Piss test

Today I was "randomly selected" for a drug test by my employer.  I had to leave work, go to the testing site, and pee in a cup.  Well, not quite that simple.  First I had to follow the nice lady, let's call her Sue, to the back to fill out some paperwork.  Then I was asked by Sue, who's job involves handling the urine of strangers every day, to empty my pockets.  I wasn't patted down or anything, they're just relying on my good nature/stupidity to prevent cheating, really.  I wonder how many people come in and pull out a bunch of stunt urine.

"Oh, that?  I always carry that around.  You know, until you carry a bag of piss you never realize how useful a thing it is to have."

Then there's the bathroom you have to provide your "sample" in.  No sink.  No lock on the door (a nice touch, really makes you feel more dignified about the whole process).  No flush handle on the toilet.  They even taped down the ceiling tiles, in case, what, you hide your pee in the ceiling?

But the most annoying thing missing from the "bathroom" (can you call it that if it's basically a pot to piss in)?  A shelf.  Just a small shelf would have been real nice.  But no, because who knows what kind of cheating you could engage in with a shelf?  So, you find yourself in the somewhat uncomfortable position of being done peeing with a cup of your own warm urine in your hand when you need to shake off and clean up.  Well, not clean up, since there's no sink, but you get the idea.  So you're given the choice of trying to put it on the floor without spilling it or trying to zip up while holding it and risk pouring all your pee on yourself.  It's not a big deal, but they have succeeded in making an annoying, slightly degrading experience even more so.

Anyway, I finally succeeded in making myself mildly presentable without pouring pee all over myself (huzzah for small goals!), came out of the bathroom and gave my cup to Sue.  She then poured it into separate containers that she sealed and had me initial and date, kind of the reverse of writing your name in the snow.  It will then be whisked off to a high tech laboratory for testing and analysis to determine if I engage in any illegal activities in my off hours, when my company isn't paying me... you know what though, it could be worse.  I could have Sue's job.

A crazy little person came to live at my house...

Oh Kiki, she is adorable, but my wife did rightly observe yesterday that, in becoming parents, we just brought home a really small person to live with us who doesn't communicate, does nothing to help in any way, and screams a lot.  Awesome, right?  I think Planned Parenthood should adopt that slogan:

"Want a small crazy screaming person to move in with you?  Screw your brains out.  If not, maybe visit us.  Planned Parenthood, preventing insane visitors for over 23 years."

Yes, I know, Madison Avenue beckons.

Grammar's influence on your food safety

Just to be clear, I am not trying to be the grammar police here.  I don't care if you use "thru" in an email.  I'll receive "R U gonna B bak b4 we need 2 leeve" in a text and get over it eventually.  I understand sacrificing grammar and spelling at the altar of efficiency.  As one of the least patient people in the world, I get it.  But when people either don't see what they're doing or just can't bother to give a damn on something more official, like a letter, or, say, signage inside a restaurant bathroom:

Well, that just pisses me off.  Why does only one, singular, employee need to wash their hands?  Excuse me for being a prude but I want ALL the employees to wash their hands after shitting.  Actually, strike that, I want EVERYONE to wash their hands after shitting, whether you are being paid by this particular establishment or not.  And none of this "wash hands" business.  Just wash your damn hands, no quotes, no sarcasm needed.  Now, I am not expecting nor wanting to walk into a restaurant bathroom and see a sign taking up half the mirror saying, "Please pardon the interruption kind sirs, but we, the ownership of this establishment, kindly request that all employees of our business, once they have thoroughly completed their activities in the restroom, do diligently wash their hands with hot water and soap, so as to reduce the risk of food born pathogens and bacteria making their way into the delicious food of the restaurant.  We thank you for your time, attention, and aid in this endeavor."  But somewhere between that and Employee Must "Wash Hands" I think we could find a happy medium.  And while they're changing the sign, do you think they could also ask this mystical employee with the "clean hands" to maybe wash the counter?  It appears the colony of bacteria living in the corner is making an excursion outward, looking to conquer more of the countertop.  Nice.

The Oxford Comma

My wife, the love of my life, apple of my eye, gin in my tonic, is pretty much the only person who reads my blog with any frequency.  As such, she also functions as my editor (unpaid, though she has been threatening to unionize.  I'll bring in scabs like THAT!).  As such, she has been constantly fixing my "issues with ands and commas."  I always just accepted it, since she is smarter than I (I know, damned by faint praise.  She's also prettier, skinnier, sexier, and better at most everything except biking and eating).  But last night she elaborated that "you always put a comma before the 'and' in your lists, why do you insist on doing that?"  I was shocked.  Gobsmacked.  Awestruck even.  My wife, the woman I've chosen (I choo-choo-choose you) to spend the rest of my life with, the mother of my baby girl, doesn't use the Oxford Comma, aka the Harvard Comma, aka the Serial Comma.  Instead she is firmly in the camp of the University of Phoenix Online Non-Comma, aka the Bob Jones University Anti-Comma.  I am crushed.  Here I was thinking I had lucked out in life, finding a perfect woman who had deigned to marry a schlub like me.  Now I realize that it was all a charade, a clever ruse to trick me, finally undone by her comma usage.  Now I see through her deception to the truth beneath, and this, kids, is why grammar is important.

Parking Fail

I spotted this at the local Mexican restaurant (which, being the midwest, has exactly the same menu as every other mexican place in town, so annoying). At first I thought "ah, that's funny, someone failed terribly at painting a handicapped logo." However, after I had considered it for a bit I realized that no, this isn't a failure, it is just really handicapped parking. This isn't helping out those with a simple limp or even a missing limb, this is for people with one leg that bends the wrong way, another leg that is frozen in a sitting position, and they're being chased by some sort of large mouthed predator. Or, alternately, someone with gigantic feet, an enormous penis that is broken and a misshapen tail. Either way, they cannot afford a wheelchair and I think it's pretty amazing that this restaurant is thinking about this very small but extremely unfortunate segment of the population and easing their access slightly to unlimited chips and salsa and bland mexican food.

Daylight Savings

Every year around this time (now a month earlier, thanks President Bush, it's the best thing you did in eight years) I hear over and over "Why do we even have daylight savings anymore?", "I'm not a farmer, why should I have to change my clock?" and "Great, now I have less daylight to enjoy my morning stalking" (I have some odd friends). But I disagree with this point of view. Adamantly.  Vehemently, even.  I say MORE daylight savings. Let's change the clocks every month! And none of this forward and backwards every year. Nay, in my plan we fall 1 hour back on the 13th of every month! Think of the ramifications! Within 2 years midnight is noon! And leap year? That's right, fall back an entire month. Hey, it's February again! I think the entire plan will go to total shit within a matter of, oh, 9 months? Which would be a record for me, most of my plans fall apart after about 9 minutes.

Graphic Design by Infants

Ah, Babies R Us, the repository (depository?) of all that you do and don't need to raise a child.  But the worst thing for me is not the stupid products (and there are soooo many), it's the terrible, and I mean insanely terrible product packaging.  Why did they decide to photoshop this baby's head on another body?  If you answered because no baby would ever look that happy while wrapped inside a velcro bag, you sir are correct.  The only thing you hope for when taping your child into a sack is that they stop crying/screaming/speaking in tongues and sleep for at least 3.2 minutes.  If they look this happy it would just be disturbing.  I mean, really, this child looks like they enjoy being restrained a little too much.  They do say it's never too early to begin teaching, but usually a love of bondage is (hopefully) rather far down the list.  

If that's not fitting with your parenting goals, then just slightly farther down the aisle you can find this, er, thing. Which, according to the information available on the label, will not only prevent your infant from dying from SIDS, but will also enable her to fly through outer space.  Personally, given this choice between bondage and space flight, I know which one I'm choosing for my little girl.  I'm assuming the bag confers some sort of protection for space travel.  Although it doesn't say anything about protecting children from explosive depressurization, I'm assuming that's inferred by the "protects from SIDS" statement, right?  Now I just need to figure out how to get her into low earth orbit.  Hmm, maybe the next aisle over.  

Tony Kornheiser & the right to be a moron

Ah, Tony Kornheiser. You schmuck. Oh, in case you didn't hear, an excerpt from his radio show recently about cyclists: "The last time I looked, the road was made for automobiles. It's as if we are going to be dominated, as if this were Beijing, by hundreds of thousands of bicyclists." and "The road is for cars! I don't drive my car on the sidewalk!". He went on to suggest people should hit cyclists with their cars. Oh, but don't kill them, just "tap" them. Thanks for looking out for us Tony, you're a hell of a guy. Now, lots of cyclists, including Lance himself, are all atwitter about Tony's apparent attempt at comedy, or social commentary, or, I dunno, irony? But here's the thing, the same freedoms that give Tony the right to say these things give me the right to point out that Tony is a puny, bitter, jocksniffer who has made a living criticizing those who can actually play the games he can only write about. Suddenly, it's not so weird that he would have an irrational anger at people out on "his" roads (Hey Tony, if they are your roads, will you get your ass up to Ohio and do something about the potholes? Thanks!) who are engaged in an actual physical activity themselves. Maybe he would feel better about us cyclists if we just stood on the side of the road and criticized the driving ability of the drivers who passed. That is more in line with Tony's abilities, after all. But no, I should be the bigger man, I should aspire to a loftier ideal rather than sinking to Tony's level, I should set a good example for Kiki of how to deal with ignorance and stupidity, because it is sadly rife in our world. So, Tony, you are entitled to your thoughts on cyclists. You're even entitled to voice them to the world at large. And ESPN should only suspend or admonish you if they believe you have failed in your job, not because of public pressure. But I do hope that sometime in the future Tony comes to realize that cyclists are just people out trying to enjoy their life, they're not out there to annoy Tony, despite what he thinks. We don't really care about him at all, we'd just prefer not to be hit by him, that's all. But maybe someday in the future Tony or someone close to him will discover cycling and the joys it can bring, and he will realize this and feel bad about his comments. Or maybe, while Tony is on his morning walk in the neighborhood, his 482 pound neighbor, Mike, who bought a mountain bike to try to work off some weight, and who has been riding on the sidewalk because of the harassment and irrational anger he encountered trying to ride on the road, will lose control, and crash into Tony, firmly planting about 3 feet of aluminum tubing up Tony's Kornheiser, as it were. But no, I shouldn't wish ill on another human. But I may send Mike some new mountain bike shoes, just to encourage him to get out riding more often.

Read my book and your baby will be happy, healthy, sleep through the night, learn to walk, talk and perform advanced calculus by 2 months of age!

Ah, the baby books. What a pile of crap. Here's the thing, no one will buy books titled "Chances are, your baby is average (or damn close to it)", "Your baby is probably okay" or "It's a baby!: Relax and just love it already". So instead the shelves are filled with titles like "How to make your baby sleep through the night" (chapter 4: your new best friend benedryl) and "Baby genius: How YOUR baby can have a 200 IQ" (step 1: choose a freakishly smart partner. Also, be freakishly smart yourself. DO IT!). All the books are filled with tons of information on what NOT to do. Here's a hint, if it's something every parent does, then, yeah, it'll be listed. You hold your baby!!! Wrong, wrong, wrong, now they'll never go to Harvard. You do/don't breastfeed!?!?! Kiss Stanford goodbye as well. You use plastic diapers instead of our patented diapering system (why is it always a system?)!?!?!? Well, maybe your child will earn their GED. Assuming they succeed in the drug rehab program. In prison.

I set out to write a baby book of my own, working title "Stop reading fucking books and just love your child" but soon realized my chances of resounding commercial success may be limited. I'm thinking of changing the title to "STOP RIGHT NOW: 1,432 things you are doing RIGHT THIS MOMENT that will ruin your child's hopes for happiness". Sadly, it will probably be a runaway bestseller.

Buy the new Thingamajic 3.0 or your child will hate you & grow up ugly, stupid & whorish!

Ah, baby paraphernalia. What a wasteland of cheap plastic and parental guilt. Think about it, for every first child there are two brand new, clueless parents. They have no idea what they need. Diapers? Surely. Onesies? But of course. 3.8 gH baby video monitor? Ugh... Dual action breastpump with Hydraclean technology and Natur-suck mechanism? Wha? Yeah, just go into a Babies R Us, you'll see legions of clueless parents wandering the aisles with a glazed expression, trying to differentiate between those products that are a waste of money from those that will save their child from a life of crime and put them on the path to happiness, a college education, and their own 2.2 children. It's amazing the number of products that are pure crap. Changing pad cover? Oh good, so I have something else I have to wash every time my child poops/pees while being changed, which only occurs, oh, every 13 minutes? Awesome, I'll take 2! Baby shoes? Yes, my infant, who won't be walking for another year, definitely needs proper arch support. Just Do It! It's not until you have the baby that you realize you should have passed on the 10 pack of infant socks, since she kicks them off instantly, and purchased the Johnny Cash complete box set instead, since The Man in Black has the same effect on your week old daughter as valium.

Advice

I hate it, hate it, when someone asks me what bike (or car, or mail order bride) they should buy. Not because I am annoyed by the question, but because no one wants to hear what I actually think. I could go on for days on the subject. Yes, I am a huge nerd, obviously. But no one wants to hear that. No one wants to discuss the benefits of a cyclocross bike versus a flat bar commuter for an urban rider. No one cares if a bike is better for crit racing versus centuries. No one wants to hear about $10,000 handbuilt magnesium carbon frames with a 94 year wait list that are lovingly crafted by a blind man in the mountains of West Virginia who decides the geometry based on your shoe size and birth sign (come to think of it, I don't really want to hear about those either). They just want to be told "buy a trek (or specialized or felt, or, sometimes, strangely, a scattante)". The same way people's eyes glaze over when I delve into the amazing utility and speed of an Audi RS6 Wagon. They want to be told to buy a 3 series, or an Accord. And yes, I could just buckle, attempt to hide my nerdiness (an almost insurmountable task) and give them a pat answer: "Buy a Felt Z series" But I just cannot bring myself to do it. I refuse to buy into the marketing that there is a great "do it all" bike or car. I want the right tool for the job, and everyone else should too. To settle on anything less is to give into complacency and mediocrity. On the other hand, to approach it with my mentality you end up with 6 bikes and 3 cars, but sometimes there is a price for having high standards. Now I need to go search for an cyclocross unicycle, I never know when I might need it. Oh, and the best mail order brides are from southeastern Latvia.

Douchebaggery

So, I succumbed and bought a bluetooth headset. I can say it is so I can drive more safely. I can quote the studies of heating of soft tissue and increased tumor risks. I can explain that I've already had one neck tumor and am not really looking for another (granted, the surgery wasn't that bad but leaking saliva from my neck wound for a month was less than awesome). But really, I think this is just another step in my gradual metamorphosis into a total douchebag. Now, I don't yet use product in my hair or tan. However, other, more insidious aspects have appeared in my life. Wearing white cycling shoes. Driving like a total asshole. Putting white bar tape on my bike. All my bikes. Color coordinating my gym outfits. Now some of these things have been a part of me for a long time, but others of them just seemed to, well, kind of happen. Which seems to me to indicate that they are representative of my true nature coming out. And now I have a highly visible 'dongle' on the side of my head that says to the world: "Hey world, I am WAY too busy and important to hold my phone up to my ear, I need this device to do it for me. If only I could find a gadget to wipe my ass and tie my shoes I could be that more productive, because I am an important motherfucker. You hear that world?" Yeah, it's retarded. But I do enjoy seeing myself in the mirror, because I can turn my head, revealing and hiding the earpiece and go from super-douche to normal douche in the blink of an eye.

Skinsuits, really?

I know people must buy skinsuits since they sell them on websites and carry them in stores. But, really? Really? Okay, if you are a professional cyclist and a small, almost dwarf-like frenchman hands you a skinsuit, emblazoned with sponsors logos, to wear the morning before a time trial, and you are being PAID to ride in it, and PAID by the sponsors on the skinsuit, and GIVEN the skinsuit, then FINE, I have no problem with it. But if the answer to any of those conditions is negative, then you are a douche. What is the point? Aerodynamics? How much air is really impeded by the joint between your jersey and bibs? Do you shave your eyebrows? Do you pluck your eyelashes? Do you tape your mouth shut and only breathe through your nose? Do you tape your ears back against your head (they're just flapping out there in the wind!)? Okay, FINE, if you do all those things than you can wear a skinsuit as well, even without being a pro, and not be a douche. Not saying you're normal, you are a freakshow, but at least you are douche-less. Why did they stop at connecting the shorts and jersey? Why not have a fully integrated time trial skinsuit, molded one piece from shoes to helmet. And if the Radioshack team debuts this very item at the Tour this year I am suing. Nike, Lance, Trek, Johann, even Levi, you will be hearing from my lawyer. And by my lawyer I mean my daughter. Who just managed to spit up breastmilk while simultaneously shitting her pants. She's a rare talent this one.

Kiki's here

 I used to be a cyclist. Well, more accurately, I used to not be a cyclist. And I was fatter. Then I was a cyclist, and slightly less fat. Now I am a guy who periodically rides a bike, and who seems to be getting slowly fat again. The difference? Priorities. Used to be a mashup of work, cycling, and family (consisting of a nice and tidy pair of my wife & I), now I have a new big (small) one that trumps all others. My daughter. She's 6 weeks old. And awesome. But unable to ride in a bike trailer for another 11 months, so now instead of riding my bike in most of my "free" time I spend it sitting with a baby in my lap who is alternating between crying and sleeping, leaving me with lots of time to think about cycling. Stupid American Association of Pediatrics and their "rules" about "baby" "safety". Apparently her neck muscles are too weak to withstand the trauma of a crash. And yes, theoretically I could just not crash, but I do crash on my bike. A lot. To a degree that my coworkers wonder why I continue to ride, and acquaintances are, well, "uneager" to ride with me. Pussies. Anyway, my original plan of hooking my daughter up to one of those medieval leather weightlifting devices to strengthen her neck was nixed by her mother as being "insane", "ridiculous" and "the worst idea I ever had" (good thing I don't share most of my ideas with her. I have plenty of good ideas, problem is, most of them suck). So, in lieu of strapping my newborn daughter up to a jerry-rigged neck building contraction (something else the American Association of Pediatrics probably frown on, way to go jerks) I've opted to write about cycling, and all it's myriad joys (a well fitting pair of bib shorts), pains (realizing you have a certain amount of crotch numbness that is acceptable to you), and discoveries (saddle sores, WTF?)