Pessimistic Parenting A Masterclass

Posted in Pessimistic Parenting by KJ Ivany

I see all the advertisements for masterclasses on anything you want to learn whether it is acting, writing, painting, knitting, interviewing CEOs for that elusive job-you’ll-never-get to star gazing. There was even one on breathing. I swear, anything. With that in mind, I decided to do my own ‘Masterclass’ on what I call Pessimistic Parenting. I’m not sure these techniques would fly with the parents these days, but I’m willing to take that chance and throw out some tips that may be useful for the next generation of parents. Or not. You can have kids that turn out to be sociopaths, your choice. Here we go!

You Suck, Kid

All kids have behaviours that suck. That’s why they’re kids. They don’t know anything yet, so it’s our job as parents to teach them. You need to say ‘no’ ~~occasionally~~ ~~often~~ all the damned time for them to get the idea that throwing Cheerios all over the floor is not appropriate behaviour. Neither is crying in a store, stealing a toy from another child, or sticking their fingers up their noses. It’s all a big fat ‘NO.’ So get used to saying it. And mean it. It’s not enough to say, “No, you can’t have that brownie right now we are having dinner,” then hand over the brownie. You must enforce it, too. There’s a whole list of reasons why sticking to your guns is a good idea, but I’ll just cut to the chase. If you want to avoid your kid being a serial killer, a narcissistic jerk, or a social outcast, please say ‘no’ and mean it. Society thanks you.

The Use of Time Out or Mommy Needs Wine

Is that a thing nowadays? We used it with our kids and boy were we good at it! But we did a variation called behaviour baseball. Three strikes, you’re out. I mean that was the last straw. To my recollection, it only happened once with my eldest daughter and it was a lot of work for us, but we felt it brought home the point. Remember: If you think you can laze your way through this shit, it won’t work. Just keep replaying Narcissistic Jerk and it will provide the motivation you need to see it through. These were our steps: Strike One: If the child did something after we told her not to, she had to sit on her bed and reflect. Then a discussion around the behaviour, why it was wrong and how to improve. Strike Two: If Step One produced pouting, refusing to discuss and anger, we moved on to her putting pjs on and sitting on the bed. NOBODY likes putting on pjs and sitting on their bed doing nothing. No books, no screens, nothing. Strike Three: If still no compliance it was stripping the room and continuing to sit on the bed in pjs. I mean I took every book from the shelf, every toy, all the bedding, EVERYTHING from the room. Took me a long time, but it was bundled up in garbage bags and removed. She sat there for hours, which gave me plenty of time to have a break, sip some wine and contemplate the reason we had kids in the first place. Then we talked about it, and she had to EARN her shit back. There. The end. We never reminded her of her past behaviours, we moved on hoping to never have to replay the stripping of the room because those books were a pain in the ass to put back. With her help, of course. Then I had more wine and felt like a good mom.

Source That Shit Out

Oh, please we don’t know everything! But the kids don’t know that. So fake it. We do our best to ensure they’re safe, well fed and clean. The rest is a total fluke, so go with it. Do I know Math? Fuck, no but I don’t have to. That’s what tutors are for. Or Hubby. Do I know how to construct a 3D model of the Space Shuttle with little astronauts for props? Pffft…NO. But again, source that shit out. There is somebody in your ’hood who is DYING to do that, so find him/her and throw them a little gift in the mix. Done. Your job as a parent is to ensure your kid does his best to the best of his ability. Not to outdo the other guy and not to stress yourself out trying to learn what he must learn. I’ve already been to school. I don’t need to go again. Find somebody who LOVES shit like that and get them in there! It will save you from losing your mind. You. Are. Welcome.

Teens, An Adventure into the Abyss of Despair and Chaos

This is a whole different stratosphere of shit, but to put it in basic terms remember only one thing: YOU ARE NOT THEIR FRIEND. You are an adult. The parent. The person who brought them into this world and can take them out. Limits, limits, limits. The only way. Sorry to have to break it to you, but if you don’t enforce shit, they feel unsafe and they can’t trust you and BOOM, retaliation in the form of anything they can get into. Communication is good. Yelling is pointless. Threats are empty unless you follow through. Taking away privileges is good like keys to the car, phones (you pay for that, right?), computer, tablets, sports, (you pay for that too, right?) social events, etc. Anything you pay for; you can take away. It’s as simple and as complicated as that. Just wait for the slamming doors and loud music and parties…wow. Such an adventure. That’s why parents drink. That and Christmas, because shopping for everything, wrapping all those gifts just to see your creative yet time-consuming efforts thrown to the side in a heap, and assembling items at midnight, will have anybody reaching for the wine at 5am as junior unwraps the avocado he got from Grandma. Good times. If you manage to survive the teen years and wander aimlessly into adulthood, congrats! You have now managed to reach the pinnacle of your parenting while worrying if they drive safely enough, if they have a stalker who is out to kill or maim them and if they attain gainful employment so as not to return to live in your basement and eat your food. All valid worries.

Thanks for reading my first Masterclass! I hope you enjoyed this episode.

Good luck parents. Remember, there’s always another year!

AND alcohol.

6Sep2023

Top Ten Ways to Respond to Shitty People

Posted in Top Ten by KJ Ivany

Let’s face it, not all people are nice or enjoyable to be around. There are times when you are simply going about your business, and someone will come along and try to ruin your perfectly decent day. “Oh, I wouldn’t do it that way,” or “Did you know that putting that there would not please the boss?’ Like no, Debby I had no fucking clue because the BOSS ISN’T EVEN HERE AND WHY DO YOU CARE? Some folks just can’t help themselves but to make your business, their business. To say that one thing that they know will get under your skin. Here are some helpful tips to put those Nosey Nellies in their places. I hope you can put them to good use.

10. It’s The Way I Was Taught – Beginning any new job, or simply doing the job you’ve been doing for the past twenty years comes with peeps who think they can do it better. When Karen comes along and claims you did something wrong, simply tell her you were taught a new way to do it. Your method is more modern and keeping up with industry standards and maybe she should investigate taking a refresher course because obviously, her method is outdated. And send her along her merry way. You can then send her links to online courses that you didn’t do, but said you did, then she will feel the need to do them. She’ll be occupied for weeks!

9. I Don’t Know What You Are Talking About – Clearly stupefied by the nonsense that is emanating from Doubtful Debby’s mouth, you play the dumb card and simply shrug your shoulders and say, “What report? I did mine last week. Maybe you should go work on yours.” You’re being helpful without outwardly telling her to fuck-off. So kind.

8. Did You Know That Jimmy Buffet Died? – Changing the subject from you to something newsworthy and way more interesting than how you fucked up the last meeting, is a great distracter. A misdirection into some murky gossipy crap you read on the internet will surely illicit a response and take away the attention on you. Well done. And Jimmy Buffet did die, and you need to go play Margaritaville on repeat while drinking a margarita because that’s the only way to honour his memory.

7. I Read it Somewhere – A great indifferent statement that’s vague enough to almost hold weight without clearly identifying a source. The answer to everything. Karen will nod and say, “Yeah, where?” to which you respond with, “The Wall Street Journal,” because nobody under the age of seventy reads that shit. It’s an old journal that only certain business types will even think about being seen with. If she thought you read it there, it’s over her head and she won’t bother to look it up. And if she does, it will take hours of her searching to find it since it doesn’t exist in the first place. A win-win since she’s kept busy doing something stupid, and you get her out of your hair. See? Helpful.

6. Are You Sure You Don’t Remember? – Attacking the innocent seems to be the modus operandi of some individuals. They need to see the meek squirm in their seats while interrogating them to feel superior. They have a self-loathing that only comes from deep-rooted childhood trauma like being picked last for a team in gym class. Put the onus back on the perpetrator of your torture and question their mental faculties. Gaslighting them into thinking they’ve talked about this before like, “Are you sure you don’t remember? We went over this last week. I think you should sit down. Maybe you don’t feel well. You look a little pale.” The power of suggestion will have them feeling their foreheads for fever and thinking they’re about to pass out. Awesome.

5. That’s Not Your Job – Not a favourite reply of mine, but sometimes people need to be reminded of how limited their reach is. Karen thinks she runs the place, but really, she’s just a control freak with power issues and wants to tell everyone what to do. That’s not your job, Karen. If Karen is the boss, then you are entitled to ponder whether it’s harassment in the workplace to which there are policies in place to protect you. Or there should be. When all else fails, walk out of the room. They can’t speak to you if you’re not there. It’s not running away when you are protecting your well-being.

4. Kill Them with Kindness – THEY WILL HATE THAT. Their whole purpose was to bother you and if they see you in a happy-go-lucky mood where you compliment their attire or hair or their accent, or even their crappy shoes you are winning. They will stutter and try another tactic of insulting a project you worked on or even stooping so low as to bring up your kid’s bad behaviour at the restaurant the other night, but don’t let them have the satisfaction. Throw back a, “You’re right, he was acting like an asshole, but we got it under control. By the way, you are rocking that cardigan sweater!” They’ll be shaking their head and wondering why they even bother trying to wreck your day.

3. Baffle Them with Bullshit – The absolute best answer is no answer at all. Like, ever. Debby wants to know why you don’t manage your office like Perfect Patty, or why the report you submitted was late. “Well, Debby do you remember the other day when Jimmy Buffet died, and we had that little gathering in the break room with cake? Oh, my bad, you weren’t invited. Ok, so the other day, Linda wanted to know how to re-attach a chain on her kid’s bike, but the internet was down so then we had to actually do a Pictionary kind of deal with diagrams and charts. It was a thing. Really took up the afternoon after the Buffet cake-episode. People cried and everything. So, it didn’t get the attention it deserved. But maybe we can discuss the effects of micro-managing over coffee where you stop bothering me about shit that doesn’t matter, and we can get on with the important stuff like life. Thanks.”

2. Thank Them for Their Interest in Your Life – They really don’t want the details of your life; they just want you to know they are hovering over you like an annoying housefly you can’t kill. So, give them want they want. Attention. Gratitude. And pile it on. “Oh, thanks for asking, no I really don’t have time for that, but do you know what my baby did last night? She projectile vomited all over the bed! Such an ordeal. I have pictures, look! Vomit EVERYWHERE!” or “The dog had diarrhea last night and pooped all over the main floor. We spent hours cleaning that up. Want to see the pictures? Jesus, it was so BAD.” And ask if they want to participate, like, “My son is having a fundraiser for hockey, and we need volunteers to sit in the cold arena for four hours to sell tickets nobody wants for shit nobody needs. Can I put you down for Saturday morning?” They’ll be too busy to bother with your vomiting kids, incontinent pets, and hockey fundraisers. The. Best.

1. Be the Better Person – I know, it’s not easy taking the high road when someone just tried to drag you down to the dirt but there’s always a reason why a person is shitty. Bad day, bad week, bad life. Trauma plays a big part in how people treat others. You could be on the receiving end of their outrage even if it’s not entirely about you. You don’t have to take their rudeness, but you can choose to be the better person. “I hear what you’re saying, but it’s not my problem. I’m sure we can figure this out, but you will need to tell me more on how I can help you.” Offering help is the one solution they were not counting on. They wanted to vent. Or they wanted to blame someone. Defend yourself, stand your ground but do it in a quiet gentle way. No need to retaliate with rudeness, retaliate with assistance. “You will need to stop being rude. I can help.” Or “If you approach me like that again, I will have to leave.” They don’t want you to leave, they want to pick a fight, or they want attention. Call attention to their rudeness, their abrasive words and turn it around. It may shock them into a more appropriate response. If not, you have every right to tell them to fuck-off and move on. Only after you’ve exhausted being nice and helping. The middle finger is reserved for those who are beyond reaching and who are too far gone to give your precious time.

I hope these tips come in handy the next time someone is being a shithead to you.

Stay kind. Be Positive. Drink Wine.

The End.

28Aug2023

Pretentious Golf Balls and Wayward Golf Carts Make Golfing Fun!

Posted in Misguided Musings by KJ Ivany

Last week, we decided to embark on a golfing day. Well, Hubby and friends decided, I just tagged along. I have never golfed before, so I was more involved with cart-driving, than the let’s-hit-the-little-white-ball-into-Neverland kinda of thing. Really, I was the fan/heckler that propelled them onto greatness. Without me, they would have felt lonely out there on that little tee box. Who wouldn’t want to hear the shouts of the one lowly fan, “YOU SUCK!” before they hit the ball? They whacked that ball so hard I couldn’t see where it landed. I was not so skilled.

I tried a couple of shots, but I was lucky if the ball managed to roll a few inches ahead of me. I lined up in front of the ball, my hands positioned like they told me (once we figured left from right. That’s part of the challenge.) took aim and swung. All I got was air. I lined up again, only this time my club nudged the ball and it fell off the tee. Fuck. I put it back on the tee and tried again. WHACK. Two feet. I swear to God the ball refused to move. It rolled off the tee like, “Stop it lady, you aren’t worthy of my presence. Get back in the cart and stop embarrassing both of us.” I hate golf.

Once we figured out if I was a lefty or a righty, it was a bit better. And by better, I mean I hit the ball a few inches. It didn’t pathetically roll on the grass like a toddler and stare at me sadly, waiting for somebody to save it from being ridiculed by the other golf balls. It spun out in front and landed with a thud, and I was momentarily proud, until friends took their turn and showed me up with their prowess. HOW? How can you hit the ball? And so straight? What magic do you know that I don’t? There’s got to be a secret to this weird ability to hit a little stupid ball so far. Is it a special club? A secret swing? I know, its that glove you wear on the wrong hand, like a Michael Jackson accessory, that allows you to take better aim.

Golf etiquette is a thing I’ve learned. Shut up while people take aim, but once they swing, it’s all hail the shouting and jeering. At least, that’s what I did. And we drove the cart right next to where the ball landed so we didn’t have to walk, like we can’t bring ourselves to hike a few feet in wet grass to get the little ball, so let’s ride around in the cart and find all the golf balls and point to them so we can hit them again. So supportive of your fellow golfers. “Here’s your ball and since it’s way back here, you can hit it first, loser.” Nice. “Oh, look your ball is in this dirt pit. Chuck it out while we watch and try not to laugh too hard when the dirt flies up and temporarily blinds you.” “Oh, your ball landed in the trees? Just take another one and drop it inconspicuously in front of you.” It’s like you’re in the mafia and nobody saw nothin’ and nobody knows shit. Best. Game Ever.

Searching out the balls was the best. I was tempted to ask if we could do donuts on the course, but I thought we might get banned from the place, so I kept quiet. I wouldn’t want Hubby and friends to get kicked out on my behalf. Hubby wouldn’t let me drive the cart too much due to the winding cart paths and many hills. I guess off-roading with golf carts is frowned upon. I would think if people were out and had a few drinks in them, a few wayward golf carts were probably abound. We had the first tee time of the day, so no drinking at 8:00am, kids, we are a right proper sport. At least wait until 8:30am. Probably a good thing we were sober, and Hubby drove. There were a few bridges, and I could see me tipping that cart into the water. It would be interesting watching the maintenance guys drag a cart from the creek while Hubby tried to defend my driving. “No, really, she just drives like that all the time. Sorry, ‘bout that.”

_{The golf cart I was allowed to only drive on the paths. Boring….}

All in all, a great day. The weather cooperated with no wind and a good temp. We had a few rabbits watching from afar, but generally an empty course. Probably why they let me take a few shots. Nobody would see me roll the ball off the tee and they wouldn’t have to explain my presence. “Yeah, we had to bring her.” Like when your mom made you take your little sister to the park, and you had to explain to your friends, but you would rather have lost her to the monster in the woods.

Kinda like that.

_{I admired from afar…and heckled a little bit.}

8Jun2023

European Vacation Episode 2-Throw Mama from the Train

Posted in Misguided Musings, Uncategorized by KJ Ivany

After the Barcelona incident, you would think I would be more aware of my surroundings; that I would consider my current abilities and limitations and act accordingly. No. No thought of how to best maneuver my way around cities and towns ever entered my brain. No thought to how I would manage possible stairs, trains, or hills. I followed the crowd to the slaughterhouse and reveled in it.

At some point in our travels, it was brought to my attention that when wandering in other countries or cities, nothing beats the train. We don’t have a train in Newfoundland, so train hopping isn’t a thing here. It’s an experience that we’re not used to. So, when we travelled to Europe, taking the train was an obvious option. Everybody takes the train. To save time while we were sightseeing, we would hop on a train to get to the next venue. It was a quick and convenient way to get from point A to point B without much hassle. I had no idea they could be such a vindictive bitch.

Our ship tendered to the town of Villefranche, where we took the train to Monte Carlo. It was a warm and sunny start to the day, and we were looking forward to seeing the casino and all the beauty of Monte Carlo. Casino Royale, anyone? Catching the train was easy and we were in Monte Carlo in no time. We walked from the train and immediately fell into the preparations for the Monte Carlo Grand Prix. Barriers blocked the streets, and bleachers were erected all along the main routes and security personnel were directing tourists away from all of it.

We strolled the city and really enjoyed the park and the casino. Lush gardens, perfect buildings reaching the skyline, and luxury yachts parked in the marina ready for the race. We stopped on the main street and ate pizza in a little restaurant after walking around town and enjoying all the sights.

_{Monte Carlo getting ready for the Grand Prix}

Now, all of this sounds fantastic. A lovely day, leisurely strolls, beer, and pizza for lunch, what could go wrong? I am the one traveling, remember? No bikes, no difficult traversing up hill on a mountainous trail, no climbing twisting stairs, nothing remotely challenging or weirdly placed to have me confused or in an awkward state of anxiety. Nothing. Until we board the train to head back to Villefranche.

The trains were crowded, and we stepped on and walked in closer to a door. We wanted to be able to make a quick exit when it stopped. Since our stop was one of many, we watched each one in preparation for our exit. The train approached our stop, and we were ready. With our hands on our bags and phones (mine was in my hand from picture taking), the train stopped. We waited by the door. Nothing happened. We waited a bit more. Nothing. Then we see another door behind us in the opposite direction further down the train. It was open and beckoning passengers to leave. We only had a few seconds to get to it before the doors closed and the train moved on. We banned together and hurried down the train like Jason Bourne eluding the French police. Our whole vacation started playing out like a Bourne movie. Jumping trains, riding ferries, spotting heavily armed men guarding tourist spots. I was beginning to feel like a rogue spy, only I think their skill set is a little more advanced than mine. With more balance and less falling.

We rushed, with me bringing up the rear. That was a big mistake. Never put the weakest link last, people. The best I could do was a quick walk. Which I did. I get to the doors. Hubby is holding one side, another man holding the other to prevent them from closing on me. A good thought, but the doors were assholes with sadistic tendencies and ignored the men completely. Fuck chivalry, they needed to close. Move or be moved. They began closing at an alarming rate, pushing Hubby and kind sir out of the way without so much as an, “Oh mon, Dieu. Excusez moi.” I had to leap from the inside of the train to the platform, lest I be the severed body in a pathetic example of a magic show. My foot hit the pavement, and asshole doors hit me in the ass sending me dancing. It was like they couldn’t wait to get rid of the stupid Canadian tourist, so they were expelling me from their wonderful train. “Tres imbecile! You are not worthy of our magnificence!” And spit me out.

I wobbled like a Weeble on a bender. I could see myself falling. My brain was fully processing how close my ass was to the pavement and the amount of pain it was going to cause. What it didn’t account for, was the precious new hip that needed to be guarded and protected like a little lamb among a pack of wolves. I crashed to the pavement, my hip stinging, and my swearing profound. I hadn’t noticed anyone around me until I felt a pair of hands beneath my arms. The swiftness of a perfect stranger hauling me off the ground, handing my scattered phone to a friend and dashing off into the afternoon sun had me dazed but grateful. Merci, Monsieur.

I rushed to a bench and sat for few minutes. The shock of falling hadn’t fully set in and my main concern became my bright and shiny new hip. What damage had I done? I stood and measured the pain. I stretched the muscle in my leg. I walked it off like the clumsy Canadian I am. I was fine. It was fine. My dignity was more bruised than my titanium hip. It can withstand a little tumble from a diabolical snooty French train. For fuck’s sake, I didn’t just fall?! Again?! Hubby tutt-tutted and friends gathered in concern. I rubbed my leg and we moved on. Trains suck.

“C’est un vrai connard!” Yeah, I said it. I Googled French swear words, what are you gonna do? Throw me from another train?

We stopped at a nice spot overlooking the water and had drinks to help me recover from the traumatic train banishment.

_{The view that assisted in my recovery}

Italian trains are more sophisticated and elegant than the haughty French trains, anyway. At least they didn’t throw me out on my ass. They just made me painfully aware of enormity of Rome and the insignificance of my presence on the planet.

Thanks, France for being an asshole. Thanks, Rome for making me question my existence. You two need to tone it down a bit so we clumsy Canadians can try to Jason Bourne our way across the continent. It would make for a more exciting adventure. And better stories than, “that time in France when I fell again, only this time off Satan’s train….”

1Jun2023

The Barcelona Bike Ride From Hell or How KJ Beat death

Posted in Misguided Musings by KJ Ivany

It all started on a cool cloudy day in May. We boarded a flight in St. John’s heading to Barcelona, Spain. Our excitement overrode any sense of impending doom and we gleefully headed into the open sky with high expectations and a sprinkle of vacation bliss. Well, most of us. Hubby experienced heightened anxiety right up until the full flight took off and we could stretch out for the night. I guess his sense of impending doom is more advanced than the rest of us.

Landing in Barcelona the following morning took some determination and willpower. Our urge to find the nearest bed was strong, but we knew if we gave into the temptation, our first day would be ruined. We fought the tiredness with the ambition of a Christmas shopper on Black Friday and made the most of our time in the Spanish city. We changed quickly and headed out into the sunshine for some exploring. And drinks.

One would think that after so many years on this planet that I would have developed the basic skills needed for survival: keeping my head above water in case the ship I’m on decides to hit an iceberg, staying upright when traversing uneven terrain, slaying and cooking woodland creatures in case of a wanton plane crash or getting lost on a hike (the latter being more plausible). But no. No, I missed all the basic training everyone else seemed to get before hitting adulthood. No, Debbie I can’t hunt and kill wild game and pretty sure I don’t want to; I can’t skate or maintain my balance on slippery surfaces; I have a hard time with heights and pretty sure I can’t navigate my way through a forest with nothing but the sun and the gross moss on trees to guide me. I’d probably pick the poison ivy and bring it home as a centre piece. As for the childhood traumas around double Dutch, (I skinned out my face when I nose dived onto the pavement), swimming lessons (they told me I would never be a swimmer. I am, I love to swim. The only skill I have managed to maintain) and riding a ten-speed bicycle, I thought I had recovered adequately. Maybe not. I never managed to progress to the expert ten-speed guru that all kids my generation had become, which leads me to the first of my European debacles. The Tour De Barcelona. An e-bike event that sounds lovely on the outset. Winding our way through the streets of Barcelona, strolling through the parks on our way to Olympic Stadium, visiting the mountain to take in the panoramic views of the city. Ahhhh….NO. NOPE. More like a terror driven escapade that included playing chicken with oncoming traffic and a physical altercation with a chain-link fence. NOT RELAXING, PEOPLE.

When the idea of an e-bike tour was first proposed, I thought, erroneously, that it would be a great way to experience the city. A leisurely ride taking in the sights, no stress, no dodging people, or buses, or fences…ugh. We ventured out to our meeting place at the bike shop the next day with our tour guide Mirko waiting there for us. He fit us for our bikes and my first thought was, “how hard can this be? I got this.” Until I didn’t. I fell within the first seconds of trying to pedal. By the time everyone had gone off on their merry way, I was still trying to gain my balance and my dignity. Both were shot. Since our guide was a nice understanding gentleman, he took me back to the shop to refit me with a bike better suited to my special needs. Fat tires, low to the ground and a seat that could fit three of me. There, that’s better. I began to pedal and after a few tries, I managed to not crash into anything so of course, let’s head out onto the busy streets of Barcelona! Sure, why not?! Dying sounds fun.

*_{The bike shop and the lane leading to the bike shop}*

_{My special bike with the big seat and fat wheels beside the cool kids’ bikes.}

Barcelona has well-defined bike lanes that wind through all their streets. As beneficial as it sounds, for people like me, it remained terrifying. Traffic whizzed by on my right, scooters and bikes passed me on my left. I was bombarded by traffic on both sides of me and panic took over. I remained transfixed on my party ahead while concentrating heavily on staying upright. Hubby remained behind me lest I lose sight of everyone and end up lost. He was not wrong. He also consistently shouted instructions reminding me to, “pedal! Steer! Watch out for that bus!” Yeah, that bus almost got me. I crashed into the flimsy barriers they have defining the bike lane from the road and a bus almost took me out. No wonder Hubby promised he would never follow me on bike tours, again. No worries, I think the next e-bike tour suggestion will be met a hard “no” and an alcohol induced rendition of Life in the Fast Lane. I landed on the barrier as he was shouting at me to, “get up!” Do you know how hard it is to hoist a bike from the ground while your leg is still ensconced on the other side of the metal frame while trying desperately to stay alive from all the cars, bikes and scooters careening at you? Gee, that was fun. Almost invigorating as I felt the bus breeze my face when it flew by.

I managed to get back on the bike and willed myself to be calm. The self-talk was alive and well with me berating myself for not being able to do a simple task like ride a bike. I have a new appreciation for cyclists, and I promise to not give you the finger every time you cut me off when I’m driving my nice safe car.

We continued winding through the streets until we finally hit a section of wide road that led us through parkland. It was quieter and more conducive to my kind of riding. Nothing to crash into or avoid, and wide enough for even me to skirt around pedestrians. I was getting the hang of this. We stopped at an outdoor bar, where we bought water and parked our bikes. We didn’t need the alcohol to add to the whole, I’m-gonna-die-in-the-streets-of-Spain-on-a-fucking-bike thing going on. We crossed the street and headed into the funicular, a gondola ride to the top of the mountain to take in the views of the city. No bikes allowed. Thank, fuck.

After the ride, we headed back to the bikes and the thought struck me. I had to ride back to the bike shop, back through the busy streets and steady traffic. The thoughts of me having to dodge buses and bikes had me feeling stressed. My arms tensed and my hands were sweaty. As I was heading downhill on a dirt road out of the park, we were met with construction. I tried to slow down in the narrow passage between a fence and a dump truck but sped up instead. I had nowhere to go, and I panicked. I veered left and straight into the chain link fence. What was that?! My inability to maintain any sense of balance and direction was frustrating. I backed out of the fence, with the construction dudes looking at me questioningly. I half-smiled and said something like, “Who put that fence there?” and started again. It was a hill and I felt like I was careening to my death. Really, it was a little slope. An incline worthy of a slight speed bump. It was fine. I was fine. But I was still rattled.

_{I see you, Buddy! Stay in your lane! Ugh.}

Once I navigated my way out of the park, I took a deep breath and eyed the traffic. Fuck. It looked like the Grand Prix had descended upon the city. How am I going to ride my little special needs bike through that?!

I started again and maintained myself until we stopped to look at the cotton trees. Yes, cotton trees brought in for the Olympics. I was half listening, to be honest. I was still panicking over the traffic and my fatal attraction to speeding buses. We started again, only this time the way to the bike shop seemed shorter. We turned a corner, and we were back on the narrow cobblestone street of the shop. How did that happen? I didn’t die?! I didn’t get run over by a bus or suffer traumatic brain injury from getting sideswiped by a runaway scooter?! I had conquered the bike! I was victorious! I couldn’t get that bike away from me fast enough and gladly handed it back over to Mirko who I assured, “would never see me on any of those things again.” I think he was as relieved as I was. Virtually unscathed but traumatized, I survived the great Barcelona Bike Ride from Hell. I then went drinking.

The next episode will be my great escape from the hateful trains in France and how they wanted me dead. Or at the very least, maimed. Thanks, France.

Yay me.

Kayjai

I am your inconvenient truth

Tag Archives: Life