Author: Robyn

If you belonged to the notify list, you’d already know that I walked just under 21 miles on Friday, limped into camp, took a shower and was headed for the food when I gracefully stumbled over my own feet and twisted my left ankle. And since there was going to be no more walking in BitchyLand, I came home, where I sat with my poor ankle elevated and called for Fred and the spud to do my bidding.

"Farm boy, fetch me some ice! Farm boy, fetch me a diet coke, chop-chop!" rang throughout the household. And there was tons of whining and moaning and bitching about how much my ass muscles and calves and hamstrings and, basically, every muscle in my body hurt.

Ah, the joy that is living with me…

Anyway, the ankle’s feeling much better, and I’ve taken the one roll of film I used up at the 3Day (though technically for me, I guess it was a 1Day) to be developed, so there’ll be no more entries until I get those entries put up, hopefully before the end of the week.

And now I’m off to read and sit with my ankle elevated, and demand that Fred wait on me hand and foot.

 

—–]]>

I slept like a rock. I think I fell asleep less than five minutes after I laid down, and I barely moved all night long, except for the two times I woke up to roll over and fall back asleep. It’s amazing what sleeping poorly three nights in a row, followed by a 20.92 mile walk and a twisted ankle will do, isn’t it?

Miz Poo was happy to have me home, as evidenced by the fact that she curled up behind my knees and slept there (I assume) all night long.

Around 8:30, Fred came in to see if I was still alive and to suggest I roll my lazy ass out of bed (no nasty emails to the man, please. He was joking. I think.). I tossed back the covers and sat up.

Holy mother of god. Every fucking muscle in my body was screaming. My ankle was probably the least painful part of my body. Muscles I didn’t even know existed were making me aware of their existence. My feet hurt so badly I could barely walk, aside from the sprained ankle. I took a long, hot bath, concentrating the jets on the worst of my aching muscles – namely, my thigh and ass muscles, if you must know – and still when I got out of the bathtub I could barely walk. I dressed in sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt, and settled on the couch with my ankle elevated and with the occasional bag of ice on it, and called for Fred to do my bidding while I read magazines and snoozed.

As the day went on, I popped aspirin and did a lot of sleeping, but my muscles continued to hurt, and so I didn’t move around much. Thinking back, I’m wondering if I would have even been able to walk Saturday, with all the pain I was in, ASIDE from the ankle.

At one point, I sent out an email to the notify list whining and moaning about how god doesn’t like a braggart, to which many, many people responded, saying things like "Shut up and quit your whining. You walked 21 miles, didn’t you?!" and "There’s always next year!" How I love my readers. Especially those who can outbitch the bitchypoo. 🙂

When I woke up Sunday (I know this entry is under Saturday’s date, but I’m not going to make a completely different entry for Sunday, when all I’m going to say is – ) the pain had moved from my feet and legs, to my back, shoulders and neck. I was still moving in a hobble-like manner, but once I took a long, hot shower I loosened up a tad, and was able to move a little better. There was still plenty of whining and moaning about how much I hurt, and commanding Fred to fetch and carry for me, but by Sunday evening I was almost walking normally, and my ankle was only the slightest bit sore.

I was a little sad when I looked at the clock at 3:00 and said "Closing ceremony’s going on right now…", because that would have been an awesome thing to see.

Monday, I was only the slightest sore in my shoulders, back and ankle. I continued to not do a lot aside from beginning work on my journal entries recapping the 3Day (the 1Day!).

So, that’s that. At this point, I think I’m probably going to crew a 3Day (not necessarily in Atlanta; perhaps some other location) in 2002, and then hit the Atlanta 3Day in 2003, and actually walk all those 60 miles. By then, if I’m not at my goal weight I’ll eat my hat and walk the damn thing anyway. I’ve lost a lot of weight since last year, but I’m still carrying around a lot more than I should – and more than I will be by the end – and that can’t have helped, even though I trained like hell.

Thank you all for your kind words, and for sponsoring me, of course. I appreciate it more than you guys can ever know.

—–]]>

The recap of Day One is hugely long, and it took me longer to write the recap than it took to WALK the freakin’ thing, so if you want to simply skim the text and check out the pictures, be my guest. It’s not like there’s going to be a test (what color sportsbra was I wearing?), and in fact not like I’ll even know one way or the other, so do whatcha wanna do, yo. (I’m sorry. That declaration seemed to call for a "yo".)

I didn’t sleep terribly well last night, worried that neither of my alarm clocks would go off, and so I woke up at least once an hour to check the time, afraid that I’d overslept.

Of course, I didn’t oversleep, and when the alarm went off at 4:00, I leapt out of bed and ran to the shower like the hounds of hell were after me.

I had no blowdryer – there are no electrical outlets on the 3Day, you know – so I didn’t have to mess with my hair, and after showering, dressing, and checking 345,000 times that I had everything I needed in my fanny pack (spf 30 sunblock, lipbalm, needle, athletic tape, camera, extra film, water bottle, cell phone (not for use during the walk!), visine, bodyglide, and wallet containing photo id, credit cards, and cash) and on my body (yellow coolmax shirt and black coolmax shorts; coolmax sports bra (white); coolmax underwear, thorlo socks, New Balance 1120 running shoes, anti-pronation inserts, cotton 3Day shirt, yellow windbreaker/ rain jacket, sunglasses, bright yellow cap), and checking to be sure I hadn’t left anything behind (I hadn’t), it was 4:25. I sat and tried to relax while watching TV until 4:40, when I went to check out and look to see if the bus to opening ceremonies had arrived.

There were other 3Dayers wandering around, some checking out, some partaking of the hotel-provided breakfast, and others just standing around chatting. I talked with one woman who said that it had been really noisy right outside her hotel room and she hadn’t gotten much sleep.

The busses were on the other side of the hotel, and I handed my luggage to the busdriver, who had offered to store it for me, and got on the bus, which was only about one-third full. Eventually a woman sat down beside me, but we didn’t talk much, and I just kind of zoned while listening to the conversations around me.

I didn’t get a picture of the luggage trucks, so I stole this one from the Pallotta page, so you’d have an idea of what it looked like. Luckily, my bag was bright screaming yellow (you’re surprised?), and easy to spot among the other bags.

The bus left exactly at 5:01 (we’d been warned repeatedly that the busses would be leaving the host hotels at 5:00 sharp), and we arrived at Lake Lanier half an hour or so later. We were dropped off near the luggage trucks (my assigned luggage and tent number was C-55, so I had to look for the "C" truck), and I dropped off my bag and headed off to breakfast, which was taking place by the main stage, which was also where the opening ceremony would be taking place. The breakfast provided was of the continental variety, with danishes, various fruits, coffee, juices, bagels, and muffins available. I grabbed a raspberry danish, orange juice, and a banana, and sat down out of the way of the people walking around, on the asphalt parking lot, near a crowd of other women who were doing the same. I perused the "3Day Today", a one-page daily newspaper handed out at breakfast that included an inspirational story, the route length (20.92 miles), the location of each Grab & Go and Pit Stop (more about those later), the camp hours, an elevation map, announcements, and all sorts of interesting stuff.

You can see the stage way off in the distance.

After eating, I visited the porta-potty, grabbed some water, watched the people around me (there was much squealing and hugging going on), and paced nervously while waiting for the opening ceremony to start. When I saw the beginning of the sunrise, I slathered every uncovered part of me with my 30 spf sunblock (see, Jayne? I WAS wearing sunblock!), slathered all the chafe-prone parts of me with bodyglide, and then paced back and forth some more.

At 7:05, an incredibly cheerful woman came onstage – I couldn’t really see her, since I was pretty close to the back of the crowd, near the starting gate where the walk would start. We had a 5-minute group stretch, and since I couldn’t really hear her very well, I just did what everyone else around me was doing, which included a lot of arm-swinging and marching in place. Once she left the stage, someone came out with a white flag, and they played a pre-recorded poem read by Dan Pallotta entitled "I Surrender", and someone carried a white flag. Again, since I was so far back I could only hear about every other line of the poem.

Someone from Pallotta Teamworks came out and made a speech (and started it by saying "I’m not going to make a speech". Heh), the subject of which completely escapes me at this moment. Unfortunately, I didn’t have a notebook with me to make notes, and so five days later I only remember that there was a speech made. I do remember that we were told that the 2,700ish walkers there had raised $4.4 million between us, which is just incredible.

Finally, another person from Pallotta Teamworks came out and recited this speech, which starts by asking everyone to hold the hand of the person next to them. Holding hands with two women I didn’t know, listening to the speech – and I could hear every word of it – I don’t think there was a dry eye in the audience by the end of the speech, mine included. It sounds cheesy, but I felt as if, for once, I was part of a great thing bigger than myself and what I brought to the event. There was silence once the speech was over, and we watched the circle of survivors walk from the stage to the back of the crowd.

And then, we were off. Across the parking lot, down the hill, this great mass of walkers went, applauded and cheered on by volunteers and crew. I took pictures of the unending stream of walkers ahead of me and behind me but honestly, the pictures don’t accurately describe the awesome mass of 2,700 walkers walking. It was a wave of humanity as far as the eye could see, and the sight defied description, except to say that it was incredible.

There were walkers – the greater majority of whom were women – on all sides of me, of all sizes, shapes, and ages. I settled into a comfortable pace and listened to the conversations around me (I’m a total voyeur, if you hadn’t guessed), and there was usually something fairly interesting to listen to.

Ahead of me for a while were three walkers wearing New York 3Day shirts. The New York 3Day was originally scheduled to take place beginning September 14th, and for obvious reasons it was rescheduled for the end of October. These three walkers had decided to walk the Atlanta 3Day, instead. One of them had a walking cast on her left leg, intent on walking at least a few miles each day. I heard later that she hopped on the sweep van at the first pit stop, which means that she made it 3.34 miles. Pretty good for a woman with a broken leg, I think.

One of the many cheering stations we passed, where people were holding up signs and, y’know, cheering.

Also ahead of me for a while was a redhead with a zebra-print-covered prosthetic leg, built especially for her to walk the 3Day, with shock absorbers on the bottom. She lost her right leg to bone cancer 21 years ago, and she was trucking along at a pretty good pace, though I did eventually pass her.

That’s right, I was occasionally passing people. Can you believe it? I was amazed at myself.

Behind me, I heard the story of a woman whose company was supposed to sponsor her for $1,000, and then she got laid off, and they reneged. She was $850 from the $1,900 minimum, and she was planning to self-sponsor the $850. Pretty determined, wasn’t she, to kick in the $850 when she didn’t have a job? Anyway, she said that when she was standing in the Pledge line, she told someone her story, and before she knew it, people were passing their extra pledges to her.

I hadn’t realized you could DO that, pass your pledges to people who hadn’t met their minimum! If I’d known, I would have handed off the $300 in pledges I’d brought with me.

We passed more than one kudzu-covered hill – and you KNOW how much I love the kudzu! I should have had someone take my picture in front of it, but it was the beginning of the walk, and I didn’t want to stop for silly reasons like having my picture taken with kudzu. One woman launched into a long lecture on the history and growth of kudzu, which I half-listened to, while wondering to myself just how damn hilly this walk was going to be.

Fairly hilly, was the answer. It appears that northern Georgia is kinda hilly. Who’d’ve thunk it? And did I train on hills? Did I follow the advice of my 3Day book and be sure to get some hills in, huh? Well no, of course I didn’t. Nary a hill did I walk during all those miles upon miles of training, which I believe snags me the title of Dumbass Supreme.

Anyway, after a few gentle hills, we came upon Grab & Go A, which was located at mile 1.5.

Brief note, here. Grab & Gos provide the walkers with water, gatorade, and port-a-potties. Pit Stops, on the other hand, are larger and provide snacks, tables of stuff to treat your blisters, sunblock, bug spray, and at the later pit stops, there were medical tents (though now that I think about it, there may have been medical tents at all of the pit stops – I just didn’t notice them at the earlier ones). Some of them had themes – one had a military theme, where crew members were dressed in camouflage and yelling things like "Drop and give me ten stretches!" Another crew member was handing out red, white, and blue ribbon pins, which was neat. Snacks at the Pit Stops ranging from the sweet (cookies) to the chewy (granola bars) to the fruity (bananas, oranges) to the salty (pretzels and chex mix).

I made a stop at the port-a-potty – except for one memorable exception, the port-a-potties weren’t bad, aside from the fact that they were, y’know, PORT-A-POTTIES, but they were clean and there was hand sanitizer available all over the place – and then filled up my water bottle with a 50% water, 50% gatorade mixture, and was on my way.

Just so you know, I LOATHE gatorade, but I didn’t want to become hyponatremic, so I drank the damn stuff. See what a good girl I am?

One of the many traffic guys. I don’t know if he was crew, or a volunteer, or what, but these guys were everywhere.

After the Grab & Go, we hit a few serious hills, during which I noticed that I had the tendency to go faster uphill and slower downhill. There were crew members manning each intersection, directing traffic and watching to be sure we wouldn’t get run over, and at one of the intersections, a biker-type guy repeatedly yelled "Whazzzup?" as he waved us through, which was pretty funny. Sweep vans drove by every few minutes, as did cops on motorcycles, some of them blasting music, some of them yelling encouragement, and some simply waving.

One of the many Grab ‘n Goes. See the kid’s pool next to that woman wearing the gray crew shirt (on the left)? That pool was filled with ice and bottles of water and gatorade.

Pit Stop A was at 3.34 miles, and it was pretty packed. There was a long line for the table of snacks, but rather than joining the line, a LARGE number of people just kept cutting in. Not one to bitch out loud, I kept my peace and simply waited my turn. I grabbed a couple of orange quarters and a granola bar, some water and gatorade to replenish my supply, stopped and stretched for 5 minutes, and then was on my way again.

It was repeated over and over again that we were to stop and stretch 5 minutes for every hour of walking. I was diligent about stretching as often as possible, and I thank my lucky stars that I did – I can’t imagine how I would have felt Saturday morning if I hadn’t.

All morning long we alternated between sidewalk walking or, when there was no sidewalk, walking single-file on the thinnest little piece of asphalt at the side of the road. As time passed, the crowd thinned out as the faster walkers moved ahead and the slower ones moved behind. I would venture a guess that I was walking right around the middle of the pack, because I made it to each pit stop with at least 1 1/2 – 2 hours to spare before it’s closing time.

Somewhere between Pit Stop 2 and Pit Stop 3, a Traffic crew guy told us "You’re at mile 9.5, and lunch is at mile 11.5!" Damn, I got excited. Only two miles, and I could sit and kick my shoes off, eat lunch, massage my feet, change my socks, and just chill for a little while. Woohoo!

Well, that crew guy was a BIG FAT LIAR, because about a mile later, we hit Pit Stop 3, where we were informed that no, NOW we were at mile 9.4, and lunch was at mile 11.5. I dug the 3Day Today out of my fanny pack and verified that. Grrrr.

At some point, we passed an elementary school, where a crowd of kids were standing by the sidewalk, each of them waiting to give us a high-five and to cheer us on. A small group of boys told me I could take their picture if I wanted.

It was between Pit Stop 3 and the lunch stop that my feet started to hurt. Since I hadn’t trained on hills, that means I hadn’t gone either up OR down hills, and I’ve apparently got some sort of weird way of walking down hills that makes the bottoms of my feet start to really burn after I’ve walked down 63 hills. Time kind of stretched out like taffy, and when I was sure it had been at least 45 minutes, I glanced at my watch to find that it had been 7.

For future walkers, if you’re a watch-checker like I am, I’d suggest you either leave the watch at home, or stick it in a difficult-to-reach portion of your fanny pack.

Finally, FINALLY, I was thrilled to see that we’d reached mile 11.47, and I could have kissed the "Lunch Stop" sign and the crew chick sitting in the lawn chair informing us that lines for margaritas formed to the right.

Unfortunately, she was joking.

There were two lines for lunch, both of them 50 or so people long, and I joined the closest one. They both moved pretty quickly, and it wasn’t long until I got to sit down on a curb, kick off my shoes and socks, and eat lunch. As I sat there, the lunch line grew quickly longer, until it stretched past me. Everyone walking by eyeballed my lunch hungrily, and many people asked me how it was. I went from actually answeri ng, to just giving them the thumbs up and smiling, since my mouth was full most of the time.

It wasn’t bad, consisting of a grilled chicken sandwich, asparagus salad (which was a little odd), grapes, doritos, and oreos. I think I’m forgetting something, but that was most of it, anyway. The sandwich was a little dry, but with packets of mayo and mustard added, you hardly noticed.

Once I finished eating, I massaged my aching feet, put on new socks, put on more sunblock, and saddled up to head into the next 9.5 miles. I headed to the nearest trash can to toss my lunch trash, and as I turned away, I was approached by a grinning blond woman.

Again, NOT reader Susan from North Carolina.

"Hiiiiiiii…." she said with a half-smile. "Where are you from?!"

"Alabama…" I said warily.

"WHERE in Alabama?"

"Huntsville…"

"I think we live in the same subdivision!" she exclaimed. She said the name of her subdivision, and damned if it wasn’t the same as mine. She went on to say that she’d been seeing me walk by her house for months, and she’d been meaning to come out and ask if I would be walking in the 3Day, but never got a chance to. We chatted for a few more moments, and then she went to stand in line for lunch, since she’d just gotten there. And I headed off to do some more walking.

I took this picture especially for the grammar nazi I live with. "Each of you are a lifesaver", says the sign on the side of the van.

I would say it was about 5 miles later that I started seriously considering flagging down the next sweep van that came along. My feet hurt like hell – much worse than they EVER thought about hurting when I was training – and I’m fairly certain that I wasn’t walking much faster than 2.5 miles per hour, and that only through force of will.

I began sitting down at each and every Pit Stop and Grab & Go to kick off my shoes and massage my feet. I’d developed blisters on the bottoms of my pinky toe and the toe next to it on each foot, and I wrapped athletic tape around each blistered toe. The arches of my feet were aching seriously, and all I could do was massage my feet. It became more and more difficult to get up and put my shoes back on, but I did.

Making sure we obey those traffic laws…

In retrospect, I’d like to go back and smack the hell out of myself. Would it have been better to NOT walk the last 4 or 5 miles? I think so. I think my sponsors (and readers) would have understood. But nooooo, I had to push myself to walk every mile of that 20.92 miles, whether it hurt or not.

Between Grab & Go E, at 16.75 miles and Pit Stop 5, at 17.86 miles, the route went from a nice, wide sidewalk on a busy road to a tiny little piece of pavement at the side of a busy road. It was horrible, and at some point, it began to rain. I must have started to zone out, because I stepped directly over a dead rabbit and didn’t even realize that it was there until the women behind me threw a minor "Ew! Dead rabbit!" gagfest.

We passed subdivisions with huge houses, and people stood in various locations to cheer us on. People starting asking with increasing frequency if I was okay, to which I responded with a nod and a thumbs up.

I asked someone to take a picture of me sometime before lunch. The black thing hanging behind my butt is my jacket. I tied the sleeves around my waist shortly after we began walking. The woman taking the picture insisted on the cheesy "thumbs up" pose.

I didn’t bother to stop at Pit Stop 5, since I had plenty of water/ gatorade, and all I wanted was to get the hell to camp.

Three kids standing by one of the big subdivisions gave me high-fives when I walked by, and told me I was two miles from the end. I wanted to cry – hadn’t I already walked, like, thirty miles? It sure felt like it.

I stopped at the last Grab & Go, located at mile 19.48, and dropped into an empty chair. A few feet away, a tall, thin woman was sitting at the base of a tree, crying. They radioed to the nearest sweep van to come pick her up, and when it got there, they had to convince her to get on. She needed help standing up, and as she limped across the grass assisted by two crewpeople, she quipped "I’m being kind by allowing others to help me!" My kinda gal, laughing through the tears. Several people boarded the van behind her, and god did I want to board the van as well, to sit in air-conditioned comfort that last mile and a half to camp. But the competitive devil on my shoulder wouldn’t hear of it. "A mile and a half? That’s less distance than home to the spud’s school and back!"

So off I hobbled. Busses of high-school kids went by, the kids hanging out the window and sincerely cheering us on, not being sarcastic or making fun of us the way I probably would have when I was a teenager. Or maybe they WERE making fun of us, and it just went over my head.

We reached a stoplight not far from the last Grab & Go (though it seemed like forever, of course), and the Traffic crewguy said "You can see where they’re crossing the road and then you’re there!" He was right, we COULD see where the people ahead of us were crossing from the left side of the road to the right, and then walking into the entrance to the Chattahoochee National (State?) Park.

And then I was there. Well, I was at the ENTRANCE to the park, but what they don’t tell you is that once you walk through the entrance, there’s another half mile or so to get to the other side, where the camp is actually located.

It was like the walk that never ends. Yes, it goes on and on, my friends. Some people START-ed walking it, not knowing what it was, and now they’ll go on walking it forever, just because, it’s the WALK that never EEEEEENDS…

Ahem.

Anyway, after walking across the park, chatting all the while with another walker whose name I didn’t retain, we arrived to the entrance at camp, where I begged a nice woman to take my picture. Which she did. Note that I couldn’t even dredge up a full smile for the event. It was about 5:00, I think.

I stopped by the check-in desk to give them my number – so they can have some idea of who might be missing when it’s time for the walk to close, I guess – and I grabbed a bottle of water and headed for the tents off in the distance to grab my luggage and find my assigned tent plot. I was lucky in that area C was near the front, and C-55, my assigned plot, was near the front of that section, but I was unlucky in that my tentmate hadn’t shown up, so the tent hadn’t been put up. Since the last time I went camping was when I was, approximately, 14 years old, I hadn’t clue one how to put the tent together. I dumped everything out of the bag and looked at the directions, my tired brain trying to figure out exactly what they meant.

I didn’t get a picture of our tent city, so I stole this from the Pallotta page, so you’d have some idea of what it looked like.

Luckily a woman who apparently took that whole HumanKind – be both to heart wandered by, and assisted me, for which I was and continue to be incredibly grateful. I dragged my bag into the tent with me, sat down, and kicked off my shoes and socks. Ahhhh, bliss. I dug around in my b ag for the sandals I’d brought to wear around camp, and for my bag of Day Two clothes (I didn’t bring any pajamas or sweats to wear around camp, ’cause I was getting nervous about the weight of my bag – we were limited to 35 pounds). I also grabbed my bag of toiletries – toothbrush, toothpaste, brush, deodorant, and shampoo – and stood up.

Holy. Mother. Of. GOD. It was all I could do not to fall down, clutch my feet and beg for mercy. It felt like there were nails stabbing every tender inch of my poor, battered feet, and it wasn’t until I was barefoot that I actually realized how much cushioning my socks and sneakers had been providing. I forced myself to step out of the tent and head for the showers.

Which were waaaaaaaay on the other side of the tents. Remember how happy I was to be in section C? Well, the sections went from A to Z, and the shower trailers were beyond section Z. I literally hobbled to the showers, wincing with every step. Anyone watching me from behind would have thought I was in my 90s with a serious case of arthritis in my leg joints. I reached the shower trailers – there were, I think, 5 or so – and went to the towel tent to grab my daily ration of two towels.

The towels were not only scratchy, but also dishearteningly small. And with the size of my ass, I was pretty worried that I’d be flashing all and sundry in the locker room-type changing area.

I flung the towels over my shoulder and vowed not to think about it.

There were lines at all the shower trailers, and I joined the one that looked like it was comprised mostly of no-nonsense, no-fuss women. Each trailer was made up of two sides, and each side had, I think, 6 shower stalls. Our line moved pretty quickly, and before I knew it, I was walking slowly up the steps to the trailer door.

Rather than getting all stressed about trying to keep myself covered while undressing in the changing area, I just dropped my bag of clean clothes on a bench, and headed for an empty shower stall. The shower stalls were private, if you ignored the gap at each side of the curtain between the hallway and the shower stall, and I undressed quickly, then leaned out and tossed my dirty clothes under the closest bench. They were dirty, and I intended to stuff them in a ziplock bag, so who cared if they got wet?

There was plenty of hot shower water, and I tried to hurry, mindful of the line of women still waiting. Though I’d brought my own shampoo, someone had left a bottle of Avon shampoo in the stall, so I used that (there were tables of Avon shampoo, deodorant and lotion outside the shower trailers). There was a soap dispenser on the wall, but I used my own bar of Dove soap.

Once I was through showering, I wrapped one towel around my head and then tried to wrap the other around my body.

Ha. Since it wasn’t, like, a STRETCH towel or anything, there was a good part of me the towel wouldn’t cover. I turned the towel so that three or four inches of my side was showing, instead of my front or back, and went back out to the changing area. A problem with the changing area was that there was water out there about ankle-deep, and when you want to put dry clothes on, and keep them dry, it’s a difficult task.

And have you EVER tried to put on a sportsbra when you’re damp? In a humid environment? Leaning forward, with the towel kind of draped over my back to protect the eyes of those around me from my nekkidness, I attempted to put my sportsbra on. It got hung up in the back, in the one tiny little area that I couldn’t reach, and I couldn’t get it unrolled for love nor money. So I took it off, straightened it out, and tried again. Same result. Finally, pissed, I put my shirt on, because I was starting to get highly embarrassed about pretty much standing there butt-nekkid with the towel not really covering me. My shirt, I think I may have mentioned, was oversized for maximum coverage, so after I put the shirt on, I felt safe in dropping the towel and then putting on my underwear and shorts.

And then I had to make another go of it with the friggin’ bra. Since I’d dropped the towel on the FLOOR, like the dumbass I am, it was soaking wet. So I went for it. I yanked my shirt off and tried again with the bra. It hung up in the back this time, but not as high as it had before. This time, I was able to grab the back and straighten it out, then yank it down to the vicinity of where it was supposed to be. Then on with the shirt, and I grabbed all my stuff, stuffed it in my tote bag, and was out the door and hobbling down the steps, hanging onto the rickety stair rail for dear life as I went. I brushed my hair and teeth, then hobbled to the nearest tub of water bottles and grabbed a couple.

I’ll take a second here to say that the entire 3Day (well, at least the first day of it) was very well-run, and everyone seemed to know what they were doing, and did it well. One of the things they did awesomely was provide water and gatorade about every ten feet in camp. They were intent on hydrating you to within an inch of your life. After grabbing water, I made my zillionth trip to the port-a-potty, and headed back to my tent, with the intention of collapsing and downing half the (thankfully large) bottle of aspirin I’d brought with me. As I was hobbling along, my eye on the prize – ie, the "C" sign – someone turned and looked at me.

"Robyn!" she said, and I raised my eyebrows at her. "Are you Robyn?" she said, somewhat doubtfully.

"Yeah!" I said, and smiled. Too tired, I guess, to have the "Oh shit!" reaction.

Finally, I was face-to-face with reader Susan from North Carolina! She was very nice (well hell, she’s reading, what am I gonna say, she was a bitch from hell? No really, she WAS very nice. Now stop stalking me, Susan! :), and we stood and chatted for a few moments, me whining about my hurtin’ feet, and she basking in the glow that is bitchypoo. Finally, she ran off to join her friends (running like the hounds of hell were after her, I might add), and I resumed hobbling.

I’m kidding, of course. We had a very adult conversation, and Susan could barely tear herself away from me.

Anyway, I DID resume hobbling, and reached my tent, where I dug through my bag and pulled out my sleeping bag and sleeping pad. I downed several aspirin, glugged some water, and laid down for a few minutes while listening to the conversations around me. I was starting to get hungry – hard to believe, considering all the snacks I’d eaten – and I decided to head for dinner, call Fred after I’d eaten, and then perhaps go for a massage.

I was almost to the dinner tent when I changed directions and headed for the medical tent, intending to have them look at my feet and perhaps suggest something I could do to make them feel better. To my right, a small group of women were squealing and hugging each other, and I turned my head to watch them as I shuffled along.

Here’s where it gets embarrassing. Since I was watching them, I wasn’t watching where my feet were going, and I just kind of, well…

Okay, damnit. I TRIPPED OVER MY OWN FREAKIN’ FEET, stumbled, and as I stumbled, I twisted my left ankle, hard. I let out a pained "Oh!" as I stumbled, which caught the attention of a (cute little redheaded) crewguy, who came over to ask if I was okay.

I’m sure my face was bright flaming red as I told him I thought I’d hurt my ankle. I mean, to walk just under 21 miles in a day, and then hurt myself in CAMP, as I was WALKING across the LAWN, for the love of god? I mean, I’ve been walking for more than 32 years.

ONE WOULD THINK I’D KNOW HOW TO DO IT BY NOW.

With the (adorable little redheaded) crewguy’s assistance, and the assistance of an older, stronger crewguy (lucky thing, too, since I would have probably snapped the little redhead in half if I’d leaned on him too much), I made my way to the medical tent.

So, as you all probably know by now, I sprained my ankle. The lady in charge – I assume she was a doctor, since they were c alling her doctor somethingorother (see how I go through life picking up subtle clues like that?) – told me she didn’t think it was a serious sprain and wasn’t – thankyajeezus – a break (they can apparently tell by the amount of swelling and the lack of (shudder) grinding noises when they were moving my ankle around as to how badly I was hurt).

What’d I do when I realized there’d be no more walking for me? I burst into tears, of course. Which they responded to by giving me hugs. People from miles around were coming to hug me. And while I usually just hate being touched by strangers (what can I say? I like my space), it wasn’t terribly awful.

Let me just take a moment, also, to note that more than being touched by strangers, more than being naked in a changing room with skinny women in incredible shape, more than cleaning out the litter box, more than anything on god’s green earth, I HATE crying in front of other people, whether I know them or not. Ask Fred, he’ll tell you that I haven’t cried in front of him for years. Which is not to say that I don’t cry, I cry plenty, I just cry in private.

Oh, isn’t that a sad little statement. Poor Robyn, off crying by herself, isn’t that sad and pitiful?

I don’t know why I hate crying in front of other people so much, except that maybe it’s that attractive cry face, and perhaps also the loss of control, and have you ever tried to talk while crying? Not a pretty sight, nor a pretty sound.

So, there were hugs all around, and someone suggested that perhaps I could ride the sweep vehicles for the next two days and help out that way – I guess they have contingency plans for people who are idiot enough to trip over their own feet – but honestly, once I realized there’d be no more walking, all I wanted was to be home.

I called Fred on the cellphone, and started blubbering and sobbing like a fool once he answered, and let me say this for the man: he may poke fun of me just a LITTLE too often sometimes until I want to smack him upside his smug head, but when it comes down to brass tacks, he’s supportive, and he knows what to say to get me to calm down. So I calmed down, and got off the phone with him, and someone from the crisis team (Pallotta Teamworks thinks of everything, I swear) came to fill out an incident report, and when they asked me what happened, I thought for a moment.

Then I said, "I know that in the Safety & Orientation video the guy said that accidents happen because you don’t pay attention. So I was VERY careful to stay alert all day long!" The crisis lady nodded encouragingly. "And I was alert and paying attention when I was walking across the lawn to the medical tent! I really was!"

Pause.

"And?" the crisis lady said.

"I was just paying attention in the wrong direction!" I said.

They thought that was pretty funny, actually. We started a long discussion about where I was from and I told them that my car was at the DeVry park & ride, and the head crisis guy suggested that I FLY home and worry about my jeep later, then I suggested that since I’d hurt my left foot instead of my right, I should be able to drive home okay, and then HE offered that they could probably find someone to drive me home, and I countered with, "Uh, no. Get me to my car, and I’ll drive home", and he STRONGLY suggested that they send someone with me, and then I put my foot down and promised that if I got too tired or felt I couldn’t drive any further, I’d stop at a hotel. So they called a medical taxi for me to transport me to the park & ride, and helped me hobble to crisis control central (or whatever they called it) to wait for the taxi. The cute little redheaded crewguy went to my tent to get my bag, and they gave me a bag of ice, and an extra, to bring with my for my ankle. They suggested that I elevate my foot as much as possible during the drive, and I just nodded and refrained from pointing out that there wasn’t really a way TO elevate my foot in the driver’s seat of a Jeep.

I ended up waiting for, I think, about 45 minutes or so, but once I got in the taxi (it wasn’t really a taxi, actually. It was just a car driven by a local volunteer – apparently there was a mini fleet of them) it was only a matter of ten or fifteen minutes to get to DeVry. I hobble-skipped from the taxi to my jeep, while the driver lugged my bag over and tossed it in the back. Then she gave me a bottle of water and a handful of snacks for the drive home, gave me directions on how to get to Highway 400 South (she didn’t know that I had my set of anal directions all ready and waiting for me over the visor), and after I called Fred from the cellphone (I try not to talk on the cellphone while I’m driving, because I only have so much brainpower, and if I’m concentrating on talking on the phone, I’m probably not driving very well. Of course, I’m NEVER the best of drivers, anyway) I was on my way.

I had to stop once for gas, once for diet coke, and though I probably should have stopped around Birmingham for the night, it was only a little more than an hour from home, and I didn’t want to spend another night in a crappy hotel room. I wanted to be HOME, in my own bed, damnit! So I cranked the air conditioner to high, put on my Midnight Music cd (songs from the 80s, don’tchaknow), and around midnight I was home.

Thank god.

  —–

]]>

Day Zero officially began for me at 6 am, when the first of my two alarms went off (anal? me?). It continued when the second one went off two minutes later, and I rolled out of bed and headed for the shower. I was showered and ready to go (and dressed in the shorts and shirt I planned to wear on Day One, planning to wash them in the sink and let them drip-dry overnight after Day Zero was done) by 6:45, so I ate a blueberry pop-tart and watched the morning shows until 7:30.

Let’s do the math, shall we? The park & ride at DeVry was 15 miles from the hotel. Surely I’d not only get there in time, I’d have tons o’ time to spare. leaving an hour early, right?

Ha. Not.

I pulled in at 8:35. Lucky for me, the bus didn’t leave ’til 8:40. Whew.

The drive from Alpharetta to Lake Lanier took about an hour on the slow, lumbering bus. I passed the time by chatting with my seatmate, Melissa (or perhaps Michelle), from Kentucky (or maybe it was Louisiana). The bus driver missed the turn where he was supposed to drop us off and had to turn around, but he made little comments the whole while and had us laughing.

Some people are just too happy that early in the morning.

So we were dropped off at – believe it or not – the "drop off area", and got to walk down one hill and up another. First was check-in, where they pretty much checked your name off a list and looked to see if you’d sent back your medical form and made your minimum fund-raising ($1900, if I hadn’t mentioned).

Next was registration, where I signed a basic "If I’m a dumbass and fall face-first onto concrete and break my face, I won’t sue you or your mother or your mother’s poodle’s uncle’s sister" form. I got my laminated card with my walker number and an envelope with the tent assignment form and luggage tag.

After paying $8 for a towel service wristband (2 towels for each day provided by the towel crew, so you don’t have to bring your own towels), I headed off to stand in line to see the Safety & Orientation video. The line was probably 300 people long, but luckily they opened a second tent to show it. The tape was 50 minutes long, and was both funny and tear-provoking, and started off with Dan Pallotta reciting this poem.

People standing in line to see the Safety & Orientation video

Even though everyone was told at the beginning to turn off their cellphones, more than one went off during the tape. Grrr.

After, we filed out and got our orange wristbands to show we’d seen the tape.

The Pledge office.

Last, I was off to drop off the rest of my pledge forms and to stand in line for my tent assignment. Since I was without a tent mate, they assigned someone else who was alone to be my tent mate. I got my luggage tag and a couple of chips with my tent plot number on them.

Purple – towel service. Orange – safety & orientation video. Pink – identification wristband. Blue – shuttle. I also wore my watch on this wrist.

Altogether it took about 2 hours, and about noon I headed back to the dropoff area to board the shuttle back to my hotel. There were only 7 of us on the bus, and 4 of them were all kinds of peeved ’cause they’d thought the bus would bring them back to the park & ride at DeVry. "Very misleading!" one of them sniffed. Personally, I’d thought the literature was very straightforward – you were to leave your vehicle at the park & ride, catch the shuttle to Day Zero, catch another shuttle to your hotel, board the bus to Day One at 5 am Friday, and then after Closing Ceremony, catch yet another shuttle back to your vehicle at DeVry – but didn’t volunteer that.

At one point on the ride back to the hotel, one of the other women glanced over at me, and then her eyes got all wide.

"Oh shit!" I thought frantically, "It’s a reader I didn’t know was going to be here!", and my heart did a flip-flop.

Just so you know, I’d be perfectly thrilled to meet any of you guys, but when I’m taken by surprise my instinct is to turn tail and run.

"Ah shit!" I thought again, knowing that it wasn’t reader Susan from North Carolina, who I did know was around somewhere, since I’d seen a picture of Susan, and this blond chick wasn’t her.

Anyway, it turns out that she was eyeballing my Harry Potter Hogswart tote bag.

"Hogs…wart?" she said doubtfully. I launched into the explanation of how on Tuesday, all I’d wanted in this world was a plain tote bag, and couldn’t find one anywhere and then I’d stumbled upon the clearance section of Target and found the Harry Potter tote for $4.20.

They were spellbound, lemme tell you.

The bus is going to be here at 5 tomorrow morning. Bleh – that’s Atlanta time, even, which is an hour ahead of Huntsville time, so that’s just too freakin’ early. I’m going to go watch TV and read ’til dinnertime, when I’ll call the local delivery place and order me some food from Hooters, or maybe the chinese place. Then I’ll watch some trashy TV ’til bedtime, and maybe try to finish what I’m reading (Seduction in Death, by JD Robb, also known as Nora Roberts. Not a bad book to pass the time, but not addictive or anything).

Damn, I can’t wait to start walking.

I have no explanation for this picture, and don’t know why I’m grinning like a fool. It was in the hotel room, so I guess I snapped it when I got back from Day Zero. Notice that it’s once again a bad hair day.

4:20 pm, Fairfield Inn, Duluth, GA.

—–]]>

I guess if tomorrow’s Day Zero and Friday is Day One, that makes today Day Negative One.

It took me about 4 1/2 hours to get from home to Duluth, Georgia. My jaw hurts from grinding my teeth when driving through Birmingham. Birmingham, your highways suck fairly badly.

But Atlanta – holy fucking shit. Atlantans, I ask this with love – where the FUCK are ya going in such a motherfucking HURRY at 3:30 on a weekday afternoon?! Christ Almighty, I’m not in a hurry to drive through Atlanta again. I’m hoping like hell the traffic’s not that bad on Sunday evening, ’cause the only thing worse than driving with people bumper-to-bumper riding each others’ asses on either side of me would be all that in the dark, after having spent the weekend walking 60 miles.

I have to go out and figure out where the park and ride in Alpharetta is from here, but I’m scared I’ll be immediately surrounded by scary fast-drivin’ ass-ridin’ drivers.

At least I have my handy directions written on index cards. As I told reader Fitchypoo last night, who incidentally is an Atlantan (but not one of those scary drivers I’m sure), I write each step of my driving directions on it’s own numbered index card, with the street name in bold, and "left" or "right" highlighted. I have directions from home to the hotel I’m staying in, from the hotel to the park & ride (where I’ll go to drop off the Jeep tomorrow morning and catch the shuttle to Day Zero), from the park and ride BACK to the hotel (after I check out the location tonight), and last but not least, from the park and ride home.

Incredibly anal, no? I just always like to know as much as possible about what’s going to happen before it’s actually happening. Maybe I have control freak tendencies…

Ugh. Weather.com is predicting rain for Friday and Saturday.

5:22 pm, Atlanta time. Fairfield Inn room 106, Duluth, Georgia.

You know, for an event that’s for a good cause and supposed to make me feel all happy, I’m certainly feeling mighty hate-filled and grumpy right now.

To find DeVry in Alpharetta (which is where I’ll park & ride the shuttle to Day Zero), which is 15 miles away, it took more than 1 1/2 fucking hours.

Here’s a map of where I fucked up:

You see, where GA-120 veers off to the right, it is NOT clearly marked with, oh, a big sign or anything.

THERE’S NO SHAME IN A CLEARLY MARKED ROAD, PEOPLE.

So I ended up going straight, and followed Kimball Bridge Road for some ungodly amount of time before turning around and going off to the fucking west. You see, I thought highway 120 had just kind of ENDED, and turned into Kimball Bridge Road, 3 miles before MapBlast said it was supposed to show up. Why did I end up going off to the west? I have no fucking clue. There was some stupid lame fucking reasoning in there somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I can remember what it was.

Anyway, I found the fucking place. Grrr. To be safe, I guess I’ll leave here (the hotel) an hour before the shuttle leaves DeVry.

My favorite street name of the evening: Redcoat Way.

I saw some serious fucking subdivisions, too. "Starting from $370,000", "Starting from $500,000". At one point, I ran across a "turn of the century riverfront community" with prices ranging from $700,000 to $2,000,000, and I almost swallowed my teeth.

Judging from the houses and the cars I saw in Alpharetta, I’m in the central point of Yuppie Hell.

9:08 pm, Atlanta time. —–

]]>

Lordy, how the hell did it get to be October already? The spud will be 13 on the 26th, and I have no idea what to get her. I mean, I know she’ll be more than happy to make me a long, long list and everything, but nothing comes to my mind at the moment.

Remember my list of resolutions back in January? And how one of them was to have my eyebrows and upper lip waxed? Well, I went and had that done today, and can I just say OUCH!? The actual waxing didn’t hurt, but once the waxing was over, the woman came at my eyebrows with a tweezer and since the only parts of my eyebrows that have seen a tweezer are the center, in order to prevent the lovely unibrow look, the skin under my eyebrows is tender and untouched. Once I left the spa (I had it done at a day spa, so very pampered wife of me, yes?), I came home and washed the soothing oil from my face and checked it out. Lordy, was I red and inflamed where she’d waxed the hair off. It hurt a lot, but as the day went on it stopped hurting as much, and now I’m not even terribly red or inflamed.

Heh. Checking out those resolutions, it appears that I’ve accomplished NONE of them aside from the waxing one. I really thought I was going to get off my ass and move Bitchypoo over to robynanderson.com? Ah, so naive I can be sometimes…

We watched Blow this weekend, and it was the oddest thing. For the first half of the movie Johnny Depp played George Jung, and then suddenly Fred looked up and said "When did Christopher Walken take over the role?" It was incredible. One second, Johnny Depp, the next, Christopher Walken. The movie wasn’t bad, though Penelope Cruz is a point of contention between Fred and I. I think she’s beautiful (which doesn’t mean I’m a big fan or anything – I don’t really like her much), and Fred thinks she’s the most hideous, ugliest, vomit-inducing creature on the face of the earth. It’s funny how two people can look at the same thing and see it differently, isn’t it?

Speaking of Penelope Cruz, Fred and I had a discussion, right after he went on at length about her hideousness.

"I can’t believe Tom Cruise is dating her!" he said.

Do y’all think there’s really a relationship there? It seems both way too soon, and way too in-your-face to be anything more than a publicity thing. I think that it’s entirely possible that whatever reason caused Tom to file for divorce is something that pissed him off so that he wants to hurt Nicole very badly. The whole Penelope Cruz thing doesn’t really match the semi-private way Tom Cruise has lead his life for as long as I can remember.

And the whole Cruz/ Cruise thing is just gag-worthy.

We watched Alias last night, and I liked it a lot. And after watching the whole show, what did I get picky about? Not the part where she successfully broke into the whatever-it-was embassy (was it an embassy?) and stole whatever the hell it was, kicking the shit out of scads of men. No, apparently I felt that entirely believable. No, I took issue when she walked into the CIA.

"How did she know who to ask for?" I demanded of Fred. "And how did she know to say to tell him it was a walk-in?" Fred came up with explanations – "Maybe, since she thought she was working for the CIA, she knew some of the procedures." But that’s just flimsy. I don’t buy it. I also don’t buy that she’d fly back to the states from Taipei with dried blood on her chin, without wiping it off at some point.

I liked the show a lot, though, and I think it’ll make a good addition to my regular lineup.

I spent a good part of the day – when not cleaning or having my face waxed – obsessing over what I need to pack for the 3Day, and worrying about the fact that I’m having a hard time fitting everything I need in my fanny pack. I’m also worrying about the fact that my duffle bag is so damn big. I packed most of the clothes I’ll be bringing into the bag, and there’s plenty of room for a pillow or two, which is a relief. I need pillows to sleep decently, and I was worried that I wouldn’t have room or weight to spare (there’s a 35-pound weight limit), but at this point with only some shoes and a sweater to pack, I have 17 pounds to spare. Sweet!

Okay, I’m off to read over my 3Day booklet to be sure I’m not forgetting something, and obsess some more. Y’all have a good one!

 

—–]]>

So, I had to get groceries this week, ’cause Fred’s doing end-of-year something-or-other at work, and he begged and pleaded (or just asked) me to get groceries, so after insisting on a few sexual favors in return, I agreed to get groceries.

Isn’t it just TYPICAL that after a hard week of sitting on my ass, I have to go get groceries as well?! I swear, my work is NEVER done.

It was odd wandering through the grocery store at 8 in the morning getting a full load of groceries, since I haven’t done it for well over a year. If you’ll recall (if I ever mentioned it, which I’m not sure I did), the reason Fred started getting groceries is because I was spending too much money and doing too much impulse shopping. I’m thrilled to say that except for a few magazines and some film (which I need for my camera for the 3Day, since I don’t quite dare to bring the digital cam and Fred won’t buy me my (this week’s) heart’s desire, the bastard). Being so early, there was only one checkout line open, and two or three people ahead of me. I guess I’m not the only one who wants to get the damn grocery shopping done and over with so they can get on with their busy day of ass-sitting.

As I approached the checkout line, sitting at the end of the line was an abandoned-looking half-full cart with no one standing near it. I looked around, wondering whether I should cut in front of it, or if someone was grabbing a forgotten item and would be back. I stood there looking clueless for a few minutes, and then a woman came running over from the customer service desk, hauling two cartons of cigarettes.

"Sorry!" she chirped, and then started unloading her cart. I smiled, just relieved that I hadn’t cut in front of her. After she unloaded her groceries, she started to make perky conversation with the cashier, and then stopped abruptly to cough up a lung on the conveyer belt. Good thing she was buying those cigarettes, eh?

Man, I’ve been productive this morning. Not only did I put all the groceries away (by MYSELF! The horror!), but I FINALLY helped the spud hang all her pictures and posters up in her room (yes, we HAVE lived here two months now, shaddup). Most of her stuff fit on one wall, except for a few posters which went over her bed. It looks a tad homier in there, now.

I also cleared all the crap out from underneath my keyboard. And took a picture of it all!:

What have we here? Why, a note to myself about the 3Day Day Zero shuttle, a bunch of tracker thingies for packages I’ve mailed, my brand-spankin’-new Costco card (I still haven’t been to Costco, but I have the membership card, Moira!), and my credit card (number conveniently blurred out for you criminal types). And to top it off, a nice little pile of cat hair and dust. Yum!

Oh, I also found this:

A brown peanut M&M. God knows how long it’s been under there – months, probably. Did I dust it off and eat it? You bet your bippies I did. And it was mighty fucking fine.

The problem is that I have no idea how many calories are in a single peanut M&M. I’ll count it as 10; that sounds fair enough.

1. Laying on your back and facing the ceiling, which side of the bed do you sleep on? The left. When Fred and I are laying in bed talking before he goes off to his own room NO LATER THAN 9:41, I lay on the right-hand side. When he goes to his own bed, I walk around to the left side. I sleep better on that side of the bed for some reason. Possibly because I usually sleep on my left side, and have the entire bed to stretch my arm across or something.

2. Do you have to have covers (blankets and/or sheets) at all costs, no matter the weather? Yes, ’cause we have air conditioning, and it’s always around 68 degrees during the night, so a sheet and comforter are required lest I surely freeze to death.

3. Sleep nekkid or no? Why? Butt-ass nekkid is the only way to sleep. I can’t sleep well with a nightgown on, ’cause it gets all twisted under me, and I don’t care for a t-shirt and shorts, either. Which means it’ll be a ton of fun during the 3Day, ’cause of course I’d never subject a stranger to Nekkid Bitchypoo. But then, I’ll be in a sleeping bag on the ground, with a complete stranger as my tentmate, so I’m not expecting to sleep well, at least not the first night.

4. What’s under your bed? Cat hair, and usually a cat or two. And 64,780 ear plugs that I’ve lost in the middle of the night, or the cats have knocked off the bedside table to play with.

5. If you have pets, do you let them sleep with you? Why or why not? Yep, I usually have at least two cats (Miz Poo and Spanky) on the bed with me during the night. Tubby will occasionally sneak up for a snooze some nights. Spot will, once in a blue moon, stand at the edge of the bed and stare at me for a while before curling up. I have no idea where Fancypants spends his nights, though. Why? Because I love my kitties, and if I shut them out of the room Miz Poo would be heartbroken. And Spanky would sit outside the door and howl like a fool all night long.

—–]]>

Tonight’s the season premiere of Friends, woohoo! Y’all can just shut up with your "IIIIIII don’t watch Friends anymore, ’cause it just sucks so badly." It does not suck so badly, it’s wonderful and I love it, so just bite me.

Speaking of TV shows, can I just say that I really really really love Red Foreman? And Hyde? Fred likes Kelso, and I suspect that’s because he RELATES to Kelso. Oh, and we decided the other night that Donna looks much better with bangs. (We’re talking about That ’70s Show. Try to keep up, won’t you?)

Love Cruise premiered Tuesday, and there was another episode last night. I had to tape last night’s episode ’cause it was the same time as The Amazing Race, and both Race and Love Cruise just rocked. Why do I love reality shows so much? I don’t know, but I do know that when Survivor 3 premieres in October, I’ll be in hog heaven.

Lordy, this time next week I’ll be standing in line at Day Zero. And this time tomorrow I’ll be saying "Just think, this time next week I’ll be walking 20 miles!" And this time Saturday… Well, you get the point.

I still haven’t unrolled my brand-spankin’-new sleeping bag to test it out, nor have I tested out the blow-up (self-inflating!) sleeping mattress either. Living on the edge, that’s me. No doubt I’ll never get around to it, and on the first night of the 3Day, I’ll discover that I accidentally bought a kids’ sleeping bag that only comes up to about my waist, and that the air mattress doesn’t work.

Oh, remember when I introduced the word "dilemmanated" to y’all? If not, go back and read the entry. Anyway, that commercial came on the other night while we were watching TV, and I scared the bejesus out of all the cats by jumping up and running full-tilt to the computer room to grab the camera and then run back to the living room (the cats were all milling around with their backs arched and their tails puffy) to snap the picture of the kid as he stood there looking all dilemmanated:

Now tell the truth. Does that kid’s face just scream "dilemmanated", or what?

And because I don’t think y’all have seen enough cat pictures this month, here’s one for you:

This is what happens when we have shrimp for dinner. I was standing at the sink de-tailing raw shrimp, no cats in sight, when suddenly a herd of them ran into the kitchen and sat around looking as if they were starving to death. I have no idea why Miz Poo comes running when I’m peeling shrimp, ’cause she won’t eat any kind of human food. Cat food is the only thing she eats – aside from the occasional bug and grass – which is probably a good thing, ’cause otherwise she’d be even portlier than she currently is. Tubby and Spanky each got a small piece of shrimp. (Side note: every time I link to the cats’ pages, I have to sit and try to remember their real names, ’cause I’m a doofus like that)

Tubby snarfed his in half a second and started whining for more. Spanky hunkered over his piece and licked it, then chewed a little, then licked some more, all the while growling at invisible things. It takes him ten minutes to eat a teeny piece of shrimp, and usually about halfway through it, he grabs what’s left and runs away from whomever might be thinking of taking it away from him, growling all the while.

He’s such a freak. Just like his momma.

 

—–]]>

The Crime:

Muddy footprints on the mattress cover!

The Accused:

One Spot J. Anderson, aka "Buhhhhddy!"

The Reaction:


Horror, sadness, and shockingly bad hair.

The Verdict:
Guilty, guilty, guilty as sin!

The Punishment:

Dirty looks and muttered "You little
bastard!"s from The Momma.
And being forced to look at more bad hairstyles.

 

—–]]>

Okay, I have an embarrassing confession (aside from the confession that I had to pop over to Merriam- Webster to make sure I spelled "embarrassing" correctly, which I had). Ready? Here goes:

I love the song "God Bless the USA." LOVE. IT. Every every EVERY time I hear it, it makes me all teary-eyed. And if they have dialogue in the instrumental parts? Kill me, ’cause it’s all over. I will burst into tears at the speed of light.

If you feel you must stop reading and unsubscribe from the notify list, I completely understand. And bite me. 🙂

So, after my shower this morn (just so you can adjust your Bitchypoo daily timeline if need be) I sat on the bed and turned the TV on (a rare thing – usually the TV doesn’t come on until 12:30, when I sometimes watch The Bold and the Beautiful (shut up), and then only for half an hour). I flipped by MTV and was amazed and enthralled that they were showing a video. I didn’t think they did that anymore!

Anyway, apparently a bunch of artists got together and recorded Marvin Gaye’s "What’s Going On" to benefit Aids research. Then September 11th happened, and they said "Oh, let’s have some of the money going to the September 11th fund, too!", and THEN Brittney Spears said "What about dogs and cats? Shouldn’t we benefit them too?", and they said "Oh yeah, let’s benefit the ASPCA while we’re at it", and then Michael Stipe threw a temper tantrum and reminded everyone that the "Freaky Bald Musicians Fund" was a respectable charity, and so they said "Oh, okay, we’ll send money there too!", and then P. Diddy put his foot down and said "What about the Musicians Who’ve Dated J.Lo? That’s a valid charity! ‘Cause once you see that ass nekkid, you’re ruined for other asses!", and then Fred Durst and the Backstreet Boys got into a slap fight, and it just degenerated into a big melee.

That’s a big lie, and that’s not even where I was going with that. What did I mean to say? Oh yeah, they showed the video, so I watched it, and while it wasn’t bad, there was too much background noise. I mean, if someone’s singing, let them sing and don’t be do-wopping and chattering in the background, ’cause it’s a messy sound and I don’t like it.

Oh wait, upon actually READING the site, I find that they cut five different versions of the song. Maybe that was the rap/ do-wop version. As you were.

Go check out the picture at the top of Say’s journal entry. The look on that kid’s face just cracks me up.

And while I’m sharing links, go read Kathy’s entry for today, specifically the italicized part that starts about halfway down.

Damn, it was cold out this morning. Fred had to actually turn the heat on when he got back from exercising. Even now, in the afternoon, I think it’s not much warmer than 55 outside. What sucks is that I got rid of all my long-sleeved shirts from last year, since they were too big, and so now all I really have are t-shirts. Luckily, I have a sweater from Land’s End to keep me warm.

I watched Someone Like You last weekend, and I have to say I really REALLY liked Ashley Judd’s hair. You thought I was going to say I really liked the movie, didn’t you? No, the movie was okay – I mean, Hugh Jackman! BAYbee! – but I was distracted by Ashley Judd’s strong resemblance to Toni Collette.

Anyway, I really REALLY liked her hair (oh, did I mention that?), and I’m thinking of going that way with my hair once I’ve come close to my goal weight (and the way things are going, that should be sometime in 3078). Fred will whine and moan ’cause he prefers long hair, but it ain’t his head, is it? No, it’s not. And he always bitches about the long hairs all over the place and the occasional long hair in his food, so this should help.

Maybe I should just shave my head.

Did y’all see The Practice Sunday night? That was a sweet little twist at the end. Amazingly enough, I didn’t see it coming. And the guy who played the Senator looked an awful lot like Gary Condit, Fred pointed out repeatedly.

Speaking of television shows, I taped Crossing Jordan last night, and I think I’ll go watch it before the spud gets home. I’m kinda iffy on Jill Hennessy, but the previews looked pretty good, so I think I’ll give it a chance.

Now All we are sayyyyyying is give Jill a chance… is going through my head, damnit.

 

—–]]>