Well, it's the time of year when I usually go off on my annual anti-Christmas rant. Don't worry. Nothing has changed. I wouldn't want to give you the impression that I have sought help for my holiday hatred and anxiety that wakes me up in the middle of the night with my heart beating out of my chest and the inability to catch my breath. I wish I could say I was kidding. I need some sort of support group or medication or both. I'm one car with antlers and a Rudolph nose away from a full blown psychotic break. Speaking of cars dressed up like Rudolph, one almost clipped me on Clinton Rd. on Sunday when I was on the bike. Fitting, right? It could be payback from when I ran over Santa a couple of years ago.


Ringwood through a schweaty lens

I decided to escape to Skyline over the weekend for some quality alone time with my bike. I had a couple of goals: Release some of my Christmas crazy lady and do a quality post-injection wrist shake-down. Check and check. Unfortunately, the reduced crazy part didn't last that long, but the wrist fared well. If I can ride there with only a few whimpers, I'll be okay. I just hope there is ample time before I need the next round of injections.

Tonight instead of making my usual peppermint brownies for my work potluck, I'm making a batch of my "Power Balls". No I'm not doing it as a sick joke or punishment. I was actually asked to make them by a couple of people who were brave enough to try them. They are made to be in a jersey pocket or shoved into a sports bra during a ride. I never really thought I would be making them for co-workers. I could have made them into bars to make them more party appropriate, but then I won't be able to giggle when people talk about my tasty balls.

They look down right offensive and like some sort of fecal matter. They're good. Really.