Today's text messages:
Why are you resending three times? —the Tamster
Why are you resending three times?
Why are you resending three times?
Are you joking? —my response
Why are you resending three times?
Why are you resending three times?
Why are you resending three times?
Why are you resending three times?
Why are you resending three times?
Needless to say, I turned off my phone. Stoopid network.
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Today's Tamster Quote of the Day:
"All I could think of the entire ride was what I'm gonna eat when I get back."
Yesterday's:
"All I could think about was Korean barbecue. Except for five minutes when I was thinking of jerk chicken.
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"Where are you guys from?" our young waitress asked after we finished our meal.
It was a vague question; she could've been asking about our heritage or where we grew up or where we reside. We stared at her for a moment, and then at each other, before I broke the spell and made a guess.
I gestured towards George, "We're from the Philippines," and then towards Tammie, "and she's from, uhm, Ireland."
It's an over-simplified response, I know; but this is a Korean barbecue and English is her second language and being Asian I've been asked this question quite a few times by friendly, well-meaning fellow Asians. You know, small talk.
It turned out she was actually curious about where we lived, if we ever made it to the city, and particularly if we wanted to go bar-hopping in Old City on the eleventh with her and her friends. We regretfully declined: George will be out of town (uhm... honeymoon) while Tammie's parents will be in town.
"Oh, okay. Are you students?" she asked.
We looked at each other. He. Hehe.
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An SUV blares its horns at me and my first instinct is to run myself of the road and almost hit a tree? Just great.
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'Delivery Exception, 7:30pm: Customer not available or business closed,' FedEx tracking service.
It was very frustrating to read a remark like this when I was home the entire day and no one rang the bell. Total bull.
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"Oh, I've never seen one of those," the Starbucks lady seemed unimpressed.
I don't blame her. I get excited over things that people don't care to notice. Perhaps that's where the fascination lies. In this case, it's over one of the denominations in my change.
There's a new five dollar bill in town. At least it's new to me. At first glance it looks just very slightly different: some new watermarks, a screened crest that looks like a misprint, and a wash that makes the bill look more pink than green.
But flip it over and you'll find a big, fat, purple number five on the bottom-right corner. I can't make out if it's Helvetica or Arial; but I wouldn't be surprised if it's a bold soft-style from Word. It's that awkward-looking. Whatever it is, it's definitely out of place.
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"Hey, you cut your hair!" he exclaimed, reaching to shake my hand.
I was thrown off guard. Do I know this guy? Should I know this guy? PhiladelphiaChicagoMadison... nope I'm sure I don't know this guy. But he knows me. Should I roll with it? Hey it's been a long time how ya been doing? How are the kids? It may be he's just trying to get a reaction out of me, like punching someone in the face to see if they'd dodge or take it like a man. This is a job interview after all. Anything goes.
"How'd you know I had long hair?"
"We were looking around in your site," he explained, pointing at one of the work stations.
"Ah," I thought, a little too loudly as if I was stoned. They were looking at my pics from Madison. Shot on T-Max 35mm film. Ah.
"How long ago did you cut your hair?"
"Ages," I replied. Perhaps I should update my site more often.
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It dawns on me that one of the easiest ways to harvest email addresses is to post job ads on message boards like CraigsList.
What an awesome little scam that would be. I can compile rather comprehensive mailing lists based on the job criteria: location, profession, career level, expected income, education, and industry. Of course this would be an unemployed demographic, fairly hard to sell to; but I'm fairly certain they have credit cards for situations like that.
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I didn't think we could do it—nor did I really want to try—but we managed to fit a queen-sized mattress, a queen-sized mattress pad, some minor pieces of furniture, and a large painting in the tiny little Outback Sport.
Of course it should be said that these were Ikea items; they're a little more compact than real furnishings.
And they were George's Ikea items, by the way, not mine.
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Hmmm...
To get from our corner of the city to Center City, you kinda have to go through Bala Cynwyd. That may sound Greek to most of you, so in layman's terms you can think of it this way: while we live in Philadelphia proper, we have to go through the suburbs to get downtown.
I guess it's really not a big deal. I just think it's odd to describe our neighborhood as within the city, but just past the burbs.
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In one day I made a drop at United States Post Office, FedEx, United Parcel Service, and DHL Worldwide Express. Of the four the DHL location was the hardest to find; there's like only one in the city.
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Oh yeah, happy spring... tomorrow.
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"Go ahead," I said, gesturing for the Tamster to order first.
I hadn't made up my mind but was confident I'd be ready by the time the waiter was done with Tammie and George. It was a toss-up between the corned beef and the scallops, with a subtle lean towards the healthier option. I guess it depends on whether the scallops were seared in oil or butter.
"And for you?" the waiter was waiting. Even his pen was waiting.
"Uh..." I was caught counting calories.
"Well..." I forgot where I was in my mental tally of pros and cons. There were four columns, or were there just two?
"Uhm..." What were my options again?
"I'll have a bacon bleu-cheeseburger with lettuce, tomato, and raw onions please," crap. I always default to that whenever I get flustered.
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After all the smack I've been talking about Shamrock Shakes, I actually forgot to go get one today.
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I was surprised to see that I wasn't the least bit sentimental when I packed up the Jonny to send to its new owner. If anything, I was impressed by my packing job and spend a few moments admiring that. I even considered taking a photo of the neatly wrapped lugs. Very pro.
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The waitress came by to see how we liked our dessert: ice cream flavored with saffron and rose-water.
"People are either addicted to it... or think it tastes like perfume," she explained.
Yes. It's a definitely polarizing flavor. Personally, I thought it tasted more like senior citizen. Religious senior citizen to be precise. But I'm not complaining—I finished mine.
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The first thing I do when I get off the bike is check my milage, my time, and my averages. And then I see how fast I went down Shawmont. If I had a tailwind it should be over 45 mph; it's always a point of pride to exceed that number.
Lastly, I check to see how many calories I burned; this helps me decide between a bacon bleu-cheeseburger or a bacon bleu-cheeseburger with fries. On good days the choice is between plain fries and cheese fries. Okay who am I kidding? The first thing I do is check the calorie count.
Getting back from my ride today, I couldn't do any of that. The bike computer bugged out and didn't record the ride. Come to think of it, it hasn't recorded the last two rides. I went through all of the settings and couldn't find anything mis-set. And when I deleted an odd workout—45 laps, over 1k miles, dated April '09—all of my workouts disappeared. Gone.
It was a good ride too. I held zone 5 (my new tempo) for 60 minutes, then did spin-ups on the way home. I was tired, though by the time I made it back I felt I could've done more. I wore shorts.
But now I have no proof of it; I can't view the numbers. I can't compare my heart rate against the grade, compare different rides, evaluate fitness. It's as if it didn't happen. If that's the case, did last 1000-plus miles I've put into base-building count at all? Sucks.
In all honesty, I don't actually look at the numbers as closely as I've led you to believe. I'm just sensationalizing an otherwise routine day. I use the computer to monitor my workout on the bike, not off it. Still, I wanted to have a complete log of my training year. It's gratifying, much in the same way as collecting every race bib I've ever worn.
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Both the stove and the microwave oven flashed 12:00 am in sequence. We must've lost power over the night. Thank goodness for dual-powered alarm clocks.
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Speaking of... anyone else feel that modern alarm clocks shouldn't be any larger than a deck of cards? I mean, ours is massive—it's larger than some laptops. I suppose if the entire top is a giant snooze built for early-morning smashing it would be fine. But the snooze on ours is so small that you'd have to feel around the expanse of time just to find it.
Whatever, the clock is on her side. I just bury my head under the pillow anyway.
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"You know, I think I do remember you now," the waiter said nodding his head. "New Year's Eve, you guys sat over there. You (me) had the red snapper."
Just like the last time, they didn't have mango sticky rice like the menu suggested. And just like the last time, we didn't fail to express our disappointment—verbally, with a dose of moping and guilt trip. That's how he recalled us from our last visit.
"So you haven't had mango sticky rice this entire time?" I pressed further. I had to know.
"It's the mangoes. They're not in season," he explained.
'Then maybe they shouldn't be on the menu,' I thought. The Tamster wants mango sticky rice. In my mind I was scowling.
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I cracked open a fortune cookie that's been sitting around for a few days. Normally, the fortunes are pointless sentiments like The smile of you makes very bright; but this time it was rather prophetic. And the fact that there were two of them inside—both saying the same thing—is rather fortuitous. But I won't spoil it by telling all of you.
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I kept looking at my watch. There's only five minutes left; they're not going to wrap up this plot in time. It's going to be to be continued.
I hate that. I watch prime-time TV so I feel like I've accomplished something before going to bed, not so I would spend a sleepless night speculating about the different obvious endings.
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"All we need is pumpkin and sandwich stuff right?" she asked.
"Yup... I think," I thought. The canned pumpkin was for the dog; we mix it with her raw food as a fiber and vitamin supplement. By sandwich stuff, she means cold cuts, cheese, and a loaf of bread for her work lunches. We walked into the store and left the dog in the car, since "We'll only be a few minutes."
We walked back to the car an hour and $200 worth of groceries later. The dog had fallen asleep; we're sure she thought she had been abandoned. I was already a quarter of my way into a bag of beef jerky, which the Tamster wouldn't let me start eating while roaming the store.
Reminds me of the current debit or credit MasterCard campaign: Not going to the grocery store on an empty stomach... priceless.
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Because I'm in between road bikes, I put the track bike on the trainer. It was still geared for the last scratch race I did in 2006; 48 teeth in the front, 14 in the back. I was optimistic that this will be a good workout.
Ugh. I couldn't even turn the pedals, not in anger nor in dismay. Out of the saddle I tried to get momentum on my side. 'Nope, this just wont do,' I was nodding to myself and shaking my head at the same time. At first I considered disengaging the resistance unit completely. But then I thought 'Don't I have an 18 tooth cog somewhere?'
I had to dig out the lock-ring wrench and chain-whip to make the exchange. The process felt alien, just vaguely familiar. Geez, the track equipment feels like they're from a different life. Long live NJS.
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For those of you who are confused: Saint Patrick was not a Leprechaun. Just thought I would mention that before you start your holiday planning.
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One look at the threads and I realized that I received the wrong bottom bracket cups. Again.
Last week ProBikeKit sent me Shimano cups instead of Campagnolo. 'Fine, they'll go on the Bay,' I thought to myself. They're worth twice as much as what I had paid for; so I may yet come out on top of this one.
Today all my build needed was the damn cups. They were ordered from Performance and due this afternoon via FedEx. I raced the dog to the door when the bell rang. Couldn't miss this delivery, not when the bike is almost done. After the hand-off I checked to make sure that it is indeed a Campy cup inside. And indeed it was, only with Italian threading instead of English.
I guess it's sad that this makes me sad.
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"He's just watching out for his Asian brother," was the way George put it.
I went back to the mall, this time in search of a shirt. I haven't been to the mall so frequently since I served frozen yogurt at the food court in high school—that was a decade and a half ago.
The shirt I had in mind was a white cotton shirt with a spread collar, french cuffs, a subtle herring-bone pattern, and a flattering tailored fit. Nordstrom didn't have one in my size and Pink was too much for my wallet to bear, so I found myself at Banana for the second time this week.
The Vietnamese guy who, earlier this week, refused to sell me a suit refused to sell me a shirt. He claimed that the only shirt that would've fit me wouldn't hold up after the first wash. Well... I didn't like it to begin with; you could see the collar stays through the collar fabric. But it's good to know he's lookin' out for me.
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It was a strange sensation; getting out of the shower, drying, getting myself dressed, and then finding my hair is still wet. It has grown untouched by the electric clippers for the past two weeks, just long enough to retain water. I actually had to towel it dry. Strange.
And to think I once had hair long enough to tuck into my pants.
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I'm humbled. The Tamster pulled me for the last two hours of our three hour ride.
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We thought we'd avoid the grocery store mob by doing ours later at night; but at 9 pm Trader Joe's was pretty much picked through. We missed the crowds but also missed out on some essentials. Like milk.
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"Feels like I stayed in a college town too long," I told the Tamster while waiting for our coffee.
"Why?" she wondered.
"Cuz I don't recognize anyone working behind the counter," my reply.
"We just haven't ever been here before noon," she quipped.
Hmmm.
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"Sorry, there's nothing for you here."
The guy at Banana Republic refused to sell me a suit. The problem was nothing fit. The "tailored" coat fit perfectly but the matching pants clung onto my thighs. The "relaxed" pants fit okay, but the coat is like ghetto large.
"Socker legs," He explained. "You're better off going custom."
Funny. That's how I feel about bikes.
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