grandaddy of 'em all

Dave Ramsey told me to "sell the car".  I decided that I would settle for something slightly less durastic, and I'd stay home from the grandaddy of 'em all this year...the Houston Rodeo. 

Big Mistake.  Well, not a mistake, just sad.  Yes, sad. 

I love it so much, and for so many other reasons, than dirt and cows and horses and steers and clowns. 

Let me elaborate. 

I shall start by introducing you to Pappacitos.  I'm a Mexican food fanatic--but sadly, I base it mainly on the chips and salsa.  Pappacitos=100 points.  100 points is the max in this category. 

And here's my bff and partner in all crime, Kim.  Oh wait, you can't see her face because it's IN the chip basket.  And she's a chip snob, so you know it's good.

And then there's the shopping...and yes, please note that even after a plane ride, rental car, hotel stay....we still select Target as our first stop.  Need I say more?

Then, as soon as we manage to work off about 3 chips, we're ready to eat again.  Probably next on the list in my favorite food:  barbeque!



And if I'm going to to eat finger-lickin' good food, yes, please give me a picnic table, outside in the blazing heat on a tray and paper plates.  Because that's a piece of heaven, my friends.  

 I just wanted to add this picture.  Otherwise, nobody in the world would see it.  Yeah, it's a giant armadillo.

 And then our other partner in crime arrives, Tammy.  Tammy and Kim are bff but I've also adopted Tammy as my bff for several reasons, including, but not limited to: 
1.  We both have incredibly short legs and thus cannot find a pair of pants that just fit
2.  We both can overheat a hair dryer without even trying.  When we see the item-they-shall-call-the dryer in our hotel, we chuckle.  Then proceed to pull our several hundred dollar beast and prized possession out of our suitcase. I may not pack another item, but if I have my lunesta and hair dryer, I will survive.
3.  Related to number 2.  We learn the concierge's first names upon entry, because between the two of us, will absolutely be blowing a fuse during our stay.
4.  Also related to number 2.  Should for some reason we not have the blow dryer, we stay in the pool where at least hair looking like such isn't frowned upon.  I don't do humidity.
4.  Have a bladder the size of a grape.  Nope, not looking foward to pregnancy.
5.  I'm going to stop there.  We love Tammy.

 And while this is one of those "inside jokes", I just have to--if you travel with me, funny stuff will happen to you.  Such as losing a hubcap after having the car a matter of minutes. 

 But hark, we found a replacement.  This wasn't on the agenda.

 Oh, and then it's time for Pappacito's again.  It may or may not have been the same day.  "I do not recall."

 We all know the real reason we head to the Houston Rodeo, though.....I mean, duh....

 And we try to look the part while there....

 Oh yes, back to the real reason.  Keith.  Urban.  In. The. Flesh.

And since all trips revolve around eating, we'll hit the best donut shop in the world, Shipley's, where I will proceed to eat a good three or four donuts without hesitating.  We may or may not visit this fine establishment several times per day, I mean weekend, as well. 

So really, if I think about it, I saved several thousand calories by staying home this year. 

I would have run the extra miles.  I'll be going to the grandaddy of 'em all next year.  Mark my words. 

Fiona in Training

Well…the time has come.  It’s the dreaded time of year when I decide it’s time to lose the winter pelt I’ve managed to create and get back on that bike.  Forget bike, get back on the train.  That’s more like it. 

So, it usually works like this—I try to ride about 50 miles a week during the dark, winter months, just so that I don’t forget how to ride a bike—because I hear you actually can do that, but come March, it’s on!  I need to get about 125 miles in saddle (yes I just said that) if I expect to ride 100 miles in one day, several times during the course of the summer.  It’s borderline a sick infatuation I have, but I’ve come to realize that my time being part of a “team” sport is over and I’m not going to the Olympics in 2012, so a bike race or two will have to do…and it usually does. 

I train.

I ride.

I finish.

Success.

And that’s really all I need.

I go to my makeshift spin class—not only am I in the basement—but the storage room in the basement—so like the dungeon of the dungeon.  I keep the lights off and it’s cool and I turn on my best hater music, and I turn it up loud.  I get on my bike, situated on the trainer (I like to think just like Lance—because in this moment, I actually am Lance) and I just start pedaling.  And then I pedal some more.  And then I pretend to go up hills.  And practice shifting.  And I’m sweating like crazy.  And I actually am crazy. 

And this is when they call me Fiona.  When I’m down in the dungeon for hours on end, in the dark, forcing myself into some sort of sick pain.  There you have it.

This is instead of spin class—because as much as I love, love, love spin class, I do not need some 98-pounder with her hair looking all cute counting to ten for me while my quads burn—I can actually do that myself without feeling like I want to get off my bike, walk over, and kick her in the shins.  I don’t need the men in the back whooping and hollering, either.  In a perfect world, I’d teach a spin class in a dark room, with really loud music, but you’re just on your own. I have no microphone on, and when the hour is up, I’ll turn on the lights.  No, it’s probably not the same workout, but let’s be honest, the second that snow melts, I’m going outside anyway, and I guarantee there’s no man screaming in my ear, counting down as I make it back up the hill to my house. I actually will make it back up the hill, thank you very much.

Fiona.

So day one is great and I’m feeling the love again, and then day two comes…and actually sitting in the sorry excuse for a saddle—it’s more like sitting on a really sharp triangle—

Actually, it’s like sitting on the head of a golf tee—

And the first 5 miles I’m just praying that I don’t actually touch the seat because I’d rather actually stab myself in the eye with a dull object that sit down in that seat. 

And that’s day two.  And I’m still crazy. 

But come July when I’m ready to ride the Triple Bypass—120 miles from Evergreen to Avon—over 3 mountain passes—that golf tee will be my best friend and Fiona will finish. 

I love crazy.