Act On It

I was really peeved last fall when my ex-boyfriend went out and bought a motorcycle about five minutes after I said I was thinking about getting one. After all, I'm the one who watches "Sons of Anarchy" with near religious zeal. I'm the one whose 80-year-old dad just bought his second Harley. I'm the one with disposable income, a free spirit, a love of the open road, and a rebellious streak about ten kilometers wide. I've been saying I'm going to get a motorcycle some day for the past twenty years. How dare he beat me to it?

After fuming about it for an unbecoming amount of time, I came to my senses. (A) This is neither a reality TV show nor a competitive sport - though wouldn't it be funny if it was? The crazy middle-aged person who can demonstrate the depth and breadth of a midlife crisis the fastest wins an all expenses paid first class trip in a Humvee limo to the Emergency Room - deluxe private suite included! And (B) I've been all talk and no action for more than two decades. I was jealous of his spontaneity, his confident follow-through - and right at the onset of winter, no less.

This is what my drop looked like - inside my head.

It was pretty friendly of him to let me take his bike for a spin on the Richland Mall's rooftop parking lot four months later. It'd been more than a decade since my dad gave me that crash course on his first hallowed Harley, so I was a tad unsteady and nervous. Nevertheless, I tooled around on my ex-turned-boy-pal's Vulcan and got it up to a whopping 15 miles an hour. Then I braked to a stop and dropped it. He was a really good sport about the dented mirror and the fuel leaking everywhere. As he pulled the bike upright and waded through the gas puddle, he was actually grinning. "What did you think? You want one now, don't you?"

What I wanted was to cave to the fear that I didn't know what I was doing, that I'm too small and weak to hold a motorcycle upright, and that I should forget about this ridiculous fantasy of mine once and forever. But that would mean going down in history as She-Who-Was-All-Talk-And-No-Action - by far the least appealing choice. Thus, the intoxicating mixture of his enthusiasm and my fear inspired me to sign up for a weekend long beginner's course that very night. Then I got myself a learner's permit and googled "Top Ten Motorcycles for Short Women."

There would be action, by god, and slightly less talk.

Ride It

The day I finally get my first ride on a Harley Davidson

Is just like I dreamed it would be. A flaxen-haired me

On the back of a hog – arms wrapped around

A lean rebel of a man who drives me crazy.

Springtime in the Rockies – wind pushing tears

Out of my eyes – roar of big engine obliterating

Everything – hell – even the tulips bend back

In the gust created by our passing.

Only problem is – that rebel? It’s my dad

The retired math teacher – more Henry Fonda than Peter

In the midst of a midlife crisis about thirty years late.

At 70 he saved up his pension checks

For the bike and all the accessories. He’s got

The black leather jacket with the flaming orange logo

Emblazoned across the back

And the official HD bandana he can wear 
Gypsy style to keep his hair impeccably in place.

He removed the Sportster’s muffler

So that when he peels out of his driveway

He can be sure every one of his neighbors turns

To check him out. Of course they look – he lives in

A retirement village – they’re making sure

He obeys the speed limit of 10 miles per hour.

But we are off on a sunny blue highway

Helmet-free – rumble of big engine between my thighs

The smell of suede and Russian olive trees

That line the Gunnison River in my nose

And it is perfection.

NOT REALLY. I always wanted my first ride on a Harley

To involve a guy named Thor with long hair and earrings

Beefy biceps and a fringed leather vest.

We’d meet in a bar called the Salt Lick

Our eyes would lock over shots of Jack Daniels 
We’d split together on his big loud chopper

In some Easy Rider reverie bound for New Orleans.

Then my dad pulls over in a deserted parking lot

Climbs off and says in that tough guy voice 
He’s been cultivating “Stay put, kid. It’s your turn.”

He shows me the clutch – and the throttle – and the brake
Then how to shift and I’m thinking

What? You want me to … what?
But oh yeah    this is the man who
Took the training wheels off my first bike

And pushed me down the driveway

The one to recognize my fears

And insist I overcome them so….

First – I do a couple of slow elaborate figure-8s

Stall twice and almost lay it down

But then I’m ready for second gear.

I surprise myself with the pop of the clutch

And the rev of the engine and the speed –

I’ve gotta be doing at least … 20 –

And my hair’s streaming back

And there are tears burning my eyes

As 400 pounds of steel and leather feel

As light as the puffy clouds on which I’m soaring.

I don’t need Thor. I’ll ride myself to New Orleans.

Flip It

photo by Bruce Fingerhood.

Flipping Houses

It’s easier than you think

Just fall in love with his potential

Pretend he’s not a fixer-upper

Try to solve him like a simple toilet clog

A faucet with an untraceable leak

Grab a plunger and a screwdriver

Get grease under your nails

Get shit on your shoes  
                                                                                                                

Bang ineffectually with your hammer

And your forehead

Until you are so weary

You have no choice

But to give up and fall in love

With the next impossible project

This time don’t try to change anything

Except have a go at pulling up

That stained carpet

Knock out a wall

Put in a skylight

To illuminate everything he

Never wanted anyone to see

Watch him duck behind the couch

Under the dining room table

To stay out of your

Piercing bright light

Then you

Blinded with headache

From all that

Pointless installation

Give up and use

Your ever expanding tool belt

As you fall in love

With the next unfeasible project

Do this for 25 years

Discover it’s not all that different

From sticking with your first home

Watching it fall down around you

But staying in it for the children

Or because you said you would

Love   honor    cherish

Till death do you part

And now it’s not fit to live in

Either way it’s hard work

And you’re no quitter

You’re just not willing

To beat a dead habit

With your wrench

Or your sledgehammer

Or your forehead anymore

Everybody’s just getting scarred and bloody

So face it

The time has come

You’ve got to do-it-yourself

Fix up your own damn house girl

Find what’s concealed

Underneath that wreckage

Clamber over it

Alone for a change

Toil hard

Clean up after yourself

And when the work is through

Pop open a beer

Lean back in the hammock

Heave a long contented sigh

And look around

At the dream house

You taught yourself

How to build

Look Into It

He seems nice enough...

As promised, my dermatologist referred me to a specialist. Soon a nurse called to schedule my appointment with the most highly acclaimed dermatologic surgeon in the Midlands. “Do you know about the Mohs procedure?” she asked. I did not, but since I am a youthful techno-savvy lady with the Internet at my fingertips, I lied and told her that I did.

Should you ever find yourself doing research into the Mohs procedure, stick to the Mayo Clinic summary: "layers of cancer-containing skin are progressively removed and examined until only cancer-free tissue remains." It sounds friendly, worded like that; the type of thing that'll leave nothing worse than the mark left by the initial biopsy.

One must resist, under all circumstances, the impulse to search "Mohs" in google images. No matter how badly one wants a picture to go with one's blog post.

This being a PG-13 blog, I won't horrify you with the results of my search. Words alone will have to suffice. I saw things you wouldn't find in a Freddy Krueger movie. Gouges out of cheeks. Half a missing scalp. Nose removals, lips torn asunder. Quentin Tarantino ain't got nothin' on this Mohs guy, let me tell you.

Larry, Curly, and MOHs.

Dr. Frederic Mohs invented the microsurgery in 1938 - and no, he wasn't from Nazi Germany. A procedure this tried and true seems good enough to not lose sleep over, especially considering that I'm not special. One in five people get basal cell carcinoma, and Skincancer.org says comfortingly "it's rarely fatal." Ignore the part about how it can be "highly disfiguring" and you can rest your weary head.

(For some reason, I can't get "The Three Stooges" out of my weary head. Like Mohs, the Stooges premiered in the 1930's. Their first episode was called "Woman Haters." Coincidence? I think not.) (This digression is brought to you by the Vanity Research Institute, where people who claim to be aging gracefully instead wantonly fret about as yet nonexistent facial scars.)