That’s a Carolina Jessamine vine.  It’s growing up the front of our house.  Isn’t it pretty when it’s in bloom?  Back when we bought our first house, my great-aunt Geraldine gave me a cutting from a Carolina Jessamine plant that she’d had for years.  I planted it by the mailbox, and it grew like gangbusters.  Last time I happened to drive by that house, that old vine was a mass of beautiful yellow blooms.

I didn’t plant this one, though.  It just appeared in our yard; as a matter of fact, it’s still kind of puny-looking.  I hope it’ll flourish.

Note:  IT IS NOT A WEED.

I don’t like the word weed, especially the way it’s used in the ‘burbs.  I mean–think about it.  What is a weed, exactly?  If you tell me you’re embarrassed about the weeds in your yard, and then you go out and dig up all the dandelions, I’m going to point out that a) those bright yellow flowers are pretty, b)  those fluffy white seed heads are great fun to play with, and c) the leaves make a very nice (and nutritious) salad.  Who says it’s a weed?

Obviously, if you dislike dandelions for some reason, you have every right to pull them up.  I can certainly understand why–they have annoying long tap roots, and those fluffy white seed heads enable them to reproduce like nobody’s business.

I just don’t like the typical suburban assumption that any plant that doesn’t match the grass, or the landscaper-shrubs or the mass-planted pansies is automatically a weed.  Lee is particularly guilty of this mindset.  Occasionally he’ll glance out the kitchen window (his observations are all made from the safety of a window, because he doesn’t actually go outside), and point to a particularly dense green patch, and ask, “Is that a weed?”

“Of course not,” I respond.  ”It’s lemon balm”  (or feverfew, or soapwort, or blackberries).  For whatever reason, this nomenclature trick works with most people.  Non-plant people seem to think that if it has a name, it must not be a weed, and vice-versa.

No.  A weed is a plant that is growing in a place where I don’t want it to grow.  It could be a dandelion, or it could be a rose bush.  It might need to be dug up, chopped into little pieces, and then burned (but only if I’m having a really vindictive day), or maybe it just needs to move to a different part of the yard.

Those wildflower seed mixes that you see at the garden center?  The ones with the pretty pastoral scenes on the packet?  They’re full of “weeds”–stuff that grows wild and naturalizes easily.  It’s all a matter of perspective.

I happen to think that most plants are basically nice.  I’m not a fan of poison ivy–or even English ivy, actually, because in my experience it grows like kudzu, and overwhelms everything, but the English ivy in our yard?  We spent a fortune having it planted, so it’s definitely not a “weed,” meaning I’m not allowed to rip it all out and throw it in the compost pile.  I also don’t care for the baby trees that tend to sprout all over our yard, just because we don’t have room for any more trees, so I try to pull them up before they get too big.

Otherwise, I’m really of the live-and-let-live school of thought.  Weed is, after all, in the eye of the beholder.

I had a vision of my future last week.

Lee and I were standing in the TSA line, when I caught a glimpse of a woman in an adorable just-above-the-knee Lily Pulitzer skirt (I don’t much care for Lily Pulitzer’s styles, but I adore the colors) and polo-collar shirt.  It was more tailored than I generally wear, but it stood out in the hot-pink way that I tend to favor.  We were even both holding Kindles with the exact same bright fuchsia cover.

She was older than me, by a good bit.  But she had a perky blonde haircut and unabashed bare legs; sunglasses perched on top of her head.  I felt like I’d fallen down the rabbit-hole, and was looking at myself, twenty years from now–in my grandmother’s body.

She had long, thin legs and arms.  She stood up tall and straight.  And she had a belly so round it looked five months pregnant.

This is my genetic destiny.  My grandmother had the scrawniest little stick legs you’ve ever seen (actually, Lee has little chicken legs too, but that’s not my problem), topped off with a nicely rounded belly.  I never once saw her in a pair of pants; she wore dresses exclusively.   Waistbands were too “binding.”

Yeah.  Me too.  I’m all about the drawstring waist.  I haven’t had a baby in thirteen years, but I can still rest a book on my stomach.  Keeping off excess weight helps, but doesn’t eliminate the pooch entirely.  Nor do crunches.  And that whole middle-age “thickening” around the middle?  I am definitely thickening.

Ah, well.  This is the body I was born with. It can run and dance and curl up in a ball, and the legs look great in a skirt,  so I can’t complain.  In the airport that day, I nudged Lee.  ”See her?  That’s what I’m going to look like in a few years.”  He looked up from his phone.  ”That’s a lot of pink.”

I grinned, and hoisted my pink-polka-dotted briefcase onto one shoulder, and my pink-flowered purse onto the other as the line shuffled forward.

I’m still here; still thinking about blogging.  Unfortunately, composing sentences in my head while I’m stuck in traffic on the interstate isn’t enough to actually get a post online.  Some days it’s all I can do to get through the day–this has been one of those weeks.  Mr. Helpful is finally home for a while, after three out-of-town trips in the last few weeks.  All three, unfortunately, were at the beginning of the week, when the family logistics are at their worst–hockey, soccer, softball, tae kwon do, etc.  Add in doctor’s appointments (never close to home, of course–Durham, maybe, or Chapel Hill–usually at rush hour, because I so love being trapped on I-40 with a tired child in the car) and at least one all-day field trip to chaperone, and I’ve been running like a chicken with its head cut off.  Oh, and I removed the wallpaper in the children’s bathroom.  That was fun.

So those are my daily stresses that have kept me away from the computer.  I haven’t let them keep me off the bike, though (not till today, anyway).  At this point–less than three months from the start of brevet week–I’m feeling a need to stress my body as often as possible, pushing my limits in every way I can think of.  So much so, that I’m starting feel (wait for it!) kind of stressed about the whole proposition.

So Saturday before last I rode the Frostbite Tour.  Had a grand time, met some really cool new folks (including my new buddy Tim–, and rolled back into the parking lot dead last at the end of the hundred mile day.  Thanks to all the sweepers (Mike,  who hung back with me, even though they could’ve gotten home a lot earlier than they did.  It was a beautiful day and a great ride, and my first century of the season.  I felt good all day, and went out for dinner afterward, and while I was a bit tired the next day, it wasn’t too bad, so I’m pretty pleased with my training at this point.

Then on Wednesday after that the weather was fabulous, so I went for a 65-miler (that was as much as I could squeeze in between driving one kid to school in the morning and then picking up the carpool group in the afternoon).  That was a great ride; I was so energized that I decided to springboard off of it and do a mini-mileage week.  I rode 30 miles each of the four days after that, Thursday-Sunday.  My plan is to do that again at the end of the month, but up the miles to 60 per day, and then in late April do five days in a row of centuries.  In the meantime, I’ll do a bunch of organized weekend rides of 100-125 miles.

Anyway, that’s the update.  It’s chilly today, I have a child home sick, and I’m tired of the children showering in my bathroom, so I have to go finish painting theirs.  Some stresses are good; some are not.  This is me, writing to you from my zen place.

Here is my first effort at a Podcast. Enjoy. For more information on the song opening the cast please visit Alison Kramer’s site.

Also, there is something wrong with the server hosting my site. Things are VERY slow. The hosting company says that it may take a week to fix the problem. Sorry. Thanks for your patience.

The podcast is about 6 minutes long.

For those of you here in NC–did you see the article in Wednesday’s N&O about the guy in Durham training for PBP?  It was a great piece.  My daughter was funny that morning, and, as usual, alarmingly astute.  When I went in to wake her up, I was just chatting away, and I told her that there was a big long article in the paper about a man in Durham training for PBP.  First words out of her mouth that morning:  “Oh good.  Now maybe when you say you’re going to PBP, someone will know what you’re talking about.”

I didn’t point out to her that she’s the one who expects people to know; I always just say I’m training for a crazy long bike ride.  If she’s around, she chimes in with “It’s PBP,” and then is perplexed when the other person ignores her.

I can’t complain–it’s kind of nice to have a child who’s proud of me (puberty looms, at which point I’ll be the most embarrassing mother ever!).

Off for the frostbite ride now; it’s currently 36 degrees, so let’s hope that name isn’t too prescient.

Today felt like I had been released from prison. Admittedly, I’ve never actually BEEN released from prison, so maybe it wasn’t quite that good, but it was up there. The sun shone all day, the high was something like 66 degrees, and I even managed to sneak in a bike ride. Sort of.

I spent most of the day painting, gazing longingly out the windows, but then I got to a stopping point, threw on my bike clothes, and headed out. As I was putting air in my front tire, the valve tore off the tube. Mr. Helpful was inside, so I stood there for a second, torn about what to do next, but then I was a good girl, and changed the tube (actually, I opened the door to the kitchen and yelled inside that I had a flat tire. My son laughed, but luckily no one else heard–no one came running to help, anyway). First, though, I decided I shouldn’t use a tube from my saddle bag, so I had to rummage in a bin to find another one. As I was doing that, I realized that we have probably 15 tubes of various sizes in various storage containers, so I decided to pull them all out, so that I can sort through them later and organize them somehow. In my typically sensible fashion, I started piling tubes, frame pumps, and CO2 dispenser/cartridges on the hood of my car. We have quite a collection.

I finally got around to installing one of the tubes on my bike, which took about 15 minutes, because it popped out in one spot and I refused to pull the whole tire off and start over, and instead rubbed all the skin off my right thumb shoving the tube up under the bead. Finally got it on, then decided to practice using CO2, since I had all those cartridges out anyway. The good news is, we now have fewer cartridges lying around. I blew threw three in no time, and didn’t manage to get a single molecule of anything into the tire. So I gave up and used my floor pump. I had to release the air and start over three or four times because of the tube bulging in spots, but the whole thing finally got seated, and just as I was finishing up, Mr. Helpful wandered out to the driveway, surprised that I was “back already.” Hah!

Anyway, I finally got onto the bike and actually rode it. Not as far as I had intended, but it was good enough. Get this–I was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved jersey! Wheee! Even with the grease and the skinned thumb and–gasp!–broken fingernail, it was a very happy-making ride.

Two other points: the silver lining of the tire-changing detour was that I found the tiny red box full of tiny little screwdrivers that’s been missing for weeks. The day of my 80-mile ride I decided I needed to install a new rear light (long story–my good one got lost just before/during CNC, so I’ve been carrying my back-up clip-on in my saddlebag for emergencies, but it’s hard to attach, so I bought a more permanent one, but haven’t installed it yet . . .), but squandered half an hour of riding time looking for those screwdrivers. The light’s not very helpful if you can’t get it open to put the batteries in, so I just left it in the kitchen and rode with the back-up again. The new light has been lying on the counter ever since, reproaching me for not being more aggressive about finding the screwdrivers. But today I found them! So now the little box of screwdrivers is sitting on the counter with the still-unassembled light, waiting to reproach me every time I walk into the kitchen. I have a solution to that problem. The weather’s supposed to be great for the next few days–I’ll just skip the kitchen, and ride instead!

Second other point: Brevet week starts 3 months from today. PBP starts 6 months from today. Just thought I’d mention it.

ps–I forgot about the assorted paraphernalia on the hood of my car until I went racing out the door around 6:30 to pick my daughter up. So I had to bundle it all up and shove it somewhere out of the way. Hmmm . . .

I think I’ve mentioned RBR on this blog already, but I just need to reiterate that I love these guys.

I’m just going to go ahead and say this up front–I’m way tired, so I apologize if this post is boring.

They said on the news over the weekend that today was going to be a break in the cold weather, getting into the upper 50s, maybe even 60 degrees.

If you are planning to ride 80 miles, and it’s 35 degrees when you leave the house, and 38 when you return (way too many hours later), here’s what you should wear:

I figured “mucus production” would not be a good title for a blog post, so I restrained myself. But that’s what’s on my mind, so if you’re squeamish, feel free to just skip this post.

Event of the day: 65 miles; 35 degrees at the start, 45 at the end. Just a tad bit chilly.

But here’s the real problem–I have become a mucus factory. It started in October, with a tiny little dry hacking cough. I just ignored it, assuming it was allergies. Then I assumed it was residual junk from CNC. Then I had the whole Rocky Mntn. thing, so the cough was the least of my concerns. By the beginning of December it was getting worse, and by the beginning of January it was driving me crazy and starting to keep me awake at night. Still just a shallow, dry, hacky thing, but then I started having those spasmodic coughing fits that are immediately preceded by a ferocious itch in the throat–you know the kind where you turn purple and tears run down your cheeks? That kind.

So I went to the doctor, who said it was likely one of three things; one was allergies, one was asthma, and the third was reflux. She was voting for allergies, and said I should take some Sudafed to dry things out, and start doing daily nasal lavage. Washing out my sinuses. I actually already owned a Neti pot, so the idea was not completely bizarre. She recommended a different system, though, so I started using this NeilMed bottle that I use to squirt saline up my nose (it’s actually kind of interesting–it feels slightly like you’re drowning, and then water randomly drips out of your nose for an hour or so afterward.)

And then there’s the Sudafed issue. I started off taking it twice a day, and was thrilled that the cough stopped within a few days. Then I ran out of Sudafed, and had to buy a second box. The pharmacy assistant at the Harris-Teeter noted that I was already on “the list” because of the box that I had bought the week before, but she let me have the second box. When that ran out, I went to Target for a third box. I’m beginning to wonder a) how long one can take Sudafed without ramifications (I’ve backed off to once a day), and b) how many boxes one can buy before the drugstores start communicating and officials decide I’m doing something illicit. It’s a bit alarming, having to strategize one’s cold-medicine purchases.

In the meantime, I’m still producing incredible quantities of mucus. My allergies are just giving me fits this winter. I do allergy shots once a week, and I’ve been stuck at the same dose for several weeks now, because I’m reacting so strongly that I can’t increase. And riding the bike is a nightmare. I’ve become the queen of the snot-rocket. It took some practice–I’ve learned that I have to angle my head just right, or else it flies back up onto my sunglasses. I came home a couple of times looking like snails had been wandering aimlessly across my face.

My eyes are having trouble, too. I finished riding at about 4 this afternoon, and it’s now 9:30. My eyes are still swollen and horribly bloodshot, and they feel like they’re full of sand. I had to take my contacts out as soon as I got home.

And every time I ride, the darned cough comes back. I’ll take some more Sudafed in the morning, and it’ll go away, but for tonight, I’m coughing and dripping and itchy and bloodshot.

Another succesful ride. Pretty, too.