Gustav Doesn't Scare the Gay Community

I just read the following excerpt from an article in the Chicago Tribune about hurricane Gustav bearing down on Louisiana. I love the gay community:

In New Orleans, although a handful of stragglers vowed to stay--a few dozen scantily-clad participants went ahead with an annual gay parade in the French Quarter--every
neighborhood of the city of 310,000 looked like a ghost town in advance of Gustav's arrival.

I just picture the empty streets of New Orleans with nothing save a tumbleweed or two knocking around the place. A half-dozen intrepid gay guys in drag, complete with hooker pumps and fishnet stockings, freshening breeze whipping the bangs of their long blond wigs as they march down Bourbon Street, arms linked in intrepid defiance. Fuck that Gustav! He's such a queen!

And in other news.... Strange doings are afoot in the town of Modesto.

Ditch the Banana Sling. Please!

Dear Guy at Raging Waters -

Thanks for wearing that banana sling-style bathing suit the other day. That was really special. You, along with the guy sporting a pelt of back-hair that would have had Sasquatch gnashing his teeth in a jealous rage, really made my day memorable. Your reproductive organs wobbling jauntily with each step was about as sexy as watching a little kid pick their nose in public. Presented with your twig and berries so ineffectually covered by that thin layer of nylon, the doctor behind you in line had to restrain himself from asking you to turn your head and cough. Had I a small daughter, I believe the urge to shrink back in horror while shielding her eyes would have been overwhelming. Instead I got to watch my sons exchanging not so subtle snickers and elbow nudgings. Here's a thought. Next time you stand mired in a state of indecision in the swimwear aisle, board shorts in one hand and Speedo in the other, go with the board shorts.

-IFO

As Seen on TV!!!

Seniors, are you tired of not being able to hear, but looking so uncool to the under-30 crowd with that discrete little hearing aid perched in your ear? Well now there's this abomination!!! The hearing aid that's disguised as (wait for it.....) a cell phone hands-free headset!!! Amaze your grandchildren, impress your lover! Operators are standing by so CALL NOW!!!

Are you kidding me? Now people that are hard of hearing have to worry that enhancing their ability to live normally, carry on a conversation, and watch TV at a normal volume with the use of a hearing aid is only for the old and irrelevant? Apparently, going around with a hearing aid, masquerading as a hands-free headset will "improve your image". I mean who doesn't wear their headset during a quiet dinner date, while watching football with friends, or at their granddaughter's dance recital? Wouldn't YOU find it much less "embarrassing" to be seen with your headset in your ear at a weekend barbecue or wedding than one of those little hearing aids.

Have you tried wearing your wireless headset for more than an hour? Ouch, major ear ache. The device, which is shown both larger and smaller than, but never actual size in the mailer, measures somewhere between 2 and 2 and 5/8 inches long. My own hands-free device (a real one, not a hearing aid) is exactly two inches long, and gives me an ear ache very quickly. For just $29.95 plus shipping and handling it promises to look like an "expensive" cell-phone headset, but work just as well as conventional hearing aids which cost between $1,500 and $2,000. So apparently if you are hard of hearing, you must not only be totally insecure about how you look, but be pathologically gullible as well. Don't think I don't see you guys rushing to your phones to order one!

Open Your Frog To Me, Baby

Dear Madonna,

You are in amazing physical condition. There is no doubt about it. But this:
is just a little too reminiscent of this:
to be sexy.

Sincerely,

IFO

The Meredith Post

This post is about Meredith, who says she'd be more likely to stop by a read if her name was casually mentioned every now and again. Meredith, this is for you:

I've known Meredith for less time than her dog, Tigger. When Weston was in 5th grade, I was taking him home from school, and we saw two kids walking a strange dog, with a pronounced under bite and tabby markings. "There's Tigger, Mom!" I asked who Tigger was. "Joey and Marissa's dog!" I asked who Joey and Marissa were. They are Meredith's older twins. She has given birth to twins twice. Later I heard about another member of her family. Kaylie. Kaylie, Kaylie, Kaylie, Kaylie. She was all Garrett talked about in kindergarten, and she HAD to be at his birthday party. Or he would die. Since then Garrett and Kaylie have been pretty much joined at the hip. Unless they are fighting, which is pretty much always. Even then they just stick together to spite one another.

I think it was towards the end of Weston's 5th grade year that Meredith and I finally became acquainted. Marissa was in Weston's class and she and Joey and Weston were all headed to the same middle school. Then came the Mom's Night Outs when Meredith, Amy, Lori, Susan (Susan was definitely there and shaking her booty) and I got smashed and sang karaoke, or got smashed and bowled (and danced a little, and bowled TWO balls down the lane at one time), and just plain old got smashed too soon before we had to run the Muddy Buddy. There was a drink that came my way that night that contained a suspiciously LARGE amount of alcohol..... Meredith!

I'm sure Meredith can't forget the time she called me nearly speechless (Meredith is never completely speechless) because Weston, having been looking for a date to his first middle school dance, asked Marissa to go with him. "Next time give me warning!", she begged, having cracked up when Marissa told her! She is never one to mince words or beat around the bush, so my kids like Meredith, but have a deep-seated terror of her as well. This is good.

In short, Meredith is one of my BFFs! She is a total bad ass ice hockey player, has five kids, has red hair that is the envy of all her friends, and a sarcastic sense of humor that could cut glass. Also she has a great ass, always wins at canasta, and cooks up a mean pot roast. How's that, Mer?

Boyfriends and Girlfriends and Pregnancy, Oh My!

OK, break out the Geritol, I'm going to say it! What is with kids today? When did it become totally commonplace for kids that are really young to have girlfriends and boyfriends? I don't mean 15-year olds. I'm referring to kids as young as nine. When Weston started middle school he was 10, and I admit I was excited for him to start that next big grown-up phase. I thought it was cool that he had started showing some interest in the opposite sex. And not just in a phew, my strapping young lad isn't gay, kind of way. When a thirteen-year-old in his Language Arts class turned up pregnant last year, that really dampened my enthusiasm.

I'm willing to concede that maybe it's just the grumpy jealous lady in me crabbing about this because girls show a limited interest in my son. He's good-looking and pretty cool so they aren't totally indifferent, but we don't get the giggling phone calls that other moms complain so bitterly (and probably disingenuously) about. Would I be "complaining" (Oh, that Weston. He's just so darned popular with the girls. Good luck getting through on our phone lines with all the calls he gets.) about those phone calls if we were getting them? Yeah, probably. Who doesn't want their son or daughter to be wildly popular and successful with the opposite sex? (He gets that from my side of the family, you know!)

It seems like a lot of the shows on Cartoon Network and Nickelodeon have all of these characters with high squeaky baby voices it hot pursuit of the opposite sex. I wonder if kids watch these shows and start to feel like they aren't normal if they haven't got a girlfriend or boyfriend by the time they're eleven. Putting a total ban on dating isn't a good idea either. In fact, taking the mystique away from the opposite sex is a good thing. Of course by twelve, most boys and girls have morphed into hormonal zombies, so that slack-jawed amazement with boys and girls isn't going to go away, at least for a while. What level of involvement is appropriate at what age though? My approach, for now goes like this. If Weston wants to have a girlfriend I'm not going to put the kibosh on it. But until he's a little older, I'd prefer that he admire from afar (although an occasional giggly phone call would be nice).

Mr. Bluebird On My Shoulder

Again, at the risk of turning this into a crafty blog (shudder) I am including a couple of pictures of my newest needle felted creations. The first is a second rendition of the bunny that was requested by my friend Marie. I told her I would give her a bunny only when I had achieved a "Bunny of Perfection". After felting a couple of creatures, I realized that the longer you look at these the worse they look to the person who created them. I am always surprised and taken aback at how much people like these because, frankly, I only see all of the little details that didn't quite come out how I wanted them to. So here, with no further ado, is Marie's bunny:

The next creation is supposed to be a robin, and was requested by Joanna. I told her I would make it as a housewarming gift. May I say again Joanna, how pleased I am to have to back in San Jose!!? The reason I say it is "supposed" to be a robin, is that the picture in the book shows this bird felted up in what could only be described as blue. I loved its colors and wanted to do it exactly as it appeared in the book. The instructions say to use gray roving, which is a more accurate portrayal of how the critter would look in real life. Screw reality, I say. Blue and orange look great together, so I prefer to think of him as the Bluebird of Happiness, and as such, he was posed for his photo on Weston's shoulder:

Salsa Anaranjada. Mmmmm!!!

I am excited! "Why are you so excited?", you ask. My very favorite Mexican restaurant, La Victoria, has opened less than a mile from my house on Almaden Expressway near Cherry Avenue. We are also fortunate to have Super Taqueria close to us, but while tasty, Super Taqueria does not boast the magical Orange Sauce (is that the sound of angels singing???) that La Victoria does. Orange Sauce (again with the angels!) is a mysterious concoction that appears to be the love child of something creamy and white and another ingredient which is both hot and Tabasco-licious. Picture something that, while suffering from PMS you might consider spackling onto popcorn, sandwiches, or even sprucing up a little cheese and crackers should you be really desperate for those all important Calories From Fat.

Monday, on the way to buy the boys some new school clothes, I drove by the new location (the original, which Steve and I visit often when we meet for lunch, is in downtown San Jose) and nearly gave myself whiplash, doing a double take. I popped in today to get myself a super taco and a quesadilla for Weston, and the place was jam-packed. Apparently they JUST opened on Friday. If you live near San Jose, be sure to stop in, and don't forget to heap on the Orange Sauce!

Dog Envy No More

One of my earliest posts to this blog was about dog envy. Now I can imagine this being a bit of a controversial statement, particularly among dog owners, but how my dog looks, matters. In my earlier post I bemoaned the fact that Bo, instead of looking like this, (which is a photo of the Jack Russell terriers the breeding was hawking):

looks like this:

Which, while adorable in its own right, is very reminiscent of this:
I love Bo. I really do. I love him like a dog. Luke, I love so much I have to restrain the urge to maul him with kisses and eat his big ears with chocolate sauce.

Now I think I know why. Last night just before I was going to bed, Luke flopped down on a small red pillow that one of the boys had left on the floor. I immediately ran to get my iPhone so I could snap a picture of him. Then I sent it to all of my relatives. Then I set it as my iPhone wallpaper. Then I showed it to Steve. Then to both of the kids. Does this:remind you a little of one "Elvis", pictured above? Note that the picture of Bo above was taken moments afterward, with the same small red pillow in the background. His refusal to look fierce, as Luke did, are going to cause him to be voted off this cycle of America's Next Top Dogel.

Teacher Don't You Fill Me Up With Your Rules

School starts next week, which means that we're back to following all of the arcane rules that our admininstrators have dug up for the kids to follow. Here are the three that bug me the most:

1. No running on the blacktop. What? Aren't skinned knees pretty much a right of passage for kids in elementary school? Furthermore, how are kids supposed to learn their limits if somebody is always stepping in to save them before they discover how fast they can run, how high they can climb, or how big of a kid they can bully before they get hurt?

2. No red or blue. Middle schools don't allow red or blue clothing because they are gang colors. Red for the Bloods, blue for the Crips. Or if you're from California, red for Nortenos and blue for Surenos. I support the school's need to prevent gang activity in schools, but are the light blue accents on my middle-class white son's shoes really going to suck him into a swirling vortex of gang violence?

3. No skateboarding. Again, I understand the need for limits, but in a society where children being 20 to 30 pounds overweight is completely normal, shouldn't we be encouraging them do be more physically active?

What dumb school rules can you think of?

Is Silence Golden?

People watching is as much of a habit for me as nail biting is for others, and some of the best people watching can be done at the grocery store. For instance there are few things as entertaining as that little kid that is way overdue for his nap, pitching the mother of all fits because his mother has denied him the box of fruity snacks with Lighting McQueen on the box. Mothers usually react in one of two ways. Some grind their teeth and quietly threaten death and dismemberment upon arrival at a less public venue, while others loudly discipline their children right there in the store. When my kids were that age I tried to avoid trips to the grocery store all together, instead leaving them at home with Steve. When I had to bring them, I was of the quiet threatening camp. Neither method is all that effective which is why I was so struck by a family I saw at Safeway yesterday.

As I was picking out just the right onion and potato to put in soup later this week, I became aware of a group of three people who were collecting various items in complete silence. A deaf mother and her two children. Being careful not to stare, I watched as they moved through the store, communicating with gestures alone. Wordlessly, they managed to converse just as well as all of their fellow shoppers who were still able to hear. The older son, goofed with his mother, taunting her with a selection of junk food she clearly did not sanction by holding it out and shaking his head near her face. Surrounded by the dissatisfied sounds of greedy toddlers, and overtired babies, this family seemed to exist in their own little tight, happy, but silent bubble.

This brought me to wonder, how the rest of us could manage in our day to day lives, if we were forced to interact with our children silently. Would children continue to pitch those ear-splitting fits in the grocery cart if their parents couldn't hear their shrieks? If we could never raise our voices in anger, would we form a stronger family bond? A few months ago I saw a little boy, no more than seven years old, signing into his deaf, blind mother's hand as he helped her across a busy street. If I was disabled, I wondered, would my kids do that for me?

A Cautionary Tale About Choosing the Right Orthodontist

Yesterday was traumatic. I won't over-chew the scenery here, but after I got home from taking the kids to their orthodontist appointments, I was ready to sob quietly into my hands for a hour or so. Weston started orthodontic treatment at around age 9 at the recommendation of our family dentist, for a "deep bite". I think this is basically a nice way of saying my handsome young son is a bit week-jawed. Nine is the perfect age to start treatment, because the jaw is still growing and developing, and some relatively minor intervention can save a lot of work down the road. Our dentist had recommended a good, but expensive associate of his, but lacking dental insurance at the time, I decided to go with a cheaper recommendation I got through 1-800-DENTIST. We'll call him Dr. Crackjaw. If this was a novel, this is point in the story at which there would occur some ominous foreshadowing.

Flash forward a couple of years, to my dentist looking sceptically into Weston's mouth and asking, who, in fact, had we chosen for his orthodontist. Unwilling to suspend treatment with Dr. Crackjaw, I soldiered on. Then, at the beginning of this summer, Dr. Crackjaw announced that Weston either needed two more years with his current appliance, or several years of braces. It didn't take an expert to see that Weston still had his deep bite. Time for a second opinion.

Yesterday's appointment was actually a third opinion, since the second orthodontist suggested that Weston needed surgical intervention to correct his problem. So there were were, having gone full circle, finally in the office of the orthodontist that our dentist suggested we see in the first place. And what did he say? Weston needs a surgical procedure to fix his jaw, and if that's not enough, it'll cost us about three times as much as it would have had if we had started him down the correct path three to four years ago. So essentially, I spent a couple thousand dollars to have Weston's teeth completely unimproved, perhaps made worse by the wrong treatment, but also missing the window of opportunity to have the problems easily corrected.

The good news is that Garrett's little jaw is actually in a better position than in older brother's, despite having a very prominent set of bunny seat perched on his lower lip. He is young enough that fixing his teeth will be relatively cheap and straightforward. I am done flagellating myself over this now, but let me just put this out there. When choosing an orthodontist for your child, chose an orthodontist, NOT a dentist who apparently just dabbles in orthodontia. And for those of you that live in the San Jose area, feel free to contact me by email if you want Dr. Crackjaw's real name. The temptation to use my blog to smear this quack is overcome by my fear of his superior financial ability to hire a lawyer. All our spare change is going to go toward fixing his mistakes!

Beyond Glory Hole

Nothing like a little buildup to get a good vacation started:


Once you're both good and ready, your next stop will be in:



And in case you get bored with conventional travel, maybe you'll want to bob around here a bit:



Of course all the best vacations end with a:



And as an alternative to the traditional, after-travel cigarette:

Citius, Altius, Legous

My husband is a total Lego nut. We have more Lego in our house than any one household should reasonably have. My husband is also an Olympics nut, so this is for you Steve. Somebody took the time to create the Olympic village out of Lego. The multiple times I have stepped on a sharp piece of plastic in the middle of the night while attempting to rehydrate a small child not withstanding, this is actually really cool. I think the water cube is my favorite:


Check out Design You Trust for more pictures.

Working vs. Stay-at-Home

I just finished watching something on a vlog that really pissed me off. I'm not going to link to it, because, this was the first time I ever visited this woman's vlog, and now I hate her. I don't want to send any traffic her way. Why in the hell do women create and lovingly maintain this big divide between "working" and "stay at home" moms? Why is it an us vs. them thing?

I think because I work part-time, I'm better able than some to see both sides of the issue. Women with children have a very tough job. Period (and sometimes because of their period it's even harder). Mothering is already a more-or-less thankless job. That alone is enough to make it tough. Add to that all of the little jobs that are a part of being a mother, like helping with homework, picking out the right clothes, packing just the right lunch, and dealing with teachers, and even the best days can leave you feeling like an empty husk of your pre-parent self. What really sucks though, is knowing that many of the moms you see standing around in tight little packs at your child's school are busy criticizing every other mother they can get their nasty little talons into.

Take for example the vlog that raised my ire. She's bitching about working mothers that don't "make it" to their kid's classrooms, whatever that means. I have a piece of advice for her and every other woman to feels the need to be critical. Hey, how 'bout rather that talking crap about other women, we offer them a little support. Maybe some of those mothers that don't "make it" to class, CAN'T in fact "make it". This lady even comes out and smugly admits she and her friends are gossiping about other mothers, as if staying on the good side of such a nasty, negative individual would be the proper motivation for someone with an ounce of self-respect.

Then on the other hand, we have the working mothers that.... oh hell. I'm totally biased. I really can't think of any shit I have ever heard working moms talk about a stay at home moms. They have so much on their plate, they don't have time to even consider how well someone else is dealing with their child. The most I have ever heard a working mom say is, "I don't know how they deal with their kids all day long with no break." So here is my message to those self-righteous, stay-at-home mothers who must have nothing better to do at home while their kids are at school, that to sit on their asses and think of things to be critical about. Rather than making yourself feel better about your own inadequacies by critiquing mothers that work, why not realize that working or not, we all have something in common. We are all women. Have you heard of the Women's Movement? It's about creating conditions in society, in and out of the workplace that foster the success of ALL women. Regardless of their childbearing status or their choice to work or stay at home with their kids. So rather than sniping about another mother not "making it" to her child's class, try using your vlog as a forum for building women up, rather than tearing them down.

Lazy Days of Summer

Yesterday was one of those rare and wonderful days during which there were no scheduled activities. No music lessons or play dates, and most importantly, no work. With my new zen-like attitude intact, I puzzled over what to do to fill the time. The boys wanted to go to Raging Waters, but unless the weather is really hot, the exposed plateau on which the water park sits can get unpleasantly chilly as you wait on those stairs, stiff breeze whipping at your wet swimsuit, to get on the rides. Besides, we're going on the 16th for Weston's birthday. In any case, while we pondered, Garrett and Weston got involved in whacking pop gun caps and other boyish pursuits, and I whiled away the day with various activities.

I spent about an hour scuttling around taking photos of my felted creations for yesterday's blog post, then composing (I keep reading that as "composting") the post. Then I spent another hour schedule-wrangling four different families in order to find a day where all the appropriate friends and relatives could attend Weston's Official Birthday Party at Boomer's. I like places like Boomer's for the activities, but there is something unspeakably grim about sitting around those "party rooms", eating bad pizza, drinking warm soda, and trying to drum up a festive attitude. Mini golf, laser tag, bumper boats, and go carts should more than make up for the uncomfortable "party room" moments.

Later, I popped in on a couple of my favorite bloggers and happened on this fascinating link at Dooce.com. Amazing what people get away with, particularly in light of those shows on Animal Planet in which the authorities swoop in to prosecute the owners when they find a dog with mange and it's ribs showing in their yard. Don't get me wrong, I am a dog lover and feel that animal abusers should get the book thrown at them. I guess I just wonder why it's so easy and obvious to remove an animal from a home where it's being abused, but put a human child in the same situation and Child Protective Services bends over backward to avoid stepping in to save her. So that was about an hour and a half of my afternoon spent in horrified fascination.

By 2:00 it was pretty apparent that the day was not going to amount to a hill of beans, so I went to Michael's to buy beads to make eyes, and spent the rest of the afternoon felting a penguin. Et voila!



I don't like it as much as the bunny. I put the feet too close together and made its bum too slim so it wants to topple over or balance drunkenly on one wing. Also, I think I should have chosen red beads for the eyes, but I'm a biologist and I KNOW penguins don't have red eyes. Overall, I think it's pretty good, and that I'm getting better at this felting thing. As a hobby, it is totally absorbing. Even with complete focus on what I was doing, I managed to give myself three or four good hard jabs in the finger. This is not one of those things you do casually while watching an episode of CSI. Thanks is owed to Steve for refusing to give up until he had snapped JUST the right photograph of my latest creation rather than relaxing when he got home, like he probably wanted to.

Of Fluffy Bunnies and Disproportionate Penguins

I have no interest in making this blog about any sort of craft or hobby, but I figured since my newest hobby is in its infancy, I would interject a post every now and then that would document my burgeoning skill (in case it actually does burgeon, that is). Not long ago I taught myself to knit and really enjoyed doing it, but ever since I took a hard spill playing ice hockey and dislocated my shoulder, extended periods of knitting result in my waking the next day unable to turn my head to the left. Trawling around for something to fill the creative void, I stumbled on this book:


Follow the link if you dare, and I defy you to resist these adorable creations.

I discovered Little Felted Animals back in March, but wasn't released until July, so was forced to wait for a while to try it out. In the meantime, Steve got me this little kit, which is available (among other cute patterns) through an Etsy shop:



My first attempt came out looking a little squashed and google-eyed, but cute.

Inspired, I purchase a little kit from Ebay with a pattern to make a yorkie dog. Instead of making the yorkie, I decided I would try and felt a corgi. This was the result:


Impressive, no? Instead of resembling a corgi, it looks more like a road-killed, quadruple amputee, black lab. Thankfully, I got Little Felted Animals in the mail a couple of weeks ago and found that it actually has a corgi pattern in it. Rather than launch straight into the corgi, I thought I'd warm up on a simple but cute bunny. As I am wont to do, I took a few liberties with the pattern, mostly because I didn't have the little beads necessary for the eyes or pink roving for the inside of the ears. The result? Not bad, I think:



What say you? Should I hang up my felting needles, or do I show some promise?

New Rules in My House

If you bring your kids to my house and they are not old enough to know better, please stop them from doing the following things:

1. Using my furniture as a jungle gym. It's clear that you think it's adorable when they somersault off of and stomp all over my sofa, whilst simultaneously flinging the cushions this way and that, but I don't. I promise not to laugh when your adorable moppet flips backward off of the chair.

2. Using my furniture as a ladder to my valuables. Yes, it's fun for you to watch your child scatter the potting soil from my plants all over my piano bench and floor, but if you aren't going offer to clean it up, I won't offer to have you come back to stay.

3. Running around my house with a drippy peach. I realize you a busy with your other child and don't have time to supervise your toddler's every move, but how 'bout giving the child a napkin and telling it to stay put while you attend to number two.

4. Taking my stuff (kitting projects, ornaments, child's art projects, cups, glasses, etc.) and wandering around the house with them until one falls on the floor and breaks. And should your child break something of mine (say a cherished art project of my child's) please don't make me feel like a shit when I take my stuff away from your little darling. "Can he/she at least still have the ______?", is NOT an appropriate response.

After you have arrived at my house and been presented with a room to stay in, a cupboard full of food, gifts for your two children, and a meal slaved over for two hours by yours truly, it's nice to reciprocate a little bit in kind. The next night when we go out to dinner, maybe offer to pick up the tab. A nice bottle of wine to sooth my shattered nerves would be another idea. Hell, maybe both! While you are here, please don't gripe that we have run out of the one cereal your child likes. God knows, we tried to anticipate every one of your needs, but apparently we fell a little short. Oh, and guess what..... I'm not so secretly laughing that your child managed to become intimate with the one pile of dog shit we missed in the yard we tried are damnedest to keep scrupulously clean.

I'm Doomed

Steve has been talking about getting a motorcycle for a while now. I may get this wrong, but I think he wants the BMW 1200GS. Like my deciding I wanted the Volvo XC90, this isn't going to go away. I can tell. Steve visits his bike online often, and has taken a trip to the dealership to sit on it. He has signed up for a motorcycle safety class, and will no-doubt be taking the DMV test to get the proper license shortly. Last night only made it worse. Steve stumbled across a one-night-only viewing of a movie called The Long Way Down, a documentary about a motorcycle trip in which Ewan McGregor (of Obi-Wan fame) and his friend Charley Boorman travel 15,000 (!!!) miles from Scotland to Cape Town. We sat with a moderate-sized crowd of people (most who had arrived there by motorcycle, judging by their carrying helmets) for two hours watching Ewan and Charley battle heavy rain, extreme heat, motorcycle-eating mud, attacks by everything from ants to elephants, and upending in multiple heavy spills from their BMW bikes. I thought it was great to watch, but Steve? Steve leaned into every curve in the road with a blissful smile playing across his face. He glanced out of the corner of his eye for my reaction when Ewan's wife joined them on her bike for a portion of the trip, and left the theater all but crouched into riding position. So I am doomed to being the bitch of a bike dude. I have accepted my fate.