First bit of bad news on the Odyssey front.

We’re staying at the gorgeous K Bar S Lodge near Mount Rushmore over the 4th of July, and I just read this morning that they have canceled their huge fireworks show at the monument because of fear of wildfires. Bummer. And the weather is supposed to be gorgeous. Oh well. I understand completely.

The second bit of potential bad news involves the endangered health and welfare of the body shop people if they dink around and end up not getting their shoddy work corrected before Wednesday. There Will Be Blood.

We managed to get everything laid out in suitcases last night. The pre-launch preparations have begun. New GPS maps are downloaded, paper and mail are scheduled to shut down, and Lars and Simone are scheduled to babysit the homestead during the coming weeks. Rousseau is farmed out to BFF Kay and Bob’s for the duration, and we’re at the point where the only things in the fridge are what we plan to actually eat or drink over the next few days.

Am I forgetting anything?

What’s on everyone’s weekend list? Anything fun?

Photo: Chad Coppess, Dakotagraph

Do you find that the closer it gets, the less ready you are? The Thriller and I have much to do before blasting off on Wednesday, not the least of which is to try and get one more vizzy in with the Js.

Every carpeted floor and piece of furniture has been steam cleaned within an inch of its life (Country Mouse, you should see the sofa and easy chair — they look almost like the day Mr. CM upholstered them). You could have a picnic lunch in my closets, the drawers in the dining room sideboard can now be opened without various and sundry items barfing out, and the pantry is looking quite orderly and cute. I can see the surface of my desk as I write this, and I have removed all vestiges of Boston University from my bookcase in the parlor. Success.

And after an entire day of tearing things apart in the house and garage and coming up 100% confused, frustrated and empty, the Thriller finally found the car charger for the laptops. It was in my book bag, where’d I’d stashed it a week ago so we wouldn’t forget it, and then promptly forgot about it. Yipes. Rat Fink, Rat Fink…what a donkey.

Do other people stress about what to bring? I’m a big-picture thinker, so I don’t sweat details very much (which often comes back to bite me in the hiney). I tend to grossly overpack, even though I know we will have to do laundry. Any great secrets? I’ll share one: rolling up your shirts, shorts and jeans really helps to save space in the suitcase.

I covet your suggestions this day. The suitcases are already on the dining room table, and time’s a-wastin’.

FO

Ya know…it must come with age or something. Or gravity, or luck of the draw. One thing’s for sure: arthritis was always an “old person” term for me — until now. To my fiends who don’t suffer with it, I say this: when you see commercials for “relief for arthritis pain” and the like, don’t desensitize yourself, because someday it could be you. I never considered getting it myself, and now that it’s here, arthritis means infinitely more than an annoying commercial during Indians games. Like…the pain is really, really real, and there’s no other pain quite like it. I apologize retroactively to every person who ever told me he or she suffered with arthritis, after which I thought, “stiff, achy joints, but nothing life-threatening.”

Hence, my lucky day today. On the menu this morning is fluoroscopy. Yippy for 6-inch needles in my hip joint (although the physician’s assistant told me it’s not the length of the needle that gets ya, but the circumference). Not that I necessarily have an aversion to needles, mind. (Oy.) Anyway, they’re going to see how much of my pain is arthritis, and how much, if any, is due to soft-tissue damage. The doc gave his plan of attack over the phone yesterday:

1. Fluoroscopy, maximum of three injections. If that doesn’t work…
2. Steroids with mild physical therapy. If that doesn’t work…
3. Arthroscopy to clean up the joint. If that doesn’t work…
4. Hip resurfacing. If that doesn’t work…
5. The Grand Salami.

I know all this is a bit on the personal (or TMI) side, but many of you have asked about what’s going on, so I thought I’d update everyone at once. And truthfully, I’m glad to start small on the fixit scale, and work my way up if necessary.

Has anyone had this procedure? If so, please provide gory details. Hugs to all, and thanks for your concern for this creaky hag. And hey, all will be well and dandy this evening — dinner date with Helen and Lars!

FO

I won’t share it, but you can probably imagine.

This is not to say that I begrudge anyone else wearing one, however. And I love swimwear, I really do. Well, not this:

But this:

And this:

And definitely this:

See a pattern here? I know I’ve gone completely geezer, and I’m aware that we live in a “more skin showing, the better” beachwear world. Yet, I stand my ground. No one can tell me that photo #1 is somehow more beautiful than numbers 2, 3 and 4. Those who disagree are certainly entitled, but in my book, a classic, iconic swimsuit look (on others, of course) beats the carp out of a “what’s the point of wearing anything at all?” bikini any day.

Then there’s the issue of people wearing bikinis who perhaps ought to stay with the Lucille Ball-Marilyn Monroe-Liz Taylor look. But that’s none of my business, although I have been known, admittedly, to snark about the issue.

It’s true that looks do not and should not define or validate our humanity; our “person-ness.” But it’s also true that society (specifically, entertainment media) has made healthy body image a difficult ring to grasp, especially for young girls, for whom a few extra pounds can mean ridicule and social separation. I don’t know a single girl in my middle school and high school who wouldn’t die a hundred deaths inside at being called “fat.” I think they’d rather be called “stupid,” truly. Anything but the F-word. It breaks my heart to see it.

But hey, all the wimmins who read RtB are beautiful, inside and out. And it’s the inside beauty that matters. Funny how we know something in our heads, but…

Yeah, enough waxing philosophical for one morning. I’ve been up since 4:00, and it’s almost time for Justin to sit up in his bed and say, “Graaaaaaam-eeeeeeeeee.”

Definitely a coffee morning.

Photos: Getty Images