Out of my brain on the 5.15

“I just finished my third bike ride of the day, after getting nowhere–literally. I started in our bedroom, and I ended in our bedroom. In fact, the whole ride took place in our bedroom.”

That’s as far as I got last week in writing a post. Part of that has to do with 3B deciding that 5.15 is a perfectly good time to be awake every single morning of the week.

There have been a number of other things keeping me from writing here, including my ever-fattening ass, my sore ass, Barky’s ass, and dumb asses . . . so finish your cotton candy and get onto the Tilt-A-Whirl that was last week in the Bradstein Household:

Pitter Patter on Pater’s Day (Hop on Pop Day)
Father’s Day started late on FD eve, when Mama took a late-night shopping trip and then spent what sounded like a whirlwind hour in the kitchen while I was banished to the bedroom, where I was forced to lay against pillows and flip through magazines.

All of Mama’s efforts were worthwhile; on FD, I woke up to a Spinach, Red Pepper, and Artichoke Strata from one of our favorite vegetarian cookbooks. It was an amazingly delicious, melt-in-your-mouth treat. After 3B’s morning nap–OK, and our morning nap–we headed to the biggest room full of shiny, colorful, flying things that I know of. It was more than enough to entertain Mama’s two little boys for several hours, and Mama was patient enough to hang around and listen to me talk about rotary versus inline engines, which I had diagrammed even before my 6th grade aeronautics unit.

And you thought the typography lesson was geeky. (You gotta admit, though, that the comments were even geekier than the post, right?) If you want to geek around yourself, check out these virtual reality tours of cockpits, like the Concorde, SR-71 Blackbird, and the Bell XV-15 tilt rotor that I used to see fly at Moffett Field air shows when I was a kid.

Between debating the merits of the Enola Gay display, being shocked by the jet-powered kamikaze bomber that was not much more than a bomb with a cockpit, looking in vain for the VW bus on the CE3K mother ship model, and being awed by the space shuttle, we did stop to feed 3B, and get ourselves something to eat at the cafe, which is monopolized by McD’s. Turns out that the only thing that didn’t have some form of beef fat injected into it, as far as we could tell, was the McFlurry–good thing we’re not vegans, right? As far as we could tell, each one has enough fat in it not to need any additional lard, plus enough sugar to feed all the world’s hummingbirds for a week. Tasty, but it didn’t make us like McD’s.

After all that, which meant skipping 3B’s–and our–afternoon nap, we didn’t get a chance to use the martini set that Mama and 3B got for me–shaker, glasses, vermouth (we already have the gin and olives). But we’ll use that soon, I’m sure.

Man, I really made out on Father’s Day. I’m gonna’ have to step it up next year for Mother’s Day.

Pedaling to Where?
Now that she had me fattened up like Hansel, Mama announced that she wants to ride a century this October, to give her a fitness goal. (What’s a century, you ask? It’s a one-day, 100-mile bike ride. Why? Because beating yourself in the head with a baseball bat doesn’t hurt as much, and doesn’t make you as fit. Although after an hour with the bat, you’re mentally fit to ride a century.)

I tell Mama, as does everyone else, that she looks great, but she still wants to get into better shape to finish recovering from pregnancy and childbirth. I could stand to lose the pregnancy weight that I gained too, and I love to ride my bike, so I’m behind this goal 100 percent. If you count my fat ass, I’m behind it 110 percent.

This means that in addition to my bike commute, I’m also riding on the trainer some nights when I get home. Although I’m past the sore ass phase of road riding, which took about a week to get through when I started bike commuting again, there’s something about riding on a trainer–different position, not changing position enough, being as boring as a bike ride in a box–that makes it uncomfortable to stay on the saddle for too long. But at least I’m not scootering my ass across the neighbor’s driveway, like Barky is.

Three Poops in the Morning (to the tune of Three Coins in the Fountain, loosely . . . er . . . so to speak)
Every six weeks or so, Barky starts scootering around our place–scootering being propulsion by front legs only whilst dragging his ass across the ground. He generally does this only on our nicest rugs–which is our inspiration to make him an appointment at the vet.

(Meal spoiler warning: Reading the next sentence may spoil any meal you plan to have this week.)

The vet takes just a few minutes to fix what is a common problem in smaller dogs–full anal glands. (I warned you.) Recently, Barky started scootering again, but this was only a few weeks after he had been to the vet. And, he was doing it everywhere–not just on our nice rugs, but in the elevator (“Hi, how are you? Nice weather we’re having, isn’t it? Oops. Watch your shoes!”), across our neighbor’s driveway (yes, it’s concrete–yes, ow!).

The vet couldn’t find anything wrong, but said that “the area,” as she referred to it, was raw and swollen from being dragged around so much, so she prescribed an antibiotic, anti-inflammatory medicine that we have to apply to “the area” twice a day. Of course, Barky doesn’t want us to apply this stuff–not that we want to do it, either–which means that one of us has to hold him upright while the other applies the goo as Barky bucks around like a rodeo bull. When we let him go, the first thing that he tries to do is scrape it off by scootering, so the holder has to dart out the door and down the stairs with him, since if we took him in the elevator he would just scooter it off in there. The good news about whatever is a pain in Barky’s ass is that it’s not tapeworms.

Hey, I’m going to find the silver lining, even if it takes two hands and a flashlight.

Dumb Asses
Speaking of asses, I found this comment in my inbox this morning. Seeing that it was placed on this post, it made me think of one of my favorite quotes from my favorite smartass, Eeyore: “They haven’t got Brains, any of them, only grey fluff that’s blown into their heads by mistake, and they don’t Think.”

Anonymous said…

Hi, Nice stuff. I found a cool news widget for our blogs at www.widgetmate.ass. Now I can show the latest news on my blog. Worked like a breeze.

9:05 AM

I suppose that his spambot didn’t read my earlier comment on that post.

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  • Hey, there, Mr. Geekin’ Full Stop:

    As long as we geeks are grouping, what’s with this apostrophe on “gotta'”?

    And to keep going with the full frontal geekery, did anyone else get the pun of “full stop”?

    I think it was “1066 and All That” that ended with “. . . history came to a .”

    Or for the geek crowd is it the ska reference I need to explain?

    From the City of Brotherly Geekery,

    –Geek #2

  • Apostrophe? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

    Nice catch. No idea what I was thinking there. Or if I was thinking.

    My guesses for who out of the six regular readers would get the “full stop” reference are Henitsirk, MetroDad, Samantha, your sister, and you, of course. I guess the only regular reader who didn’t get it is Barky.

    My guesses for who out of the six would get both the “full stop” and the ska reference are you and MetroDad.

  • Full stop, yes. Ska, not so much.

    Anthropapa has decided that when we come visit, we will have to go see the big shiny planes and rockets too. Oh, and the 4-year-old wants to see them too.

    “Fattened up like Hansel”? Niiiice.

    Gotta (no apostrophe) say that the anal-gland thing is a big strike against beagles. But Barky’s cute, so we’ll forgive him.

  • Wow! You are talking a lot about various “asses” these days. . .

    And 5:15??? UGH! I’d be taking a nap too.