Open letter to Oprah

The following is a letter I sent to Oprah Winfrey, after reading of her recent interview of Bono on her show. I figure, what the hell.
Best case scenario: I make my windbreaker goal. Worst case scenario: I've made her obnoxious-fan list.
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"Dear Oprah:

Chutzpah: noun.
Yiddish khutspe, from Late Hebrew huspAh: supreme self-confidence: NERVE, GALL

I am a 35-year old mother of 3, and I have recently embarked upon what I hope will be one of the greatest journeys of my lifetime. The short story: Curing AIDS.

The long story: When I first heard about the disease back in the 80s, I was more concerned about bang-height than the AIDS crisis. The 90s were all about securing gainful employment. When I woke up at some point in the new millennium, it was to learn that the disease was not only still around, but flourishing.

I'm not a chemist. I know nothing of medicine. I cannot solve this problem with my brain. HOWEVER, on my “List of Cans”-- I can yap like there's no tomorrow; I can build Web pages; and I can ride a bike.

So that's what I'm doing. And that's why I'm writing. I am taking part in the 2005 AIDS/LifeCycle ride. As part of the process, I need to raise $2,500. I'm asking for your help.

See, I was reading that you are a known advocate of AIDS research. In fact, I read on your site that you and Bono had a little tête-à-tête about this very thing. (If you have his e-mail address, I'd greatly appreciate you forwarding this. I'm sure he's dying to hear from me.) The way I see it, we all want to make the world a better place, and we are all doing it the best way we know how. Yours: dedicating your time and a television program to address the issue. Mine: taking my hard-earned vacation time, spending it not with my family but on the road, on a bike, raising $2,500.00 and riding 585 miles from San Francisco to LA.

Blatant pandering: please go to http://www.aidslifecycle.org/1656 to donate to the cause, or simply visit my blog, at http://swimrunride.blogspot.com for more info on my training and this ride. I'm only $200 away from my windbreaker goal! Thanks much, O. Happy holidays."

Want cheese with that whine?

In a few hours I will be sitting in a darkened theatre, watching one of my favorite novels come to life... or attempting to watch, anyway, if I don't zonk out in the opening credits.

As previously noted, I have a cold. And not just any kind of cold, but the WORST COLD KNOWN TO HUMANKIND. (Almost.) And these germs, these salacioius, ridiculous, evil, bastard germs-- DESPITE buzzing around a room full of equally-heinously stressed-out human beings-- chose to breed in MY nasal cavity.

My head is stuffy. My teeth are sore. I'm chilled but I'm not feverish. I have the lazy, flat affect of someone who's smoked 6 bags of marijuana and, on good sneezes, I display the incontinence previously known only by pregnant women and octogenarians. My nose is so drippy I cannot even smell my baby girl's soiled diapers.

The only joy I get from such misery is knowing that in an hour and a half I will be standing outside in 40-degree weather, waiting in a line full of freaks, geeks and preteens, dreaming of the moment I can sit comfortably in a popcorn-strewn environment and infect the entire crowded theatre.

Gawd, it's true: misery does, indeed, love company.

It’s a dangerous job

I was in a meeting yesterday morning with my new division. All the department managers (READ: seven men, five of whom are bald or balding, and me, la sola chiquitita) were there, discussing the goings-on of the previous press run. (NOTE: Usually the VP's female right-arm is there, but this day she was not.)

Let it be said that I am a listener in this group. Those who know me even in the most cursory sense, know I'm a yapper and can take upwards of ten minutes to say, "hello." In this meeting, I am largely (and surprisingly) silent, unless I really and truly have anything of slight interest to report. Which, so far, is rare.

The meeting often centers on problems or issues. This ensures I remain doubly silent. Complaining about how slow our online pubishing system is or how a feed didn't go through is akin to whining over a paper cut to someone who just got their leg lopped off. Nothing we do in the Web room even compares to the real (or perceived) dangers these guys and their crews face nightly.

Example: The transportation manager was there, reporting on an accident between two delivery guys. The press manager spoke of waste (excess papers, etc.), and how seriously and efficiently they try to manage it. And apparently, there has been an ongoing blue-ink issue, and they had to stop the presses and clean everything out. Huge head-sized globs of problematic blue ink. Yeah, touching that sounds real healthy. And then the VP of our division held up a twisted hunk of metal that broke off some kinda conveyor-type belt thing. (As you can see, I'm really catching on to the lingo.)

So THEN, the only person even more silent than I (if that is even possible)-- the guy that heads up the Ad Creation Design Center (yes, ACDC)-- is all quiet, and someone asks how he is feeling. Sick, he croaks. Head cold. (He didn't look all that fabulous, truth be told.) Then it was onto the next guy, who reported on the employee on disability who may end up having lost a digit on the job.

Well, I just want to say this. No, my people don't get into delivery accidents in the Web room, nor do they face the dangers of head-sized-glob-ink poisioning, nor do they have to dodge sharpened, metal objects flying off of immense machines.

But I do know this: that silent bastard somehow managed to give me his cold. I am a walking nightmare, I tell you. And my team just better beware.

So when I go into tomorrow's meeting, I'm going to jazz it up a bit: no, no, not a cold. Not bird flu. It's phosphor poisioning.

The good with the bad

If I were given the task of writing a dictionary of phraseology, and I had to define the term, "good feeling," I would say that it's when "your old-skinny pants become your new-fat pants."

Also, I would say it's when "your sitter tells you your daughter made her business in the big girl potty."

And of course, when "you set a goal and meet it. On time. With flair."

If I had to define the term "sucktacular," it would definitely begin with when "your dermatologist tells you yes, you have developed 'Adult Acne' and no, you can't choose to have it on your ass instead."

Or, when "your old-skinny/new-fat pants become your new-old-skinny/merely-just-roomy pants."

And, finally, "sucktacular" can be defined as when "your deadlines are not, in fact, met, and get pushed back because of poor customer service so unbelievably irritating you can't even commit the full detailed story to print without seething in rage and wanting to throttle people half a continent away who, frankly, could give a crap if your project launches on time or if their end of the bargain is met because hey-- they get freakin' paid anyway."

It's not that I had a bad day. Parts of it were good. It's not that I had a good day. Because parts of it were flippin' sucktacular. Tonight's amazing full moon is a reminder that life is about the waxing and waning of tides in our lives; sometimes life builds on the good, and there is an upswing. Other times, the bad waxes, and the good ebbs away. Occasionally, however, life achieves some form of balance, and is neither heavily handed one way or the other. It's simply well rounded and filled with both.

Greater dangers

Last week I complained about a sore rump. This I had considered to be one of the greater dangers of cycling. And while I still see it as a major issue, I'm getting the bigger picture.

I went on a double Millerton ride again this weekend. On Saturday, I did the loop from Friant, over the dam, past Millerton, down Auberry, and out Copper. On Sunday I did the whole thing again, but this time in reverse. Sunday was beautiful and along the way I met some very nice riders, and saw several single-female riders out there.

Although beautiful, Sunday was a ride full of trouble: a slow leaky tire (which I stopped to pump twice), chain issues, and a flat. Worse, I stopped at a Sherry's Road House there at the turn off toward Millerton, and used the Port-a-Potty. One of the most heinous experiences of my life. Let me just say, some people should just go easy on the granola.

I also met a lovely woman who was getting back into cycling after taking a few years off. She was with a pack of hard-core athletes, and after having some trouble with her cycling shoes (they were clips), left her pack to stop at the road house to fix them. We chatted a bit in the way that strangers do; I called my kids to make sure they were safe; and off I went.

Later that afternoon, at the cycling store (needed more inner tubes), I heard a terrible story of a lone-female cyclist who was hit by a car on Auberry Road. Her new Trek was totaled. The car that hit her was in bad shape, ending up in a ditch. Rumor had it she was still in the operating room at that point (4:15 Sunday afternoon), with a punctured lung.

It's an amazing thing to be out there; the beauty, the freedom of the ride-- getting so completely involved in nature while simultaneously being equally absorbed in personal thought while focussed on the challenge being faced-- all the while, cars zipping by at 70 miles per hour. You never forget that they are an intense danger. But even while you are completely keyed in, they just might not be and can still take you out.

I keep thinking of the lovely woman I met, and the other women I saw riding along the way,each facing the same challenges I was (and perhaps meeting them with more grace). I really hope they all made it back home safely.