Watched "Survivor" with the hubs tonight.
(I know -I too was shocked that this show is still on. Guess it must be watched by the same people who watch American Idol – yes, that includes you, Nolan).
I never watched beyond the first season, so I forgot how crazy all the alliance stuff is.
But the biggest observation I walked away with?
If you are a grown ass man with hair long enough to put in a slimy pony tail, you are creepy.
Don’t pass Go. Don’t collect $200. You are just creepy, and must go to Creepy Jail.
You are sentenced to bunk with Creepy Dude Who Wears Long Gold Chains and Creepy Dude That Winks at Inappropriate Moments. Don't drop the soap.
After making this observation to Cheese, however, he rewarded my keen sense of character with this:
“But they make for such passionate lovers.”
Like peas in a pod, we are.
A vomit-filled, scratch-your-skin-off-your-body-type pod.
Got in my second to last long brick before the big Kansas 70.3 debut.
Oh, by the way - Have I mentioned that Cheese’s entire family (and some friends) will be spectating this beauty?
Seemed I forgot this might be a side-effect of doing a race in his home state.
No pressure, no pressure at all. Hopefully he can educate them about the acronym DFL while I’m out of the bike.
(Dead Fucking Last, for those outside the sports world)
Anyslowass, I had the weirdest experience.
I was so totally physically into it – felt great, felt strong, felt like I could turn around and do all four hours again.
But mentally, I was a sick, hot mess.
I mean, talk about Bad Attitude Sally.
In full disclosure, I believe PMS (yes men, it exists, its bad, so shut the eff up before I club you with my Super Absorbency Tampon) was part of this mood.
But then, it would sour even more every time (6) my effing water bottles hopped right out of the water cages onto the ground. And that doesn't even include the amount of time I spent reaching back mid-ride to make sure they were pushed down - so as NOT to jump the cages.
But EVERY.SINGLE.BUMP, I tell you.
Somewhere in the residential section of Highland Park, I was screaming at my bottle in the middle of the street, and then turning my verbal vengeance towards the cages themselves.
Like the true period-pending lunatic I am.
But the icing on the cake (no post is complete without a cake frosting mention) was when I finally found a bathroom after holding “it” for 30ish miles.
I damn near threw my bike down as I rushed into the park outhouse, yanked down my sweaty shorts and commenced “the hover.”
Mid-hover, however, I had the bright idea to also blow my endlessly runny nose – you know, to expedite time. Nose-blowing being oh-so-time-consuming that I couldn't be bothered with an extra two seconds to do it post-pee.
Oh, I didn’t mention that I was apparently time-trialing? Against myself? And the wind?
Turns out that when you hover, you have a little less “stream control.”
So all it took was one hard blow and Good Ol’ Meggy was riding home in urine-soaked pantaloons.
I mean, why the hell did I bother to stop in the first place? I could have just kept pace and taken care of business on somewhere along Sheridan Road.
There’s really no moral of the story here. I would say, “lesson learned,” but I know myself, and there will surely be a next time.
My money’s on Kansas 70.3.
‘Cause I’m a crowd pleaser.