The Nod

**Lame cycling post alert. You've been warned. It's March, they're going to pick up.**

I went for one of my first rides this season yesterday. I took Jake out for a two hour slog on Mt Royal. It was a bit cold, but I was just happy to be out... and you really can't ask for much better cross conditions.
There were a fair number of runners out, but the bikers aren't out in droves yet. There were a few commuters, some guy hammering away on an Epic, and a guy spinning with his dog. Then, was one guy, dressed in spandex and a jacket, on a cross bike. He was going down, I was going up. We made eye contact. He looked at me and bobbed his chin up and down about an inch.

That's it. That was The Nod.

I always forget about The Nod in the winter. It's not one of the key points in cycling. Guys who have been riding for years don't notice it. But there are definately two types of people who ride bikes. Commuters/tourists/hacks and cyclists. You can't tell them apart by looking at their bikes, but you can tell them by their positioning, their cadence, sometimes by what they're wearing (ie, not the most expensive stuff, because that's just a sign of money), who they're riding with and how. I started riding three years ago, and for the first season, I got no nods. Wearing umbros and running shoes and coughing and hacking my way up the hill on the bike I got for my sixteenth birthday, it was no wonder. But I've spent hours and hours and thousands of kilometers on the road and trails. I've crashed into rocks, trees, ramps, mud, curbs, rivers, my own bike, almost a skunk once. I've ridden in heat, cold, rain, snow, ice, and even hail. I've had bumps, bruises, cuts, scrapes, sores, chain bites, numb toes, pained wrists, butt rutt, back pain, and bad knees.

And I loved every goddamned minute of it.

I earned The Nod.

I apologize to all my peoples for being negligant with updating my sidebar and responding to comments and generally being awake and stuff. I'll be all dilligent after I move.

I drove through Compton with no pants on and all I got was this lousy T-shirt

I finished work yesterday at around 2:00pm. Surprisingly early! I hopped in my rental car in my work clothes, figuring I'd bomb through LA as fast as possible and hopefully beat most of the traffic before I changed.
For some reason, at 2:00pm, everybody north of LA wants to drive downtown. Everybody. With that volume of traffic, I refuse to believe there was a single bar, restaurant, living room, or movie theater with anyone in it. So traffic was less than crawling. I was averaging between 8 and 12mph. So I decided to get off the 5 and try another highway; and if the 110 wasn't moving, I was just going to drive west until I hit water.
My work clothes, after about an hour and a half, were making me less than comfortable. My pants are a wool blend, and I'm slightly allergic to wool, so I started getting pretty itchy, which was only adding to my frustration with the situation. Coupled with the fact that the stupid, bloodsucking rental car company has outfitted all its rentals with satellite radio that you have to pay extra for and the only station I was getting was the emergency station, I was getting mighty pissed off.
So I figured, hey. Traffic isn't really moving. My pants are making me crazy. I'll change! I had my jeans in the front seat. No problem. So, work pants off (aaah). Then, I realized that putting pants ON while driving is way way harder than taking them off. I didn't want to risk being the girl who has to explain to the police why I got in an accident with no pants on, so I figured I was better off just to wait until I could pull off the highway. Then traffic loosened up a little bit and I didn't want to waste that... so there I was, drivin' with no pants. It's not like it was indecent exposure, but there I was, with my ultra-conservative work shirt and sweater on... and no pants. Praying that a truck doesn't drive by and decide to glance down.
So, traffic finally packed up again and I thought, OK, I'll just get off here and get me some pantsage.
Thought I'd glance at the map to see how far I'd made it.
Guess where I was!

Compton.

Yes, that's right, I've driven through Compton with no pants on and lived to tell the tale.
Needless to say, I did not pull off, and drove most of the way to San Diego with a cool breeze. Aah.

teaosporin

So, I'm on this major business trip right now. Staying in a freakin' five-star hotel in a room with a balcony with grape arbour and shit. I have been in meetings saying things like "this is unacceptable," and stuff.

Seriously.

So, I've got my laptop with this wireless card thing in it and this special little key thing that allows me to uplink to our network back in Montreal. The battery lasts about an hour and a half. So, an hour and a half into this gutting session I'm taking part in, my battery is about to die.
Rewind about a month. I had a cut that I was worried was going to bug me, so I had thrown a few band-aids and a tube of Neosporin into my work shoulder bag type thing. No biggie. A little while later, I ran out of loose leaf tea at work, so I threw a bag of that in, took it out at work and threw it into my desk drawer without looking at it. I've since been drinking another kind of tea, so I guess I hadn't realized that the bag had ripped open a little bit. I also usually only put my lunch in my work bag, so I didn't notice that, at the bottom of my bag, there was a hell of leaking Neosporin tube infused with tea brewing.

Until I pulled out my laptop cable to plug into the wall and it's covered with white spoogy looking stuff with brown flaky tea leaves, which undoubtedly look like drugs.

Dude, I am SO professional.

?

I have questions.

Where is WWL?
How is J Stizzle?
What happened to Sweet?
And what happened to E?

And where are my pants?

Oh, you transient blog people.
Ah well, on to the flavour of the week.

I'll eat when I am hungry and I'll drink when I am dry.
Get drunk whenever I'm ready, get sober by and by.
And if this river don't drown me, it's down I'll mean to roam
For I'm a river driver and I'm far away from home.

box

I'm slowly getting going on the whole packing process. It, of course, sucks big donkey nuts. I have so much stuff, man.
As I was loading some books into this box, I took a look at it. At least fifteen layers of tape. Sides held together with a band of tape around the outside. "P's clothes," "M's food," "lamps," and "kitchen" all scratched out on the outside for "M's books + camera."

This is the story of my life.

I lived in the same apartment for three years with a rotating cast of great roommates. Then, some stuff happened in my life and I decided it was time to live alone, so I moved accross the street for my last year of university. I graduated in 2004. I moved July 1st to Villeray to save money. That roommate and I did not work out. So, October 1st, I moved to the Plateau. Living in a gorgeous 1 1/2 with a view of the Olympic stadium and a broken toilet turned out to be less perfect than expected when I found out the entire building was full of alcoholics on social assistance. TVs blaring at 4am, constant smell of stanky booze in the halls, loud crashes in the middle of the night. I think what did it for me was when I came home at 1:30am the night before a fairly important interview to discover that the woman downstairs had passed out, drunk, with an overflowing toilet which leaked through the floor and ceiling and was dripping all over the enterance hall. I called the cops to make sure she wasn't dead.
So, February 1st, 2005, I moved in with soon-to-be ex-roomie. July 1st rolled around, and she asked me to move with her to this apartment. It's bigger and cheaper, and as I wasn't on the lease at the old place, I didn't have much recourse. So I moved. Now, April 1st, I'm moving again. This is going to be my 7th apartment since 2003, my 6th since July 1st 2004.

I am so sick of moving. But, really, at this point, it's just funny.

scratching an itch

The tree-hugging vegetarian side of me feels bad. Since roomie took on her new "evening activity," and especially since she kicked me out, she hasn't been around the apartment much. This has been happy times for me, but Shitty Kitty is looking frazzled and acting very strangely. I swear on my grandmother's grave I haven't done anything mean to her, besides locking her in a room for an hour (with food, light, water, and shitbox) because I needed a break from the incessant whining noise that comes out of her. Today I tried to pet her, but she's really skittish and wierd. So I thought maybe giving her some treats would calm her down. She's shut up and I think calmed down, so I guess it works.

However, where I put the treats, I will fully admit to doing so for my own neanderthal amusement.

first contact

Today was the first day I've seen roomie since my eviction last Tuesday.

I don't believe we have yet exchanged a single word. Not even for me to tell her that I am, in fact, moving out (confirmed) next Sunday. Shit, next Sunday. Aurgh. Life into boxes again. Good thing I've learned not to throw them out. Ever...

In other news, I went for my innaugural outdoor ride of 2006 on Saturday. It was temperate and mild and I just went puttering around on my cross bike (yay knobby tires on ice, yay yay yay). It felt good to get the legs moving and the wind in the face again. I'd forgotten how much I love riding. I almost develop a fear every year, that I will somehow cease to love riding, that it will become something I do because it's what I do, not because it's something I love. But as soon as I got out of the city and got rolling, it all came back to me.
Then today, it's -5 and dumping snow like nobody's business. Spring, man. You are such a tease.

I need to do a lot of introspection in the next little while. I think I might be at a critical junction in my life, where I need to make a decision. Me and my hurt feelings, we've always been good friends. I keep them near and dear to me, and angrily push people away. It's not good, but sometimes I think it's easier than getting hurt. I am so flaming mad at roomie right now, but I think if I can get over it and forgive her and salvage some remnants of a friendship, it might be a good thing for me to know that I'm even capable of that. But for the next 18 days, I just need to coexist, and avoid saying something really hurtful.
Then I'll go sun myself on my 12th floor terrace while I think it over. Perhaps with a beer in hand.

roller coaster... of house

Bleurgh, today sucked nuts. And totally rocked, depending on how you look at it.

Work was absolute chaos. We are understaffed at three people in my position, and today the other two were absent, and a decision I made a few months ago came back to bite me in the ass. Not that I'm going to bitch about work, much, but I wanted to set the tone.
Roundabout 2:00 for what I thought was mere formality, I called the landlord to confirm that my credit check was OK. In broken French about an octave higher than I normally speak, I chipperly (is that a word? Well, it is now...) asked the lady when I could come by to sign the lease. "C'est deja loue. Le propriateur a choisi l'autre monsieur." Say what now? It's freakin' rented already? How is that possible!? You bastards! So I pouted a bit and hung up and then got hit by the emotional just-lost-sweet-apartment ton of bricks. Fuck, la, I have to go through this searching thing all over again.
So I moped around and complained to all my coworkers about my plight (maybe, in hindsight, not the smartest thing I've ever done... work/personal life separation, there, champ). I stopped charging time at around 4:30 and started surfing the web for apartments. It was just depressing, and by the time I left at 5:30 I was really down in the dumps. So, of course, I came back to roomie... why the hell is she doing this to me? Doesn't she realize that this apartment is my home? Bitch bitch bitch...
Then my cell bleeps at me. Just as I was on the other line whining about losing super apartment. It's New Landlord. "On a fait un erreur, madame, l'appartement c'est a toi." WHAT?! It's mine again!? Jesus murphy, I about blew a gasket.
So, in the end, it's OK. The move is back on. Rooftop terrace and pool with park view are still mine, mine, mine. My shit still has to go into boxes and move accross the city, but hey. At least it's moving somewhere.

take your crisis and shove it

So, I spent most of the week couch surfing... I just couldn't handle being at "home." Rather, at the place where I pay rent. I started apartment hunting on Thursday last week. I saw about seven places between Thursday night and Saturday afternoon... all of them were either priced right and crappy, or overpriced and pimptastic. I walked by one dilapadated-looking building, and huffed "that place looks sketchy, I'm not going in." My ninja friend convinced me to give it a shot (ack, gag, I'm one of those people that links to their friends), and I'm glad I did. I found an apartment (tentatively)!

It's a huge 3 1/2 (for those of you who don't speak Montrealish, that's a living room/kitchen with a separate bedroom and (duh) bathroom. Somehow, that's "three" rooms around here. And if you live in a one-room apartment with a closet and a bathroom, somehow, that's a 2 1/2. What's the "two," the closet? Arg. Anyway, I digress. I found an apartment! It's a huge apartment that overlooks a big park. There's a 12th floor terrace (perfect for watching the summer fireworks) and a small pool. I'm going to shell out the extra $60/month for indoor parking (oh yeah). It's a little more than I wanted to spend, but I think it's going to be a very good thing.
So, provided that they approve my application tomorrow, I'm going to be OK.

Then, I come "home" and look at all my piles and piles of shit and realize that I, again, am going to have to freakin' pack up and pay movers and move. And I get down and angry and come up with little vindictive plots to make roomie's life hell...
But then I realize that this is probably going to be the best thing for both of us. And although I think that she is a card-carrying citizen of the nation of suck for throwing this at me at 11:30 at night on a weeknight with no warning, in the end, I win.

Because I get a pool.

kicked in the gut

I did start writing a post about my weekend.

But now I'm a little distracted.

11:30pm last night.
Roomie: M, we need to talk about the apartment. It's just not working out for me. We clean differently. I love you as a friend and I want you in my life, but...
M: are you kicking me out?
Roomie: I guess I am.

Warning? No. List of things-that-if-you-don't-pay-attention-to-I'm-going-to-go-nuts? No. Just a "get the hell out."

I'm fucking homeless again.

Again.

alive...

but just barely.

There is a long, long post coming about this weekend, but for the moment I need to be brief. Looking back at the pictures, the frozen, dangerous hell of Saturday night seems to blur, but will I be going winter camping again any time soon?

Hells bells, no.

Stay tuned. I'll elaborate once I get my legs working again.

pile

I am going to go.

Here is what the "getting ready" step looks like.

Holy. I have to carry all this stuff with me for three days? Man. I am going to be tired on Sunday. Don't worry, though... the small Nalgene (which you probably can't see) is full of whisky. Freeze my arse off for three days without something to take the edge off? Hardly.

check out my website: getabrain.com

So, in light of the fact that it is supposed to hover around -15 (colder with windchill) this weekend, I am fence-sitting on the whole camping thing. I called one of the guys to tell them, and they are fence-sitting as well. We're going to make a call tomorrow night, but unless it warms up about 10 degrees, I am probably going to exchange the camping trip for a day hike.
However.
I did bumble up to MEC (Mountain Equipment Coop, Canada's version of REI, except their store brand is high-quality, no-frills, low-cost stuff) and bought the necessary accoutrements. All the stuff I picked up is stuff that's been on my "you know, I really should buy this" list for about a year now. New long johns (hallelujah, the ones I was wearing would have fit two of me), thermal shirt, gaiters, two Nalgenes (lost about four in the most recent move, along with my super warm mitts), wicking underwears (yes, I pluralized it. Because "underwears" is a funny word, and "underwear" is not.), and some other random stuff. The big price item was the coat. Down. Orange. Hells yes. In combination with the trail-slut red hiking boots... game on. The price tags are still on it, but I left something in the car and ran outside wearing just it and a t-shirt and I was fine. So, if we don't go, I should probably return the coat... but it is so warm. And so orange. I may just have to keep it. Warm and orange. Warange. I like the way I can't put my arms quite all the way down... there's kind of a soft pouffy feeling in my armpits.
Away from the coat.
I asked a stuttering frenchman at MEC if he had any advice, any little tricks I should know for winter camping. I assume the guy is an ice climber; he had the build and seemed to know his shit. He was fairly helpful, save for the part where he suggested I put an empty bottle in my sleeping bag at night, in case I have to "go." Then he got all confused and embarassed, because he realized that that's a lot easier for menfolk than womenfolk. He reccomended I ask a girl what they do. Um, I think you suck it up and get out of your sleeping bag and hit the can. My favourite was the first tip he gave me, though... it started with "when your hands freeze...." When. Not if.

Ah well. A life lived in fear is no life at all.