it. To the exclusion of other, equally useful skills and attributes.

I have spent this past summer (which I suppose is pretty much over, though I am in wilful denial about that) unlearning that bad habit. Or trying out new ways of functioning that don't involve so much analysis and overthinking and overlay of heavy expectations of life and of people.

It's been going rather well. I came to a big decision about my immediate professional future without once frowning and fretting over it (okay, I exaggerate, there may have been a frown or two - but that was about 486 less than there normally would have been). I got over feeling obscurely heartbroken about a little June fling. I played and played and toyed and toyed with any number of cute young boys.

I got a tattoo. I took risks. I did a whole lot of bicycling and a whole lot of leading with my body, and my instincts, and not my big big brain. And it was good for me. And I liked it.

And now I am looking at how to keep that going, as the fall comes on with its heavier tone, its back-to-work mentality, its changing colors and smells, its Rhinebeck and its apples to be picked, and its skies so gorgeous they traditionally make me feel like I'm just not doing enough to appreciate them every day.

Breathe, the summer taught me. Just breathe. Pedal, and breathe, and pedal some more. Spoke-music. Hands on grips. Hair rumpled by wind and crushed under helmet. Ruffle it up and move along. Wear the little dress that flips up under the rim of the bicycle seat. Don't worry so much whether the new people like you or don't like you.

Think about what you want for dinner in the next five minutes. Think about what that is, flying over there, wings beating the sky - hummingbird or bee? Think about what pretty yarn you can buy for Shannon at Rhinebeck. Think about that beer. Yum. Beer.

Think about how kissing the blonde was just as nice with stubble on his face as without. Think about popsicles.

"He's like sorbet," I said. "Palate-cleansing."

Yes, like that. I do like that. Pity I've just overloaded my stomach with all those brownies I'd made for Special J. Note to self: Wait until dear friend is actually ready to receive visitors before beginning the baking. Don't worry, Special J: more where that came from, honey.

When one is building up an old bike, there are always a few bumps in the road - a few parts that you thought would fit the frame that don't. A few things that need jerry-rigging, or machining down, or some other kind of mechanical wizardry.

I have learned to not only accept that but to expect it - it's part of buying a bike that isn't factory-fresh and stamped out in a uniform procession (or even handmade in a uniform procession like my old Cannondale, which I bought new). It's part of getting to know your bike. Now I know, for example, that the new bike's head tube is narrower-than-standard.

In just the same way, I learned that my first vintage bike has really, really tough steel (it broke some drill bits). It might seem frustrating, on the surface, but I've come to see it as part of having a bike that is more like a person than a piece of equipment. It has a personality, and we spend time together. We are, in fact, best friends. So the fact that my new-old bike won't be ready for a few more days while the shop searches for a stem that'll fit its tiny little tubes is just part of the courtship for me.

I visited her yesterday, and saw her wheels all built up and installed, saw the unbelievably tight clearance between the rear wheel and the seat tube - a sign that she's built for speed and quick maneuvering; a sign, perhaps, that she might have been raced in a previous life. Raced by a very small Italian man, or maybe a teenager training for the venerable tracks of Europe. Drinking wine after each competition. Receiving pointers from wizened, fleet elders (who were also drinking wine).

Something like that. I do so wonder about my bikes' lives before we met. But then again, I don't think I really want to know. Not only would it take away the joy of speculating, of daydreaming, of making a Triplettes of Belleville cartoon in my head, but it might be a little too much like meeting your boyfriend's ex-lovers.

It's late and I'm rather exhausted, so I'll make this quick. The last two weeks or so there have been searchlights in the sky. The first few times I saw them, I kind of noticed the light without really registering them. Then it hit me - clunk - oh yeah. Those beams of light pointed straight up are the towers. The Ghost Towers.

They've been doing this subtle memorial for years - every year from 2002 on, in fact. One or two of those years I wasn't here, and didn't see them. But most years I have. And of course, in 2001 I saw the real ones burn and die.

There isn't anything to say about it here that hasn't already been said elsewhere (or even here, by me), and I don't have much to add, except this.

Humans have a remarkable ability to pick themselves up out of chaos, out of the rubble - be it physical or metaphysical - and just start walking.

I don't know if that counts as heroism. I don't know, really, if it's even an admirable quality, though I guess if you asked me, I'd say yes, of course it is. It's a remarkable thing, and it's maybe the only thing we have.

It's round about this time that I become especially aware of how colorful things are. How brilliant the sky, how rich the sunlight, how bright those umbrellas, how soft the smell of water.

It's not always an easy thing to experience sensations of normal life in the face of abnormal awfulness; it's like having someone very important to you die and then wanting to blot the sun out for a while, so you can grieve, uninterrupted.

That W.H. Auden poem. You know.

But I suspect the tendency of the world to go on beating like a great white heart, right in your face, is where we get our continued-walking ability. We have the world as our teacher - irrepressible nature, unstoppable life. It's good, I think, even when it hurts.

PS. Boywich, I am thinking of you.

What in the world is this?

a) A Dr. Seuss book come to life on my coffee table.
b) Something the cat threw up.
c) Yards and yards of KnitPicks Merino Style Butternut knitting itself into a very long constrictor-style snake, the better to strangle me while I sleep because I still haven't finished knitting that hoodie for my friend.
d) Bounty from an outdoor retailer who screwed up and sent me six pairs of bright orange ski socks instead of the 2 I'd ordered, and yet only charged me for what I'd ordered.

All of the above, really.

Hi y'all. I'm having rather a good day, and not just because of the sockly bonus.

I'm not sure what it is. Could be that I just made myself some coffee (yes, at 6pm. I caved. I totally caved). Could be that I've spent a nice day in my house, hangin' with my cool cat (she'd prefer that I spelled it kool kat, but I just kan't).

Could be that there are days when I realize that it's grrrreeeeat to be a freelancer. Usually those days entail having some new work drop in your lap, which it potentially has. Potentially. Must not anger the fates.

Could be that I spent a certain amount of time listening to Duke Ellington and dancing like a mad fool (pre-caffeine, even) in my apt. I have yet to find an office job where that kind of thing is encouraged.

Could be that I said no to a date I didn't feel like going on today. I'd be happy to go on it another day, when it wasn't raining, and I didn't have to work late, and I said as much, but he of course got bent out of shape about it, and I thought, who the hell cares? I don't even know you. Sheesh.

Could be that I am still a little high from kissing my favorite now-you-see-him, now-you-don't blonde boy. That was a couple of days ago, and at the time, I'd thought, hmmmn. Maybe I am not attracted to him anymore. And then he kissed me. Boom. Of course I'm still attracted to him.

A friend was asking, long ago, in the beginning of the thing, when I was walking around like someone had lit me on fire, What the hell is it? Is it his looks?

Well, yes and no. He's a bit of alright. But it's not that.

Is it his personality? 'Cause you keep saying you don't really have much in common with him.

Yeah, I don't. And I don't give a good god damn.

I have one thing in common with him. Magic.

I couldn't articulate that at the time, and I couldn't explain it, and I stopped trying. But now I know.

It's just fucking magic. I think, oh no big deal, and then he touches any part of my body, and I'm toast. Awesome. Love it. Please sir, may I have some more?

Anyway, that wasn't what I'd intended to write about. It just slipped out.

Of course, all I was going to tell you was a) look at all those socks. b) hey, look - I've been knitting.

I know, it's weird, me having knitting to show you, or even giving a damn about anyone else's knitting. Okay, that last bit is not true. I love seeing my friends' knitting; they do beautiful knitting. But I, I am a lame knitter, and I just don't care to be anything but. I appreciate the raw materials, and I kinda like having something to do with my hands in winter, and it's nice to have an endless supply of little hats to go under my bicycle helmet and ward off hypothermia, and all. But it's just not the big big obsession it once was. And it was only even approaching that because I had been living under a rock with an alcoholic boyfriend and a quantity of cats and nothing else to do all that long long wet snowy winter except make myself more and more and more sweaters.

Okay, where was I?

Oh yes. Knitted blue thing.

Shannon, that yarn is really just so nice that it somehow got me over my summer knitting repellance and made me start making it into something.

A simple drop-stitch scarf is what it'll be, and I know that's like elementary schoolgirl knitting, but I like it, and I picture it as that, so there you go.

Yeah, yeah, I probably need to cut back on the caffeine.

Apparently it's not only possible to bike to the beach; it's a damn fine day out. Especially when the weather is like this: spotlessly sunny skies, warm but not hot temperature, and that oddly hard to place but unmistakable California feel to the air.

I rode down to Coney with a friend (okay, a date), and then along miles of waterfront, and then some more miles of city streets, and then had dinner, and then rode home (ahem, the latter by myself, thank you). And it was a perfect, perfect day.

I'd like to have those more often, if it please the court.

To say that I lacked confidence when I was younger would be like saying that Wilt the Stilt was of above-average height. It would be like saying that Will Smith is a fairly talented young man. The Mona Lisa isn't a bad painting. Mos Def is okay-looking. Louis Armstrong was moderately musically inclined. My cat is slightly vocal. Colnago makes a decent bicycle.

You get the picture.

Anyway, it occurs to me that there's a link between confidence and optimism. The other day (that would be yesterday - time is seeming to fly, fly, fly, like the landscape past a pair of long bronze legs) I was out to dinner with a whole batch of people who are relatively new in my personal orbit, and I had a marvelous time.

Now, partly (mostly) that is because they are very friendly, interesting, welcoming types. But it's also due to the fact that I let myself say yes when one of them invited me, instead of shyly backing off from intruding. When friends who are new invite me to do something with them, I always have a dual reaction: pleased to be invited and worried that I ought to say no.

It's a risk, saying yes. It's a risk that I'll feel like a third (or 7th, in this case) wheel. It's a risk that I'll find myself back in seventh grade, the new kid in town, cast off to the outer reaches of society. (Yeah, it's totally melodramatic, but that is how one feels at that age.)

Now that I've acquired a little practice in saying yes, I can't help but feel that I wasted so many opportunities to have fun, and to feel included, and to party like a rockstar. Okay, maybe not like a rockstar, but you know what I mean. These people are fun, and nice, and everybody's different, and there's room there (it seems) for me, too. And it's all been a huge, and very welcome, lesson for me.

I've been learning that - once you get beyond actual middle school - nearly all of my limits are ones I place on myself. I mean, apart from gravity, and even that one has a little fudge-room...

I'll tell you the core of it, laid down in raw red emotional brick long ago. It's an assumption that people won't get me. They won't see who I am.

Guess what? That turns out to be bullshit. I mean, of course, I am not going to be everybody's cup of tea - nobody is. But among the funky oddballs of the world, there's plenty of room for my own oddness, and there are a surprisingly large number of people who look at (or more importantly, talk to) me, and go, "Oh, cool."

Doesn't mean everybody will get every bit, and I know I don't get every bit of everybody else, either. But there's so much more room for intersection than I realized. It reminds me of listening to the layers in music - all those different threads of sound interacting, intersecting, weaving back and forth in and around each other - not losing their individuality, but together making something lively and glorious and interesting. Yeah. Like that.

And if you're wondering about this array of goodies on that lovely lavender tissue paper, it's from Shan. Shan whom I've never met in person, and who gets me nonetheless. See what I'm sayin'?

PS. The Nikon has not nearly done justice to that yarn, which is Rio de la Plata, a handspun, hand-dyed wool from Uruguay. The color's called Faded Lyons Blue, but there's nothing faded about it. It's a vibrant tealish blue - pretty much my favorite color on earth. Okay, one of them. Feels great, too. Mmmmmm.

PS2. Verbatim from the enclosed note: "I hope you like what I made for you [the amazing origami beads, which I'd coveted from the moment she posted pics of them], which I had always intended for you even though I tried to throw you off the scent by claiming it had gone to some other "friend"... Totally faked out, dear. Thanks!

I have been noticing beauty in the things I see every day lately, and I want to remember to bring a camera with me next time, so I can show you. But in the meantime:

There's a perforated metal fence with the late-day sunlight poking through it. There's a bowl of yogurt with huge blackberries thrown on top, their juice trailing little streaks of purple here and there.

There's the mental image of a three-year-old boy whom a friend saw riding what had to be his first bicycle around the track at Kissena. There's the sweet smile on the face of another friend as I roll up in front of my bike shop (I got hugs).

There's white sand between toes (a few weeks ago, but I remember it).

There's gliding along, wind in the spokes, that purity of movement.

There's a pretty pretty salad I made.

There's a little girl-kitty asleep on the couch (shedding like a monster).

There are the beautiful faces of my tattooed girls at brunch, laughing about a mediocre date one of them had the other day. She told it so well, we almost became a retroactive Greek chorus.

There's the idea that fall is coming - the breath of it on the wind, a crisping up of air and a deeper-bluing of sky. I start thinking of apples, as I always do.

This weekend's tally.

New tattoos: one.
Bike rides: three (including the one to/from the tattoo studio).
Boys flirted with: four.
Age range of boys flirted with: 23-47
Gummi bears consumed: one whole bag during tattoo, plus one chocolate-covered bear during today's movie.
People possibly flashed while riding bike from brunch parking space to movie parking space: approximately 100 (long story; short dress).
Bike parts waiting in my box to be built into a new bike: impossible to count.
Dollars spent on said bike parts: too intimidating to count.
Advil tablets consumed before and after tattoo: six.
Lascivious notes left on my bike by my favorite redhead: one.
Near misses with blonde: two (I was in his hood and invited him out; he was busy. He was in my hood and invited me out; I was busy).
Secret fantasies confessed to, to one of the key players: one - but it was a biggie.
Pairs of pirate leggings purchased without trying them on: two (one by me, and one by Special J).
(No, my new tattoo is not of a skull.)

All in all, a busy weekend.