And how was your day?

Arose at the crack of half-an-hour before I really wanted to be awake, had tea, had toast, had to drive with 'Salina across town to a park with a whole bunch of other women, ranging from super-fit, boppy young women through to still-a-whole-heap-fitter-than-me brigade of fillies.

Yup.  I had me a senior's moment at some point in my recent past, and signed me (and my ever-loving teenage girl) up to a month's worth of physical effort towards a goal.  I had not previously known that the slide into the third-base that is 45 can have the side-effect of maniacal behaviour.

Still, it hasn't been all bad.  It rained one evening.

Nah.  It actually isn't so dire.  I had set my goal as "tone" - no qualifier on there as to a level requirement.  And if there is anything to be said for "pushing your body past the point where it begs for mercy" (with a side order of "I wish I'd looked after my " bleats), it is the excruciation of such an experience does apparently lead to a lowering of the layer of gelatinous comfort between me and the outside world.  Indeedy yes, my thighs are definitely percentage points closer to that of a seasoned cyclist (a very low percentage, it is true, when you have such a lofty benchmark).  The outside-side of my thighs, to be precise.

Not good for lowering one-self into the chair 12 hours after a little session (a make-up session for the rained-out respite) affectionately classed as "bootcamp".

You know television's "The Biggest Loser" - well, I was the pathetic one right at the back of the pack doing the Cliffy-shuffle alternated with pathetic attempts at manouvre's with catchy names and torturous technique - or in my case, yogic sinkings into the park-scape with tiny little pinecones digging me in the soft bits.

Then I showered, gathered breads and herbs and neighbour, exchanged the teenager for the four year old and headed off to the food swap, the library, home, family mediation, nap (ha ha ha ha ha ha ha), cycle, park, collect teenager, healthy meal, nip to shops with Paris to get tomatoes for salad, meal preparation seriously kyboshed by oven death, nip to fisho with Paris to collect chips slathered in salt...

But otherwise I am fine.  How are you?

Ten things - the whipper-snippers / adolescents comparison thing-ie

1)      Getting them started requires a lot of grunting and muttering.

2)      Once started, they splutter, choke and roar demanding attention.

3)      They always require more fuel than you imagine.

4)      They are extremely effective in blasting away ephemeral detritus, overblown superfluities and glass panels in back doors.

5)      Just when you think they are doing a good job, they take offence at whim and chuck a hissy fit, requiring more rope, more food, more absurd behaviour until they suddenly gallop away again in the right-ish direction.

6)      They think that one hour is enough work for a weekend.

7)      They stink, even when they have washed.

8)      The whole “sum of the noise of two whipper snippers” whole being greater than the parts debate.  That.

9)      They require you to block your head from their emissions – aural and nasal - for fear of permanent injury to your neurons.

10)   It is rumoured that there are whipper snippers out there who disprove the whole generalisation of an appliance theory.  In fact, a friend of a friend of a friend heard of one that  was compliant, beautiful to behold, would weekend warrior and weed whack whole gardens, combined grace with old fashioned charm and whose modulated tones were elixir to the ear, odour most joyous to the nose.  Perhaps it is true.

Pedalled furiously but didn't podium

Here is what I did (didn't even get a photo, let alone a video - oh well)

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Good evening ladies and gentlemen.  Are we having a good time?

Shall we limber up with a little audience interaction – a getting to know you better session.

Hands up, everybody here, who procrastinates?

Take your time…

Okay – all of you who are passive aggressive, keep your hands down by your sides and mutter “get stuffed” under your breath.

Those of you who are cyclists, please raise a hand.  Both hands?  No hands?  That would be right, frigging show offs!

It’s good to see cyclists with senses of humour. 

I mean, statistically there have to be some cyclists with funny bones...

I hold nothing against cyclists – well, not since they took out intervention orders. 

Please don’t get me wrong – its not that I have an overwhelming dislike of all humans who partake of the riding of such beasties.

However, I do have an irrational reaction to cycle related matters.  I have had therapy, but the nightmares do continue.

It is a recurring theme of my life is the connection of bicycle related misadventures and the moments of despair.

Take, for example, the REAL reason that I am in your fair city on this specific weekend - is because I had to go to a dentist.

 

“Hey”, I hear you think (because that is my particular superpower) “where does an approaching middle-aged – don’t fool yourself darling – biddy get off associating the final chapters of her dontic disaster ride with a lifestyle of wide smiles and the up/down thrust of the pedalators of this world?”

You are rather floral with your thought processes, I must say, and I do not appreciate the dig at my age!

It goes a little something like this…

Once upon a time, when I (and the world) was young, I had a bicycling milestone and a grandfather with pony promises arriving – or due to arrive - on the same day.

How frigging exciting is that to a seven-year-old girl?

The whole bike without trainer-wheels concept was cracked with years of tears and slavish endeavour.

Grandpa was set to arrive in his Golden Chrysler Valiant sedan at some point during the afternoon.

Knowing the way that Grandpa drove, it was bound to be later rather than sooner – but hope and pony promises had my insides doing somersaults.

My anticipation of showing Grandpa the newfound ability to truly bi-cycle across the gravel was bound to ensure that the oft-promised pony – his stated bribe for any feat - would materialise out of the boot.

All afternoon, I alternated peering up the road for plumes of dust - and practicing my perculiar combination of balance, beat, bounce and blessings from a merciful god to achieve the upright glide of a seasoned professional.

Right on dusk, a ray of sun glinted off a distant windscreen and gave cheer…

I ran for my bike.  Grandpa tooted the horn and the Golden Golden Chrysler Valiant glid towards the back gate.

I hopped on my bike and started my short journey to greet him.  

Grandpa got out of the car.  He and the rest of the family looked toward me.  

I sped up.  Now was the moment.  Now was the moment.  Now was the moment.

My foot slipped from a pedal – I hit some loose gravel – I forgot how to brake – the bike steered to the left –the wheel hit a rut - I sailed forward over the handlebars – the road came up to meet me – and connected with a tooth.

I am not saying it is the fault of the bike.  By extrapolation, it is not the fault of all of those good men and women who pedal across the country that I have had every profession with a dontic term in their names in my oral orifice at some point - nor can they  be blamed for the therapy required to get here tonight.

But they are such good targets. 

And I still hold hope for that pony.

So gee whiz, Olympics, Modern Technology and a good dose of paranoia for fun...

in a completely localised sense, of course.

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Television viewing has not so much been a "political decision" in this household for a while now as it has been a "weighing up whether we could be bothered against if we are receiving any transmission in viewable format".

I do believe I have blogged previously about the trials and - well, trials - of our great leap forward in in-house entertainment options, (here, here, here, and here)  but, on the whole, Sochi has been a GREAT disappointment here in Paradise.

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For a start, it has been on what - about a month and a half now?  (Settle Pedants, I was using exaggeration for effect there)

You know how you watch the Winter Olympics because you secretly wish to see some spectacular - but safe - crashes? *

Well, thanks to the miracle that is Digital Television, it sort of looks like that most of the time. 

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You know that the Nanny State has won, when they enforce a technology onto the masses that can create digitalised disasters during this quadrennial banquet of possibility just for me.

Because we know that I wield that sort of power - it may be called paranoia, but that doesn't mean it isn't real...

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Anyhow, as I was saying, upon having an internal slugfest in my ethical minefield, I had managed to contort myself to consider it a supportive gesture of those who I wished to support in the whole legalisation of sexuality choices and my personal wintery sportslust by yelling loudly at officials from my living room and "tish"ing when it was mentioned.   I even contemplated (seriously) sharing the positive mentions.

Also, given some of the actions by governments around the world of late, I had been doing far too much "tish"ing,  and even muttering frowny faces under my breath.

Therefore, I had logiced** that I chose to celebrate participation by sporting lunatics of all genders and persuasions undertaking these events by exercising my right to remote control access.

Unfortunately, my technological overlords had a few dissenting thoughts about my political stance, and invoked the "not while a Northerly is blowing" clause with our television reception.

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It still must amaze the bewildered out there that there is occasion when Paradise gets a bit - um - breezy - who would have gambled on THAT on the coast?

So some bureaucratic ba'tard in the bowels of Digital Television Intelligence is taking great delight, I am sure, in ensuring that the majority of my viewing becomes a complete screen of witness protection.

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We have had approximately four days of trouble free Sochi viewing - and you can't count one of them, because I didn't realise it was on.

This meant we got to see a few first rounds of the flying downhill on skis, doing twirly things up to three stories high and landing jumps.  That was fun.  

No way in the world I would ever do that, though. For a start, look at those hills!  The only way I would get from the top to the bottom of any of these hills is very cautiously on my bottom, or as a snowball.

And am I ever glad that it is on too late for Paris to transfix for too long on the "Snow Show" - because if there is one guarantee in her life, and that is her mother will NEVER allow her to catapult herself several stories of Terra Firma, so it is a dream that is best never planted.

We also got a bit of Skeleton and Curling.  I understand neither, and one very wicked part of me wonders if any madmen had ever contemplated the entertainment potential of a hybrid sport.  There is probably a game app out there already...  ***

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However - however Mr Northerly came a blowing, thus we will NEVER know what happened in the USA - Russia Ice Hockey match (although V did valiantly attempt to decifer frames of it).

V was an Ice Hockey player in his youth (in Southern California - go figure).  Let us such let the blanks speak for themselves in regards to his current view of the successive governments in this forsaken land and their media enhancement choices.

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Still, what else is there to do in a small town...

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*  (Personally, I am still amazed at the fact of snow, so I can look at the idiot box like a guppy usually during such an opportunity.)

** Logicked?  Logic-ed?  Logericked?  Past tense of the verb "to logic" - or have I verbalised a noun here?  Help!!

***Games developers - feel free to run with this idea.  I am imagining a sort of downhill pinball type situation (add in an element of the Slalom) , is that what is going on in your head?

Co-inspirational...

Sometimes, the Universe really plays a great rally, doesn't it?

You bounce the metaphorical ball a few times.  Test the weight and the bounce.  Might even toss it up to see if the wind is a factor.

Then, if you are a tennis star, you thwack it - or if you are me, you tap it with your metaphorical racquet in the hope that it will make it across the net.

Last week, I thwacked one - metaphorically - and I got a return.

This week, I started organising this:

and the response has been phenomenal - can't wait until Sunday!

In just over 2 weeks, I will be doing this:

When I was at University, I had a Marketing Lecturer who once advised that there were always two reasons for anything, the RIGHT reason and the REAL reason.

In just over 2 weeks, I will also actually be going to a dentist while down in Brisbane.

I have Dental ISSHEWS.

I have just been over at Pearl's and her latest post is "Another Way We’ve Failed Our Children; or Cavi-Tease" - I will wait while you go and have a cackle.  I certainly did.

Anyhow, I commented:

I am a veteran of Fillings, Plates, Mouthguards, Root Canals, Wisdom Teeth, Braces, Prosthodontists, Orthodontists, Maxillo-Facial Surgeons (well, only one of them), Ceramists, Periodontists, Hygienists and Money-Hungry Barbarians.

I never get offered Gas. Just Needles.

I. LOATHE. THE. PEOPLE. WHO. PROFIT. FROM. MY. MOUTH.

I am willing to go down to Georgia to contemplate a life without such ordeals.

Youth. It is wasted on the Young.

I have everything crossed (and a few prayers chucked in for good measure) that the Universe has got a handy return awaiting for me in the Dental Realm.