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March 30, 2007
Some velo news
I ordered a replacement frame set for my broken road bike the day after I learned it was unrideable. I was not surprised to learn that the frame was backordered -- Cervelo is known for having supply issues. I was told "end of March" and I interpreted that to mean one of two things. The first possibilty was never, or maybe August, whichever came later. The second possibility was that it would arrive the day before the Cinderella ride, my first planned ride of the season.
Cinderella is tomorrow. My new frame arrived yesterday.
My bike shop is good to me, but not that good. There's no way they could have built the bike back up for me today, with no advance notice. So I'm riding my tri bike in a metric century. There are worse problems to have. Like, oh, like having not trained at all for this ride. Ho hum.
Wish me luck: I'll be riding 67 (mostly flat) miles on a less-than-comfortable bike on absolutely zero training. On the bright side, the weather will be beautiful, there will be lots of support (and food), and we're riding with 2500 women in tiaras. But my butt is going to be sore. Very sore.
March 26, 2007
My first museum show
Courtesy of Museumr. Hee hee.
March 25, 2007
Thinking a lot about food.
"Winter. It's the perfect season for fresh, ripe fruit. That's because it's actually summer in Chile. ... Chilean fruit is at the peak of perfection right now. Let the fruit farmers of Chile bring summer home to you. Chilean fruit: summer is here. Taste the summer fruit of Chile right now at Safeway." (Woman bites into peach.)
That's the voice-over from a Safeway ad I saw on TV a few weeks ago. I found it irritating for a couple of reasons. Number one, it makes it sound as though Safeway is buying boxes of perfect fruit from happy family farmers, when of course they're most likely dealing with massive US-owned conglomerates that manage a year-round supply chain of produce so that Safeway doesn't have to deal with the inconvience of seasonality.
Number two, I was pretty surprised that they were advertising -- bragging about -- the fact that the summer fruit they sell in winter comes travels 6,000 miles (or more) to our homes. I suspect most Americans don't pause for long to think about where their food comes from, or what the true cost is of buying Dutch hothouse tomatoes or Chilean grapes in January. Shipping those tomatoes burns huge amounts of fossil fuel, and anyway, how good are they really going to be after crossing half the planet?
The SF Chronicle has started a new series called Food Conscious, and the latest piece is about local restaurants ceasing to sell bottled water in favor of filtered and sometimes carbonated tap water. Water bottles are filling up landfills, and importing Swiss and French waters, like getting Dutch tomatoes, burns lots of fuel. And, of course, it's just water. Water that is being shipped around the globe to be sipped with lunch at Chez Panisse.
In the last couple of years I've started paying attention to where produce comes from. I am trying to narrow the geographic range of places I'll buy from. Living in California, I'm lucky: we can get almost everything year-round here. Much of our winter produce comes from Mexico, which, being a next-door neighbor, seems OKish to me. But maybe I will eventually do the 100-mile "foodshed" thing and try to stick to truly local foods.
Or at least, say, 75% local. Some produce simply doesn't grow here, and I'm not ready to give up bananas entirely. I've never been the sort of person to promote radical change, because I think it's too difficult to sustain. But I am increasing my awareness, making more trips to the farmers market, avoiding factory-farmed meat, reading PLU stickers for country of origin.
(I mentioned that every tidbit of food we ate in Aruba was imported, much of it from Europe. The whole concept of eating locally and seasonally is a non-issue there, since nothing grows locally or in season. It drove me nuts.)
And speaking of food conscious, Nicolette Hahn Niman's New York Times op-ed is a good reminder of some things we try to forget. Read it, and then think about the pork you eat.
March 20, 2007
Back to reality
Food TV is sort of like crack. Have you seen this new "Chefography" show? I never knew so much about Paula Deen. (Although my mother-in-law and I agree that she looks to be pretty drunk on her new show.) And then Ace of Cakes, that's some reality TV I can watch. Even Bobby Flay is entertaining. It's fluffy; it's non-challenging; most importantly, it involves minimal unscripted commentary. It's my kind of reality TV.
Upon returning from my run this afternoon, I found a used hypodermic needle on the sidewalk in front of our apartment.
And finally, Dave is the newly elected president of Team Roaring Mouse. Go Dave!
March 19, 2007
Finally
My bag got here at 3pm. That's approximately 78 hours after I checked it in at the Aruba airport. Ahhhh well.
Caribbean blue
I can now say that I've been to Aruba, and I enjoyed it, and I don't think I'll be going back any time soon. That's not a bad thing; I just feel like a week was enough to spend on the 18-by-5-mile desert isle.
Aruba has gorgeous beaches and great snorkeling. The resort where we stayed was beautiful, with an awesome pool that had a circulating current. You could float in the pool all day, making no effort to drift in lazy circles around its central island landscaped with nonnative tropical flora. (The indigenous plant life on Aruba consists of palm trees and many types of cactus.) But I'm not really a bask-by-the-pool person, and I can only take a day or two of lying on the same beach, even if it does have sugary white sand and bright turquoise waters that boggle the mind. I like to do stuff.
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Dave and I got a rental car and explored. We snorkeled at a couple of different beaches, visited the attractions, even toured an ostrich farm, where Dave had an ostrich-egg omelette for lunch. (Actually one-eighth of an egg. He said it tasted like chicken egg.) (And by the way, the ostriches are from South Africa; they are not local, in case you wondered.) We went on a boat trip which took us snorkeling at the Antilla shipwreck. That was AWESOME, but I got seasick, as I always do when I bob around on swells too long. Bleh.
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Since nothing grows on Aruba but palm trees and cacti, every morsel of non-swimming food is imported, much of it from Europe. Food is expensive. Adult beverages are really expensive. If you're expected to sit on the beach all day, you're probably going to be doing some drinking. And when beer comes in 8-ounce Red Bull-sized cans but costs more than a beer in the States, it feels kinda like a rip-off. To say nothing of the mai tais, pina coladas and (ahem) slippery monkeys.
Aruba is hot. Aruba is very windy, which tempers the heat somewhat. It was a nice change from the Bay Area climate, and it's certainly a welcome shock if you are coming from, say, Chicago's winter. It was a nice way to spend a week. I'm glad to be home. I just wish I could get my luggage back.
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Here's the entire photo set.
March 18, 2007
Way too much Dulles.
Monday, 7:35 A.M.: Still no bag. Finally heard from the delivery service (who inexplicably called Dave's number -- while he was in the shower, so we missed the call -- why did they not call my number, which was listed first?). After acting briefly like they'd never heard of me, they told me to expect the bag between 10am and 2pm today. I have been hoping to make my 1pm masters swim. If I am not here when they arrive, I don't think I will ever see my bag again. Also, my workout suit and goggles are in that bag. I do have others... somewhere. What did I do to deserve this?
Sunday, 10:36 P.M.: I have been awake for 20 hours now. Where is my damn bag? Can't... stay... awake... much... longer...
Not Aruba.
Saturday we woke up and we were still in Virginia. Damn.
We found our way back to the airport, looked in vain for our luggage, made another request to have it plucked from the airport's underbelly, rented a car and made off in search of warmer clothing.
We found a mall and bought me jeans, clean underwear and a fleece jacket. These things made the 30-ish temps a little more bearable. San Franciscans should get a good chuckle out of this. Tourists who visit our fair and foggy city in the summer generally expect warm California weather, and the souvenir vendors at Fisherman's Wharf do a brisk business in cheap fleece pullovers with "SF" or various Alcatraz jokes embroidered on them. The only thing embroidered on my new jacket is a Columbia logo, and I got it on sale, thank god.
We went back to the airport, hoping finally to reunite with our stuff. No such luck.
We ate dinner at the charming Ice House Cafe, which may be the one redeeming feature of our unplanned trip extension. Had a couple of Yuenglings at a pub that was serving green beer and too much U2. Slept. Returned to the airport this morning. Checked with our friends at the luggage desk again. They told us our bags were waiting for us in San Francisco. We breathed a sigh of relief.
We flew home, picked over the offerings at the SFO baggage lockers, and found only Dave's bag. Mine was definitely not there. We made new friends at the baggage office.
Supposedly my bag will be delivered to our apartment by 12:30 tonight. It has been about 60 hours since I last saw it. I'm a little worried about the wet swimsuit I packed just before we left, after I took a final swim Friday morning. Will it be rotting and mildewed? Will my supposedly security-approved lock have been cut by the TSA? Will my brand-new snorkel gear, wedged precariously into the bag, still be there? And what about my iPod Shuffle, which I decided not to carry on because the battery was dead? (Like it takes up so much space? What was I thinking?)
The suspense is killing me. But at least I'm home.
March 16, 2007
Suddenly, I'm cold.
My years of good travel luck have finally caught up with me. We are stuck halfway between Aruba and home, in a business suite hotel in suburban Virginia. It is snowing outside and I am wearing capri pants and a t-shirt. The warmest thing I have is a lightweight hoodie. Our luggage is somewhere in the bowels of the Dulles baggage-handling machine.
After landing, our airplane sat on the tarmac for two hours waiting for our gate to become available. During this time we learned that our connecting flight had been canceled -- in fact, pretty much every outbound flight had been nixed. And that all the airport hotels were sold out. All cars rented. And the soonest we can get back to San Francisco is Sunday. That's in two days.
The airport was like a disaster area. Luggage that had been checked into and then removed from canceled flights was piled up all over the claim area. Displaced passengers slept on floors. And the taxi line snaked through the ground transit part of the terminal as a dispatcher grouped parties with similar destinations into shared cabs. (We later learned that sharing a cab in DC does not mean sharing a fare -- every party in a shared cab pays full fare. It's extortion.)
We finally found a hotel room; it is close to nothing but other hotels. No restaurants (except for a eyeball-burningly smoky Holiday Inn nightclub/sports bar which our wimpy California lungs couldn't tolerate for two seconds). Even the gas station mini-mart is closed. We are eating Kraft Easy Mac for dinner. It was that or Chef Boyardee.
It's not the best way to end a Caribbean vacation, but I'm trying to convince myself that it could be much worse. Tomorrow I'll probably have plenty of time to write an Aruba wrap-up and post a bunch more photos.
Shipwreck
March 15, 2007
Seaweed
March 13, 2007
Snack Shack
March 10, 2007
Warm water
March 7, 2007
Bleeding money
I'm dealing with getting a replacement road bike frame, and while it's not going to be cheap, it will cost a lot less than a whole new bike. So what happens? Of course, something else goes kaput. We have two laptop computers at home, one Mac (the one we love) and one Windows (the one we tolerate). The Windows machine has given us a lot of grief, and last night the display simply stopped working. We can plug it into our TV to see what's going on, but that's just silly. We know that Macs are vastly superior, but having our second computer be Windows is convenient for work-related stuff, so I ordered a new one today. That is not money that I wanted to spend.
(Yeah, I've done home repair on my Powerbook, but fixing a display is in a completely different league. Plus, the battery no longer holds more than 10 minutes' worth of charge, and we think the power supply is damaged. We're recycling this piece of crap. It's not worth fixing.)
Let's brighten the mood, shall we? Here's a freaking adorable photo of my husband around age 5 or 6. Note the red hair!
And here is a more recent photo, taken a couple of weeks ago at the Tour of California. Still pretty cute, if you ask me.
Also: Happy birthday to my Grandma Helen! I won't say her age, but I will say that it has a 1 and a 9 in it, not necessarily in that order.
March 5, 2007
Breaking news. Unfortunately, I really mean it.
My beloved road bike is dead. I took it in for a tune-up this morning; the shop owner called me this afternoon and left a message saying, "you're not going to be riding your bike tonight" (as he had promised this morning).
The frame is cracked. Badly. On both sides of the top/seat tube joint. The crack was concealed by cable housing, so no one noticed it until they removed the cable for replacement.
All of you who have ridden with me will certainly recall the annoying on-and-off creaking coming from my seat post in the last year or so. And how every now and then I have to adjust the seat height, because it slips and I just can't get it tight enough. I think this crack explains all that. No way of telling what actually caused it; I have shipped this bike and put it on airplanes but never crashed hard. I did have a clumsy fall-over on Saturday, but it didn't seem like the sort of thing that would crack an aircraft-grade-aluminum tube (although it did completely screw up my rear derailleur). I don't think I am strong enough to have caused a crack by overtightening. The bike shop owner theorized that it started small and invisible and grew until it became visible through the paint. But who knows.
To all of my dear cycling pals, thank you for putting up with my creaky bike. I am going to try to get some sort of crash replacement deal on the frame. I would love to get a whole new bike, but that's not really in the budget at the moment.
And now a public service announcement: Having a good relationship with a local bike shop is a Very Good Thing. Treat your LBS well and they will do the same.
Stay tuned for a teary-eyed ode to my bike, and for memorial service details.
Oh my god, Ann Coult-r
I'm not going to pollute one of my photos with her name, nor do I want to her to be googleable on this site. But for decency's sake, go contribute some "Coult-r Cash" to the Edwards campaign. And if you haven't heard what she said, watch the video on that page. I've been able to ignore her until now, but it makes me ill to think that there are young people in this country who see this woman as a role model. There is no place for hate speech or slurs in politics, or anywhere else.
March 3, 2007
Rings of Saturn
Actually, this is a Poor Man's Macro photo of some stitching on a throw pillow.
And here's a sprig of rosemary:
Pretty cool technique. Check out JPG Magazine's Stories section for more fun stuff like this.
March 1, 2007
Quilty as charged
Those stacked fabrics I showed you two weeks ago have been cut into a million rectangles, stitched together, sandwiched with batting and backing and quilted and bound around the edges. Haven't you heard? Quilting is the new triathlon.
In college I minored in art, but I always struggled with drawing and never even took painting -- I was way more into photography and printmaking. I felt liberated when working within specific constraints and following documented processes. I think that's why quiltmaking appeals to me. And putting the final stitches in a quilt binding is a deliciously satisfying finish line to cross.
I made a couple of (really hideous) quilts in college as projects for photography classes, borrowing a vintage Singer sewing machine from Dave's mom. A few years later, Dave's parents gave me a basic machine as a birthday gift. My interest in patchwork has been dormant until now. Suddenly finding myself with some free time, I signed up for a beginning quiltmaking class at a local shop. In the course of two days, I made this crib-sized quilt:
True to my obsessive-compulsive personality, I have taken to my new hobby with urgent, all-consuming passion. It took me about 24 hours over a period of about a week to make the larger quilt (which is a pattern called Bento Box). And I have fabric and patterns and ideas for several more projects lined up. Plus six quilting books on hold at the library. (The fabric is expensive enough; I don't feel the need to drop even more money on the pattern books.) Hopefully my adequate-at-best sewing skills will eventually catch up.
Speaking of expensive, have you shopped for a sewing machine lately? I could easily drop $1500 on a nice machine, but the top-of-the-line home machines are about $6000. Making quilts requires a huge amount of sewing, far more than making clothing or curtains or appliance cozies. So I've quickly become aware of the limitations of my little Husky, although I do love it. I'll stick with it, though; I'll need a new computer before I can even think about buying a computerized sewing machine.
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More photos.
