Of Bikes, Babes, and The Platters

Mildred:    What are you rebelling against, Johnny?
Johnny:     Whaddya got?

Marlon Brando as Johnny in "The Wild One" (1953)

Johnny understood.  There are times when you just have to bust out and do something for the sake of doing it.  My sisters and I went on a motorcycle ride this weekend.  And by that I mean that the three of us got on our faithful steeds and headed for the hills.  We have the shiniest bikes.  We have the tallest boots.  We have attitude coming out of every pore.  And when we get where we are going, we pull into a parking space up front, in perfect formation.  Everywhere we go, people want to talk to us, and ask about our bikes, where we're going, and where we've been.  So we tell them.  And we make new friends, and we hope that we inspire others, especially other women, to enjoy riding too.

We didn't ride far, and we didn't ride long.  We did see a beautiful sunset though, and we heard some great music that we had forgotten how much we love.

Twilight Time, by The Platters, circa 1958

And after all that we checked into a hotel with smooth sheets, where we slept like dead people.  Then there was breakfast, and coffee, and the promise of whatever is next.  When I am with my motorcycle gang, there is nothing we can't do.  And there is nothing we face alone.  Potholes and speed traps and a bee in your helmet.  None are as scary with the other Dreadful Damsels there.

Believe me when I tell you that bikers are just like knitters:  A little bit misunderstood, a little bit rebellious, and a whole lotta caring.  The only thing better than being a loner is running with a pack of other loners who understand you.

Just one thing, though;  When you and your biker sisters make that big entrance at your destination, you power down those big growling machines, and shake your hairstyles free of your helmets; when you swing your big leather boots over the saddle and begin your swagger across the parking lot;

Try to avoid having balls of yarn fall out of the pockets of your leather jacket.  It may tend to undermine your glamor.
 

Graphic

And here we have a visual representation of my unrealistic expectations for three days away from the office.  It seems that my "Optimism" has crossed the line over into "Delusion".  Using logic which now escapes me, I somehow convinced myself that I could attend three parties and host one, all in the same weekend, while experiencing no negative impact on my knitting schedule.  Ahh...sweet oblivion...what could possibly go wrong? 

Turns out that the difference between a work schedule that is "somewhat compressed" and one that is "totally freaking impossible" is exactly one fortieth birthday celebration. 

If I ever get face time with the dumbass that decided each day would only have twenty-four hours in it, I'm really going to let him have it.  In the meantime, I'm considering a strongly-worded letter. 

Stupid time/space continuum.
 

Happy Brithday USA, Happy Birthday Phillip

Both are happening at the same time this weekend, and Phillip's is the notable 40th verstion.  That adds up to no less than four parties in three days, which may even crowd in upon knitting time.  The Nerve.  Phillip's big bash is tonight at a dance club, where he sternly informed me there would be no place to put my spinning wheel.  Dude was downright testy - Like I wasn't gonna ask!  Lindsay, God love her, mentioned slyly to me on the way out the door that I should really take along my drop spindle. 

Leave it to the ten-year-old to find a loophole.