Riding A Bike

Taming the mane is like riding a bike; a pain in the ass

I was thinking of curse words in Spanish, and after coming up with a couple I remembered who I should thank for expanding my foul mouth vocabulary. Pam, the security officer at my high school. She roamed the campus, well actually rode around campus on a bike, chasing down kids who were escaping school to pick up Taco Bell and spend their afternoon smoking weed while watching Golden Girls. Pam was renowned for talking shit with the Mexicans, and she'd make crowds of people laugh while telling everyone off in an alcohol induced, Spanglish ranting of curse words.

Pam had a partner named Mr. Rich. He did not ride a bike, but strolled. He looked like Charles Bukowski except six and a half feet tall. They were both frightening as hell because if they caught you ditching school, well, there'd be hell to pay.
I remember running down the side of the high school mountain, to jump into a getaway car on the road below, and seeing Pam on her wheels then hearing her yell, "Stop." I ran faster, certain she'd catch a trench coat mafia kid before she'd get to me. The trench coat kids were getting serious shit at the time because of Columbine. She'd snatch up one of them, as they were talking about Dungeons and Dragons, or computers, and forget all about the kids that got away. As long as the forged absence note was in the attendance office by next morning, no one gave two shits.

Pam made riding a bike look easy. I was never good at riding a bike. My little brother's training wheels were off before mine, and at 8 years old, I finally worked up the courage to take them off, screaming the entire ride that I was on a death trap, until I finally toppled over, from trying to balance on a bike while riding at 4 miles per hour. Once on vacation in Belize, I rode a bike right into a moving truck and fell on the ground, stoping traffic and my heart. Had I not been completely embarrassed, I'd have realized how close I came to killing myself, and wet my chonies.
So the phrase, "It's like riding a bike," doesn't make sense to me, since it really means, "It's horribly difficult, requiring mental aerobics and olympic athletic ability."
I had a job interview today for a position requiring SQL experience. I worried that my SQL whizkid status might have faded since I haven't used that part of my brain in almost ten years (already!?). After doing a SQL refresher, online quizzes, I think I refurbished my old memories enough to get me through the interview. I was pretty nervous beforehand because "panel interview" made me think of parole boards; me in a folding chair opposite a boardroom table of stern looking people who want me to eat a bowl of hot doo. It turned out to be a rather friendly environment, it was almost fun.
The position sounds cool. It's not my ideal, which is working East Coast hours from my home office, being a Statistics Professor at the community college, working as a janitor at Country Day so my kids can go to school with the elite, or doing statistical studies on super natural phenomena, like winning the lotto or effects of excessive masturbation. It's not asking too much, should be like riding a bike, err, um, I mean riding a, umm, never mind. Pinche pendeja callate tu boca. Regardless, it will be great to use my statistics skills again. I'll be better prepared when all that masturbation data falls in my lap.

Lady, you're bonkers