No More PB Please

If you are getting sick of hearing about my cycling you can suck it. I am obsessed and that's how I roll. Find another blog where someone talks about shoes or being fat or how their baby smears shit on the wall after naptime. Jeez, I don't know why I'm on the defense. Just a little tired I guess. If anyone likes my blog who happens to live, oh say for example, in one of the massive mansions on Lake Michigan in Winnetka or Evanston or even Kenosha that I rode past today, could you please leave your home to me in your will? Even the coach house? The garage? God damn, those are some beautiful and ginormous homes. Old money and lots of it.
So the North Shore Century was a really great ride today. I'd have to say this was my favorite ride I have done to date. Beautiful, winding course with interesting roads and things to look at. The weather started out foggier than the cemetery scene in Michael Jackson's Thriller video. I was covered with a fine sheen of this steamy moisture for the first couple of hours. That burned off and it was glorious. The rest stops had fruit, Gatorade, brownies, pretzels, and a shitload of peanut butter. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, peanut butter bagels, peanut butter blondie bars with chocolate chunks (addictive---if there was coffee I might have stayed at the first rest stop), potato leek SOUP, banana bread, date bread, 5 different types of granola bars, tubs of ice cream (only at one stop and yes, I was first in line dammit all!), and even one stop that had a charcoal grill where you could ROAST YOUR OWN MARSHMALLOWS. Evanston Bike Club hooked it up! Did I mention the peanut butter?
I loaded up with Alleve, Goo, carbs, and peanut butter in one form or another every 25 miles. I rehydrated with water, Gatorade, and electrolyte tabs. I downed Sport Legs capsules which inhibit lactic acid staying in your leg muscles, hence that horrible burning feeling when they really start to work. If your idea of working out is a leisurely stroll to the mailbox to get your latest O Magazine and Kohl's bill, you probably haven't experienced this sensation. I'm just sayin'.... I was so prepared mentally and physically, I seriously could have gone 20 more miles. We finished at 103.8 miles. Hellz YEAH!!!! I got my token water bottle, I showered my road dirt off my body. But if I have dreams that make me wake up screaming tonight, it is not my legs cramping up. I am having a peanut butter nightmare. Check the sheets, I might have shit Jif Extra Chunky..... Not right, I know. But again, THAT'S HOW I ROLL.

Gearing Up

I am planning on doing another century ride this Sunday. As you know from reading, that is 100 miles. I feel pretty well prepared but there are some rituals I will go through this time to hopefully enhance my performance a bit. I want to eat a LOT of "good carbs" Saturday afternoon. This would include maybe some whole wheat pasta (okay, a giant serving), grilled chicken, and lots of fluids to hydrate myself. No, that does not include margaritas. I have new padded shorts. I was informed that the reason for my chaffing issues might stem from wearing underwear. Crazy, I know. I choose to go smokeless when donning my leotard and tights but who knew I had the same liberty when biking, too?! It sort of frightens me to have only a layer of Lycra and some crotch padding between me and my hard seat for hours on end. If I decide 25 miles into my ride that panties would have been a smarter choice, then what? Do I stow some in my pockets of my cycling jersey? Can I change into them without dropping them in the nuclear-blue solution in the Port-A-Potties at my rest stops? Hhm, I will have to ponder this. Just in case I DO end up chaffed worse than a baby's ass after three days of mandarin oranges and blueberries, I have a few packets of Butt'R. It's like butter for your bread but you spread it on your ass. I think I can use my hand and skip the knife. Maybe a spatula would work, too. I have a new short-sleeved jersey which has three neat pockets located on my lower back. I guess those pockets make shirts God damn pricey. Ralph Lauren could be charging a shitload more for his Polos if he threw in a couple of monogrammed pockets for lipgloss or ID. Just a thought. I have some packets of Goo, which is a nutrient and caffeine loaded "treat". I use this term loosely because although sweet, it is not delicious. I suppose if it didn't taste like gelatinous corn syrup they could have named it "Confectionary Loveliness" or even "Yum! This Shit's Delicious". Goo is certainly aptly named. I have two drink holders on my bike and a new thermal water bottle to keep my drink refreshingly chilled. I have a new digital odometer to tell my rate of speed and how many miles traveled. It does not tell me how many more miles till I die or my vagina has to survive its pounding but other than that, it's a dandy device. I have an additional "stuff holder" for my Goo, Power Shot Blocks (like gummy bears but with caffeine and shit to keep me going strong), electrolyte replacement tablets, Alleve (my back hurts when I ride this long), extra tubes in case my tires blow out, ID, and cell phone. I wish I could fit my crack pipe, too, but that just has to wait till I get back to my car. I am going to get up at 4:45am because this ride starts in Evanston, Illinois, which is about an hour away. We trek up to Kenosha, Wisconsin, and back. The last time I did this I was a little scared, not knowing if I could do it. I feel pretty confident this time. I know most people think this quantity of miles is insane. Saying it out loud is pretty freaky when I think about it. But damn, do I feel like the shit when I am done. And I mean the SHIT like when the Bulls were unstoppable, like when Britney and JT were together, like when 90210 was the ORIGINAL show without anorexic socialite actresses giving teens more God damn weight complexes. Another reason to ride 100 miles? You burn up to 5000 calories. Yeah, you can eat like a freaking pig when you are done. I tend to pass out with exhaustion so I can't really even feed myself. But hell yes, if you are wondering, it IS worth it. Gotta go get my carbs on now.

Don't Come Hungry

You know the phrase "your eyes are bigger than your stomach"? This especially applies to my kids. Tonight after their dance class I was feeling particularly not motivated to cook. This is pretty common for me. I just use lack of thawed groceries, lack of time, busy schedules, etc. as convenient excuses to not turn on my oven or burners. Nothing makes me more pissed than when I spend 3o minutes to an hour preparing a meal, my kids bitch about 90% of what's on their plate and don't eat it, my husband inhales his whole meal in 5.3 minutes, and I am left to clean up all the bullshit mess left behind. Where is the enjoyment in that? Do you see my logic? Screw making dinner.

My girls were hungry. I really wanted Panera, I'm a fan of many of their soups and salads. No go with the Picky Posse. Son of a bitch. Do you know what they wanted. Boston Fricking Market. Oh joy. Thanksgiving in a fast food format. That's hot. They both love their mac and cheese and mashed potatoes. Sophie quickly told the woman serving her that the small dish would most certainly NOT be enough for her. So my starving, haven't been fed in 2 whole hours children ordered a shitload smorgasbord of side dishes. Who needs chicken? It's not Boston CHICKEN anymore so why bother with that bullshit? I precariously balanced the overflowing tray as I shuffled to our table. Fast forward 8 minutes and about 3-4 bites of mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and green beans later. Forget the cornbread and big ol' slices of pumpkin pie. They were stuffed. So now I am stuck with several containers of fatty side dishes in my fridge. Coagulated macaroni in a florescent orange goo. Greasy garlic green beans coated with oily goodness. Two slices of mediocre pumpkin pie with soggy cardboard crust, mutilated beyond recognition by plastic sporks. But I am saving it all just in case someone is craving some bad Thanksgiving leftovers. I think I will go to Panera BY MYSELF for lunch today.

I Stayed for THIS?

Americans, have we not learned ANYTHING from Hurricane Katrina? With all the suffering, chaos, and ill preparation for that horrible storm SURELY another one of its sort would not cause equal, preventable issues? Welcome Hurricane Ike. Thank you for causing presumed millions (at least) of American tax dollars to rescue those poor individuals who chose to stay home when this storm hit.
Wait a minute, WHAT?!!! What if I get a warning, far in advance that, gee, there is a HUGE storm coming? This storm is not your average run-of-the-mill thunderstorm. This storm has really big, really fast, really strong-ass winds that will blow me away as well as destroy my windows, roof, and much of my house. There will be flooding, and not the piddly-ass "flooding" that leaves an inch of water in your basement and you ruin a few boxes of old pictures. We are talking, "Holy shit my sofa is floating across my living room! I see the neighbor dog swimming through my front door windows!!" Bitch, git yo' ass OUT of town!!!!

So even with this scariness looming ahead, not potential but imminent, some of these stubborn asswipes thought they should buck the system. "Fuck you, Mother Nature!" they said. Some sat with shotguns, assuming many other Einstein-esque neighbors would be sticking around to pilfer through their shit. Their soggy, ruined, worth-nothing-at-all shit. The ones who left told Billy Bob and Tammy Rae that they could feel free to shoot anyone who came near their shit, too. They were just too nice to say what they were REALLY thinking.
"You dumb-ass redneck trailer whores! You are gonna be stranded and maybe DIE in your little piece 'o' heaven just for WHAT? Pride? Getting in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the biggest imbecile? Surfing your flat-screen TV down your street with your shotgun in hand? Thanks for wasting my tax dollars because you are a bunch of rusty cunt buckets! "(okay I totally stole that line from Ari, my fave character on Entourage. Fuck it, he's funny.)

So here comes Ike, big and bad. It spanks those coastal towns like a redheaded stepchild. And now who's crying, "Oh please help me! I am trapped in my house because it's flooded to the roof! I can't get out!" Well no fucking horse shit you retards. I fucking TOLD YOU SO. So now, in this great country of brotherhood and freedom, I have to expect my tax dollars to be funneled down to you to rescue your dumb ass. Christ, I hate that shit. I wish I could decide how my tax dollars would be spent. There needs to be a jury of peers who takes cases like this, when millions or BILLIONS of dollars need to be spent to patch up shit that could have been avoided. I know we do have to repair and rebuild, I am not arguing that point. Give them new houses, rebuild the roads, get those damn refineries working so I don't have to buy some queer-ass car powered by recycled deep fat fryer grease from Mickey D's.
"Your Honor, the citizens of Dumbfuckville who chose to stay in their homes despite numerous warnings of their impending death request money, transportation, deep tissue massage, and a 6 pack of Coor's Light. The silver bullet is a cure-all proven to make rednecks happy and forget how fucking stupid they are."
"DENIED, bitches!! Better hurry up and swim back to your houseboat because your cousin, Rufus, is using your fridge as a hot tub!"
Maybe I'm just not a sympathetic enough person...

Tru 'Dat

Sultan and I celebrated 12 years of wedded bliss Friday September 5th. Ironically, we share this anniversary with my parents who have been married 39 years. (They either really love each other or realize, "What the fuck else am I gonna do now that my cash and prizes are shriveled? Might as well tough it out another 39 years!" Just kidding, Mom and Dad. I will assume there is still some remaining passion, like the day I was home from college and I walked in on you, hungover as shit, to a frightening visual. Noooooooooooooooo!!!! I am still in therapy, thank you very much.)

My great friend, Allison, graciously offered to take both kids for a sleepover. Jackpot! So of course Pierre went for a little sleepover at the kennel himself. Sultan booked a room downtown at the Marriott on Michigan Avenue. Jackpot again!! He made mysterious reservations for dinner and all I knew was that he had to wear a jacket. Fancy. I got some new sexy bitch dominatrix shoes. I am totally obsessed with heels. I like shoes that make me so tall you might think I'm a tranny. Intimidating diva, that's me. I chose my fancy slinky dress, packed my overnight bag, fluffed my hair and we were off.

Upon check-in the concierge wished us a happy anniversary and upgraded us to the PENTHOUSE. Uh, for free? Mmmm-kay. I'll take it. This room was sick, and I mean that in the most complimentary way. It was two freakin' floors. There were two two-story windows overlooking Chicago. Jaw-dropping view, people. Bedroom on a balcony, huge bed with no less than 8 fluffy pillows. (I am a pillow whore and there is nothing I hate worse than a cheap-ass hotel that gips you by giving you two squishy shitbags with pillow cases that remind me of empty sausage casings.) Monstrous bathroom with enormous jacuzzi bathtub, his and hers pedestal sinks, fancy-pants bath and body products and a pristine shower which could fit 5 people. Kick ass.

We went to score a cab but were quickly offered a driver from the hotel in a nice little black car. I felt like a damn celebrity. We were pretty dressed up compared to most of the people hovering in the lobby. The light denim-clad posse parted a path for us like we were frickin' Moses. Maybe I am exaggerating. Okay, they bowed and rolled a red velvet carpet out, too. What treatment for a little married couple from the burbs. I was eating that shit up like Oprah snarfs biscuits and gravy with Gayle on their girly "sleepover nights".

Our driver pulled up to Tru, a Chicago restaurant which is pretty popular and extremely highly rated right now. Upon our check-in I realized this was not your run-of-the-mill fancy eatery. Three maitre-d's welcomed us. They knew it was our anniversary but when we told them it was 12 years, there was apparently a hidden mike in the lobby or an earpiece , CIA-style, to alert someone in the back. One waiter pulled out Sultan's chair, one waiter pulled the entire table aside to accommodate me. Another waiter brought a tray of warm napkins with tongs, "Would you care for a white or black napkin?" Ooh, I get to pick a COLOR? Does it really matter?... I chose black, like my coffee and my men. (Just kidding, Sultan.)

We were served some sort of welcoming yummy thing on a curved spoon. 279 ingredients all crammed into a savory bite. We perused the wine menu. Suddenly we were handed our menus, printed with "Happy 12th Anniversary Molly and Sultan" on the inside. And we're talked a heavy cardstock, bound menu. No photocopied cheap-ass paper here. Half bottle of Pinot Noir? Check. Tray of three different types of freshly baked rolls presented every 8.5 minutes? Check. TWO types of Vermont butter in decorative slabs? Check.

The menu was daunting. So many descriptions, so expensive, so exotic. So not like the Red Robin or Noodles and Company I usually frequent. I chose one tasting menu, Sultan chose another. The portions were so small that it was difficult to even share. But I ate fois gras and lamb and some sort of tomato gelatin with creamy Parmesan pearls. I ate sashimi and gazpacho WATER. No, not the soup, it was strained so that only the flavorful water was left. Served with a cucumber melon sorbet. Bizarro. There were three tiny disks of nectarine, maybe the size of dimes, balanced on their 1/8-inch sides, and skewered through their centers with a single sprig of chive. This meal was all about the details. Every course that was served required no less than three new utensils, which two servers brought out and simultaneously placed at each of our plates. Upon beginning to stand to head to the ladies room, one server moved the whole table aside, one took my napkin, and yet another personally escorted me to the bathroom. Classy. The sink was a single pane of glass angled so that the water poured over it and disappeared into some crevasse-like drain. Upon my return, the table was again moved to make it easy for me to sit. A freshly folded napkin was presented with tongs.

The best part of the meal was the servers/ waiters, and sommolier. I think they all had to take acting classes to get this gig. The way that they described our food and talked to us was so pretentious, so over-the-top with their sappy smiles, pursed lips, clasped hands in front of their chest like they were going to belt out a few verses of "A Few of My Favorite Things" from The Sound of Music. I'm not sure if the sticks up their asses were self-inflicted or if that was part of the Tru Stuck-Up Waiter Training Regime. I tried my hardest to make them crack but they were tough. Our cheese guy, who brought a gorgeous marble cart of 16-20 cheeses from all over the damn world, did tell me he was going to try to incorporate my word "sassy" into his next cheese presentation. "Sassy"? How about "bad mutha' fucka' " as in "This aged goat cheese from the Provence region of France is a bad mutha' fucka'. I recommend it highly." Has more of a punch, right? Our sommolier got to taste a swig (big gulp from what I witnessed) of every single bottle that is opened each night. I asked him how he doesn't get completely lit by doing this. He said he doesn't taste that much (bullshit) and he has a tolerance (alcoholic). By the end of the night, our little sommolier that I dubbed the Keith Richards of Tru minus the eyeliner was shuffling like the penguin in Happy Feet to keep from falling over. Tolerance my ass.

The piece de la resistance was the sweet cart. Chocolates, cookies, candies, all too damn pretty to eat. They brought as a copper glass plate with "Happy 12th Anniversary Molly and Sultan" written in white chocolate, a rum truffle cake with two tiny candles poking out, but no cheesy song to accompany it. By this point we had drank a cocktail each and a whole bottle of wine. I was a little buzzed. I don't know if it was because they knew it was our anniversary, because my cleavage was showing precariously from my low-cut dress, or because I told one of our 25 servers that Sultan loved to cook, but we were offered a tour of the kitchen and a chance to meet he chefs. Bonus! Mr. Cheese Cart, a.k.a. Randall (or was it Russell??) showed us around. I saw where my gazpacho became water. I saw some pig hoof hanging which is where my prosciutto came from. We saw a vegetable fridge, meat cooler, and the pastry kitchen. In my inebriated state I could not think of anything clever that wasn't offensive (hey, I'm the queen of sexual innuendos and bad language. It is hard for me to be so calm and collected) to say. So I just kept my mouth shut. It was hard to do that once I saw the bill. Sweet Jesus that was extravagant.

Not sure if we'll ever go to Tru again. It was a dining experience. I know how to talk like a stuck-up snob and I experienced the best service I have ever had. I will not be serving your napkins with tongs, nor offering you a choice in colors the next time you come over. Mine are from the Bounty collection. I serve full-on gazpacho. I do not skewer my nectarines. But I just might sample every bottle of wine in my house just for shits and giggles. I am no a sommolier but momma likes her wine. Tru 'dat.....