I know my luck too well, and whenever something happens to me (medically speaking), shit always goes pear-shaped. No worries, I’m used to it. So when my dentist pulled one of my wisdom teeth last week and said “you should feel fine in two or three days… unless you get a dry socket.” I KNEW right there and then that I was destined for a dry socket. Ever see one? Here look [HERE]… ah, I can’t do that to you, sorry.
Sunday brought little in the way of riding, but much in the way of gusting winds and even some blowing snow at times. It also brought me and Wifey to a local furniture store to buy new mattresses and our first set of bedroom furniture that wasn’t a hand-me-down or dug out of a dumpster. It actually felt kind of nice to finally do that and will probably feel even better to sleep on a mattress that doesn’t feel like it’s stuffed with dead pigs.
While we were out and about, I dropped off a roll of film that I recently shot with my Holga 135. It’s sort of fun to shoot pics with the $35 plastic Holga. It’s also a roll of the creative dice pretty much every time you click the shutter as to whether the crap photo will be a GOOD crap photo, or just a crap photo.
In a post earlier this month I mentioned how happy I was to be back on skinny (40c) tires and off of the Farley for a while. That time off of the Farley lasted about two weeks. It’s not that I found myself longing to ride slow, soft, heavy, four-inch tires on dry dirt roads or anything, but with Saturday’s ride time temps hovering around 30˚ I figured I might as well roll fat and slow, work harder and thus stay warmer.
As a you may, or may not know, this is a cycling blog. Well, it used to be MORE of one, but since I seem to ride and race less and less as the years go on, this blog seems to be more of an online journal for me [a 43-year-old doofuss]. I often find myself apologizing for the blog posts that are strictly about my crap, mundane self and the goofball shit I do. But I think I am going to stop apologizing. I’ve said it before, I’ll surely say it again– I’m always happy to get some readers, but in the end, it’s no big deal. This is a hobby, it’s free (for you) and as of right now, no one is putting a gun to your head to read this drivel (although I am in talks with a small militia group of kooks that might be willing to help me out if I go against my core beliefs and post occasional, outlandish Fox News worthy, radical right-wing propaganda.
Sigh… I guess I’ll just have to continue on with my three faithful readers without help from The Brothers of Paranoid Delusions with Arms (Michigan Chapter).
There are plenty of things I should have been doing today instead of riding. We all know what those things are (probably what you did all day). I’m not happy about that, but there’s no use getting too worked up about it since I can’t do much about it.
So I rode my bike for a bit.
With the (family) unit out-of-town for a couple of days one would think that I would proceed to live the life of the rake, roustabout and debt ridden drunken mess that I am (not really). Not so surprisingly, the opposite has been true.
My Monday turned a bit nutso as Jake (the dog) went and got himself a yeast infection that required an emergency trip to the vet. I told him he was asking for it with his muscular, thick thighs and want to wear too tight, humid, crotch-jungle inducing leather pants, but he insisted on wearing them anyway. Stupid dog!
Whether this photos is a scream, a cry for help or a yawn from Jake (the dog), it makes no difference. It pretty much sums up the week thus far.
I have no idea why, but for years I have been saying to anyone that will listen (no one) that Grady Wilson from the old 70’s NBC TV show Sanford & Son is what the flu, head cold or similar ailment would look like if it took human form. I say that with not one ounce of disrespect to the late Whitman Mayo who portrayed him, but a fact’s a fact. Or at least an outlandish proclamation is one oddball’s point of view.
I bring all this up for a reason, that reason being that early Friday evening as I sat in the corner of a local junior high gymnasium watching B-Man take part in some winter soccer drills, I knew that Mr. Wilson was about to pay me a visit. In other words, I knew that illness was setting in.
Shit.
