OK, so I’m really late on this. Life has been stupid, but now it’s starting to slow down enough that I can blog again. Yay! Be prepared for a long-ass post full of photos. And shenanigans.
So this was, of course, my first Rolex trip. And Sarah’s too. As she was to be driving up from Atlanta, I offered to fly into Atlanta and then drive with her. I will so totally double my travel time for my favorite. I’m a loyal bitch like that.
So she picked me up from the airport, loaded me up with espresso (I had been up since like 3:45. Oy vey.) and then we were on our way to
Trip was uneventful, and we arrived at the hotel exhausted We loaded up on snacks and stuff at Walmart, and then pretty much crashed in preparation for the next day.
Thursday morning, we woke up bright and early. Earlier than I would have for work on a normal day. WTF is wrong with me? I can totally do it for ponies but not for work/the gym/praising God/cleaning my house/wiping my ass/whatever.
And y’all. I made T-shirts in honor of Angela. I slay myself.
ANYWAY, we arrived and realized we were gonna be walking. And walking. And walking from that damn parking lot. There was one lone guy shuttling people on a big golf cart, and I think we were the first people under the age of 75 he offered rides to. Sometimes it pays to be youngish and adorably crazy. Well, Sarah mostly had the adorable and I mostly had the crazy, but WHO’S COUNTING.
As we drove through the grounds from our Chariot ‘o’ Golf, we were giggling like little girls. OMG ROLEX. WE ARE HERE. After a bit of shopping, we settled in to watch dressage, and the magic began. Lots of beautiful rides. Lots of horses who DO NOT LIKE CLAPPING. And Angela had a really great ride on Novelle and improved her score from last year. GO Y’ALL.
Drank some Man ‘o’ Wars, and later, it was time for the DFP course walk. Yes, the Doug Fucking Course Walk (DFCW). COTH/blog friend Dorie (HI DORIE!) had invited me to a private-ish course walk with DFP. I donned my DFP T-shirt and we went out for the walk in the afternoon. Went through the XC course, gawked at jumps and generally shit my pants. Y’all. I’ve never seen anything so big in person. Craziness. And I’m not talking about DFP’s height. I’m talking this shit.
But DFP – you are on my list. The DFCW was not a course walk. It was a course RUN. Normal people do not have 16-foot strides like you. I’m like at a 2.5. Slow your roll, dude. I think I still have blisters.
At the end of the DFCW/run, the skies opened up and drenched us. So we headed home a little wet, a lot tired, but still giddy. And a little punchy.
Punchy, you say? Why yes. Yes we were. And why, you ask? Because, first, we bought the ugliest swimsuits known to man just so we could soak in the hotel hot tub. And then…. we bought a doll and pony at Wal-Mart. And the doll was… well, she had a little something on her face. She is kind of a whoreface.
She went immediately to the Head of the Sink.
And then had an unfortunate incident.
But in the end, she lived.
WE ARE INSANE.
Friday was of course more dressage, shenanigans, watching Angela’s jump school, and doing another course walk with Angela THAT DID NOT REQUIRE A 16-FOOT STRIDE LIKE THE DFCW did. Thank you, Angela, for having short legs.
And, of course, we had to do some stalking. I mean, of course. This is me. Stalking and being weird and creepy is my thing, yo.
Joe Meyer, Patrick the mini horse (who leaned in to eat my phone as I was taking a selfie), the rocking Angela, and Kyle Carter. Note Joe totally put his arm around me, and Kyle… leaned away. He could smell my crazy.
Cross country day was… wet. But we got off to a good start.
We started off in the hollow, staying put until Angela came through. And our little Rider Whoreface McRiderson started off OK too.
And saw some riders reeaaaalllly contemplating their options in the hollow.
Angela rocked the hollow.
And then our Rider continued to have a good day…. until she didn’t.
She didn’t get to finish the course. Poor thing. And she and her pony were a little worse for the wear. They may or may not have been smushed into a banana in my backpack. Maybe.
Rest of the day we spent doing a little shopping and trying to dry out. I’ll have to do a second post on all that. TOO MUCH STUFF. OMG TOO MUCH STUFF. I wanted to buy all the things there. Seriously. (I also spent every day pretending to buy stuff from the Dubarry tent and drinking about 5,982 glasses of champagne. Which may or may not have something to do with me wanting to buy everything. Whatevsies.)
And then we arrived at the last day. We started off with a casual stroll.
Which turned into shenanigans.
So right before the preceding photo, Sarah tried to lean out for a photo, holding onto the pole. As she swung out, the pole started to give. I had visions of her ending up on the Weldon’s Wall of Shame, landing in the water. Then I was gonna have to go buy her a shirt and stuff, and maybe tell people that she was a little challenged and don’t judge… but, by the grace of the Rolex gods, she managed to stay on the wall portion of the jump, and only the flag itself suffered. As she said, she is the only person to not ride at Rolex and still get penalties.
Then we were on to a stadium watching.
The course was quite challenging, and clean rounds (or even ONE-RAIL rounds) were in short supply. Angela totally rocked it out in her round, only taking one rail on the beast that is Novie.
Yada, yada, and the alien that is Michael Jung (he totally can’t be human. Seriously, he can’t.) won, of course.
Then it was time to get the hell outta dodge and for Sarah to take me to the airport. I was all stinky and gross and stuff and didn’t want to travel in my Rolex attire for the day. So, as we were stuck in the parking lot trying to get out, I totally changed clothes in the car. If you saw an errant boob or something, that was me. You’re welcome. Or I’m sorry. I don’t know, it depends on the angle.
As I was standing around at the gate, all bummed about going home and Rolex being over, the Rolex gods shone on me once more. The crowds parted, and out came a very tall man who just might be named Sir Mark Todd.
So then my crazy kicked back in. My internal monologue went something like, “Do I go ask for his autograph? No, I don’t have anything to sign, really. OK, a photo? Do I ask for a photo? God, I can’t bug him. He’s gotta be tired as hell and tired of crazy-ass women coming up to him all week. BUT HE IS RIGHT THERE. Do I go? No. OK, yes, I have to. OK, Imma go up to him. WAIT IS HE SEEING ME STARE AT HIM? OMG.”
So I practically crawled over there like I was trying to avoid invisible landmines, kinda circling around people. I smiled at him really big, and I think it was like one of those weird dog smiles where they raise their lips up and show their teeth. I asked if he minded taking a photo with me, and he said, “Sure!” And enthusiastically put his arm around me.
I thanked him and walked back to where I had been standing, feeling quite pleased with myself.
And then. Then I saw the pretty man himself, Boyd. You know, the one I totally publicly fangirled on EN a couple years ago. (HI BOYD! IMMA KEEP STALKING YOU, K?)
OK, this time I saw one teenage girl go up to him first, and then I SWOOPED IN LIKE A BAT OUTTA HELL. No wavering this time. And my outer monologue was, “Hiiiiiiiii. I know you’re really tired of this stuff and you want us all to go away, but would you mind taking just one more photo?” And I am CERTAIN I had that weird dog smile, plus crazy eyes.
But he was really enthusiastic and selfied with me like a good sport.
And then I got on the plane and died. The end.