Country Mouse City Mouse Adventures

If Only They Could See Me Now....

2012-01-03T13:56:00.003-05:00

I had one of those days today that just had to make me laugh. I had no choice. one of those moments that make you look at yourself from the outside in, and think, please, somebody, hide me...

As I was standing in the grocery store with a drugstore bag full of sedatives, arms loaded with three boxes of frozen pizza, and not enough money to pay for any of it, I was thinking....

Please, Lord, don't let people think I am really this person!

And I'm not. I'm a well-adjusted, happy, self-fulfilled individual. I am currently living in a place I want to live in, with a Beagle who brings me joy every day. I am in a committed, loving relationship with an individual who makes my heart smile on a daily basis. And I have my own television.

I just happen to also suffer from the occasional panic attack or bout of insomnia, and these issues, from time to time, require pharmaceutical intervention.

I also have a penchant for frozen pizza, and as a result of this, when it goes on sale, I buy armloads and armloads of it.

As a result of all this, times do pop up in life when I need to stock up on both pharmaceuticals and frozen pizza ....

And I'm entirely comfortable with that.

I was just really, really happy that as I was standing there with my drugs and my pizza that the girls who made fun of me in high school didn't happen to waltz into the store at that very moment.

Cow's Hill? What?

2011-12-30T19:13:00.002-05:00

After a lifetime of residency in a lovely town called CowTown, I have moved.

Life is full of ups and downs, and my life is no exception.

I have spent the last two months moving to a new location: I live in a tiny bungalow in a town about fourteen kilometres South of my beloved Ranch.

I am now officially a resident of Cow's Hill instead of CowTown.

The choice to move was a difficult one. Do I want to leave the security of home? Do I want to strike out on my own? Do I want to be responsible for filling up my own windshield washer fluid? (Something my father has done for me for the past four years!) Do I want to come home every day to myself and no one but myself?

Well, no. I don't want that. I don't want to come home to an empty house.

So a condition of my moving was that I bring my eleven and a half year old Beagle with me.

Dixie initially had mixed reactions about the move. So did everyone who knew her. People thought that moving Dixie after years of her having the whole run of all of CowTown would kill her. Dixie was initially anxious about her new home. (As was I). However, after about a week, she realized that her new house came with pizza, treats, and the full rin of the couch.

Since then, she has gained weight, gained shine, and gained a love for sleeping in bed with a person. I have never seen Dixie as happy as I have seen her these past months.

In my new home, I have no phone, no television, and no Internet.

Sometimes people ask me how I live. Once, a person even referred to me as "a Pioneer". I mean, realistically, I live in a house insulated with straw. I have no internet, no phone, and no cable. I also happen to milk cows in my spare time.

So perhaps I may just be like a pioneer.

Only, I'm the type who comes with a Chevrolet Cruze and an Iphone.

I'm going to make it a point to blog at least once a week because I love my blog and I love my readers. The problem lies with the fact that I must blog via an Iphone, because in my new house in Cow's Hill, I have no Internet.

But my Beagle and I do have happiness, and that is the most important thing.

Where Have You Been?

2011-10-02T20:36:00.002-04:00

The beginning of the best summer of my life started, as you have read, with tears. I was crying, I was hysterical. I had nowhere to go and nowhere to turn because I had hit a financial rock bottom. I've worked hard all my life, and people who work hard don't hit financial ruin, now do they?

But I did.

In an attempt to take my mind off this financial ruin, I began milking cows in my spare time. Because apparently a degree in Sociology won't do it for a person and sometimes you have to go back to where you started out in order to figure out where you really need to go.

And there I was, working my butt off, covered in sweat, dirty like I've never been dirty before in my life. I've been tromped on, shoved around, kicked by the hooves of a thousand Holsteins. I've been given eye infections, hand infections, arm rashes, and the odd back ache.

The first time I milked with The Farner, I about died. Would he judge my sweaty grossness? Would he judge my technique? What would we talk about? What if I dropped the dip cup? What if I killed one of his cows?

And I guess he was thinking the same thing because the pair of us became such a couple of bumbling idiots that the first several times we milked together, cows got loose and other cows were neglected; dip cups were dropped and we bumped into each other; I had debris on my face and he had debris on his face and neither of us could muster the courage to mention to the other that this debris existed at all.

The entire months of May and June passed us by and he finally asked me if I would go to fireworks with him on the first of July. Several awkward and strange dates were to follow before we played out the first verse of this song in our own strange, shy kind of way.

The rest of our summer was played out in much the same fashion. There has been a cheesy country song to match just about every one of our dates, including the one where I spent the entire time sitting on the tire of a Hesston 6550 in the field behind the barn. Or the one where we sat out on the riverbank watching shooting stars until two in the morning. Or the other one, where we climbed up in the hay mow and I screamed when a spider the size of my head descended inches from my face.

Saturday morning crop walks have become the highlight of my week, where we walk with my hand in his enormous, farmer-y, calloused one to see if things are ready to be harvested or not. At first I thought these walks were just a ploy to spend time with me. How sweet! But it turns out, this is actually a part of the process of farming. I routinely get asked to walk about four hundred metres into a field of corn and bring him back a few ears. (Because corn does not come in pods. It comes in ears. Peas come in pods and farmers get cranky when their equipment breaks down and their pods of peas go bad, but that is another entry altogether.)

The weather has cooled down some now. We spend more of our time in the grain room, on a makeshift couch made of feed bags. We talk every day after milking, about the things that don't really matter. Occasionally, we talk about the things that really do matter.

I've spent the end of summer begging the end not to come, but I can't really control the seasons. There are vast differences between this fall and the last two I've faced and despite my crankiness at the change in the weather I'm looking forward to every next day.

Well, It Took Some Time...

2011-05-04T12:05:00.003-04:00

I managed to stop crying over my financial situation and I am now actively pursuing solutions. I'm not sure what those solutions are but there has to be one out there somewhere.

I'm getting my tires changed today which has been a source of anxiety since before spring began. The tires I managed to get with my car are perhaps the sexiest tires I've owned in my life. I've been upset that I've been driving on them all this time in the good weather (which is laughable to say because the weather here has been anything but good) an perhaps destroying some of their sexiness.

But I just have not had the seventy bucks to get them changed over. Where do you ge seventy dollars where seventy dollars does not exist?

Where do you get nine hundred dollars where the nine hundred dollars does not exist?

And how on Earth am I going to deal with taxes next year?

I was discussing this with a friend over the weekend, like, what if I just don't pay? What will they do to me? Is there a way for me to prove that I simply don't have the money? If I do that, will they let me off the hook?

Will they send me to jail? Is that an option? Because, I'll totally go. I'm willing to do some jail time in return for money I don't have. I mean, lots of people can do weekend sentences for all kinds of crimes, right? Why not let me take advantage of this?

My friend doesn't think jail time is an option.

Neither does my mother.

When I finally do get around to calling the tax people about the money I owe them, you can bet your ass I'm gonna ask.

On Being Broke

2011-05-02T18:17:00.002-04:00

Tax season has come and gone. I would usually choose to end this statement with some sort of other statement relating to how this has made me feel, but I will tell you a story instead.

Last year, I did my taxes. Mr. Tax Man gave me back almost five thousand dollars. I don't know if you've ever received five thousand dollars out of the woodwork before, but this is a mighty nice thing to get.

During that visit with Mr. Tax Man, he told me "If you make the same amount next year, you'll get close to the same return." I have since made it my goal to make the same amount as I made last year so that I could receive an additional five thousand dollars.

My new job leaves much to be desired in the way of finances, but I did work enough at other jobs over the year to compensate. I was hoping for an amount at least close to what I got last year. Like, within fifteen hundred dollars of what I got last year in the form of tax returns.

On Friday, I called my mother to see what my return would be and she told me I ended up oweing nine hundred dollars.

I did the only thing I could think of at that point and I went to my car and I wept until I thought I would throw up in my new car.

Through Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, I have continued on in much the same fashion. I've now gone to two different accountants and as a result of this?

Right.

I've been weeping to the point of convulsion. Three times on Saturday, while I was driving back and forth from the city, I almost had to stop my car. I haven't cried this hard over anything in a long time.

I am on the brink of financial ruin. If this financial ruin was due to my penchant for Starbucks and name brand blue jeans, I would blame myself. But over the past months as my financial reality has sunk in, I have completely cut out the extras in my life. I do not dine out, I severely limit my beer intake. I do not purchase clothing or makeup or go to movies. I've been over and over my bank statements and I can't think of anywhere to pinch any pennies.

I currently have two friends looking out for second jobs that I can take on.

Until then, I'm sitting on the couch trying to think of a way to come up with enough money to pay my bills.

I don't know what I'm going to do.

Yep, I'm Gonna Talk About Plaid...

2011-04-23T23:28:00.003-04:00

I am known in certain circles for my plaid jacket. I've been spending time in more agricultural circles lately and as a result, I'm just wearing a jacket instead of being that girl in the plaid jacket.

It is so, so freeing.

My original plaid jacket (And hot damn, I wish I had a picture) was a gift from the Berry Queen. She was about eight months pregnant with her fifth Berry Baby and angry about her size. She projected these feelings of size onto my birthday gift and as a result, she gifted me with a men's size XL plaid jacket. I loved that jacket, and as time went on, Mal grew to love it as well.

About three weeks ago, I decided to play the role of the good Samaritan. I was driving down the road and there was a woman standing beside a dog that had clearly been hit. I felt bad, swore up and down, and stopped my car.

The woman was also a good Samaritan because she hadn't even hit the dog. The person who hit the dog had driven away. The dog was still alive and was quite docile and quiet and I couldn't see anything visibly wrong with it. The woman went to question the two houses nearest us to no avail.

I decided to make a quick call to the vet's office (Three years of owning an accident prone horse taught me to keep the vet's number always at hand) and asked if we could bring the dog in.

I was standing on the side of the highway with an older woman who had her hair and makeup done and who was wearing heels and a nice outfit. I had no clue as to how to get the dog into her car.

I noticed that the dog was not bleeding or really even dirty at all, so I thought, I know! And I grabbed my plaid jacket, rolled the injured dog onto the jacket so that I could use it as a sling/stretcher. The dog was placed in the back of the car and driven to the vet's office.

Unfortunately, the injuries to the dog must not have really set in until he was transported. Upon getting to the vet's office, myself, my clothing, and my jacket were thoroughly coated with blood.

I fear the worst for the dog as he was in much worse shape when he got to the vet's than when I first saw him on the side of the road. The lady from the vet's office asked me if I wanted my jacket back and said that if I did, i would have to wait as they were working on the dog.

I left without my jacket and spent the rest of the day feeling terrible because someone's dog was hit on the road. I can't imagine how I would feel if my Dixie was hit in such a fashion.

Now my search for the next plaid jacket begins. It has to be a men's XL, it has to be the perfect flannel, it has to have the right color, and it has to be able to endure years of bonfires and other types of redneck debauchery.

Oh, Right... My Dating Hiatus...

2011-04-15T23:45:00.002-04:00

Well, my dating hiatus began on December 21st. I am now roaring into month four with only a little bump in the road.

It was a small one.

And I was more enamored with that bump's tractors and cows than I was enamored with him, but hey, sometimes green tractors and big cows can get the best of a girl.

I simply can't be blamed for the affinity I have for tractors and riding on them in the moonlight with the person who owns them. You would have climbed right up as well. You know you would. Because the tractor was green and the cows needed to be fed and what girl can resist the words "Well, looks like we need to take a little tractor ride."

Luckily, this individual and I never went on a "date". So I'm still good with my dating hiatus. Had anything involved dinner and movies and hand holding and that sort of thing, I would be sunk.

All I did was milk some cows in the company of an individual who happened to own cows.

No dating.

Which is good, because if I had gone on any dates in the past four months, my beloved Joomy would be disappointed in me.

Should I Post?

2011-04-14T20:45:00.005-04:00

What should I write about? My mother's puppy named Lucy, who torments me but who I am trying every day to love? About my new car that is not an SUV but that does have very sexy tires? Should I write about the fiasco that was procuring them? The boy I had to flirt with shamelessly to get those tires?

Should I write about how my mother broke her toe underneath a horse? Should I write about the vacation I took from riding when my hopes and dreams began to fall apart at the end of February? Should I write about how, when my vacation from riding horses turned into a hiatus, I decided not to return to riding?

Should I write about how I feel like I'm missing a leg without riding but at the same time I'm so very, very happy about my decision? Should I write about how, every time someone asks me if I've quit, I feel like screaming "Yes, I've quit, because my fucking horse is dead!" Maybe that would be overkill, but maybe it would get people to stop asking.

Maybe instead I should write about the little boy I used to work with, and how I fought and fought to be allowed to still visit him every week. Maybe I should write about how every now and then, when I'm on one of those visits I fought to get, he looks into my eyes and the entire world is cured of its ills because he smiles at me. That's all it takes.

I could write about work but it would bore you to tears, so I won't even go there.

Should I write about my beautiful guitar that hung on my wall for about four years never being touched? About how I quit touching that guitar due to a burst of stage fright I had one night, which was when I quit playing and singing?

Maybe I should talk about getting back on stage again. How my anxiety is more related to fixing my hair before a performance than the performance itself.

I could equally write about how I've begun to sing and write music again. I've been playing my guitar until the unfortunate souls I live with have begged me to please, please shut up so they could have a moment's peace. I could write about the vocal lessons I've signed up for and the record label my vocal coach has recommended me to. I could write about the band I auditioned to sing with last week and how they emailed me again for a call-back. (Or is it a callback?)

I honestly think about writing on this blog every single day. I've no idea how to start or where to start.

I figure that a good place to start would be a picture of me doing what has currently captured my soul.

And Then I Flushed Thousands of Dollars Down The Drain...

2011-02-21T00:36:00.003-05:00

In November, I wrote about my car and it's woes. I hate my car, not only because it is awful, but also because it regularly costs me thousands of dollars to keep it in such a condition that I can get to work every day.

As of Saturday, I have put about eleven hundred dollars in repairs into this car, not including what the cost the repair will be once the shop looks at it. This only includes the past three months because there have been boatloads of other repairs over the course of last winter, spring, and summer.

I'm not sure if you've ever invested over a grand in the course of three months into something you hate, but it tends to make a person kind of bitter. You know, in case you were wondering.

My financial situation is pathetic at best and atrocious at worst. Considering the math I did earlier this evening, I am beginning to see why I am so sadly, pathetically broke.

As in, I have no cash. As in, my mother had to buy my shampoo and body wash last weekend because I needed to take a shower but I am too poor to buy the products with which to do so.

I'm kinda down in the dumps, you could say.

I thought that, after my last investment of money into this car's transmission, I would be able to drive worry free for at least another six months. I really don't think that six months' worth of functionality is too much to ask of a transmission.

My Saturn Vue had other plans.

The transmission gave out in heavy traffic in the city (I hate heavy traffic and I hate the city, in case you didn't already know this about me).

I can only praise the Lord that my good friend and neighbor was driving at the time (He knows how I feel about traffic and the city. He is specifically aware of how I feel about being in traffic and the city at the same time).

I am now poring over vehicles online and asking myself the heavy questions: Considering the length of my commute every day, should I go with a new car? Should I opt for the super fancy warranty? Should I try my hand at another used car? Would it be insane to invest in a four wheel drive with very, very sexy tires?

I've spent the weekend alternately laughing and crying over the situation. If you could picture two rednecks on the side of the road with an inordinate amount of beer in the back seat hitching a ride from a tow truck driver who goes whaling in his spare time, you might see the humor in the situation as well.

If you could see me driving to the bank to withdraw the two hundred and twenty dollars it cost to tow us back, you might see the tears. Especially because that sum of money had been earmarked to pay back the most recent repair on the vehicle.

I hate cars.

Still on a Hiatus...

2011-02-06T12:03:00.004-05:00

Yep, I made it PAST my one month mark and I am now roaring into month two. I wear a lot of jammies, watch a lot of movies, spend a lot of time with friends, and never worry about the crumbs of Cheetos on the front of my shirt.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what freedom is all about.

Of course, there have been ups and downs. Like last week, when I was driving innocently down the road and my phone rang. And it was a number I didn't recognize but thought it could be an important business contact. So I answered and I was so stunned to hear the voice on the other end that I almost crashed my car.

It was the MooseHunter and I believed, after our breakup, that he would never call me again. I had no intention last November of ever hearing his voice again and I was actually fine with that.

But then he called me? What could he possibly have to say?

I did what any sane and rational person would do and told him that he was an asshole. He sighed and told me he gets that a lot. (You'd think a person would take some sort of inventory on this and maybe, just maybe make some changes? Apparently not.)

Then I told him that I was angry at him. Like, mad. I said "I'm real mad at you." (His redneck-ed-ness really brings out my inner redneck, poor grammar and all.)

Then I said "You know I deleted your number from my phone?"

He said "Oh?"

I told him it was a physical impossibility for me to call him back.

He didn't have much to say about that, either. Except to ask me what I would be doing later on.

So I did what any girl who's invested a year and a half in liking someone and said "Well, I'm still mad but you can call me tonight at five."

And then I went home and cried. (He didn't call, in case you were wondering.)

I'd love to report that this phone call didn't send me into a tizzy and that I carried on with grace and dignity afterwards but my friends would know what a poor liar I am.

I did make one attempt at calling him back to yell at him ungracefully but his phone was off and by the next day I had come to my senses.

So, I carried on with my life as planned and continued driving to work every day. Of course, two days after the first call, he was broke down on the side of the road and a red light dictated that I must stop my car. Unfortunately, I had to stop my car about ten feet from where he was standing. There was no choice about the eye contact and I did give him a neighborly nod when he waved. I did not pull over and offer to give him a ride, praise be.

He called about ten minutes after that. I let him do the talking and then said I had to go as I was having trouble shifting gears and talking at the same time.

Now I'm thinking, do I have to get a new car so he doesn't recognize me when I'm driving to and from work? How do you escape someone who lives, works, and plays within a five mile radius of your house?

My first thought is to drive to his house and demand that he leave CowTown immediately. Sell your farm and head West, buddy, because I am not going anywhere.

I doubt that would go over very well.

I think my only option here is to learn how to share my town.

I hate sharing my town.

Month One: A Success

2011-01-14T22:50:00.002-05:00

I am six days away from making the first month of my six month dating hiatus.

An odd day to post about it, for sure, but hey, its Friday and I don't have a date.

The dating hiatus was orininally mentioned to me sometime at the end of November. I did not commit to it because, at that time, an individual was talking to me.

I knew he wanted to go on a date with me and, as such, I could not commit to a dating hiatus. What if he wanted to take me somewhere that they served delightful food? How can I turn down free food? (I'm a sucker for free food.)

So, I prepared for my date and my mother and my best friend thought that going on this date was a bad idea. (So did I, but anyhow).

Preparations for the date included showering, combing my wet hair, wearing one of my brother's old Guinness T-shirts, brushing my teeth, and applying deodorant. I was twenty minutes late and I didn't smile when I got to his house.

I left his house (In the suburbs. *Shudder*) after about an hour.

The whole way home I thought to myself: Dating Hiatus. I need a dating hiatus.

That was the twenty first of December.

It is now mid way through January and I feel delightfully free. I've been playing guitar, riding horses, reading mindless novels and NOT worrying about who to call when or if someone is going to call.

Who would have thought I would ever feel so free?

On The Moosehunter, and Other Dating Woes

2010-12-27T00:38:00.003-05:00

On the twenty eighth of October, 2010, I wrote this post. It was before a date with The Moosehunter and my heart was all afflutter.

I'm not sure how to post about The Moosehunter because I was so wrapped up in him for so long that I can't begin to bring it to life with words.

Simply put, I wanted him. I wanted to be with him and I wanted everything he represented (or rather, what I thought he represented) to be my life.

And at the end of October, I got it all.

I'll never forget the day he walked into my new living room, scooped me into his arms, and proceeded to watch horror movies with me. And then the banter and the chatting and the cuddling that proceeded to follow. My heart almost fell right out of my chest after the first horror movie ended and he suggested we watch another.

The following weekend, he declared us to be dating while we were driving in his fantastical car. Again, I about fainted. We called each other, we chatted, we met, we had dates.

I was on top of the moon. I was so far over the moon I couldn't even begin to speak. Do romance novels make you swoon? Imagine swooning a thousand times more than any romance novel, and then imagine swooning a thousand times on top of that.

He invited me to haul corn with him one day which is a country girl's dream. He met me at the end of my driveway at six o'clock in the morning and I clambered up into his eighteen wheeler and proceeded to have the date of my dreams. He spent the whole day calling me "Rubber Ducky" as I [mis]guided him through the highways of Montreal. We got lost, we were turned around. We had no idea where we were except that we were headed East. We giggled and laughed and talked like we were the best of friends. He asked me to read the map for him and I told him he was barking up the wrong tree if he wanted me to get him anywhere because I'm hopeless. He just giggled his shy, country guy giggle and said "Ten-Four, Rubber Ducky." Every time he said it my heart leapt into my throat and I struggled to breathe for a few seconds afterwards.

For four long weeks I was walking around with a stupid grin on my face that nothing, no one could remove.

I was chatting with Joomy during one of our long overdue dinner and coffee dates and getting ready to leave when he called me. I was actually in the restroom when he called and she screamed "It's The Moosehunter!" I scrambled out of her bathroom and we chatted for seventeen minutes. Joomy was grinning and giving me the thumbs up in the backround as I pranced and leapt around her living room. I am the least dainty person in the world. It has been said that I have the grace of an elephant.

But his phone call made me leap and twirl around Joomy's living room because he was talking to me.

The rain was pouring down, I was out of gas and the roads weren't good, but I drove to his house because he had invited me to do so and my heart was in the sky.

I honestly couldn't believe that finally, after all this time of waiting, my dreams were coming true. I wanted him and he had clearly displayed to me that he wanted me. Everything was finally perfect. I'd lost my horse, lost my job, my car was quite literally duct taped together. But I had my Moosehunter and nothing would keep me down.

Upon arrival to his house I was unceremoniously dumped with no reason cited. I've dated plenty of people and I've been dumped several times. I have to say that this was the worst dumping I've ever been a party to.

Unceremoniously.

Dumped.

If it is shocking to those who know me, it is most of all shocking to me that I have shed only a single tear over The Moosehunter. I left his house and carried on with my life, going to work and riding horses and cuddling on the couch with my Beagle.

The tear I shed over him was like something out of the movies, much like our time dating was like something out of the movies. I was carpooling to work with my coworker and she just kept repeating "I can't believe it. After all that's happened, I just can't believe it." And at that time, feeling the way I was feeling, a single tear escaped my right eye and I thought I would lose it completely. It rolled sadly down my cheek; I wiped it away with my gloved hand, took a deep breath and a sip of my coffee.

That was the only tear I've shed over The Moosehunter.

In discussing this with Mal over the past months, we've come to a conclusion: My time with boys needs to end. Upon reviewing my history, I've lived at home for three and a half years. During those three and a half years, there has always, at some point, been some object of my affection. If not the object of my affection, then the object of my yearning and really? This needs to end. Mal's proposition was this: Take a six month break. Any guy who comes your way will not recieve any attention or thought or anything else because you're going to be on a six month break.

I allowed this to swirl around in my head for about a week.

The middle of December came along and some innocent individual began messaging me on Facebook. A date came out of this and prior to my date, my mother begged me to think a little more clearly on what I was doing. Surely a six month break from dating couldn't hurt?

I immediately interrogated both Mal and my mother to see if they had been consulting on this matter.

But no. Neither one has been speaking to the other and both these women, who love me and care about me, think I need some time to clear my head.

Joomy doesn't think it possible for me to go six months without some dating drama or other. (Neither, quite frankly, do I).

But I am going to try. My plan, at this point, is to go six months focussing on my work and my riding. No more boys. I don't need the hassle.

The me of a year ago would have fallen over at the thought of not dating for a full six months.

The me of today finds it a rather relaxing thought.

I'll keep you posted on how the next six months go.

On the Untrained Dog...

2010-12-20T01:18:00.004-05:00

Mal and I were discussing dogs and their training (or, in some cases, their lack thereof) on the phone this evening. I was speaking of Dixie's higher points: What a wonderful pet she is; how she loves me and is semi-loyal to me, if I am holding treats; how she ...

Mal broke in at this point and stated that Dixie smells and I should wash her more often.

Whatever. My dog is odiferous at best and heinously stenchy at worst. (You will be happy to know that she only gets to sleep in bed with me the day that she has a bath with Pantene shampoo and conditioner.) I can accept her faults.

We then discussed the higher points of Dixie's training.

And by that I meant that we discussed the fact that my dog does nothing on command and will bite people who try to get her off the couch.

But wait! Dixie can sit! She can sit! I swear, if you ask her to, Dixie will sit!

To which Mal countered: But will she sit if you are not holding food in your hand?

Well then. Never mind.

But Dixie comes! She comes when she's called, and that, my friend, is worth its weight in gold.

Mal then stated that she has witnessed, on several occasions, Dixie responding to the 'come' command. She has witnessed, many times, myself standing on the porch hollering at my dog to get over here! And eventually, Dixie will wearily make her way to me.

As pointed out by Mal, this is probably because she has a headache from all the yelling and has given up on a peaceful afternoon jaunt.

But wait! Dixie does come on command if you use a horn!

A horn?

Yes. My family owns a horn. Quite literally, it is made from the horn of a longhorn steer. A longhorn steer horn that has a hole drilled in it such that you can blow into it like a trumpet.

And Mal says: You blow into a longhorn steer horn like a trumpet?

And I say: Yes! And Dixie will come to that!

So you have to carry a horn with you everywhere you go?

No! You don't have to carry a horn with you! Because when you're hunting, you carry a gun! And when you're desperate for your dog to come back to you in the bush, you unload your gun, remove the barrel, and blow into it much like you would blow into a longhorn steer horn. Or a trumpet.

So picture, if you will, my entire family standing in the bush during the first two weeks of November. We are cold, anxious to go home, and awaiting a beagle who doesn't often respond to voice. In desperation, we all begin blowing into the barrels of our guns, and magically, my beagle appears.

That, my friend, is training.

But Mal feels that if you have to carry a gun with you to get your dog to come on command, this is not entirely practical.

Fine. I'll grant you that. Impractical? Surely.

The one thing Dixie is full trained on? The one thing she understands the most? Let me share with you:

If Dixie sees you, in any room in the house, at any point in time, picking up a blanket?

She knows to run to the couch and cuddle into the pillows.

Untrained, indeed. My dog knows how to act and when. Just pick up a blanket and you'll see.

Because I Haven't Been Able to Post...

2010-12-16T00:16:00.004-05:00

I have an awful lot on my mind lately.

Pressing matters, some might call them.

When I have matters that are truly pressing on my mind, I find it hard to post because I don't want to go overboard on the personal info on my blog.

And that's OK.

But then you end up with a bunch of posts in a row about my horse. Because I could always write for hours on end about my horse.

It is now mid-December here in CowTown and the roads are none too pleasant. My drive to work on Tuesday took about two and a half hours, more than double the usual time.

This morning the regular roads had all been cleared but the road I live on was not. And so, this morning I was making my very slow and steady way down the road and something was in front of my car.

And I thought, no, it can't be that.

There simply can't be a Monarch butterfly in front of my car.

It is mid December here in CowTown and the roads are none too pleasant and of all the things in front of my car, a Monarch butterfly can simply not be one of them.

My first inclination was to stop the vehicle and weep.

After Zydeco died, I saw several shooting stars and over the months I have continued to see them. Since winter has reared its ugly head, there has been severe cloud cover and I haven't seen a single shooting star.

I decided this was due to several factors: Perhaps my boy is taking a break from jumping up there in Heaven. Perhaps I haven't been outside at the right times.

Or maybe it is time for me to move the hell on and stop thinking about this damn horse.

And then, today, I saw the butterfly in front of my car.

If I had been on my horse, instead of in my car, there would have been a massive spook and I surely would have ended up head first in the snowbanks of CowTown. Because that is how Zydo felt about Monarchs. He feared them greatly, to say the least. Monarchs created some of the most interesting rides I ever had on that horse. Their presence also created some of the most interesting bruises I have ever had.

After weeks of seeking out shooting stars and seeing nary a one, I saw a Monarch.

IN THE MIDDLE OF DECEMBER.

I tentatively asked my mother tonight if I could tell her something that makes me sound like a complete and utter psycho. Like, seriously, Mom, if I say this out loud, you're gonna think I'm nuts.

And she, not thinking of Zydo, thought that of course it would be possible for a Monarch to hatch in December, but that it would probably die within the day because of the temperature.

She lost me at the part where she said it was possible for a Monarch to exist in December.

Because I definately saw one this morning.

What's Really on My Mind

2010-11-23T23:26:00.004-05:00

So much of myself has been about my horse for the past three years that I don't know what to do with myself now that I don't have a horse.

There, I said it.

For years I tied up my identity into being the single girl with the horse.

Case in point: The description of this blog reads:

A single, twenty-something's journey through life. Here you will read far too much about a beagle named Dixie, a horse named Zydeco, and the ramblings of being the person who owns both. I love TV on DVD, novels that make me laugh, four wheel drive, and my rockin' red guitar

The 'About Me' section of this blog reads:

I'm a twenty five year old university graduate who is shocked and appalled to find herself living in the real world. With her parents. In a bedroom with Clifford the Big Red Dog accents. I am engaged in a love affair with a Chestnut Thoroughbred who takes up far too much of my time and money. It is amazing what a person will do for love. I also am overly invested in my beagle, who sits with me on the couch every time I watch television. I've decided that a Bachelor's degree is not enough for me, and so I'm pursuing the steps to getting a Master's degree. Crazy, but interesting nonetheless.

My facebook 'About Me' section reads:

1) Redneck
2) Brunette
3) Addicted to XL half decalf three milk three sweetener from Tim Horton's
4) Closet Smoker
5) Doesn't do high heels (unless those heels are on cowboy boots)
5) In love with plaid jackets
6) Posts way too many pictures of a horse named Zydeco on Facebook
7) Thinking about getting a Master's --> a lot
8) Hates the cold
9) Can't function without a full calendar
10) Generally in over my head

Do I take him off my bio sections? I mean, I no longer own him, so I suppose I have to take him off.

It's just that I really don't want to.

Three Months Later...

2010-11-22T22:43:00.006-05:00

This past summer was a rough one for me. I found out in May that my horse's health was ailing beyond veterinarian intervention, and I had to spend the summer making some pretty hard decisions.

Three months and four days ago, my horse was put down.

Mal has said to me numerous times how proud she is that I've done so well. And I have done well: The day after Zydeco was put down, I picked myself up and carried on with life.

At least once a week I go to my good friend and neighbor's house to discuss the problems of the world and drink beer. We enjoy these nights, and that particular night in eearly October, I talked to him about how I miss Zydo, how I would do anything to kiss his face one more time. I have a tattoo for him, he is buried here on this farm, but I feel like I don't know how to mourn or remember him. At that point in my life, I had yet to sit down and cry over my horse.

My good friend and neighbor is a very blunt and honest person, and his words were "Do you want me to come over and build a fuckin' concrete monument for the damn horse? What is it you're looking for here?"

These comments might come off as offensive to some, but to me they are rather helpful. I didn't know at that time what I wanted. But I knew I needed to do something, to feel something.My good friend and neighbor was making a point: A concrete monument over a horse seems a little over the top.

I feared the whole time leading up to Zydeco's death and for weeks after that if I allowed myself to sit down and cry, I would never, ever get up. I would sit and cry forever and never be able to stop. It would be the end of me.

But that night I allowed myself to do what I thought I would never do.I went home, I got out my old mounting block, the one that I used to climb onto my horse's magnificent back. I filled the pockets of my plaid jacket with beer, grabbed my Iphone and sat down beside the mound of dirt that marks where my horse is buried.

And then I sat down and cried.

A day after, I talked to Mal. Does this make me unhealthy? Was it wrong? I feel a little better, but is it really ok to sit beside a mound of dirt, listening to sad music and crying? No. Mal thought it was perfectly acceptable. She thought it would become problematic if, say, I was leaving social engagements to sit beside my mound of dirt. But one night, one bout of expressing emotion? Certainly this is acceptable.

For days afterwards I felt like a weight was lifted and I thought I was cured.

And now here we are, on into November. I don't feel like building monuments and I don't feel like sitting beside my mound of dirt to cry.

But sometimes I still feel sad and sometimes I really, really miss being able to go down to the barn late at night with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, to sit with my horse.

It's not a Panic Disorder... It's a Furnace Disorder...

2010-11-21T23:59:00.002-05:00

I'm prone to panic attacks, which is no secret. In the past, I would have panic attacks that would last for months, leaving me ravaged, thin, without sleep, and a worry to all around me. (I really miss the thin part, but that's another issue altogether.)

I know that I'm getting better because now my fits of hysteria are few and far between, and typically last an hour. Two hours, on a bad day.

This evening the events of the past month (Which I've no idea how to blog about. I'm thinking on it) and the fact that I've had to cycle around the neighborhood begging rides off people (More on that to follow) began to weigh on my mind and I flew into full blown panic mode. Sweating, freaking out, feeling nauseous and wanting nothing more than to smash my head off a door frame or throw myself out a window.

I used my typical panic attack strategies (Put a name to your emotions! Define why you are feeling what you are feeling! Label it! Label it! Explain it! Focus on the positives! Tell someone how you're feeling! Rah Rah Rah to yourself that you CAN make it through this!) (Sometimes living through a panic attack, as a panick attack veteran, is a bit like having an overzealous cheerleader in your head. She's annoying and you want to punch her blonde, anorexic, full chested self in the face, but after a few moments you realize she may have a point.)

An hour later I was feeling a little better and reading some Marian Keyes, undoubtedly irritating my mother as I read aloud to her the parts that made me giggle.

After I was feeling a little better I realized I was sweating again and thought, Oh, Dear, here it comes again. But the feelings didn't return, just the sweating.

And here is the problem with our house: The staircase is like a wind tunnel, with icy cold air whipping down the stairs and freezing the backs of our necks. After an inordinate amount of time, the furnace catches on to the fact that we're now cold, wrapped in blankets, and contemplating lighting candles to provide extra warmth. Only then will the furnace turn on.

At this point in the evening, the furnace blasts us with an amount of heated air the likes of which the desert envies. It becomes tropical in our house until my mother goes over and adjusts the temperature.

Usually on the way to adjust the furnace (Which happens about five or six times per evening) my mother trips over a dog, a small child, a sword, her laptop cord, my father, or the blankets that have been thrown aside as the heat assails us. Swearing ensues because she is feeling agitated by the heat. She will then re-seat herself and wait for a more livable temperature.

Now that the furnace has been shut off, the wind-tunnel that is our stairs kicks in and we slowly begin putting on our sweaters, wrapping up in blankets, and waiting for the process to repeat itself.

Moral of the story: Not everything in life is a panic attack, but sometimes it takes a minute to realize that this is the case.

Good-Bye, Stupid Car....

2010-11-20T00:02:00.002-05:00

Eleven months ago, I wrote off my Jeep.

Then, I cried.

For days.

Weeks, even!

Four weeks after the accident, I bought a Saturn Vue. I had good reason for this: My anxiety around driving after my accident was out of control, and when I drove a Saturn Vue afterwards, I felt very safe. It handles great in the snow, I love the manual transmission, it doesn't spin and roll around, and I don't have massive panic attacks while driving it.

Seven days after I bought my Saturn Vue, it had to go back to the shop to have all of its bearings replaced.

And thus began a cycle of idiocy that I can't begin to understand. I have replaced door locks and sway bars, more bearings and more door locks, transmission clips and tires. That car has shaken its way to and from work, refused to drive at faster than eighty kilometres an hour, and occasionally refused to function in first or second gear. If it gets very cold, I'm stuck taking off from third every time because the transmission just won't go into first or second.

What a damn good thing that I'm so good with a clutch.

Today I attempted to go to work and my car was having none of that. It hemmed and hawwed over getting out of the driveway and once I made it to the highway, I was running in lower RPMs in second gear than I was in fifth.

I thought to myself, do I want to risk driving this junk bucket all the way to the city?

Cursing, swearing, crying, and in second gear, I pulled a U-turn and headed back home.

I stood in the hallway weeping over my car. I am so sick of this: I am so sick of not knowing if I will make it from A to B, if I will be able to shift gears on my way there, or if I will be able to make a return trip. My car is in the shop at least once a month and now that I have a regular day job, I can't just call and be an hour late while I arrange for my mother to drive me to work.

And about that. About asking one's mother to drive one to work.

I'm twenty six years old. Should my mother really still be driving me to work? Really?

I'm new car shopping tomorrow and I hope to be back in a Chevrolet by the time the week is out.

A Rite of Passage...

2010-11-10T20:34:00.005-05:00

I have one day left of hunting deer during rifle season and after that I'll be heading out to the bush for archery season.

I didn't have any success while hunting this year which left me feeling rather deflated once again. I haven't ever even SEEN a deer while in the bush, with the exception of the deer others have pulled out.

On Sunday morning my father thoughtfully started my car for me before we headed out to the bush. I loaded up my gun, a pocket full of ammo, a thermos full of coffee and a ridiculous orange hat and headed to the bush.

Three quarters of the way there, I looked at my ignition.

It was at that point I realized that my father had thoughtfully started my car with the wrong set of keys. The keys that have my gun lock attached to them were sitting in the kitchen.

A more prepared person would have a set of wire cutters or a screwdriver or THE PROPER KEYS on hand.

Not I. In a fit of rage, my mother and I turned the car around and went to retrieve my keys. I was now missing prime hunting time and my opportunity to see the perfect deer.

We returned to the bush and I was rather pissed. The sun had come up at this point and there was little likeliehood of seeing deer. I now have a day job, something I've been praying for since time began, and as a result, I have no free mornings to go hunting.

In a huff, I began stamping my way to my spot, clanking my thermos against my chair because I was certain no deer would appear.

Then I heard Big Brother's voice.

He had shot a deer and needed my deer tag. It was my last day in the bush and using my tag was the best decision since elsewise it would go to waste.

My elation at that point knew no bounds. A deer! We had a deer! I would now get to miss out on time spent sitting not seeing any deer and get to go help pull a deer out of the bush.

At this point, Big Brother asked me if I wanted to clean it.

CLEAN A DEER? I get to clean a deer?

It would be an honor to clean a deer. It would mean the acquisition of new skills and a lesson that has been passed down through generations of hunters. I would get to use my hunting knife for the first time and see if I could actually do something with some modicum of success.

Big Brother talked me through the process. At first I felt exactly like I did in tenth grade biology when I was dissecting a pig. You have to make smooth, clean cuts and not harm the meat or the intestines.

Things started to get a little yucky when I sliced open the rumen with my ultra-sharp knife. I wasn't strong enough to cut through a piece of bone and I wasn't strong enough again to properly clean the windpipe. Big Brother stepped in a time or two so he could lend a hand when the perfect deer he had shot was at risk of being ruined by my lack of experience.

Afterwards we stopped and surveyed our work and had to take pictures of our job well done.

I've been praised and congratulated every time I've told the story of my first field dressing/deer cleaning experience. I recounted the story to one friend of mine and upon hearing that I managed to clean the deer without vomiting, he actually invited me to go hunting with him come archery season.

Some people say that hunting is barbaric, wrong, and disgusting. And I suppose that they are right, there are elements of all those things involved. I, however, just had a bonding experience with my family and was granted the opportunity to engage in a cultural aspect of my lifestyle that I've never had access to before.

And I feel pretty damn good about myself.

I Don't Even Want To Post It...

2010-10-28T22:08:00.002-04:00

But I'm going to. Thankfully, my Dearest Joomy has gone to Nigeria. Elsewise I would be worried that she would march right here to CowTown and slap me silly.

Last September, I wrote a number of posts about the MooseHunter.

I don't normally post that much information about the people I date but I think the number of posts I put up about him speaks volumes.

Last October, I continued to write about him.

In November, I resigned myself to the fact that it would never work out.

And then in December, this happened.

There was another Are You Kidding Me?!?! moment back in April, which I didn't write about because I figured that, by that time, it was so ridiculous I couldn't bear to mention it lest there be judgement from my trusty readers (Hi, Jooms!). Blah, Blah, Blah, and suddenly it is hunting season again and I get an inbox message from him regarding a certain bull moose he removed from the bush up North.

My drive to and from work is made up of my passing his equipment on the road as he harvests corn and suddenly I'm wrapped up again in this whole situation. My heart is aflutter, and every time he flashes his headlights at me on the highway I feel like I'm going to pass out.

We may or may not have another date coming up tomorrow night and my mind is racing. I don't know how to extricate myself from the situation should it be drawn out and painful. I don't know how to react should the situation result in what I want it to result in.

Fuck You, Cancer...

2010-10-26T22:08:00.004-04:00

Almost four years ago, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I wrote about what an ass her surgeon was here and about my own fears of medical procedures here. I didn't write much about cancer but I did know two things: it sucks, and the treatments are hard to get through.

Because of this experience, I've innocently and ignorantly thought that this was what cancer was like: It is really, really sucky, and then it ends and you can go back to your regularly scheduled life.

I haven't written very much about my childhood best friend on this blog. I did write this post four years ago as I was expecting her to visit my appartment in the big city all those years ago.

In that post, I mentioned her mother. Her mother was a wonderful figure in my childhood, one who I admired and who I thought was very, very cool.

A year ago, my childhood best friend's mother was diagnosed with cancer. I did my best to support my friend T, and the cancer treatments ended. Hurray! Life could go on as normal!

Two months ago, her mother was again diagnosed with cancer. T (Which is what I call her in real life... My T) told me about her mother's state and level of care and I was nothing but confused. When you get cancer, you get treatment, right? And then you go on to live your regularly scheduled life.

Right?

A little over a week ago, I was at my first horse show with Sargeant and my phone kept ringing. I didn't recognize the number, so I didn't answer. The number kept calling and after the show I was left alone with a beer, my thoughts, and my ribbons and the phone rang again. I answered it and it was a voice I didn't recognize saying "Amanda?"

I didn't know who it was so I answered as though I knew who it was and the voice continued to say "I'm sorry to bother you when you're riding, your dad said you were at a show. I'm sorry to bother you..."

And I recognized the voice as my T. The girl who was my main person from the age of four through twenty two. And I knew it was her but it didn't sound like her and she continued to speak

"But my mother died this morning and I didn't want you to find out from the papers. You can keep riding, I know it's important to you..."

And I froze. I just kept saying "What? What!" into the phone.

I said I needed to be with her and to sit with her so my mother and I immediately left the barn and my mother dropped me off at her appartment. We sat in silence, numb and scared, together, drinking diet pop and smoking cigarettes, tears rolling down our cheeks in a state of terrified wordlessness that I cannot describe.

My best friend lost her mother. The girl I grew up with no longer has a best friend, a confidante, someone to shop with and someone to tell all her thoughts and fears to. Her mother was someone you could have beers with, someone you could tell about the guy you're dating, someone you could joke with, someone who made you feel like you were the smartest person in the world.

She always laughed at my poorly placed jokes, she always told me I was the smartest person she knew. She was always on my side, always in my corner and I could tell her just about anything and it wouldn't stun her. And no matter what I said, she supported every word of it. But this is not about me.

The girl I spend my childhood and teenage years with has lost the most significant player in her life.

I have no idea how to support my friend through this, how to say anything that would mean anything of value. I don't know what to do except to sit beside her in stunned silence because this is not what was supposed to happen. This wonderful, exhuberant, intelligent, caring, hilarious woman is gone from this Earth and my friend will never talk to her again.

I've deliberated over posting this since I heard of her death. Since I've known that she is gone I can honestly say that there has been an emptiness inside me, thinking of the horror my dear friend is going through.

2010-10-10T23:38:00.004-04:00

What a rider looks like:

The Berry Queen gave me a vest and in the fall, when you're a rider, you must have a vest. You need to wear layered clothing because when you start out, you're freezing, and once you've worked yourself into a sweat, you need to be able to take your layers off without pulling things over your head. Enter: the perfect vest. It is down, it is red, and it fits like a dream. I just feel like such a real rider when I wear it that I had to post it on my blog.

And then you have myself and Sargy-Pargy Pumpkin Pie getting ready for a lesson.

Have I mentioned that I love my camera person?

I Just Can't Believe I'm Here...

2010-10-10T23:25:00.002-04:00

My life has become fantastic all of a sudden and I'm not sure what to do with it. (That is not to say that my life has not always been fantastic but certain stressors have existed over the past few years that have left me feeling rather overwhelmed).

I want to run screaming through the streets about how everything has turned out. I have finally landed that job that I thought I would never, ever get.

Sargeant and I had another ride tonight and I can't get over how well I'm doing with him. While I do enjoy Sargeant he is a little... well, he's a little powerful. He's kinda strong. He likes to go and leave me feeling like a passenger waiting for him to slow down, only he doesn't really slow down of his own free will.

Since my lesson a week ago I've been working on our transitions and I can't get over how well we are doing with them. I haven't been turning into a terrified slab of jelly on his back every time he does something and when I have a ride like I had tonight, I feel like I am on top of the world.

I am just so excited. I am excited to start living my life the way I wanted to live it, the way I've been craving to live for the past several years. I get to ride, I get to sleep at home every night, I get to sit on my couch, I get to socialize when I want to socialize.

I also have my own living room now that the Clifford Cave has been rejuvinated. Yesterday I gave Dixie a Thanksgiving bath, thinking that I would be thankful for a Beagle who doesn't smell like a combination of the creek, fish, mud, decomposing raccoon (Her favorite thing to roll in), and barn. I washed her thoroughly, starting out with dog shampoo and then giving up because it just wasn't cutting it. I then proceeded to wash my Beagle using Pantene shampoo and conditioner and OH MY WORD. Her hair has never shone so brightly.

After Dixie's bath, I used the blow dryer on her which left her feeling less than impressed. After that, however, I invited her for a nap with me in the Clifford cave and we curled up together, in all of her glorious smelling goodness, and slept the way a Beagle and the person who loves her should.

Things are looking pretty good.

Just Another Sunday Night...

2010-10-03T22:29:00.002-04:00

I went to Quebec tonight for my seasonal beer run with my dear neighbor friend. He has known me my whole life and often tells me the story of visiting me in the hospital when I was born.

My dear friend has had the opportunity to work at one of the more known stables in my region and, as a result, knows all of the girls in the area who ride. He told me tonight that he doesn't know if I have the drive to ride competitively or not.

Ouch, but at the same time, honest. I'm kind of lazy and if you know me, that's not an understatement. We had our weekly small, resonsible fire, a few of our Quebec beers, and I made my way back home.

My mother and I watched Heartland together and I must say that if you are a horse person, this show is a riot. I love Canadian television and I love Heartland.

The show is about a girl named Amy who is a bit of a horse whisperer. I do love a good horsewhisperer, I must say.

And in the show, she nuzzled up to a horse she was working with and I thought about Zydo and how much I miss his nose.

I miss his face. I miss his nose. I miss kissing his face late at night. I miss squishing his nose in my hand and I miss him licking my hand once he has eaten all of his carrots. He would lick my hand for hours after I fed him a treat, hoping that another one would appear. I miss that look on his face when I would drag the hose in front of his stall. He would be all like, "Oh my goodness, there is something slithering there, clearly it is going to kill me!". And then he would calm down and I could sit with him while he would drink his water.

And I am so lucky at this point in my life to have Sargeant. I see him three or four days a week and he lets me kiss his nose and he lets me pet him and fuss over him.

But he is not Zydo and he does not do the things that Zydo did and I miss it.

I am trying not to dwell and I am trying not to be sad because everything that happened had to happen.

But sometimes I just miss my boy.

Oh, right...

2010-10-02T21:41:00.003-04:00

So I suppose the last couple weeks have been sort of hectic and I haven't been able to post any real pertinent information. Somewhere between working, riding, going through a breakup, and applying for every job on the face of the Earth, I lost touch with my blog and forgot to share this tidbit of information.

I have been applying to jobs fervently and as the job I've had for two years is now ending, I've felt like a complete loser. I have a university degree, a college diploma, and three years' worth of experience working with some of the highest needs children that exist.

Applying for jobs to me is like trying on bathing suits. It always ends in tears because I'm thinking, do I look that bad? In job searching, I often think of my qualifications and experience and I think, do I look that bad on paper? Does the fact that my body is quite literally covered in scars and bruises from the work that I do mean nothing?

Will nobody ever hire me?

I went for an interview in the heart of the city three weeks ago. I hate driving to the heart of the city and I hate the bureaucratic bullcrap that accompanies applying for jobs. In most cases, union rules state that every position must take four candidates. Initially, I thought this was great because it would give me a fair chance at a job. In reality, I've discovered that usually when I go for an interview, the interviewers already know who they are going to hire, but they must go through the motions to accomodate the union rules.

Four thousand, six hundred, and twenty seven interviews later, I was feeling pretty deflated. I did agree, however, to wake up on my day off and drive into the downtown core of the city nearest me, get lost on one-way streets, pay ten dollars for parking, and go for a freakin' interview.

I was angry that I was even there the whole time but I bucked up, answered the form questions as best I could, was very frank an honest about my abilities working with this population, and left feeling like I was on the moon.

I always leave job interviews thinking that I am on the moon. Typically, the next day, the interviewer calls me and says that I came in second to another candidate.

This time, however, the interviewer called me and said that I had a position.

After years of trying, my dream job has arrived. I leave the house every day and I am back by four p.m. I never had to sleep at work. I never have to be physically attacked while at work. This corporation will never bounce my paychecks.

I have the rest of the month to work at my old job and then I am FREE to work like a normal human being works. I honestly have no comprehension of what this will be like. I have never, in ten years of working, had a day job. I have never not worked late into the night and dealt with cold, snow covered roads at midnight. I have never had my weekends free from Friday at four through till Monday at seven.

I am so excited about this: I can ride three evenings a week, take lessons every Saturday, and sit on my butt every day after four from now on.

And my butt needs a lot of sitting to feel like it has reached its full potential in life.

Amanda's Relationship Status Has Been Changed to "Single"

2010-09-27T21:46:00.004-04:00

I've never wanted to date a sports person and, in fact, I never have. I could never, before now, stand those people who have to run from playing to whatever sport to watching whatever sport and who eat, breathe, and live that sport.

Over the summer, I have become that person. I am now officially willing to put every other task in my life on hold so that I can go to the barn. Everyone in my life is put on hold for the horse I am riding, the people I ride with, and the rides that I have.

I now understand sports people.

In July, I wrote this post. I was officially dating someone for the first time in years.

Did you know that when someone adds you as their girlfriend/boyfriend on Facebook, you get a relationship request the same way you get a Farmville request?

Well, I didn't know that either because for as long as I had facebook, I haven't had a relationship. Sure, I've dated every single male within a hundred mile radius over the past several years, but a relationship?

No way.

So this summer, I made a valiant effort.

And I was officially "In a Relationship With" for several months.

I started riding Sargeant and at that time, big things started appearing in my mind. Riding competitively is something I have wanted since I was a little girl. When my Golden Opportunity arrived early in September, I nearly fell off my feet because this is what I've been looking for my whole life.

And this wonderful soul I was dating all summer started to feel the effects of my passion.

It was never my intention to make him play second fiddle to my desire to compete but in the end, that is how things happened. I truly thought I could combine riding for real, having two full time jobs, and being "In a Relationship With".

When I met this person who I was "In a Relationship With", I really thought this was it. I didn't meet him online, he has a long-standing (if not distant) connection to my family, he came with excellent references and everything seemed to be perfectly fine. I honestly thought this was going to go places.

The fact of the matter is that there is no way I could continue on with him being hurt every weekend when I was late because I'd been at the barn, when I stood him up to stay at the barn. He asked me to go away for a weekend in October and my first response was that we could leave late Friday night: Right after I ride.

When I wrote my long, sad, pathetic, self-indulgent post on being alone I had no idea my life would turn out the way it has. I had found out a few days before that post was written that my horse would not live through the fall. I thought when I lost Zydo I would be losing riding and so I embarked on this relationship thinking that it was to become what my life should be about.

Everything changed later in the year and I suppose that is all I can say about this situation: Life throws you curveballs that make you think you're supposed to live a certain way, and then a couple months later it throws you another curveball and you have to decide to swing or strike out.

I suppose, in this case, I have both given my best swing and a sad, nearly heartbreaking strikeout.

A Golden Opportunity...

2010-09-15T00:03:00.003-04:00

I went to a party the other night with all the other riders at my barn. (Well, my mother and I are both riding at the same barn, so I suppose it is 'our' barn). At this party was my present coach, and I happened to mention something about showing horses to her. The mention of riding competitively was done in an offhand manner and between shots of tequila so I certainly never thought that too much would come of it.

Two days later I was at the barn for my usual Monday night ride on Sargeant and his owner came to me while I was having my pre-ride smoke. She just walked in and said "Are you going to show Sargeant for me next year?"

Am I going to? The first thought in my mind was, Am I allowed to show Sargeant? Obviously her question answered my question in the affirmative.

Of course the only thing I could say was yes: Yes! I want to ride, I want to be on a horse in public, I want to try my hand and mastering some real skill.

Before Zydeco died, I always thought it was a slap in the face to him for me to be riding another horse. I will never love another horse the way I loved him. I will always cherish everything about that horse. I miss his face every single day.

But here I have an opportunity that I never had with Zydo: He couldn't show at recognized shows because of his arthritis.

Sargeant can. The conversation went on about whether we would do silver level or not, and there was some debate over whether I need the experience of a couple low-level shows before I move on to the big times.

I then tacked up Sargeant and rode him for all he was worth. And this part sounds stupid but this is what I was doing: I was listening to a caller in my head, calling out the moves as I rode them, practicing perfect form and wondering what it would be like to do so in white breeches for a crowd.

I'm soon to be out of work which has really, really gotten me down. But while that opportunity has shut its doors, this opportunity has come knocking and I feel like, in equestrian respects at least, I've landed on the moon.

On the Clifford Cave...

2010-09-13T03:01:00.002-04:00

I refer often to The Clifford Cave in real life, although when I searched it on my blog, I didn't find any posts that describe it. Sure, the Clifford Cave is mentioned in passing, but nothing substantial to note.

The Clifford Cave is my bedroom here at The Ranch. It hasn't always been Clifford, but it has always had a bit of a cave-like feel to it.

Originally, the Clifford Cave was just the boys room. It was smelly, laundry was strewn about, beds were everywhere, and my mother avoided it like the plague. It remained in this unruly state until I was sixteen.

At this point, all the smelly boys moved out and we found out, much to our joy, that the Precious Boy was on his way.

My mother hired a dumpster and we emptied out the contents of this bedroom.(I discovered today that we really only emptied some of the contents at that time, but anyhow). Twenty years' worth of clothing and school books and the odds and ends that children collect through their lives was tossed into a dumpster and taken away.

We did our best to hide the rest of the contents under beds and in boxes around the perimeter of the room. A crib was brought in, a changing table made out of one of the dressers, and a beautiful child spent his first week of life in this strangely laid out room.

When the Precious Boy and his father, Big Brother the First, decided to move in for good, a wall was put in the centre of the room to make it into two rooms. As a child, I always longed for a beautiful bedroom. The interior decorator in me came out and we painted the room two shades of blue and put up a Clifford border along with Clifford accents in the far room. It has matching blackout shades for naptime and I thought it was a masterpiece.

Six years later, I moved home from university. Everyone was exhausted (Was it the cancer? That Big Brother the Second was serving his third tour in Afghanistan? The million other things going on in our lives?) and no one did anything with the Clifford end of the room or the regular end. My stuff piled up on top of years' worth of other stuff, and in this clutter I have now lived for three years. A wooden high chair, baskets of books, cases of CDs, and hunting supplies to no end lined the walls of my room.

Eventually Mal and I named it the Clifford Cave. Allow me to describe the room: The door is about four feet high. This means that unless you are under ten years of age or really, really short, you risk taking your head off every time you go in. The walls are only about three feet high before they slope to a cieling that is about a foot in width before it meets the other sloped cieling. In length, the entirety of the space is about twenty feet. In width, perhaps twelve. The main light, only in the first half of the room, works sporadically at best and there is minimal heat.

I've always dreamed of a space to call my own. I love living here at The Ranch. I love my loud, unruly family and their bounding dogs and the children and the blaring television set. I never feel alone here. But sometimes, after those crazy shifts with the loud children and all the insanity, I need a minute to sit alone. Since I've moved home, I've wanted to turn the regular end of the room into a living room, and the Clifford end of the room into my bedroom.

This week, it happened. We emptied drawers, dressers, and book shelves. We vacuumed places that haven't seen the light of day in a decade. We found dust bunnies we didn't know could exist. And at the end of the day, a dear friend came over and we transformed the regular end of the room into a living room.

I have washed, vacuumed, dusted, washed more and vacuumed more. I have heaved furniture hither and yon, scrubbed things I never thought I would scrub (Baseboards? What's a baseboard?) and the room smells delightful.

Hopefully I get my lazy butt up in the morning and finish washing so that this weekend we can paint. I've no idea what color I want my living room to be, but tonight I sat with a dear friend and my mother, chatting about nothing, and I thought that really? It is quite nice to have a space of one's own.

And Then They Grow Up...

2010-09-08T02:19:00.002-04:00

Berry Baby the First has left the nest. She has gone to a city far, far away, much further than the city I went to so that she can attain a higher education.

What happened? Where did the time go? Wasn't it just yesterday that she was the silly little girl with the ponytail and the giggles? I thought she was just a little girl who needed help doing up her zipper and who wanted to watch Disney movies all day long.

Where did she go?

I spent some time Facebook chatting with this delightful young woman. I have always said this of the Berry Babies: They are magnificent children. They are well mannered, well spoken, talented in many areas, and generally a delight to be around. (And let me tell you that I work with teenagers. There are not too many teenagers I actually want to be around in my off time. These Berry Babies? I could hang out with them till the cows come home).

I'm a little bit jealous, I won't lie. She is off living the life that I once lived, where people are coming and going and things are happening all the time. She is getting together her textbooks and figuring out how to work her laptop and finding her way around campus. I just said to her tonight, I wish I could go back to university at the age of 26. I would so rock that place.

If there is any human being that I have faith in, it is in this girl. Her intelligence and maturity continue to astound me, as she has always astounded me. Her sense of humor, her ability to adjust to any situation, her desire to do well... I'm astounded.

I was worried at first the weekend she went away. What if she ended up like me, living in Hell with a howly cat and no friends? What if she was sad and lonely and felt like she had nowhere to go? How would this wonderful, sweet, angelic girl cope?

But she is not friendless or sad or alone.

Because she is wonderful.

I look forward to each and every step along her journey. I look forward to hearing about it and to remembering those steps that I took along my journey.

Who said technology isn't wonderful?

2010-08-30T00:39:00.002-04:00

I am sitting out under the stars after a wonderful evening with family and friends.

Typing from my iPhone!

It is a bright, quiet night in CowTown. The stars are out and the moon is directly above me. I can hear Trooper in the barn, bashing his head against his grain bucket and hoping fruitlessly that more grain will appear. I assure you that I am not about to leave my post at the picnic table and bring him more grain. But the sound of him bumping around is soothing in an odd way.

The pool pump is running and the crickets are chirping all around me. I think I just heard Tia kick in disgust at Trooper's rumbling.

We had such a wonderful day and night here at The Ranch. Everything about it was perfect.

It was one of those days that makes you think, This is exactly how my life should be.

Ready, Set, And.... Go...

2010-08-29T15:03:00.003-04:00

We are having dinner for sixteen people this evening, including Big Brother, his wife, their daughter, and their delightful twin babies! So much excitement in the air...

House is clean, hamburgers are made, hot dogs are waiting to be tossed on the grill. My new boyfriend (Bah! Isn't it hilarious for me to put that in writing? Not 'the guy I'm spending time with' or 'this individual I'm seeing but I'm not sure if it is anything' or any of the other terms I've used over the years on this blog, but 'my boyfriend') is going to be doing the grilling because my dad got called away to work and I don't know how to turn on the barbecue. Sometimes I am simply just a pretty face.

Dixie has had her semi-annual bath and is tied out on the porch right now looking mightily unimpressed. Dixie hates baths, she hates babies, she hates company, and she hates being tied up. I had to tie her, however, because elsewise she would have spent the day rolling in mud and dead things and this is no way for a proper CowTown Beagle to greet company.

Lucy, the five month old puppy has been given a place to be tied on the lawn where she will not knock babies unconscious with her exuberance. Tia and Trooper are munching happily in the pasture and I am contemplating: Wash, blow dry, and straighten my hair, applly makeup and put on clean clothes? Or greet fifteen people with a messy ponytail, an oversized T-shirt that is advertising the virtues of the dressage rider, and a pair of dirty blue jeans.

Right.

Off to shower.

Happy 700th Post, Blog....

2010-08-24T01:59:00.002-04:00

How did we get here? Have I really been posting on this thing for going on five years now?

Clearly I need to get out more.

At any rate, here is a picture of my lease horse, Sargeant. Very nice fellow, this Sargeant character. Also with distinct markings and the uncanny ability to give me panic attacks with his vocalizations.

Regardless, things are going well:

I Keep Seeing Shooting Stars...

2010-08-20T22:40:00.003-04:00

I've seen several shooting stars since Zydeco was put down.

I keep thinking I should be wishing on them but I can't think of any particular wishes I'd like to have granted at this point in time. Despite the loss of my horse, things are going pretty well.

The idea came to me last night, driving home when I saw another one. This sounds really, really hokey but I'm going to go ahead and post it anyways.

I think the shooting stars happen every time Zydo goes over a jump in heaven. He was born to jump; he was made to jump. Jumping was Zydeco's passion and when he saw a jump he would light up like a Christmas tree.

I truly believe that he is now jumping to his heart's content and I think, from now on, I won't be making wishes any more when I see shooting stars. He is either landing or taking off, in perfect form and always on the correct lead. That's just how my boy rolls.

Shooting stars are not longer something I will wish on: Instead, they make me smile and make me think of how how happy my Mr. Magnificent really is now.

In Quebec

2010-08-20T03:01:00.003-04:00

I had a bit of a breakdown the other day and, as usual, I had to call Mal. Mal knows exactly what to say and what to do and I find this very comforting.

I called her and when she answered I couldn't speak very clearly. I took a deep breath and explained my situation as best as I could: I am in Quebec. There are children everywhere, I'm drinking caffeine free root beer, I haven't had a cigarette all day and I can't understand what anyone is saying.

Mal was all like, Dude! That would make any person cry! And why, pray tell, are you in Quebec? Don't you know they speak a different language there?

Instant laughter.

Phew.

R.I.P Zydeco: June 18, 1991 - August 16, 2010

2010-08-17T01:01:00.004-04:00

Zydeco was laid to rest today beneath the Manitoba Maples beside his pasture. My father continues to hate Manitoba Maples but they shade my horse's resting place, and so now they hold a dear place in my heart.

I don't know if this will be my last post about Zydeco. I do know that I would like to sit here and write for hours about every memory I have of him, every single thing he ever did for me. This post would be far too long, and so I won't be writing all that out here.

I said my final good bye to Zydeco on the fourteenth because I decided not to be here when he was put down. This tore my heart for weeks because I felt I should be here for my boy in his final moments; however, I was not sure if I wanted a picture of him laying on the ground, lifeless, as the last picture of him I hold in my mind.

My final good bye was full of sobbing, weeping, singing, and pouring my heart out. Zydo stood for all of this in his good-natured way. I don't know if he was listening or not. I went over him with a curry comb, I put show-sheen on his mane and tail. I brushed him until he was his shiny old self. I coated his sore knee with Blue Lotion and I kissed his face for as long as he would stand.

Mostly I was just saying thank you. Thank you for putting up with my mistakes, thank you for letting me learn. Thank you for letting me love you and thank you for loving me back.

Riding over the past three years has given me a freedom I have never known before. It has given me peace and given me power. I have found my passion in riding and in loving this horse. I feel like this horse has truly taught me the meaning of love and for that I am forever grateful.

Knowing Zydeco has taught me how to accept mistakes, how to overcome obstacles, how to pray, how to focus, how be at one with another force in this world. He taught me that love can come in many forms and that every love song on the radio can relate to him in some fashion. He taught me about power, persistence, and passion.

When my parents bought Zydeco for me, I was defeated by life. Depressed, jobless, supporting my mother through cancer, deflated over where life had taken me. Zydeco brought new meaning to my life and for the past three years I have been experiencing this new meaning in a multitude of ways.

He was put down by our veterinarian this morning. I had half hoped to myself that the vet would get here and say no, this horse can go for another year. Instead he had a lot to say about euthanasia, how he does not believe in it. He then went on to say that, judging by the X-rays we took at the beginning of May this year, it would be impossible for Zydo to comfortably make it through one more winter, even on the maximum amount of painkillers. My beautiful, magnificent Zydeco was in constant pain that even the strongest drugs could not counter.

We had a back hoe here to dig the hole, and Zydeco was brought out from the barn. He stood for the vet like the gentleman he is, not wincing a bit. My father then climbed into the hole, curling up each of Zydeco's feet and curling his head around his body so it appeared that he was sleeping. The back hoe driver was incredibly gracious and careful, so that my horse was laid to rest with not a mark on him. I am eternally grateful that my horse was in his perfect, shiny, Chestnut state when he was laid in the ground on this Ranch that I was born on.

I have shed many tears over the past several days and I'm sure that there are more tears to come. Every now and then it hits me: I will no longer have someone to visit after my long shifts at work, I will no longer honk my horn as I drive by him in his pasture in an attempt to make him run. I'll never kiss his velvet-y soft nose ever again in my life. I will never be able to lean on his withers and feel his fine Chestnut hair beneath my cheek. These thoughts hurt very, very much.

One thing I am hopeful for is this: love exists in this world, and it exists in many forms. While I am absolutely heartbroken over the loss of what I thought was my one true horse, I do have a firm belief that I will go on to find love while never forgetting about all that Zydeco has done for me.

I also believe in heaven. I truly, honestly believe that Zydeco has gone to heaven and that he has met a rider there. I believe that there are fields of jumps for him to go over, I believe that no butterflies will ever scare him up there. I believe that he is now free from the pain he was in and that he will exist forever, making other horse people in heaven as happy as he made me on Earth.

Today as I was driving home, I saw a shooting star. I couldn't come up with a concrete wish during that moment, so I just wished for Zydeco. I hope that now he can experience the peace that he so often brought to me.

I love you, Big Guy.

On Yoga

2010-08-12T01:05:00.003-04:00

Because I want to begin to meditate.

First, a quote from a book I am reading: "Yoga is about self mastery and the dedicated effort to haul your attention away from your endless brooding over the past and your nonstop worrying about the future so you can seek, instead, a place of eternal presence from which you may regard yourself". This is from page 122 of the novel Eat, Pray, Love. You should go buy it right this minute.

Another quote from a dear friend: When you are with your loved one (horse) you are in a state of meditation, a state of awareness that transcends the rest of your life, you are linked with a real force in which you communicate on many levels. You feel and understand the dynamics between the two of you. It is REAL. You don't have to think about it. That is meditation.

So, I already meditate, I just never knew that it was meditation until now.

I want to be in a state wherby I transcend the rest of my life and be linked to a real force.

It might sound kind of whacky and new-aged for a gun-toting, cigarette-smoking, beer-swilling redneck, but I'm going to give it a try.

Because sometimes I just have days where I need to transcend the rest of my life.

Not Another Horse!

2010-08-04T00:31:00.002-04:00

So, Princess and I made leaps and bounds through the months of June and July. I was so proud of us!

However, I work at an insane job and as a result, my hours are insane. This interferes with riding time and another woman also is riding Princess three days a week. Not wanting to interfere with her riding times (Because I know how precious riding time is) I inquired as to whether or not she would be willing to change her schedule.

She seemed like she wanted to accomodate me, but really, she wants to keep her riding days.

And then the lovely owner of the lovely Princess stepped in and said, "Amanda, why don't you try out Sargeant?"

And I said "Sure!"

And now I'm in really, really big trouble.

Because I kind of love Sargeant. I love his colour and his build and his gender (I'm sorry to be sexist on my blog, but I really prefer a gelding to a mare. That's just me) and I also like his delightful personality.

Oh, and his movement, since this whole thing is not about a love affair and is actually about riding.

I'm going to call him Sargy-Pargy-Pumpkin-Pie and I am really, really going to master the three loop serpentine on this guy.

It is the times like these that I feel like I am on my way to being a rider. A real rider doesn't just ride one horse. A real rider has experience with a multitude of horses. A real rider can handle what all the different horses throw their way. A real rider learns something from each horse they ride, and applies it to the next horse to build their skills.

I don't know if I'll make any shows this summer or this fall. I don't know if I'll ever ride competitively.

But I do know that I am on my way to something here, even if I don't know what, exactly, that something is.

On My Love of Food...

2010-07-29T00:15:00.005-04:00

I post often about my love of food. Because I enjoy food and all that comes with it.

I have what could be considered the unhealthiest diet in the world. I live to eat cheeseburgers and poutine, eggs benedict and home fries, hot dogs, shawarma with garlic potatoes... the list goes on.

As a result of this, I have hired a nutritionist. She's registered. She believes in avoiding red meats and Yoga. I'm not sure yet how she feels about four wheel drive and deer season, but I guess I'll soon find out.

My body feels the effects of what I eat. When I am working hard all day and I eat some really good proteins, whole grains and vegetables, I actually feel better although not full. I feel fully satisfied after I eat the greasiest, unhealthiest meal in the world (Poutine and pogos with diet pop)(with seconds) but I feel very lethargic after I eat like this.

I tried creating for myself healthy lunches while awaiting my appointment with the nutritionist. And today, when I handed in my questionnaire to the her, I proudly displayed to her my 'healthy lunch and supper'.

This consisted of:
- an apple
- a peach
- a can of low sodium V8 vegetable cocktail
-Potato soup (Only 90 calories and it is delicious!)
- 2 cups of Greek salad with a serving of light feta and low calorie Greek dressing

I was so proud! I bought these foods with the intention of eating them and patting myself on the back for being so damn healthy.

And then the nutritionist laughed at me and told me I was just so cute.

Sigh.

I am meeting with her tomorrow in hopes that she can make some reccomendations, come up with a meal plan, look into some kind of cleanse to get the toxins out of my body, and create a regime of supplements for me.

I don't want to become one of those die-hard crazy nutrition people but I am interested in seeing what this kind of dietary refinement can do for my physical and mental well-being.

I'm really wondering if I have the willpower to pass up fry trucks for the rest of the summer. I'm going to give her program a month and see how I feel at that point.

Pray for me. And also, eat some eggs benedict for breakfast and a poutine for supper because if I'm not eating these delightful creations? Somebody should be.

So Here Is Something Interesting...

2010-07-27T04:33:00.003-04:00

On May the sixteenth, I wrote this sad, pathetic, self-indulgent post. I don't need to justify that post's existence in the world because Hey, this is my blog and I can be sad, pathetic, and self-indulgent if I want to. And on May the sixteenth, for about an hour, that is exactly how I was feeling.

Eight days after that post was written, I met someone.

It was a setup that I was not interested in being set up with. I had zero interest whatsoever the first time he messaged me on Facebook. I figured I could get out of it by inviting him to drive over an hour to sit by a fire beside three people he had never met. I gave him specific instructions to text me later in the day, and he made the grave error of calling me instead. I came home to a voicemail on my phone and stewed for a moment. My mother's exact words: "He called you in VOICE? Doesn't he know that's a deal breaker?"

Clearly he was unaware that calling me to talk is not OK. I do text, I do MSN. Talking in person, not so much.

But, I called him back and gave him very vague directions to my house. As in, I said "I have no idea where you are but you can google my address".

Somehow, he made it. He passed the driveway three times because the driveway is kind of hard to see, but he made his way up our bumpy driveway and sat by the fire.

Beside three people he had never met before.

What a trooper.

I decided I would never see him again.

And then, the next day, I had to face the individual who had set us up.

To say that her level of excitement was high would be the understatement of the year.

I couldn't bear to tell her the truth. Look, he's really nice. And he is tall and blonde and kind of cute. But, you see, I can't do this. I don't do this. I'm the single girl with the horse and the Beagle. Haven't I shown you pictures? The cute Beagle, with the rolls of fat and the adorable face? The one I cuddle with every night? I sporadically date people and then return to my Beagle. Because she loves me and she never judges me when I spend the day laying in bed eating cookies. In fact, she loves it when I eat cookies. Because I share them with her. I do not share my cookies with boys. Beagles. I share my cookies with Beagles. Now please, let's both go on with our work and never mention this again.

I wanted to tell her all that. But she kept grinning at me. All day. Happy little smiles, like, I just set someone up!

And then he messaged me and said he had a good time. Yep, I've gotten that message before. And he wanted a date. I've heard that before, too.

So I arranged our date. I was going to take this poor sucker to barrel races at a local fair. He's from the city. I figured he would last about ten seconds watching horses run around random barrels and be done.

And I was waiting for that.

So I made him watch.

And watch.

And watch.

For two hours this poor boy sat at the barrel racing and eventually I felt kind of bad for making him endure what no normal person wants to endure. Only horse people watch horse things. But he just kept watching.

So we went to dinner and we talked. There was a lot of talking at that dinner. And some laughing. We laughed. Lots. And also, we talked. And then we laughed. And then I managed to coat the entire table with food because I am a messy eater. And after our plates were cleared away and there was a pile of crumbs on my side of the table, I laughed and started brushing them away and I said "Yeah, I'm a really messy eater." So he laughed his laugh and told me to embrace it. A huge, embarrasing part of me was exposed there. I can't eat in mixed company. But he told me to embrace it.

So we started seeing each other. He can tolerate horse events and messy eating. He can embrace a love of cookies. He can make food that I like to eat and he can hold his own at a music night in the Berry Cave with the Berry Queen. We went fishing on our third date and I am not making this up: I couldn't figure out how to work the fishing rod and when I finally caught a fish I was so hysterical that I reeled it into the boat and smacked him in the head with it.

I SMACKED A MAN IN THE HEAD WITH A FISH.

My father would be so proud.

And now, rather than spending my Sundays curled up on the couch with Dixie, my trusty deer hound, I spend them curled up with this character. He begs for pieces of my beef jerky just as much as she does, only without the drooling. And also, he typically smells better than my Beagle what with the whole bathing on a daily basis thing. We go fishing, we go camping, we go cottage-ing. We play guitar together, although his playing is somewhat better than mine and I can't harmonize with him. He hates my job and what it does to me and that both bothers me and makes me happy. We both love eggs benedict.

And he fully supports my love of cookies.

My work situation keeps me up every night, my horse's health is failing, I've dropped the last course I signed up for in school, my car is not running very well and I have not accomplished any of the goals I had set up for myself earlier this spring.

But the whole boy thing?

It's kinda going pretty well.

I Just Can't Get Enough...

2010-07-06T23:04:00.006-04:00

I am so very, very thrilled with the photos we took of my one true horse and I yesterday afternoon. We are actually scheduling another photo shoot and in this one we plan to have Zydeco's nose shaved and oiled, his mane trimmed up a bit, and hopefully me with a better tan.

I took pics of me riding in my bikini top because A) I've always wanted to have a bikini body and B) I've always wanted me in a bikini on a horse. My body is not entirely at the point I would like it to be at, and my farmer's tan definitely needs some work. My pasty white abdomen does not make a pretty picture! I was nervous to do it at first as it is a little... revealing? But I'm so glad I just put on the top and did it. I'm contemplating going full bikini next time but my thighs leave much to be desired.

We got over a hundred and thirty photos done in about twenty five minutes. I was astounded how many beautiful pictures we got in such a short time frame. It took about an hour and a half to get my makeup, eyebrows, and hair done for the occasion but it was worth every second!

Here we have a picture of my horse actually trying to bite me. Loving a horse is much like loving a man: You spend hours organizing your life and getting all dolled up and in the end he tries to BITE YOU? The nerve.

And, of course, proof that Zydeco and I are cut from the same cloth: Not only do we jump and hide when things scare us, we make funny faces at cameras with no apparent reason as to why.

Here we are walking into the wild blue yonder together. I love this one because it looks like we are the only people in the world.

Mr. Magnificent...

2010-07-05T23:08:00.008-04:00

I wish I had an exciting update to post, but I don't.

Just pictures of my Magnificent Thoroughbred and myself. I don't have any words to accompany these pictures.

But I will say that I love this horse.

And now, please enjoy some pics of me and my one true love.

Working....

2010-07-02T00:21:00.003-04:00

I don't post often about my work here, because it would be illegal to do so. I can say that I work with people and that working with people is exhausting.

I'm no heart surgeon. I'm not a brain surgeon either. I do not hold people's lives in the palm of my hand and I do not make life or death decisions.

I do, however, deal with people's lives and people's futures and today was one of those days. It left me exhausted and overcome with emotion such that I spent a large portion of the day crying.

I've met people who do what I do for decades and my hat goes off to those individuals. I don't know how a person can go through years and years of crises and upheaval and the emotional roller coaster that it is when you are involved in the personal details of another human being.

I do want to continue in the field I work with, this field of being a helper to people who need help.

Previous to this I would complain about the hours, or the lack of holidays, or the lack of money, or the lack of benefits and pension and about a million other things that I could complain about.

Today was a bit of an eye-opener in that, while I know I am not holding a beating heart in my hand, I'm dealing with some pretty heavy stuff.

I had my schedule re-vamped by my bosses for the summer and I now have every single weekend off. This is my first weekend off and I am celebrating by going cottage-ing with some friends. While engaging in this activity of cottage-ing, I plan to drink some beers, play my guitar, nap in the afternoon, eat too much food and laugh far, far too loudly.

After the day I had, I really, really need to laugh.

And I need to do it loudly.

Hard decisions....

2010-06-29T23:55:00.003-04:00

Zydeco has been a big topic of conversation in my house of late. Usually we discuss Zydeco's condition late at night, once the dogs are settled in bed and there are no people to interfere. Supper is done, the dishes are cleared away. I'm usually having a light, no-name beer and wearing a blank expression on my face.

These discussions are frank and without emotion. When my parents bought my horse for me, they knew as well as I did that he was arthritic. We knew we would probably only get two good years out of him. I know it is fortunate that I got three. The luckiest girl in the world, I am, because that horse gave me every ounce of everything he had in him.

And now I have to be fair to him because at this point, he is here for my sake. He is the one I pet and love, the one who greets me when I come home from work. He doesn't call to me the way Tia calls to my dad. He stands at the gate of his pasture and he looks at me with that Thoroughbred-y look on his face.

I was grooming him outside today in his pasture, going over him with his curry comb and his brush. I bought them as a matching set three years ago and I love my brushes despite the fact that they are too small and not very sturdy. But they are Royal Blue and Royal Blue is Zydeco's color.

I was grooming him furiously and cursing myself for all the times I didn't groom him. All the times when he should have been brushed and loved and instead I was too tired or too wrapped up in something else.

And now I'm thinking, there isn't enough time. There isn't enough time for me to make up all those other times. There isn't enough time for me to stand beside him and whisper the lyrics of Serena Ryder's song "Weak in the Knees" in his ears.

Zydeco and I are having portraits done this coming week. I want shots of us together, doing what we do best: Just existing. Me and him, him and me...

I'm just focusing on the positive right now. Looking up at the red ribbons that adorn my kitchen and thinking how he got me those ribbons, how he took me further then I ever thought possible.

Positive. That's me!

I Want To Feel Like That Again...

2010-06-25T00:46:00.002-04:00

Two weeks ago, I rode Princess. After two lessons with a new coach and much fight on my part, Princess and I finally came together as one. We were flowing, we were on the bit, we were working our best.

We achieved that which riding is all about: A partnership and an understanding. I was sweating furiously by the end of it all, soaking through my tank-top and my six hundred dollar George Schumacker breeches.

At the end of our miraculous ride, I was able to cool her out, long and low. There is nothing better than cooling out long and low, when horse and rider are moving forward with impulsion and are happy together. There is no relaxation in the world like cooling out, long and low. I don't care what kind of masseuse you have or what kind of pharmaceuticals you take: Cooling out long and low is the most relaxing and exhilirating thing in the world.

After the ride, I wanted to cry again. (Something leads me to believe that all riding successes and failures this year will result in tears. Tears because I'm happy that I can do it on another horse, and so very, very sad that I am not doing it on Zydeco, my one true horse.)

But, there were people all around and I had no desire to expose those poor, innocent souls to the emotion-ful-ness (Is there a word I could use there?) of my riding.

And so, like after so many other good rides, I cracked open a beer and smoked a cigarette, going over the ins and outs of the ride with my mother (Who, despite what I may say, remains my one true coach.)

The following rides were not as successful on Princess but I have been left with this: There is hope. Hope that another horse can teach me the way Zydo did, hope that I can continue riding and hone some skills. Hope that another horse may one day be mine who will fill the void that only a horse person can understand is there.

On Having a Blistered Ass

2010-06-03T22:53:00.003-04:00

Our first ride together was spent weeping. Rides after that were both successful and unsuccessful. I have put more blood, sweat, and tears into this new horse than I care to think of at this point in time, but hey! That's what the sport is about! Right?

Anyone?

Right?

*crickets*

Riding this new horse has blistered my ass. I am not making this up, this new horse I have a lease on caused an enormous, loonie-sized blister to pop up on my butt. Quite the uncomfortable situation to be in when sitting at an important meeting with a bunch of important big-wigs and you need to shift your position. And then you cry. Because your fancy pants and the chair you are in has opened the blister again. And the big-wigs are looking at you oddly but there is a lesion on your ass that causes you immense pain while sitting in an important meeting.

The thing about an ass blister is that it is ever-present. I have tried every variety of underpants I can think of to stop the rubbing on this ass-blister of mine and it continues to plague my life.

Poor Mal, all the way out there in Newfoundland, getting random texts about the blister on my ass. I feel for her. I really do.

I've been riding for over a week since the blister occurred and every time I do something, the blister is upset again and refuses to heal.

So, this new horse, this delightful Princess and I are working together and we have had a great number of successes together.

This ass blister though? The ass blister is not creating a great amount of happiness within me.

I'm working on it.

Once Upon A Time...

2010-05-25T23:15:00.003-04:00

I used to carry my camera with me everywhere I went. I really did. I took pictures of all kinds of things, including but not limited to: My beagle doing any number of random things, my horse doing any number of random things, the random things I do here on this farm and a whole bunch of other randomness.

This weekend I did not get pictures of all kinds of things, including but not limited to: Me shooting a .22 for the first time, me making a new garden, my tree named Hope, the planting of the new garden, a riding lesson, and my beagle rolling in something that is dead on my driveway. I missed shots of two fires, a fourwheeling expedition in the gravel pits, my car breaking down on the highway, Trooper the foal leaping in his new stall, the making of Trooper's new stall, several random walks in the country...

Shall I stop there?

I miss taking photos of things and here I will vow to get pictures of all the above-named things.

After all, tonight my mother did threaten to take over my blog and post pictures of my new garden herself if I don't soon get on it.

Steps To A More Positive Me

2010-05-19T00:17:00.002-04:00

I've been feeling sad and dejected of late. This has resulted in too much time spent in jammies on the couch, too much time not doing anything productive, and too much time eating large quantities of food. Especially food slathered with gravy.

Or Hollandaise sauce.

Sometimes in the same sitting.

The past couple days have been good ones, a kick I want to stay on. As such, I thought I'd share some goals with you:

1: Move. Every day, move. I'm a crazy person, so excercise is really good for my mind. It expends all that excess energy that would otherwise be devoted to panic attacks and curling up in a ball in my bed.

2: Keep working on school. My original goal was to have a Master's degree before I'm thirty. Now that I'm working full time at two jobs, riding daily, and trying to find time to, oh, you know... exist, it is kind of hard to keep up with the school work. So my new goal is to die with a Master's degree. If it happens to come by the time I'm thirty, I'll be happy. Regardless, it needs to happen at some point in time.

3: Stop moping. No more laying around bemoaning the state of my life. If, at any point, I start to lay around and bemoan, I will then spend at least an hour completing goal one or two.

4: Praise God. Or give thanks to God, or something. I've already started giving at least ten minutes a day to God, thanking Him for all the wonder that exists in my life. When I start to mope, I need to then refer back to goal number three, spend time completing goal numbers one and two, and offer up a prayer of thanks that I am in such a position to even have goals number one and two.

5: LIVE THIS LIFE. I have a life, and dammit, it's a good one. I need to snap out of it and realize how truly lucky and blessed I am.

6: Love my horse. Adore my Beagle. They are truly 'my people'. They never let me down, they are always there when I need them, and they tolerate my late at night, off-key singing without complaint. Hey, who else can boast that they have characters willing to put up with that in their lives?

Ok, I Tried to Keep it Light...

2010-05-16T00:37:00.003-04:00

Earlier today (Like, ten minutes ago) I wrote a post because I felt obligated to write a post and I realized I'd never told my Blog about my tattoo. So that was my blog fodder.

But something more pressing is on my mind.

Boys.

I hate them. I really, really do! A week ago, I ended a six month bout of idiocy with a certain snow plow driver.

Oh, the snow plow driver. He was a redhead. I'm a sucker for a redhead. And he had an enormous truck with glorious tires. There were deer heads hanging all over his house and he was tall. Oh, he was so, so tall. Tall and redheaded and big shouldered. He liked to cook and watch the Discovery Channel and I spent a number of weekends this winter on his couch, with him and a glass of wine, watching the Discovery Channel and talking. Just talking.

Wait, that's a lie. We weren't just talking.

Don't worry, Dad, you don't need to avert your eyes.

We were laughing. That boy could make me laugh. One time I left his house and my abdomen absolutely hurt from laughing so much. Just talking, and laughing.

Well, that's a lie, too.

There might have been some kissing.

At any rate, there was talking, laughing, kissing, big tires, deer heads on the wall, glasses of wine, and mindless television.

I want that to be my life.

But with many things, it had to come to an end due to certain drama that even I don't understand, which leads me to believe that maybe he just wasn't that into me.

And that's fine. I can accept that.

But then there was this other guy who I dated for a couple weekends after I read the book Marry Him: The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough. It was recommended by Joomy (Who I love) and I read it and agreed to live by it. Because a person doesn't have to have big tires or deer heads or a certain color of hair to make a good partner.

And everything was going great! He was open minded! And nice! And blonde! We laughed together too! And I thought, hey, maybe I can do this.

But then he texted me one day after an uncharacteristic few days of not texting me stating that he really didn't want me to stop talking to him but, well, he's getting back together with his ex.

And I could re-cap the whole MooseHunter fiasco of last September/October but I won't even go there because the saga is just too much for any soul to bear. (This story also had a continuation in December and then again in April.... I'm still single, so I guess you can figure out how it ended.)

I just can't help but feel sad and pathetic and like nobody wants me.

And am I really that bad to hang out with? Am I such a terrible girlfriend? Am I so bad at this whole dating thing that I deserve to be alone forever and ever, amen? Is there no one out there who is willing to be with me? Do I need to totally make over myself in order to be compatible with dating SOMEONE? Anyone?

This is what has been plaguing my thoughts of late. That no one out there wants to date me and that I am destined to forever hang out with my Beagle rather than a human being.

I'm not saying that I'm not happy. I have a good paying job, I have a horse who I love and another horse who I have a lease on. I have my beagle and i own my car outright. My parents are among my favorite companions and there are a couple pretty good friends in there, too.

It's just that sometimes I feel sad. Like last weekend and like this weekend, I just feel sad that there is so much going on in my life. And wouldn't it be nice to share it with someone who makes me laugh?

Ooops, I Forgot To Tell You

2010-05-16T00:07:00.005-04:00

So, I've always wanted to get a tattoo. I've never really known of what, and I've thrown around ideas in my mind since I was about sixteen.

Originally, I was going to get something horse-related but that flew out the window when all my ideas were ridiculed by the entire world.

For a while I wanted to get a Danish flag and then I was thinking of a Danish flag and a Canadian flag crossed over each other. But then my brother came home from Afghanistan WITH MY TATTOO. I'm not making this up, I had someone design the tattoo online and everything. I had never mentioned it to anyone IN CASE SOMEONE STOLE MY IDEA, and then he went all telepathic on me and got my tattoo.

Brothers. Hrmph.

Then I met Zydeco and again I was back on the idea of getting something horse-related. One day my tattoo came to me when I tossed Zydeco's bridle on the table after a ride. The bit (This is the part of his headgear he wears while riding that goes in his mouth, for those of you not in the know) landed on the table in a perfect Z shape.

And you know, I kinda wanted to get a tattoo for Zydeco, seeing as how he was my one true love and all, but I didn't want to go so far as to have a specific horse on me forever.

I figured this was a perfect compromise.

The guy who did my tattoo was a little baffled and it took him almost an hour to create the vision in my mind, with the assistance of some pictures from Google. Praise Google.

And then I laid down on the table and he started stabbing me violently with that ridiculous machine they use and I wanted to tell him to stop. Nope, thanks, I don't need any ink on me, my dignity and I will be out smoking on the sidewalk and I will be without a tattoo.

Then I looked down and realized there was a black circle on me that would forever remain a black circle. I could tell him to stop and then would spend the rest of my life with a black circle on me.

I did what any dignified soul would do and I screeched my way through the rest of the tattoo. I went outside afterwards and had a full-on panic attack, complete with dizziness, nausea, world spinning and inability to breathe for about ten minutes.

And then I called my mom and was all like, Mom! I got a tattoo!

She had some feelings regarding the tattoo that she shared with me, and now the left side of my hip looks like this:

And all was right with the world.

Weeping Uncontrollably

2010-05-13T01:20:00.003-04:00

Now That Zydeco is back home and unable to stand any exertion, I have taken a lease on a lovely little quarterhorse named Princess. The next chance I get, I'm running straight to the saddle store and buying a ridiculous amount of pink brushes, because every horse named Princess should have pink brushes.

I've had my eye on Princess since I started at the barn because she is the perfect horse for me. On the plus side, she is kind of petite, and I've always wanted to try out a petite horse to see how I feel. My long, limbering legs might look a little silly, but I like being that much closer to the ground.

So, I got on Princess for the first time yesterday. She stood at the mounting block and I was oh so very happy because Zydeco does not stand at the mounting block. He's a bit of an asshat that way.

And then I proceeded to ride Princess with much success. She was wonderful and I have to say that there is a lot to be said for a horse with a nice, dainty trot as opposed to a horse like Zydo. His trot will throw you to the moon if you're not careful.

We continued our ride and I tried to do a few of the things I would normally do with Zydo and they didn't happen and I felt a little weepy. But I perservered.

Then Princess tried some tricks, just to see what I would do. And I dealt with them and felt a little more sad because I always know what to expect with Zydo's tricks. But this is a new horse.

So I carried on. And then Princess went sideways and tossed her head hither and yon. This is not the end of the world, just a mare testing out a new rider and I should know this and accept this.

But I burst into tears nonetheless because Princess was doing things that Zydo doesn't do to me any more.

I tried to pull myself together. I really, really did. I was here on Princess, the lovely little mare who I've always wanted to ride. She is very pretty to look at and quite well trained. She is sound, sane, and very, very fit. She has great feet, a beautiful mane, and a little sock on one of her hind legs.

But Princess is not Zydeco. And Zydeco is the one that I love and I couldn't help but think how unfair it is that we couldn't have one more year, one more kick at the can, one more go together.

I cried and cried and tried to make it look like I wasn't crying, which makes a crying situation even worse.

My mother came out to coach for the last twenty minutes of my ride. We had some very functional trot on the bit, some very good work. I did sitting trot, which I could never do on Zydo because of his bounciness, and I aced it. I aced a lot of things in that ride, actually.

And then I sat down for my post-ride smoke and tears just kept on escaping me.

Because my horse, the horse that I love, the one that I want has chips of bone floating around in his knee.

And I knew this. I'll say it again, I knew it. I knew it when I first laid eyes on a picture on the Internet. I knew that the horse had arthritis and that one day we would not be working together any more.

I'm riding Princess again tomorrow. I have very specific goals for our second ride: Do not cry. Do not weep. Do not scare the other riders at the barn with my crying and weeping. Be eternally grateful that despite the fact I can't ride my horse, I do have a very fit and sound horse at my disposal to learn from and to master.

This whole thing, I've decided, is going to be a mighty process. I knew three years ago that I would have to go through this process and so this is my beginning.

Fearless.

Just because the course has changed doesn't mean our theme song has to as well.

On Cowboy Roy...

2010-05-11T00:38:00.002-04:00

Waylon Jennings often comes to my mind when I think of my heroes. This is because My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys. (Good tune. Look it up, will you?)

I'm not making this up. I love cowboys. I love their confidence and their ability and their know-how. I love so much about cowboys that I really wish one who lives in close proximity to me would allow me to woo him with my charm, but I digress.

Cowboy Roy lives up the road from us here in CowTown. I hired him last time to get Zydeco on the trailer to go to his new farm. Our loading time was eight minutes. I'm still so shocked about this that I don't even have words.

I called Cowboy Roy last night and had a jovial conversation with him, in which he hassled me to hurry up and buy a decent horse (Decent being a quarter horse that works cattle. As opposed to a Thoroughbred who jumps fences.)

It was arranged that Cowboy Roy and Cowboy Dad should leave to pick up the ever-magnificent Zydeco (Floating bone chips and all, my horse remains magnificent) at eight a.m. I asked if my presence would be required. *Silence on the line* I'm sure that both cowboys involved would rather have their eyes seared out by branding irons than be accompanied by such a ... a wilting flower as myself.

I set my alarm clock for eight forty-five, thinking that would give me a good forty five minutes to ready myself for my horse's arrival. I mean, they were sure to have some trouble, no? The horse who takes an unGodly amount of begging to get on a trailer? Surely they wouldn't be here before nine thirty in the morning? An hour and a half to deal with a tricky horse seemed perfectly reasonable to me.

And then I found myself outside greeting my glorious Thoroughbred at five to nine. Did you read that? FIVE TO NINE. I'm going to bold it for you so you really can get the emphasis: FIVE TO NINE.

It took them fifty five minutes to get from here to the farm, get the horse bandaged and blanketed and onto the trailer and back here to The Ranch. God, I love cowboys.

I unloaded him myself. It took me a minute to figure out how to open the trailer and then I hopped in beside my horse who was snorting and pacing side to side. He was kind of scary and I wanted to leap out of the trailer.

But, it was the last chance I'd ever have to take my horse off a trailer. Wilting flower, be damned. I'm taking my horse back to where he belongs. I'm sure the cowboys could have done it a little more gracefully, but I wanted to learn this last little tidbit of horsemanship.

And he turned around and walked off like a prince, like the boy I love so much, quiet like a lamb.

Cowboy Roy ribbed me a bit before he left, offering me a few good horses he has for sale. This is the relationship I have with Cowboy Roy: I talk about my horse, he guffaws and then tells me about a 'real' horse I should buy. He is one of the few people in the world who does not offend me when he talks down on big horses who can't cut cattle. I'm ok with it.

I came home from work tonight and my heart leapt up into my throat when I saw my beautiful steed standing out in the pasture with Tia and Trooper. My boy. In all his shiny, knee-chipped glory. Eating grass, lazing about, soaking up the sunshine.

I have one recommendation to make here: If you are a wilting flower when it comes to handling your horse, you should really have a pair of cowboys around to assist. They are such jolly creatures, these cowboys.

And they always know how to get the job done.

On Napping with Certain Smelly Beagles...

2010-05-10T00:18:00.002-04:00

When my parents leave me alone here at The Ranch, Dixie becomes my right-hand-man. Only she's not a man, she's a she, and on top of that, she's a beagle, but I'm sure you get my drift.

Dixie accompanies me everywhere I need to go: The couch, the barn, back to the couch, perhaps up to my neighbor's to have a beer, and then back to the couch again.

Dixie has been forced against her will, for all of her life, to sleep alone at night in the kennel. Getting her to bed at night is much like pulling teeth. Every night I watch her mournful face as she walks sadly to her kennel.

I like to play a little trick on Dixie while my parents are away. I'm cruel like that. I turn out all the lights in the house and say: "Dixie, Bedtime!" And then I look at her. She raises her overweight body sloooooooowly -- oh, so slowly -- from her perch on the couch and she hangs her head in sadness and looks at me with her beagle-y little eyes.

And then I stand up on the stairs and screech "MUPPY!" and pat my leg.

The transformation is amazing. She leaps to life, charges up the stairs like it is her job, and bounds into my bedroom to wait for me to lift her into bed. Watching her snort and snuffle in my luxurious down duvet before laying down brings indescribable joy to my life.

And then we sleep.

Yesterday I gave Dixie a bath, a rare occurrence that makes her feel very, very unhappy. She stands in the tub looking like the most dejected animal on the face of the Earth and tolerates my washing of her. Not happily. Unless it involves rolling in dead things or hunting things that are soon to be dead, most of what Dixie does is not done happily.

So this afternoon, after the other animals had been fed, I stood on the stairs and screeched "MUPPY!" before Dixie bounded up the stairs and then, surprisingly, found the energy to leap into my bed. She plopped herself down on my good pillow and I groaned inwardly though I knew I wouldn't make her move. I didn't want my good pillow to scented with whatever it is that Dixie has gotten into lately: The manure pile, a coon hit on the side of the road, the gravel pits, the horse stalls -- Anything yucky is where Dixie finds her joy.

And then I remembered: THE BATH. Dixie had a bath yesterday!

We then proceeded to have a four hour nap together, her on my good pillow and me taking second fiddle on the far side of the bed. She curled up beside me, all warm and fuzzy and rose-scented. (Oh, how the rose scent beats the scent of the dead things she likes to roll in during her spare time).

And after our time of napping was done, my pillow smelled only faintly of beagle and more like rose and I felt something else: I felt well-rested and at ease.

I may have just started a Saturday tradition: Washing my beagle so we can curl up together without negative effects on my olfactory system.

Seeking Words....

2010-05-08T22:47:00.003-04:00

Zydeco had X-rays done on his knee yesterday because he's been limping quite a bit this year, despite our interventions to prevent this.

I was there while they were done, dressed up in the finest lead apparel the vet could set me up with. This is the first time I've dealt with an equine professional without the aid of my parents. The horse was sedated PRAISE BE, because I don't really do any actual horse handling as part of owning Zydo. I'm a bit of a wilting flower that way.

I trotted my horse in hand for the vet to see and then I looked at him hopefully and said "Is it that bad?" And he said "Yeah, that's bad." And then I 'fessed up and told him how many milligrams of painkillers my boy was taking and he said "Oh." And then he promptly walked away.

Ouch.

Zydeco was then sedated and I did my best to help out with the machinery and holding up Zydo's sore knee and immediately after we were able to see the pictures.

I really wish it was an old-fashioned machine and that I'd had a few days to sit at home and hope before I knew the results.

Please excuse my lack of medical knowledge and lingo here.

He has some little bone chips floating where bone chips don't belong. There is something called hooking in the bones that make up the knee joint where the arthritis has eaten them away. This means that as he moves, the hooks nick each other and cause him pain, as well as causing the potential for more chips to be created.

My childhood of watching horse races was on my mind as the vet spoke to me, and I wasn't sure if I was being scratched or if I was being set down. Both terms mean you aren't competing any more. I'm still not sure which means what and I don't really have the energy to look it up.

I continued on with my day as per usual, oddly with no shedding of tears. And I have continued much in that fashion, although really, I'm not gonna lie: it did kinda hit me late last night.

Zydeco and I will not be going to any shows this year. I don't know what our future holds but the only thing I'm really thinking right now is Bring my horse home. I want him back here with me. I want to go down to the barn late at night and have a beer sitting outside his stall. I want to sing the lyrics of pathetic country music to him. I want to scratch the inside of his ear and watch him lean in closer and shake his head.

I was going to have trailering arranged today but I can't really do it without my parents around because of the whole wilting flower thing I mentioned earlier.

Hopefully by Monday or Tuesday my boy will be back here with me and we will be walking daintily through the field behind the house with Tia and Trooper. No trotting, no jumping, no jarring the knee.... But walking together here at The Ranch.

I Have Hope...

2010-05-06T22:50:00.002-04:00

The weekend is upon me and I have big plans. My Friday starts with a visit from the vet. I'm scared. But I'm also hopeful.

Have I ever said here before that I love my horse? Well, in case you didn't know, I do love my horse and I am hopeful that I will recieve good news.

Also on Friday I get to do one of my favorite things: Take the client I work with shopping for new clothes. I love taking him shopping, helping him pick out things that will make him look and feel his best. Plus, I always buy us a booster juice on the way home, which always makes my day.

I have my usual bible study class on Saturday and after that, the day is mine. I'm thinking of making a garden, or taking a nap, or walking my deer hound around the countryside for hours on end listening to my MP3 player.

Saturday night is full of possibilities: A fire here? Having some people over? Reconnecting with old friends? Sitting on my couch amidst the presence of two lovely canine creatures who make my heart smile?

I don't know what the weekend will bring: But I am very hopeful for it because I could really, really use this day off to just exist.

And exist I will.

Oh, Lord...

2010-05-05T23:52:00.002-04:00

My parents are leaving me.

They are leaving me with a puppy, a colt, a crazed and maniacal little beauty named Tia, my full time job, and my insanity.

Pray for me.

No, like, really.

What if the puppy pees all over the floor? What if she gets out of the kennel and leaves a giant pile of poop on my kitchen floor? What if she eat my cowboy boots?

I suppose I'll have to stock up on beer and hope that I have plenty of friendly neighbors around in case I run into trouble.

On Finding My True Love (Not Horse Related)

2010-05-04T22:34:00.003-04:00

I have an ideal that has been stuck in my head for quite some time. My ideal is this: Six feet tall, blonde or red-head, owns a collection of guns, has a giant four wheel drive, has excellent teeth, is open to religion, puts up with my love of horses, and is willing to follow me to the ends of the Earth and back because I'm just that wonderful. He has to have coherent thoughts in his head, be able to read a book now and then, and have the capacity to understand when I'm talking about when I use words longer than four letters.

Also, he would preferably wander into my living room one day and fall in love with me in all my jammie-wearing, chain smoking glory to save me the effort of seeking him out.

Somehow, most of the people I know tend to think that this scenario is highly unlikely.

Phooey on you naysayers, I say.

Realistically, I'm fairly aware that this is fairly unlikely to happen.

This means one of two things: Me and my jammies need to get pretty comfy on this couch because we are likely to stay here for quite some time OR I need to don some makeup, a fitted T-shirt, and a hairstyle now and then and get myself out there.

Who am I kidding?

I love my couch.

Ugh....

2010-05-03T23:22:00.004-04:00

Oh, Zydeco, you old fool.

Lat year, after Zydeco made a valiant effort to kill himself, he was magically healed. I'm not sure how this happens, but it does. My horse hurts himself in fantastic fashions, and manages to carry through with nary an ill-effect. After his magnificent injury was dealt with, we moved on to dealing with his arthritis, and this, too, appeared to be healed. All was right with the world and the sun shone down on me each day.

It is no secret that Zydeco was purchased for me with a known problem: He was arthritic in his right front knee. I knew it, my parents knew it, we all knew it. No biggie. We'll give him some painkillers and see if we can't get me properly positioned on a horse before buying me something more suitable to competitive riding.

But I've been caught up. Screw competitive riding, I'm caught up in a love affair that I never thought I would find myself in.

Fuck.

I say the same thing every time I fall in love, or in like, or even in mild interest with something. Fuck. Because I know that once I feel love, or like, or even mild interest in something, it will consume all of me.

Fuck.

I got Zydo, figured I'd use him for a year or two to hone up some skills, and move on.

But no.

It's not really that easy. Because I've fallen in love with Zydo.

And as our love affair has progressed, so has Zydeco's arthritis. Last year, we had him remedied with a multi-million dollar treatment that caused us to re-mortgage the farm three times and go without food or beverage for the better part of the year.

Not really, but it was a pretty pricey move. And because it was a miracle cure, and because my horse was sound after receieving this treatment, this year, my parents gave me an early birthday gift. They had my horse injected so that he would be sound for his two months living at The Ritz.

It has not created for us the results we thought it would.

I am disheartened and sad because it is one of those last-ditch efforts you can give to a horse like Zydeco.

The thing with this damn horse is that he just won't quit. No matter that he is sore, no matter that his knee hurts him, he wants to work. He is happiest being groomed and tacked up and saddled up and brought to the arena. Once I'm on him, or even once my nephew or my father or The Berry Queen is on him, he just keeps going.

I wish he'd give me a sign. I wish he'd look at me with those magnificent Thoroughbred eyes and tell me that he doesn't want to work any more. Alternatively, he could pitch me across the arena the next time I plant my hundred-and-you-don't-need-to-know pound ass in his saddle, thereby telling me in clear language that he is not happy to carry me. But he won't.

I'm sure it's because he loves me. The same way I say "Fuck" when I fall in love, or in like, or even in mild interest with something, Zydo is standing in his 14 x 14 stall right now saying "Fuck".

He's probably shaking his head and telling everyone who will listen about his troubles, heaving a big sigh, taking another bite of the luxurious hay they are feeding him, rolling his eyes, and steadying himself for the next ride.

Because he loves me.

Boulet Boots

2010-04-29T23:54:00.002-04:00

I love boots. I have always loved boots and I suspect I will always love boots. I do not wear fashionable boots or even boots that most people find attractive. Since I was ten, my feet have been clad, year round, in Doc Martens.

Over the years, however, many people have complained about going out with me because it takes me approximately fifty and a half hours to tie up my boots before I walk out the door. As such, last year at tax time, I ran out and bought myself a pair of dress cowboy boots.

My life has not been the same since. I love them. I love the click of them when I walk across a parking lot, I love the pointed toe when I look down and see them. I love a perfectly hemmed pair of jeans sitting around them and I love them with a denim mini-skirt (Which I've only gotten up the nerve to wear once but it was the county fair and I simply had to).

My boots are Frye boots, not Boulet boots. Boulet boots, for those of you not in the know, are the be-all, end-all of boots. I have been chastised by many people for my choice in boots but last year's tax return would not afford me Boulet boots. Sigh. My Frye boots haven't behaved in exactly the fashion I want them to behave in. They are still completely functional but they need to be resoled as the sole of one of them has started to fall apart and come off.

Fast forward to yesterday: I found out the amount of money I am getting is quite substantial. Life-altering, even.

Immediately visions of beautiful Boulet boots started dancing in my head. I was picturing the new saddle I would buy for my horse, the clothing I would purchase as I frequently look like a homeless person when dressed in my own attire.

And then I sat down in front of my computer and realized a few things. Here is a breakdown of my financial situation:

Tax check in the mail = $10 less than what I owe on my vehicle
Amount in savings = $20 less than what I owe on my Visa
Amount of excess in next pay check = amount I owe my parents

And my heart is saying to me BOOTS. YOU NEED BOOTS. GIRL, GET YOURSELF SOME DAMN BOOTS.

But my head. Oh, my stupid head is saying -- in a fashion much less direct than my heart -- that I should pay off all my debts and have a chance to be at zero for a while.

I'm sure that Joomy will step in here and offer some encouragement in making the right decision.

It's You and Me, Big Guy...

2010-04-29T01:36:00.008-04:00

These are the words I speak to my horse any time something 'big' appears before us. I whisper this to him if we are approaching a jump, if a particularly scary thing is coming up, before we enter the show ring, and any other time I feel fear or anxiety.

Sometimes I say it before we leave the stall, if I'm feeling particularly stressed about a ride.

Sometimes I have to do something that scares me a little bit, like let go of the inside rein at the canter. I hate letting go of the inside rein. I've honestly not ridden him hands-free since I've owned him.

Sometimes the mounting block scares me. I never tell him that it's me and him then. Usually I just get someone to hold him for me. More experienced riders don't have this issue. Sigh.

I am not a hacker. "Hacking" is the term used to describe those riders who wish to ride in the great outdoors, where scary things like butterflies and emus and deer and quail exist. These things can jump out at you at any moment, and no amount of whispering "It's you and me, Big Guy" can help. Certain other riders are not afraid of hacking, and as such, I hire them frequently to give my horse the excercise he needs beyond the beautious indoor arena.

So, here we are.

It's time, once more, to take life by the horns and ride my horse. We don't know how much more riding Zydo's arthritis can take at this point. One thing I know about Zydo is that he is desperate to work. He wants to keep going, he will run on his sore leg until I say stop.

He never says stop.

And so, I'm going to ride my horse, that magnificent beast, to the best of my ability because I owe it to him. I recieved him as a gift almost three years ago and I haven't, until now, had the ability to ride him in the way he deserves to be ridden.

And Hell, if this kid can't do it, why not me?

Oh, Didn't I Tell You??

2010-04-10T01:05:00.008-04:00

My father purchased his mare, Darq Lucretia, three and a half years ago.

At the time I was away at university, studying to become a wonderful Sociologist who would go on to do great things with her life. In the meantime, I was working at The SubShack and when I found out about Tia's presence in our lives, I immediately went to all my coworkers and told them how I was going HOME that weekend and I would get to ride a HORSE.

For the first time in years! I would be back in the saddle!

My father informed me that, no, I would not be riding his horse and I was momentarily heartbroken. Because, really, Do you know who I am?

And then my father went out on his first ride with Tia. It took my brother's assistance to hold her while my father got on and then they sped down the driveway in a flurry of feet flying and tail swooshing and I was all like, Dude, I am not getting on that horse.

Because Tia was kind of nutso. Not gonna lie, the girl had some issues. Before we got Zydo, six months after Tia's arrival here at The Ranch, Tia couldn't even go outside by herself because this big old world is just that scary.

I haven't since asked my father to get on his horse because I do not believe in interfering with the training others are putting in to a green horse. I don't believe that he should set back his progress with her in any way to please me, and as a result, our dearest Darq Lucretia has never been backed by yourse truly.

Until now.

Tia has grown as a horse since her arrival here. Sure, she has had her share of flipouts and hysteria. Sure, I used to call her The Dancing Queen. Yep, she is petrified if you carry a plastic bag by her stall and she will very much try to escape through the solid wall should you make a crinkling sound in her doorway. Once every three years, she will even try to kick you. (Or me.)

But she has also become phenomenally sweet. She is the horse people turn to when they come in our barn, not Zydo. She is the one people want to pet and kiss the nose of because she is just so darn lovable, that little grey mare. She is beautiful and curious and just so willing to pick her feet up should you ask.

And so, this past weekend, we were outside with Tia and her baby, and I couldn't help but notice how absolutely calm she has become. Dead quietness.

And I rubbed on her back, leaned up on her, and I thought for a brief moment, What if I were to hop on?

And then I realized, wait.

I can't get on a horse. I need a mounting block and a full ground crew to mount any horse and I demanded that my father come and place me on his horse's back. I love this first photo because of the "Oh, for fuck's sake" expression on my dad. Like, really this chick is 25 years old and she can't get on a damn horse? Really?

And then I was suddenly on our dearest Darq Lucretia's back and while I was kind of nervous, waiting for her to bolt or spin or throw in a buck, I really thought, Hey! What's the worst that can happen?

And then my father led myself and Tia down the driveway and I thought for a brief moment that this was how I started out 24 years ago. I was 18 months old and being led by this same man down this same driveway, past those same maple trees on a horse named Gentleman Jim Dandy. I remember the first time I trotted on Jim, down that driveway. I was five or six, and I was scared. My father told me that there was no time like the present to try it out. Jim and I trotted with great success that day and I bobbled around like a rag doll on top of that enormous horse with a grin on my face that I'm sure you could have seen from the moon.

So, here we are. Twenty five years later? Or three years later?

I'm not sure.

But my father finally let me ride his mare, that delightful grey little thing who is just so sweet you want to pick her up and put her in your pocket. I've always had an affinity for Tia because of who she is: A defiant little creature who states very clearly what her needs are. A lovely little thing who can be a beautiful mover if she wants to be. The one who brought my father home a ribbon the first time he competed with her because when it comes to, she really can do what needs to be done.

And also the one who brought us the next generation of riding:

I've told my mother that the theme song for this year is Taylor Swift's "Fearless". You should go and listen to it right now, really.

You take my hand and drag me head first, fearless.

On Relocating the Love of My Life...

2010-04-06T21:58:00.007-04:00

So, I have made this decision in the past and the time came to make the decision once more.

Riding here at The Ranch in the spring is hellacious. I've given up on ever riding in this delightful swamp during the months of March through June.

So, Zydeco, Off you go!

But first we had to get him on a trailer.

This proved to be quite easy as this year I hired one of my father's friends who believes in doing things 'the cowboy way'. So they cowboy-ed my horse onto the trailer in about eight minutes flat and off we went.

Zydo made it to the barn before I did, and when I arrived, there he was, in his enormous 14 x 14 stall eating hay as though he'd lived there all his life. He was in his glory in that stall and I truly felt bad for disturbing him. But, riding him daily is the reason I moved him over there, so I tacked him up and brought him to the ring.

In the ring is what is commonly known as an electric fencer.

My horse is terrified of electricity.

So this delightful piece of equipment is going "Click, Click, Click" the whole time we are in the arena. Before getting on Zydo the first time, I decided to walk him to the far end of the arena and make him stand by this electric fencer.

But Zydo would have none of that. Oh, no. He was fearing the worst, thinking that it would jump up and attack him, shocking him within an inch of his life. He skittled about, paced side to side, jumped around a little bit, and tried to run me over. The owner of the facility actually said "Is she going to get on him?" Because he was acting like a bit of a nutbar.

So, I gave up on making him stand by the fencer and mounted my trusty steed.

After my attempts to make him comfortable by the fencer, I rode my magnificent thoroughbred in an indoor arena and OH MY WORD.

I live to ride in indoor arenas. He was magnificent, if not a little look-y. I even managed to get a few steps of functional trot out of him.

I LOVE THAT HORSE.

After our first ride in six months, it was time to introduce Zydeco to his new pasture mate, something that gives me anxiety since the last time he was turned out with new horses, he promptly got his ass kicked. He still has the scars to prove it.

His new pasture mate, however, is a delightful pony mare who also happens to be a chestnut. They sniffed each other out and decided that they should become fast friends, galloping into the sunset together. They have since become such good buddies that they scratch each others' itches, lay together in the sun, and eat their fill of delicious hay without trying to take each others' faces off.

A case of true love, indeed.

Zydo and I plan to live there for about two months, until the ground here is dry enough to ride on.

However, I don't have an indoor arena here, and I fear greatly that I will fall in love with such a beautiful facility and feel the need to stay there forever.

Time and money will tell.

On Road Signs...

2010-03-30T22:26:00.003-04:00

Road signs have perplexed me for years. I've hated them always.

This past winter, especially, I have detested road signs. I've wanted to get a job as Minister of Road Signs, whereby I would mandate that by law, all signs had to be four feet high and heated so that snow would not hinder people's vision of them.

I've bitched to all my friends about road signs, and occasionally screamed at the assholes who make them from my car as I drive by the road I was supposed to turn on because the fucking sign was illegible. This has also contributed to my driving anxiety as I never know what lane I should be in, and once I'm close enough to read the sign, I often find myself in the wrong lane. Then I have to get back in the right lane, which city drivers rarely let you do. (Also, I've been driving in the city every day since I got my new job. But that is a different rant.)

And then, on our journey across Canada, Mal got a little sick of my hatred for road signs and pointed out that hey! Maybe the problem isn't with the signs.

So, I went to the optometrist this past Saturday and OH MY GOD.

Did you know that the whole world isn't supposed to be blurry? I just thought that's how things were, just thought my vision was totally normal and that it was ok to have to squint and struggle to see things on the Tim Horton's menu.

I've now been outfitted with glasses that are of a very light prescription but that have altered my life in a huge way. I had my mother drive home from the appointment so that I could see all the world has to offer. The trees! They have BRANCHES that are distinguishable from one another! The branches aren't just a jumbly-bumbly mess of brown, they are individual BRANCHES.

Oh, and the road signs. So clear. So visible. So easy to read.

I almost want to apologize for all the years I spent swearing at the people who made them so damn small.

Vision is a beautiful, beautiful thing.

I now think everyone should go to the optometrist. I'll even take you there! Being able to actually see is such an amazing thing that I am now officially recommending it to all my friends.

And blog readers.

The Road Trip: Part III

2010-03-12T00:03:00.005-05:00

So this is where the trip started to get cool. We were on our way to visit some friends of Mal's in Halifax. Our plan was this: Drive for four hours, have lunch, drive for four more hours, get on the ferry, and arrive in Newfoundland in time to drive across the province before dark.

However.

Halifax turned out to be an asshole. Not that it wasn't a beautiful province or that the people were not pleasant. Just that we didn't know the roads on the way out of lunch and, as a result, I felt like Halifax was being an asshole to me.

We got turned around here, and instead of taking exit 7E, we took exit 7 East, or maybe it was the other way around, who knows. But we ended up turning on the GPS to find out where we were. We then turned it off again and ended up on a wrong road that turned out to travel us along the shoreline of Nova Scotia.

Sweet Merciful Mother of God.

The beauty.

Driving there, on a sunny, beautiful day with my dearest friend, I really felt at peace with the world, I'm not going to lie. I've never been on a 'real' vacation before, one free of stress or planning; one where I can just put everything off my mind and exist in the moment. And I realized then just how much I need to start existing in the moment because I felt absolutely free. I was looking at the boats and watching the water and admiring the towns and bridges and the sunset.

I felt like a new person altogether.

We made it back to the main highway and had dinner at an adorable little diner before driving further into the night.

However.

There was apparently a storm and the ocean was being uncooperative and our ferry would not be crossing the ocean that night.

We were forced to get a hotel room that night, one that was not smoking friendly but that offered free internet service and enough pillows for us to rest our heads on for the night. We slept soundly before waking up in the morning to see the ocean, get on a ferry, and arrive in Newfoundland. Twelve hours later than anticipated, but in Newfoundland nonetheless.

I felt uneasy going to bed that night because my Word, I was far from home. I still managed to sleep like a rock and wake up in relatively decent spirits the next day. I have to say that there was a lingering odor permeating all of our belongings at that time, but I didn't feel like mentioning it because it wasn't that big of a deal.

Yet.

The Road Trip; Part II

2010-03-11T23:55:00.003-05:00

We fuelled up on caffiene and, well, fuel, and headed on our way. First big thang was Montreal, where I have never driven before and where there are bridges big enough to give me panic attacks for years to come. We got turned around once and were on our way within ten minutes.

Except that we were tired. Sleepy. Drowsy.

I slept for two hours and then took over the wheel as Mal slept for a couple hours. This would be my only time driving on our trip, and that too was fine.

Quebec wasn't that interesting to travel through. Although i have to say, the people there were lovely, making an effort to speak to me in English when they realized how terribly awful my French actually is. We stocked up on some Sangria here, thinking we would have a wild night at the hotel, living it up like it was our job.

I got very few photos on this leg of the journey, mostly because I was sleeping or trying to stay awake. One delightful tidbit I did get was this:

There are some oddly named places in this country of ours. This one is St. Louis Du Ha! Ha! Others I discovered along the way are Ecum Secum (Novia Scotia. I laughed at this one for approximately the entire time we were on vacation), Dildo, South Dildo, Gayside, and a number of other interestingly named locations.

We drove for over twelve hours that day. By the time we made it to our hotel room, we were more tired than when we started out. We were wondering if perhaps there was an odor about us, and so delirious we had trouble ordering food.

We only made it hald way through the first bottle each of Sangria. It reminded us of being much, much younger than we currently are. We then headed off to slumber in the glorious pillows that the oh-so-luxurious hotel had provided us with.

We woke up the next day, stocked up on coffee and gas, and headed out again.

The Road Trip, Part One...

2010-03-06T21:48:00.002-05:00

Did I mention that? Did I fail to mention that I was going on the biggest trip thus far in my young life? That I would be travelling a journey of firsts? First road trip, first ocean, first ferry ride, first plane ride?

Oh, I didn't?

Probably something to do with the million hour work weeks, but whatever.

Mal is leaving. And at this point, I have to say that she has left. But for the time being, I have gone with her.

And I've never mentioned that my best, most beloved friend is going anywhere. She first brought it up ages ago, and I thought, Newfoundland? Nah, Mal's not going to Newfoundland!

You know, I've been in denial before. I've been in denial over the fact that I'm out of cigarettes, or that my car is out of gas, or that I'm not going to make it to work on time. Like, No way! That can't happen!

But this was a very real and very true case of denial. Like, nope! My best friend is certainly NOT moving away and I will never allow my mind to process this fact. And so I have not allowed my mind to process this fact.

And even while we were moving her stuff into storage and moving other stuff into my house for her to stay the last week, I didn't process that she was leaving. I didn't bother to think that this might be her last time in a long time at my house, or that we might not have this opportunity to stay up late into the night, chain smoking and giggling about ridiculous things.

The night before we left on her road trip, I worked twenty hours out of twenty four, in three shifts at two different jobs. So I returned home, planning to leave in eight hours, spun from my time at work, unable to find my GPS, and with a visitor in the house. And Mal was quiet and rather than being a normal human being, I carried on through the house flipping about my GPS and the packing and my laundry.

Mal went to bed and I carried on, trying to get my packing done and have just one more cigarette before bed when, at 11:57 p.m., it hit me. My heart stopped and I wanted to scream and instead I just continued sitting there like a zombie. It was Mal's last night in the Clifford Cave with me and rather than being with the person who needed me most, I was with my mother and this character.

Soon Mal came through the kitchen and sped off into the night before I could stop her and I returned to the kitchen thinking, this is it. This is the move that has ended our friendship, my fear of mentioning her leaving.

While she was gone I cried. I wept openly and I told my mother of the thoughts I've been having regarding her leaving, and I whipped out a pen and paper and I jotted it all down, those thoughts that have been plaguing me for so long but that I haven't let out because really, it hurts to have feelings.

Eventually she returned and we retired to the Clifford Cave together and she spoke the words that were on her mind, only I couldn't speak the words that were on mine. So I asked her if she could, if she could stay up for ten more minutes and read what I had written because I couldn't say it out loud.

How do you tell someone that they are your everything? How do you say those words that you can't make yourself say out loud? So I asked her to read my words while I fetched myself a beer and I returned.

Mal and I had more words to say and she finished by giving me the set of Jammies that I always wore while at her house. And she had washed them in her laundry soap, with her fabric softener, and every time I've been at her house for the last two years, I've put on this set of jammies and gone on about how much I loved the smell of those jammies.

And she passed them to me and I went to put them on, and I couldn't hold it in. I burst into tears and I threw myself on the bed beside her and I wept, holding her and the jammies, and I just said it out loud, I said that she is my person and that I love her.

The next day we headed out. We had bags under our eyes, our hair was messy, we were wearing less than impressive clothing. Her Chevy Impala was loaded to the gills.

Wild eyed, hair akimbo, and cigarette smoke billowing out the windows, we headed across Canada.

Oh, You Knew it was Coming... Part II

2010-02-15T00:53:00.002-05:00

I'm really not sure how to write this post. Not really sure how to begin or where to go with it, but here I am.

So, a dear friend of mine called me twice this week, which is out of the ordinary for him. He's not really a phone person and we see each other so frequently that phoning is not really necessary. But he called me twice this week and when I asked him what was up, he responded "Like, why am I calling you?" And I was like, "Yeah?" and he was like "Because I haven't freakin' seen you in like, two weeks and I was wondering where you've been."

Oh, right. Because I haven't really bothered to leave my house or shower or put on pants more than is absolutely necessary to go to work.

And I work in a place where it is perfectly fine to go in wearing your jammies if you so desire.

Not that I've gotten to that point or anything, but yeah. Jammies. Hermit. Not leaving house. Far too much cuddling with a very smelly beagle. Staring listlessly off into space. Avoiding human interaction. Avoiding interaction with anything other than mindless novels or my laptop.

That's me!

Another phone call came in a few weeks ago from my dearest Mal. It was one of those two a.m. phone calls that we are so fond of making. In fact, tonight when she called at a little after midnight, my father didn't even bother saying "Who the hell is calling this late?" as he usually does. Because that's just how we roll, us middle-of-the-nighters.

And Mal had some concerns and she listed them quite bluntly and I was like, "Dude?" and she was like, "No, Dude." And I was like, "Nah, Dude!" and she was like, "Seriously. Dude."

And I promised her after that phone call that I would do something with myself because her concerns were very valid, very real, very true.

I just haven't been myself the last several months. And I could easily launch into the tales that I have subjected my friends to but really, who wants to write about that sort of thing on the Internet? Plus, I try to avoid incriminating myself. Not that I've done anything illegal.

Just crazy.

Just The Big Crazy.

Just that fucking thing that follows me wherever I go, that little trail of "Haha, I've got you in my grips and I'm not letting go-o!" Just that piece of me that I fight with and that I hate, that occasionally controls my life and renders me unable to function. You know, that little teeny tiny thing that just won't go away and just won't leave me alone no matter how hard or try or how long I battle.

I'm angry. I tried for over a year. I gave it a valiant effort. I tried being unmedicated and pretending to be sane and my best efforts didn't make me an easier person for others to be around. I'm just so *pissed off* that its back again. (Or maybe that it never went away?) I thought, like every other time I've tried, that it was gone for good and that I could just carry on with my life.

Sigh.

Enough negativity.

I've seen my trusty Dr. Chuck and been prescribed something new and wonderful, along with a couple of old stand-bys. I'm feeling a little more human, a little more able to cope. The feeling that my brain is about to spew out my ears all over the people I work with has faded a little bit, and that rising hysteria that I feel all the time is waning. I've also slept lately, deep and glorious sleep. Since Christmas, I'll honestly say that I've been running on a few hours here and there, that my body has been so angry at me for not sleeping that it started exacting its revenge via acne and other craziness.

I'd like to be able to say something like "Oh, well! This too shall pass!" But I can't because I've got a funny feeling that it won't. That this is just the way I'm made and that I'm going to stay being this way forever.

So I stopped in to visit my dear friend for an hour after work yesterday. I was telling him how I've been feeling and why I haven't left the house and he was quite sympathetic.

And then he slapped my elbow and grinned and said "Buck up! Life is better through chemistry!"

And I guess for now, I have to accept that this is, in my case, true.

And then A Good Thing Happened

2010-02-11T22:29:00.002-05:00

And then I almost cried.

And then I did a little bit -- maybe even a lot -- of shrieking. I shrieked into phones, I shrieked via text message, I shrieked at my steering wheel, and I shrieked at other drivers who I passed on the road.

I went for a job interview on Monday morning and I knew that a decision was to be made by day's end. I left feeling great: I rocked the questions, I was dressed to the nines (the girl in before me was wearing cords! Corduroys! Or however it is you spell them!) and I didn't say "Uhm" a whole lot.

I returned to my house beaming and decided to nap until my phone rang with the good news.

School ends at like, three in the afternoon, for those of you not in the know.

At four o'clock I was laying in my bed in the depths of despair. Four o'clock is not a good sign at all. Four o'clock means no job. I had an outing planned that night and I knew it was too late to cancel. I would have to put makeup on and pretend to be social and happy and go out. I would have to interact with other human beings, and I don't know if you know this or not, but human interaction is not one of my strong points. In fact, it usually ends up in drunken debauchery or awkward silences.

At four thirty I managed to roll out of bed, slap some foundation over my acne, and drive listlessly down my driveway. The phone rang and I didn't want to answer it but I sadly reached into my pocket and answered the phone.

And it was HIM. The principal. From the school. OFFERING ME A JOB.

A JOB. WORK.

Like, one of those things you do in exchange for money.

I walked in on my first day and got high fives from staff and kids. My mother's high school best friend works at the school and ran up to me and hugged me in the hall way. Physiotherapists and occupational therapists and other EA's have been congratulating me all week. I feel like I've won gold for Canada, for cripe's sake.

I also picked a great week to start: All the kids were away my first day, the second day I supervised a school dance, and the third day is a "Professional Development Day". Where we develop ourselves professionally.

We get BREAKS on this job. And weekends off. And the kids aren't at the school between the hours of three p.m. and eight a.m. and do you know what that means?

I WILL NEVER HAVE TO SPEND THE NIGHT AT MY NEW JOB.

Unfortunately, I will also never be able to wear cowboy boots and a Metallica T-shirt to work, but I suppose this is a small price to pay.

Oh, You Knew It Was Coming... Part I

2010-02-05T23:41:00.002-05:00

So, here I am.

Two successful weeks of working at the school board and hot damn, I feel like I'm on fire. I'm really happy with my performance in the school and I actually feel like I've found a calling, so to speak, working with the kids I work with.

So Wednesday, I went to work at ten a.m. I arrived back in my driveway here at The Ranch, followed by Mal, at five o'clock Thursday. I did a twenty seven hour stint at two different locations and I could hardly hold my head up by six p.m. Friday I started my day by leaving at 7:15 a.m. and I returned to my house at eleven.

I'm sure that Zydeco misses me. Dixie threw a fit when I walked in the door tonight, like "HEY! YOU! I remember you! The napping! The one I used to do all that napping with! Now MUPPY ME!!!"

If nothing else, I suppose it is good to be missed.

I knew that I would have to work double for a while, until something contract or permanent comes up. I've done it before, I can do it again.

But OH MY WORD I am exhausted.

I Have Never Been Happier to Make Second Place...

2010-01-28T21:07:00.002-05:00

So, the job I interviewed called me tonight and made my heart stop a little bit before I was told that I didn't get it.

I was then debriefed on my interview, which I appreciated to no end because the questions are all fairly standard and I really feel that next time, I'll be ready to knock some socks off.

At the end of our nearly half-hour phone call, the woman said "Now, I don't know if you want to hear this next part or not." I laughed politely and said that of course I would love to hear the next part. (In my mind, however, I was wondering wildly if I had something sticking in my teeth or was emanating a noxious odor and perhaps she was going to tell me that I smelled like Beagle that had rolled in something that had died a number of months ago).

But no. She told me that she had interviewed eight people and that my scores left me second in line to get the position.

Second! Second out of eight!

I'm actually happy with this news because A) it means that I'm not a blathering idiot who no one will ever take seriously and B) IT MEANS I AM ON MY WAY.

In other news, I have now done three consecutive days at a school that I like very, very much. Like, I really look forward to going in every day, I've been welcomed with open arms by the other staff, and I feel like I have really found my element with the special needs students there.

At the end of my second day, the section head took me aside and told me that a position would be opening up on Monday, he had heard good things about me since I started, and urged me to apply for the position.

I just really feel right now that at least something is going right in my life. I may still be the single, beagle-cuddling poor person who lives in a Clifford-clad bedroom, BUT HEY. Someone thinks I'm good at something and right now, I'm going to take all the ego-stroking I can get.

I'm Making Changes...

2010-01-25T22:31:00.002-05:00

The new job I got accepted to is a casual/on-call position.

Nothing is more frustrating than working casual/on-call.

Because of the nature of this work, I have to keep my current full time job while making myself known as a casual employee while I apply to all the full time positions. I've had a number of interviews and they all go swimmingly: I show up wearing pants, with my hair brushed, looking like a sane and rational member of this society.

The problem is that I haven't had enough casual experience and I can't get enough casual experience due to the demands of my current job.

Like everything else, there is a viscious cycle going on here and I DON'T LIKE IT.

I told myself when I started that I would give it six months and then start going in another direction, whatever that direction may be.

I have another interview tomorrow and I am just so sad that I am not at Mal's to have her dress me in her attire before giving me a pep talk and a breakfast of Eggs Benedict and sending me on my way. My couch and I have been bonding quite a bit of late, and this, too, needs to change.

Welcome to the World, Little One...

2010-01-23T23:40:00.009-05:00

Dylan's Darq Trooper was born tonight between six p.m. and ten twenty p.m. He weighs in at between 40 and sixty pounds (Weight currently in dispute) and is around three feet tall. He has one sock, one whorl, and no star. His mother seems completely at ease with herself in her new role. His uncle Zydeco seems a little spun to find himself living beside a new being.

It's cold outside and your uncle Zydeco might try to kick you, but you're here and you're wonderful.

There is a lot to learn about living in this world. Like, you have to stand on your own two feet and people aren't always going to be there to help you. But because you're so cute and new, we don't mind lending a helping hand for the time being.

Social constructions exist: Just because you are a boy does not mean that we won't clad you in pink and send you out to play with the others. But don't worry, your good ol' Uncle Zydo won't make fun of you because he, too, is clad in an effeminate color.

YOU LIVE WITH CRAZY PEOPLE. Accept that little tidbit right now.

I'm sure that we will be off to Apple in the morning to pick out a thousand expesive items that you don't need but that we think are cute. That's just how we role here at The Ranch, we make excuses to buy things for horses because we just love horses that much.

Welcome to the crew, little fellow. We hope you enjoy your stay, and if you don't, we'll just feed you sweet feed and carrots until you change your mind.

Something's Gotta Give...

2010-01-21T22:23:00.002-05:00

No, really.

Like, something, somewhere needs to GIVE.

Preferably, that something, somewhere, needs to GIVE me a new job and a new lease on life. But at this point I'll just take whatever I can get.

I bought myself new shampoo the other day, with a matching conditioner from the expensive shampoo section at Shopper's. I felt all classy-like, with my fancy bottles that have funky lids and interesting ingredients that I can't pronounce.

And I thought, you know, I deserve this, I deserve to have pretty-smelling hair because so very little in my life right now is reminding me of anything pretty.

So I've washed my hair with my new shampoo and conditioned it with the new conditioner and oddly enough?

It didn't really make me feel any better.

If nothing else, my hair smells good.

I suppose this is one of those days where life is all about the small things.

A New Development...

2010-01-16T00:33:00.003-05:00

So, my family went on vacation the first week of January as we always do. Only, this year, my Dad couldn't come because SOMEONE needed to stay home in case Tia popped out a baby while we were gone. And Lord knows, that someone would not be me. Can you imagine? Me, walking into the barn and seeing three perky sets of eyes looking at me instead of two? No, thanks.

So off we went, into the world of Babies and Snow and OH MY WORD THE SNOW. We went North, and believe it or not, it is possible to get more snow there than it is to get here.

So, there was skiing. Not for me. I prefer to drink pitchers of beer on the mountain village over skiing. But every day my mother went cross-country skiing with my uncle and I was a little envious because I, too, desired to ski.

We returned home and life was grand and the other day I came in from work to find a pair of ski boots at the kitchen table. I was all like, Sweet! Ski boots! And my mother informed me that they were for my nephew because he is an avid skier who has outgrown last year's skis. And I was all like, Oh, well, you know, they look a little small.

And then my nephew, that dashing young lad, tried on the boots and complained that they were too small.

Rewind: Over the last few months he has basked in the fact that my barn boots fit him. And every time he said it, I figured it was just an exaggeration and that if he were to run from the path of a charging horse, the boots would fly off his feet. Because, you know, he is only NINE and he can't possibly be the same size as me.

So he complained about the ski boots and I p'shawed him and put them on my own feet.

And then they fit me.

And then I made him sit down on the floor in front of me and press his feet to mine. You know those feet: The teeny, tiny feet that used to pitter-patter across the kitchen? The itsy-bitsy feet that I used to rub Johnson's Pink Lotion on after a bath? The little feet that would climb the ladder of my bunk bed and crawl in next to me while I slumbered? Those feet? Do you remember those feet?

Because those feet, the ones I just mentioned in the paragraph above, HAVE CEASED TO EXIST. In their place are a set of monstrous boy-feet that are the same size as mine.

And you know, you never think of these things. Time just passes by and one day you wake up and where there used to be a small, innocent, wonderful little being is someone who is large and in charge, full of ideas and thoughts and questions that stop you in your tracks. And as much as I want those tiny little feet to carry a tiny little child into the room, I enjoy looking at the person this child is becoming. Because he is just too much fun.

What's That? Its A New Year?

2010-01-12T19:45:00.003-05:00

Right, that whole bit.

I rang in the new year in style, as per usual: I was sitting at home doing nothing but playing farmville with my sister in law and received an invite to go snowplowing with an individual, so I went.

And a plow-y good time was had by all.

I have some ideas swirling in my mind for the new year: Not so much resolutions, but things I want to do. First and foremost is my job situation, which needs to be remedied in some fashion. I just wish I knew what that fashion was. I'm perusing things, wondering what I want to do, wondering what would be right for me.

I have a new car now, and every time I see a Jeep on the road, I no longer contemplate stopping its owner and asking if their Jeep would like to be my Jee's boyfriend. I just look at it wistfully and carry on with what I was doing. I actually kind of like it, I think it is an OK thing to be seen in, and I don't hate it, so I suppose that I made the right decision for me.

I'd really like to take up things like crocheting and reading good books again, but paperwork from work and school take up too much of my time for outside hobbies. The unfortunate thing here is that I often feel overwhelmed by my need to do both and then rather than doing them, I sit around fretting about the fact that I'm not doing them.

We are still waiting for Tia's baby to be born. That stubborn little character seems quite content where he or she is, and to hom or her I say, good planning because it's frickin' cold out here in the real world. Also, your mother might bite you.

There aren't many updates to post about life and for that I'm a little bit sad. I wish I could say that there were wild and wonderful things going on but the fact remains that things are just going as they always are.

Your Love is the Greatest Gift Of All...

2009-12-25T22:53:00.006-05:00

So, Christmas has come and gone.

And I'm not sure there is a way to keep this post succinct and to the point, but I am going to try.

I have a good relationship with my Grandmother; the woman who isn't biologically related to me, but who married my Grandfather when I was three or four years old. She has been an enormous influence in my life and I have an enormous amount of respect and admiration for her and for what she has done in her lifetime.

My Grandmother has a flask that my cousin Kim and I have had our eyes on for years. I remember seeing it for the first time when I was sixteen or so and laughing hysterically that this flask even existed.

My Grandmother informed myself and Kim, when we were around twenty years old, that we had not, in fact, invented the world. Oh, sure, I'd heard that old line about each generation thinking they were the first to discover everything, but she told me plain and simple that my generation was not anything special. She has regailed me with tails of her youth that sound wonderful: Not as harsh or unruly as the nights of clubbing that I have been exposed to; but wild and crazy in a way that I think is respectful and fun.

I don't really know how to describe her because on one hand, she is this elegant, wonderful woman with a soft tone and a polite manner. And then there is her louder side, the side of her that she lets loose now and then, demanding a drink and a cigarette and being sarcastic and hilarious.

This flask has travelled with her through the years, taken her to many a party, been there with her in her appartment long after my Grandfather passed away. We've talked about the flask many times through the years, giggling together over it. I've begged for the flask to be mine one day.

It was a day or two before my Grandfather's funeral that Grandma came to each of the grandkids and said "Now LOOK. This is a DRY funeral and I don't want a single one of you showing up with a flask!". And I said, "Ok, Grandma, no flask, but what if I show up with an eyeglasses case?"

Since we were about twenty, my cousin and I have been arguing over who would get the flask. We have each demanded that she leave the flask to us in her will, that one day it be ours (Well, one of us would have the flask.)

And this Christmas, my mother handed me the package from my Grandma, and it was just a simple affair wrapped up in tissue paper. And before I opened it, I felt around and in a single moment, my heart dropped and I knew.

And I saw the familiar brown plastic and I knew more.

And I opened the rest of the gift and there it was, the flask, all for me, a gift from her, something I will cherish my whole life because it has known so much. It isn't about being a wild party animal: It is more about having a history that I don't know anything about. It is about keeping things secret and then letting things out when people need to hear them the most. Maybe it's about my Grandma sharing some common ground with me, and maybe it's just a gift. Perhaps it's a joke between us and perhaps it's that she wants me to know that she and I are connected through our histories, together and apart, we have much in common, much that we can laugh over, and many stories to share.

I called my Grandma after opening the gift. I called her on her cell, because that is just how cool she is, she keeps a cell phone on her at all times. And I was kind of choked up because, you know, this was supposed to go in her will. It wasn't supposed to be given to me this early in my life. I wasn't ready to open it because I wasn't expecting that she would give it to me before her time with me was through.

And the only thing she had to say about this is that she wants me to have it long before she is gone and wants me to enjoy it and use it.

My Grandma knows about my blog in the vaguest sense possible. My Aunt mentioned it to her once and following that conversation, she asked me what a Blob was and what I did with a Blob on the Internet.

I told her that one day I would write about her.

I Will Not Flip Out On Christmas...

2009-12-24T10:47:00.002-05:00

I feel like I need to write that out two hundred times and then I will be calm.

Apparently insurance companies are difficult to wrangle with. I have now purchased a new car. It is sitting with my license plates on it at the dealership AS WE SPEAK.

Why not go get your new car, you ask?

Because in order to pay for the car, I must first pay off the Jeep, and in order to do that, I need a check from my insurance company.

The check was supposed to come in on Monday.

Then Tuesday.

Then Wednesday.

Oh, look, it's Thursday!

So, I called my insurance just to ask about my check. And I was totally fine with it not coming in.

Until they told me that from that day forward, not only would they not be allowing me to buy another vehicle, they would no longer be paying for my rental.

Ahem.

I was under the impression that the reason these people have been taking money from my account each month was to pay for contingencies such as traumatic accidents that leave you without wheels.

And now I would have to pay for a rental because they can't get their act together and give me my damn check?

There was some yelling.

And some swearing.

And perhaps some phone-throwing.

I called my insurance broker, that lovely gent that he is, and complained loudly to him. He called me back and said that there was nothing he could do, I would have to give up the rental or pay for it.

I HAVE TO HAVE NO CAR ON CHRISTMAS?!?

So this morning I woke up at work and made a Christmas resolution that I would do no yelling, swearing, or phone-throwing on Christmas. And then I carried on with my morning rituals and drove home in the rental I had accepted that I would be paying for.

And then a Christmas Miracle happened, and the insurance company called, and all of life got better because they are agreeing to pay for my rental for seven more days.

Hallelujah, it's Christmas!

Are you KIDDING me?

2009-12-22T00:08:00.003-05:00

So, throughout the months of September and October, I wrote a number of posts about an individual I named The Moosehunter.

And then I consulted Joomy and a number of other people on issues with The Moosehunter and was given quite a bit of advice and then I had to move on.

And I cried over this Moosehunting character because he made me sad and also because the tires on his car were just so large.

And then I went out with a dining companion and moved on entirely with my life and was living happily ever after, having totalled my Jeep and accepted that now, when we see each other on the road, he won't know that it is me because he won't know the vehicle.

And then?

Are you KIDDING ME?

After I had worked so hard to move on and gone to dinner with a dining companion?

Do you KNOW what happened?

HE CALLED ME.

What the fuck?

(Also, I've noticed that I swear altogether too much on my blog lately. Something I will need to remedy in the future, for sure.)

But in the meantime?

What.

The.

FUCK.

The funny thing is that my mother (You know the woman I'm talking about. The one who dated like, ONE person and then married him at the age of eighteen and then thirty seven years later offers advice to her single daughter? Yeah, that's my mother who I'm talking about here) told me this would happen. She told me that he would be very busy with his thirteen hundred acres of corn and that he would call in January when the corn was done.

She told me to take it as a good sign that he called so soon into the corn being done with.

I might call him tomorrow.

Who's kidding who, I practically had to be restrained from calling him the minute I saw his name on my phone.

Fare Thee Well, JEEP...

2009-12-17T23:28:00.003-05:00

The end has come.

Perhaps a dramatic way to let my Blog know that my most prized posession has been written off, but let me tell you, I have been feeling dramatic as of late.

I went to pick up my license plates and search the Jeep for any final belongings. It was full of ice today, as the slush inside it has frozen solid. I had planned to sit down in the driver's seat, depress the clutch, and run through the gears one more time while weeping. However, the mechanic was there with a screwdriver to take my plates off and I couldn't very well be seen in my finest attire (complete with makeup, a dressy coat, and high heeled boots) weeping at the wheel of my Jeep.

I shed a few silent tears and walked away, doing my best not to fall and break my neck because I was wearing high heeled boots. I handed him the keys and left.

And I had to try really, really hard not to cry behind the wheel of my rental car.

I've done an awful lot of crying behind that wheel lately. Driving has become rather scary now that I know that vehicles that can be one minute completely under the control of their driver, and the next minute flying through the air. The sight of the ditch, the pull of the Jeep as it began to roll, and my arms flying to protect my head and face as we made our first tumble is something I won't forget very soon.

But I've been driving. Driving lots. Slowly. Very, very slowly. If I was holding up traffic with my slow driving on the night of the accident, I am definitely holding up traffic now. If it is snowing, if there is dampness on the road... I am going slowly. If nothing else, I am not at risk for speeding tickets any time soon.

And now begins the quest for my next vehicle.

When I was buying the Jeep, I was full of elation and joy that I was getting a vehicle I'd had my eye on since I was seventeen years old. SuperNan and I reminisced the other night about the first time I saw one for sale in town, how I raced home and wanted to split the cost with my dad, share the supercool Jeep with him. And then this past summer, I killed his truck, and suddenly, eight years later, we were sharing a Jeep.

Am I being a little too nostalgic?

I fucking loved that vehicle.

Excuse the profanities.

I don't want to search for a new car. I don't want to wrangle prices and deal with financing and figure out interest rates. I have no desire whatsoever to walk onto a car lot and ask to test drive cars. I feel like walking up, hands in pockets, head down, and demanding whatever piece of crap car they have because whatever it is won't be my Jeep and I won't like it as much.

And also, I want to get a Saturn because I'm angry at this car, whatever this car may be, and I feel like I am going to kick it an awful lot.

If nothing else, the insurance company gave me good money for the Jeep. I'm not losing money and I will have a down payment available for my next car. So, Hurray! Happiness and Glee!

The truth is that I could afford to buy another Jeep.

But that accident scared me. No, really. Like, it SCARED me.

And I don't ever want to fly out of control like that again, and so the short wheel base and the rear wheel drive are not something I can deal with at this anxious point in my life.

I feel like some day I might get another. A summer car, something I can take fourwheeling. I want to tear through the gravel pits and spin around on back roads when no one is around.

And maybe some day I will.

But for now I'm car shopping and I'm going to try and be happy and try to get excited and not be a big old downer. I'm planning my first drive home, much like I did with the Jeep. (Only this time without burning out my emergency brake). I'm going to drive around for an afternoon listening to my favorite songs and programming the radio and driving aimlessly and learning to love my new car.

And I'm sure that, eventually, I will.

And Then There Was Goat Cheese

2009-12-13T01:42:00.002-05:00

Only, no, it was not goat cheese.

I went to dinner tonight at a steak house and didn't order steak. I'm sure I'm going to hear about this from one of my regular readers who doesn't comment (Hi, Dad!) because who in their right mind would go to a steak house and order chicken? And not only was it chicken, it was mediterranean chicken with goat cheese and rose sauce, served with rice pilaf.

So I ordered this chicken and my dining companion (who owns a saddle decked out with 24 karat gold. I'm not making this up. GOLD. PLATED. SADDLE. Hi, Dad!) ordered steak, rare. And my ridiculous chicken creation appeared and I was kind of excited because I have become a fan of goat cheese lately.

And I dug into my glorious creation of chicken to find a taste that I was not familiar with. But that I have tasted before.

It was CREAM CHEESE and oh my Word, if there is anything I detest in this world it is cream cheese. I hate it when there is cream cheese in the fridge, or even cream cheese in my house. If cream cheese touches me, I have a strong emotional reaction and I have to wash whatever part of me that the cream cheese has touched.

And here I was, dining with a dining companion and thinking, I can not be That Girl, the one who flips out and carries on and acts all neurotic all the time. (I try to keep that side of me under wraps. Occasionally.)

So I had to overcome this reaction I was having to the cream cheese and eat it anyways and I THINK I DAMAGED A SMALL PORTION OF MY SOUL.

But I ate it and I survived.

And that's the news I am updating my blog with, that I ate cream cheese and didn't break out in hives.

I know, my life is just too exciting for most people to keep up with.

I Have No Information

2009-12-11T01:13:00.003-05:00

Wait, that's a lie.

I went in to discuss my rental car with the people at the collision shop today to try and figure out how long I can have it without paying for it because my insurance only covers so much of the rental (Which I dumped a cup of coffee on today. Glory.)

I got some more belongings out of the Jeep, which has been sitting outside with a smashed roof and no windows through a 25 centimetre snow storm. There is about six inches of slush and snow in it. My beautiful, wonderful Jeep is smashed and full of snow and the sight of it made me want to vomit.

The body guy said he was ninety five percent sure I should start looking for another vehicle because he is telling the insurance agent that it is a total loss. The insurance adjustor now has the opportunity to contradict that claim and come and view it himself if he is not satisfied with the body guy's opinion. So I am waiting to hear from the adjustor.

In other news, Tia's baby belly is ridiculous and her winter attire barely fits over her. My parents have left me to my own devices here at The Ranch. This always seems to be an adventure as Tia, that beautiful little wonder, always seems to get up to some shenanigan or other while they are away.

Tonight I was bringing them in from the field and since Zydeco is a bit of an asshat, he usually tries to chase Tia out of the gate and then a person can't catch either horse. So in a wave of genius, I snatched up Zydeco before he had a chance to chase away Tia, and made my way to the gate. I was snapping at Tia to get back and away, which usually she listens to, but today she was all "Tally-Ho!" and took off across the yard.

Let's stop for a second here. Thus far this week I have already potentially written off my most prized posession and I was standing there watching my father's most prized posession gallavant across our yard into the wild blue yonder. FUCK MY LIFE. That was my thought process, a pretty simple conglomoration of words. Just that. FUCK MY LIFE.

My own wonderous steed was jumping up and down and hollering beside me. I managed to snap Zydeco into obedience and get him into his stall, which he started pacing and hollering in. I suppose he figured that if she got to go on a jaunt, why shouldn't he? All of life should be equitable among horses, let me tell you.

Tia was quite interested in all that our yard had to offer and I've never seen her investigate so many things without spooking in all the time I've known her. She sniffed out my rental car (And then even went so far as to turn her nose up at it. Hmph). She then meandered over to the snowblower and gave it a good once-over. At this point the pidgeon coop seemed rather intriguing, so she wandered over and stepped in to the doorway of it.

I clucked at her a few times and held out my hands as if to say "Look how nice I am. Please don't dive away from me and break your leg in our yard. I smell good and I'm wearing this selection of beautious plaid jackets."

Apparently Tia accepted this because SHE WALKED DIRECTLY TO ME and allowed me to put a lead on her.

Praise be to God.

Of course after this traumatic event I called my mother and informed her that Tia and Zydo now need some stall rest as their day out and the ensuing panic attack it caused me would take them a day or two to get over.

Because it takes everyone a day or two to get over my panic attacks, let me tell you.

No News and Good News...

2009-12-08T23:10:00.003-05:00

When I got home last night I cried openly over my lack of awareness over my insurance situation. I had no idea at that time if I had collision insurance, coverage for a rental car, coverage for the fence that my Jeep busted up.

(Fortunately the fence belongs to a family friend, who came out to see if I was ok, and said that he wasn't worried about it. He said his concern was more for myself and my vehicle. I love that there are good people in the world).

Speaking of good people, I don't know the name of a single one of the people who stopped to help me. About ten cars in total stopped, and about fifteen people ran to my aid. Ten of them stayed to ensure that I was ok, and about five people waited with me until the police arrived. I have no idea who they are or why they did such a nice thing for me, but it was nice to have them with me at a time when I needed people the most.

My insurance premiums will be going up despite the fact that the police determined that the accident was not my fault. I suppose this is the least of my worries right now.

In a stroke of genius, my mother convinced me this spring to have the Jeep fully covered by insurance. This also means that I have a rental car until the Jeep is either fixed or I buy a new car. I never had this insurance on my Little Chevy and I am so, so relieved right now that I have this coverage that I will not ever go without it again.

The shop that my insurance wants the Jeep to be at is currently full of vehicles to appraise and fix, so it could be a few days until I know anything about my Jeep.

My body still hurts, my mind is still whirling. The enormity of what happened keeps on going through my head and I can't stop picturing the oncoming truck, myself in front of it, and the sight of my Jeep and all the debris from the accident in the ditch.

I did get back behind the wheel today, four times, once in my mom's car to pick up my rental and then I made three more trips in the rental car. I'm happy to say that I'm not having any anxiety while behind the wheel, so I suppose this falls under the good news category.

I wish I had some answers about the Jeep and my vehicular future but right now I'm so happy to have insurance for my rental and for the collision that I'm not focusing on anything else.

All Shook Up

2009-12-07T23:18:00.003-05:00

Less than a month ago, I wrote this post.

A few short weeks and one snowfall later, my Jeep spun out of control and rolled a disputed number of times before landing swiftly in a fence row.

I drove home in snow and ice this afternoon, driving rather slowly, holding up traffic on the highway that leads from the City to Cowtown. People were passing me left and right but dammit, I was driving slowly because it was icy.

Then I went over a small bridge, and began to fishtail for seemingly no reason at all. So I took my foot off the gas and brought it back under control, when it spun out the other way. I held on, made no jerky movements, and was considering downshifting to slow the vehicle without the brakes when we spun out again.

This brought me into the lane of oncoming traffic. There was a large cube van, or maybe it was a truck, but either way it was no Smart Car and I was not willing to take it on in my Jeep.

Time was limited and choices were slim: Spin into a donut in front of a large vehicle, with a lineup of vehicles behind me, or steer into the ditch.

I chose the ditch thinking I would drive in and stop. I was completely calm when I hit the shoulder and all of a sudden I was airborne and there was an awful lot of noise.

There was a Reba McEntire song on the radio, for those of you who were wondering.

I don't really know what happened because as I began flying through the air the only thing I could think to do was cover my face and head with my arms. The sound was deafening. There was crashing, banging, thumping, shattering glass, and loud crackling.

When the vehicle landed I was incredibly disoriented. I ripped on the emergency brake, stuck it in neutral, and began running out of the ditch.

I was then faced by a crowd of about fifteen people all yelling at me, so I turned around and ran back to the vehicle. I got my purse and began screaming incoherently at the older gentleman who first approached me. I couldn't get my purse open, so he held it for me while I got my phone.

I dialed the number under my own steam and the man asked if I was calling the police. I shrieked at him that of course I wasn't calling the police, I was CALLING MY MOM. I shrieked into the phone at my mother for a few minutes before she snapped at me to stop screaming and tell the people around me that I wasn't hurt.

Right. First things first.

A crew of roofers descended into the ditch to examine the damage while the original man went and called the police from his own phone.

The roofers all had fantastic things to say about my spill: They were arguing loudly over whether I had rolled twice or three times, if they should go and get some coffee, or if I would have continued rolling if not for the fence my vehicle was tangled in. They discussed the probability of the one foot in diametre fencepost my vehicle had broken in half causing how much damage. One of the roofers began saying "Fuck, yeah, she's completely written off, Man, that sucks so bad" while another gave me a lecture on driving a vehicle with such a short wheel base.

I commenced smoking and didn't stop until the very kind police officer arrived and began filling out paperwork.

Eventually the roofers left with many thanks from myself as I had asked them to stay 1. for company and 2. to assure the police that I hadn't been driving recklessly. My parents and the tow truck showed up and it took some cursing, praying, and heavy machinery to remove my Jeep from the fence. The fence was completely wrapped around the drive shaft. We then waited at the garage for an initial report from the mechanics.

It doesn't look good at this point in time.

I feel entirely disoriented and unfocussed. I haven't been able to sit still all night. My neck and back are killing me, my left shoulder hurts, and there appears to be a small bump on my head.

I don't really know what to say. There were six additional accidents on the same stretch of highway tonight. Thank God that I am ok, that I didn't take out anyone else on my way to the ditch.

I suppose tomorrow will be a day spent dealing with the insurance people: Is the Jeep written off? Do I have collision insurance? Do I have coverage to get a rental car while the Jeep is fixed or while I find a new car? Do I need to find a new car?

Questions are whirling in my pounding head, my neck is killing me, my thigh hurts to the touch where it crashed into the steering wheel, and I feel like a bit of an emotional wreck.

I do believe I will post some pictures of a cute puppy and a jealous beagle on Facebook before retiring for the evening.

And Now, I Need to Lather, Rinse, Repeat Nine More Times

2009-12-04T01:23:00.003-05:00

So I have been working on courses to upgrade my degree so that I can eventually get my Master's. A Master's in what, I have not decided, but I want a Master's in something.

So first the Honours. I need ten fourth year classes: Three in Sociology (My major), three in Psychology (My minor), three electives, and one in statistics. The last course will probably make me cry on numerous occasions as I am what I call Mathematically Retarded. That is to say, I can not do math in any capacity and basic addition tends to do me in. I don't know how I will get through the stats course, but I'm not focusing on that right now.

I finished my first course over a month ago and have simply not gone back and checked my marks.

In order to get in to the program I think I want, I need to have an eighty or above in the last ten classes of university. Which means that all ten of these classes I need to put my all into.

I need to get straight A's here.

And I'm terrified that I don't have what it takes to be an A student. So I haven't checked my mark because finding out that I didn't meet my goal this early in the game would have been very upsetting.

I put a heck of a lot of effort into the first half of this course, and then I hurriedly wrote up the last portions of it, having friends prrof read my essays in states of semi-sobriety and hoping that it would do the trick because I had procrastinated so much.

So with much wariness about me, I checked my grade last night.

And I got an 88% in the course!

Relief. Oh, sweet heavens, the relief.

My current course is a developmental psychology course, which is appearing easy now but requires a bit more work as there is a formal exam and another term paper included in it.

Let's hope that it doesn't end up being fifty pages of work crammed into the last two weeks before the course deadline.

First Day on My (Top Secret) New Job...

2009-11-28T00:48:00.003-05:00

So, the mountains of paperwork finally got completed and within one day, six calls came in. Well, six emails came in. Same difference.

At any rate, I made my way in to be a casual employee today and I'm sure that I certainly made an impression in only the way that I can.

I walked in to be peppered by signs telling me about all the ways I could kill all the children I would come into contact with. There were signs about air pollutants, signs about peanuts, signs about other nuts, a sign about latex and a sign about perfume. Then there were all the signs about epi-pens.

The first thought that entered my head was OH MY GOD WHAT IF I KILL A KID ON MY FIRST DAY simply by walking by him??? No perfume? No air pollutants? NO LATEX?!?! (Not that latex is a regular part of my workplace ensemble, but how can a person be sure?)

Then there was the parking fiasco. I was standing around having no idea what to do with myself when the loudspeaker through the building came on. When the voice said "Jeep", my heart stopped. I was then thrilled when they said "Cherokee" because do you know what I do for a living? I DO THINGS THAT DO NOT PAY ME ENOUGH TO DRIVE A JEEP CHEROKEE. So then I was all happy.

Until they read my license plate off and I had to go out and move my vehicle.

Sure, not the biggest crisis in the world, but I was trying to MAKE AN IMPRESSION.

My workday started at eight a.m. and all of this happened prior to seven fifty. Nothing like starting off with a few good panic attacks to burn off the milk in your morning coffee, let me tell you.

It was a good day, a job I can see myself doing. I was invited back and will go back as it is quite close to CowTown.

My eggs aren't all in this basket, of course, as I am casual. I keep saying that so that I don't get ahead of myself. I'm holding out, doing this job plus my current full time job, in hopes that I can get that elusive nine to five with weekends off. Hopefully within the next six months to one year, I'll be there.

Oh, to know what a Saturday night feels like again.

Oh, Country Living....

2009-11-26T00:56:00.003-05:00

I moved back to the country for a large array of reasons that you don't have the patience to read about and I don't have the patience to write about.

I have very few gripes about living in the country. I really love it here, in CowTown, with all seventeen houses ... Wait, I have a side comment. A new house is being built in CowTown AS WE SPEAK, which means that once it is complete? We will have EIGHTEEN HOUSES.

I love being out in the green, in the middle of nowhere, being able to light a big ol' fire any time I want to. I'm not surrounded by neighbors, I can get naked in front of my bedroom window, and if I drink too much and pass out on the front lawn, nobody will ever be the wiser.

There are two things I dislike about living in the country:
1. I can not have two a.m. shawarma any old time I like
2. The Internet

We recently acquired high speed internet here in CowTown, at great cost to our wallets and our souls. It works sporadically at best and is out often.

I've often wanted to post my rage about my non-functioning internet, but doing so makes me want to break out in hives, throw computers at walls, and stab myself in the eye with a pitch fork (A five tined one.)

I was perusing blogs lately and I came across this post, in which a woman so eloquently describes my frustration with internet way out in the boonies.

Read it. READ IT NOW. The woman is brilliant and I have spent many a morning in such the same fashion that I feel her and I have shared something sacred (Only, the opposite of sacred because living without reliable internet is NOT A WAY I WANT TO LIVE.)

On Online Dating...

2009-11-24T21:59:00.003-05:00

I don't necessarily keep it a secret that I engage in online dating. I haven't actually gone on a date with someone I've met online in years. I look at it as a tool that may help me find the man of my dreams and if not? Well, I got the story of the guy who brought his knitting with him on our first (and only) date out of it. Oh, the mileage I got out of that story.

So today I happened to peruse this one individual, this guy who works in construction and fishes and hunts and then there's the best part: he rides barrels. OH MY WORD, a man who can ride a horse and wield a shotgun.

I just had to show his picture to my mother, and while she is looking at the picture of him on the horse, my father walks by and halts.

And I have possibly just found my next husband, the person of my dreams, my soulmate, everything that I am meant to be with and this is what my father has to say:

"Is he wearing a helmet? Is he wearing a helmet while he's racing barrels? It's bad enough he's in a girl's sport but if he's wearing a helmet to be in a girl's sport, you better not bring him back here!"

Seriously? Seriously?

It takes me months to decide that I don't like someone, and my father can decide such a thing with a glimpse of a single picture while he wasn't even wearing his glasses.

If only life was so easy for me.

On Removing Several Layers of Skin From My Face, Foals, and Puppies

2009-11-24T10:55:00.004-05:00

Years ago, I wrote this post, in which you'll find an incredibly revolting tale of woe regarding a growth on a dog's head, and also an apt description of my acne medication.

I've decided, again, to attempt to make my skin look clear and wonderful, and as a result I've gone back to using my old acne medication. It still smells as strong, it still dries my skin as much. It currently hurts to laugh, smile, cry, wipe away tears, yawn, and chew on food. So, hey, perhaps it interferes with day to day living a little bit, but really, a small price to pay for clear skin, right?

There are some exciting goings-on here at The Ranch that don't have to do with my acne. For one, we are only TWO MONTHS away from meeting Tia's baby. In fact, it's more like six weeks away. Tia has become quite rotund and on a daily basis you can see her little baby flopping around in her belly. Sometimes at night I go down to the barn and lean my head on her belly to feel the little kicks. Nothing like getting kicked in the head by a fetal horse to make your heart smile.

Before Tia's baby gets born, however, we have another new arrival on her way eleven days from now. Dixie is going to be quite upset about this new arrival, this little bundle of liver-colored German Shorthaired Pointer puppiness. She is flying in from Winnipeg on the fifth of December. SuperNan and I are currently chomping at the bit, so to speak, to go shopping at Petsmart for cute pink little puppy things. My father is busy rolling his eyes at all the delighted squealing we have been doing over this adorable mass of wiggles. Dixie doesn't know what's about to hit her and for this I feel bad: my poor, grumpy old beagle is about to get licked and hassled by this puppy and there is no way to mentally prepare her for that.

In the meantime, I suppose I should be doing something productive with my day like doing schoolwork or excercising on my stationary bike.

The Players: Part One: Mal

2009-11-21T23:02:00.003-05:00

I've decided to start my list of The Players with Mal for a variety of reasons. For one, she is a major player in my life. For another, I have spent a vast amount of time inebriated on her couch. And since I am slightly inebriated and on her couch right now, I thought HEY! What better time!

Malchin: [mal-chin] (noun, proper)
1. Best friend
2. Person you turn to when everything in your life has turned to crap
3. Person you laugh with when everything in your life has become hilarious
4. Person who lets you sleep on her couch when there is no other place in the world you'd rather sleep
5. Person you go to weddings with because, as per usual, you just don't have a date

Mallory and I have been friends for five years. When things started out, we were just two girls in a new city, meeting up at random parties. We worked together at The SubShack, that place I worked my way through university.

After first year, Mal and I were not really tight friends. I was preparing for my second year, not sure what day classes started on, and in the depths of Hell assembling furniture. I decided to take a break on my balcony and Mal was walking down the street.

So, I yelled out to her, and we exchanged phone numbers, determined what the first day of class was, and carried on with our lives. Later in the year, I got a kitten named Copernicus and she took Copernicus' sister for her roommate. After that, we arranged playdates for the kittens so that they would not lose touch with their familial heritage. This would define second year of university.

During my third year, my hardest year at school, Mal became My Person.

Third year was difficult for a variety of factors. My grandfather passed away after a long and difficult illness. Shortly therafter, my brother went to Afghanistan for the third time. My student loans did not come in, I was taking an inordinate number of classes at school. My roommate situation was abhorrent, my living situation was worse. I began to spiral into a very scary place and throughout it all, Mal was there.

During this time, Mal and I would meet up at her house or mine and eat food, drink booze, smoke cigarettes, and just exist. I liked the existing the most.

I disappeared for a month during my third year because I needed to get healthy again, and I will always remember the phone call Mal made to me, way out in the country. Where had I gone? What was I doing? When would I be back? a long list of "I don't knows" followed.

Eventually I made my return. I will always remember the first night I spent sleeping on her couch, catching up on homework that was long past overdue. So too will I always cherish the nights we spent drinking copious amounts of alcohol, giggling ridiculously at the movies and shows we watched together. These activities always took place on her couch. Free Willy, Reba McEntire, Borat, and an entire series of horror movies. We watched, we drank, we laughed together. One time we practiced shooting chewed up gum balls at a pizza box. We even drew a target on it. I've no idea who won, but it sure was a fun night.

I don't think it is possible to summarize five years' worth of friendship in one post. I could go on for hours about the drunken shenanigans, the nights sitting up late and talking about the things that scare us most. I've told Mal everything. Everything a person could know about another person.

During my third year, my mother bought me new Doc Martens. And as they broke in, they caused me to bleed and blister. I persevered and got an infection in my heel. I hate foot things, all things related to feet. I hate them. And my foot had something wrong with it. So Mal and I drank three bottles of Boone's, that delicious wine that is actually just pop with liquor in it, and I confessed to her that I had a hideous infection in my right heel.

So Mal did the only thing a true friend would do: She got out her tweezers, some antiseptic, some Tiger Balm ointment, and some bandaids. I screamed the entire time.

And then she began to dig infectious nast out of my right heel. We agreed on that night that our friendship had reached the ultimate level, and that we were sure friends for life.

Years after that, I incurred a workplace related injury. I can't discuss the nature of my work, but I can say that I do get bitten on occasion. And on this occasion, my left nipple had been bitten through three layers of clothing. And it was BLEEDING. I had no one to turn to and nowhere to go and I was sure that my nipple would get gangrene and fall off. And again, in an inebriated state, Mal was there to assist in the bandaging of my left boob to ensure that it would not fall victim to gangrene. Again we agreed that our friendship had reached the ultimate level.

A year after that, and we keep on finding new heights to our friendship. We keep on finding that place that outreaches all the other places of friendship and bringing it to a new level.

Mal and I did not talk for three months during the spring of 2009. I have to say that these were three very difficult and unhappy months. I kept on having random thoughts that I wanted to text to someone, and I had no one to text them to. I kept on wanting to have Fat Kids Night, and I had no one to be a Fat Kid with. I kept on thinking that I should do something to remedy the situation...

We began talking again and OH MY GOD, life became worth living once more. It was slow progress at first, but eventually, there we were. Eating too much food, drinking too much booze, and talking too late into the night. A life of excesses, we lead.

No more than ten cigarette burns into an old, borrowed couch. Countless nights of drunken debauchery. Countless men who haven't been worth our time, but to whom we've given our time nonetheless. Years of late night giggling, family functions, dating insanity, trauma and glory.

Here we are. This is Malchin. She calls me Mantis. (As in, bites the heads off of men. That's right. That's what she calls me). This is our friendship, defined by Cosmopolitans, beer, wine, Boone's, Peter Jackson, too much information, too much familial involvement: and the result of all of this is us.

This, Dear Blog, is Mal.

And Then There Were Cowmats...

2009-11-20T22:35:00.003-05:00

Enormous, lumbering, covered in shit pieces of rubber that weigh more than I do. These mats needed to be plied (Pried) out from their previous home with many tools, much swearing, and a lot of sweating.

Each mat was kicked ceremoniously by myself before it was loaded into our borrowed pickup truck. I didn't get a chance to kick one of them, and I cried out "I have to kick it! Elsewise that will be the mat my horse gets tangled in and causes him to break his leg!" and with many a sigh, my good friend lowered the mat so that I could kick it.

Zydeco has arthritis. And as a result, I spent the morning today sweating, swearing, and hauling large and unwieldy pieces of rubber so that he may face less discomfort while he slumbers.

By eleven thirty this morning I was rather smelly, covered in manure, cobwebs and other debris. I was worn out, tired, grumpy, and I think I pulled a muscle in my back. Something was stuck in my hair and my face was flushed from work. Not flushed in a sexy sort of way. No, my face was more of a purple-ish color that made me look sickly more than anything else.

But hey! My horse is going to be warm and comfy this winter. Lord knows you can't put a price tag on something like that.

One Hundred Things About The Toonse Brigade

2009-11-19T19:25:00.002-05:00

1. I have brown hair

2. I have Blue eyes.

3. I capitalize words that don't really require capitalization.

4. I'm not sure how tall I am in feet.

5. In centimetres, I am 171.5.

6. I'm never sure what my shoes size is

7. I am baffled by clothing sizes and I don't really know for sure what size I am

8. I am overly attached to the animals in my life

9. Zydeco came into my life on June 8, 2007

10. I don't know the date that Dixie came into my life but it was late summer and I was sixteen

11. I hate feet

12. I also hate sandals

13. I feel like people should not be allowed to wear sandals in my presence

14. I am bad at dating

15. But I have been on a lot of dates

16. I live with my parents and I am not entirely uncomfortable with this

17. My horse lives here, too

18. I detest people who use poor grammar

19. I consider myself a redneck but I don't meet very many redneck standards

20. I had my teeth fixed when I was between the ages of 10 and 14. My teeth are very straight now.

21. I take very good care of my teeth.

22. I own three guitars, all of which I play with the same level of incompetence

23. I name things: My first laptop was named Gretchen and my new laptop is named Alfonso

24. I've never shot anything while out hunting

25. I don't know how I feel about actually shooting something

26. I was 19 years old when I rented my first apartment

27. Soon after renting my first apartment, I named it Hell and the proceeded to live there for two full years

28. When I moved home, I wanted to be a strawberry farmer

29. I have no idea why my strawberry farm never came to be, except that I've been doing things other than planting fruit

30. I spent six years of my life managing a strawberry farm during summer breaks

31. My mother was diagnosed with cancer in January of 2007. She made a full recovery and didn't even whine over any of the procedures she had to endure

32. The Toonse Brigade is a nickname my brother came up with for me when I was young

33. It is actually a skit from Saturday Night Live. Apparently there was a skit about Toonses the Driving Cat

34. I did not see this skit until I was twenty five years old

35. By the time I saw the skit, this had been my nickname for over a decade

36. I have two biological brothers

37. I have two other brothers who I consider my brothers because of the amount of time we spent growing up

38. I have two nephews and two nieces.

39. I only see one nephew with any regularity

40. This makes me quite sad

41. I believe that cowboy boots have the ability to make you feel like a better person

42. I also believe that boot cut jeans area gift from heaven

43. I'm religious, but I don't attend church services

44. I battle with my addiction to cigarettes

45. Some days I don't smoke and some days I do

46. I have a general hatred for the medical profession

47. I have a brother who has served in Afghanistan three times

48. I am bad at make up

49. I often look orange once I've applied makeup

50. I depend on others to tell me when I look orange due to poor makeup application

51. I have an obsession with socks

52. I hoard socks and have quite an impressive collection

53. I was quite literally scared of the dark until I was nineteen years old

54. I was scared of spiders until I was sixteen years old

55. I have never been in a car accident

56. I once fell off my bike and knocked out my top four front teeth

57. I had braces at the time, so my natural teeth remained with me

58. Sometimes I think I would like to get a boob job

59. I really can't afford a boob job

60. I would like to buy a house here in CowTown

61. I refer to my hometown as CowTown

62. I dislike people breathing near me

63. I have issues with people being in close proximity to me

64. I'm working on that one

65. I was divorced when I was nineteen

66. I used to be embarrassed and ashamed that I have a failed marriage in my history.

67. I think it took me about five years to be comfortable with that little factoid about myself

68. I have never been on an airplane, seen the ocean, or been to Disney World

69. I don't really feel deprived about those things

70. One time, I let a drunk person pluck my eyebrows

71. Those eyebrows turned out better than when I pluck my eyebrows by myself

72. For three months, when I was in university, I lived on a couch that still belongs to a girl named Mal

73. Those were some of the best months of my life

74. During that time, I wrote a novel

75. The novel that I wrote is not very good: it is disorganized and long-winded

76. I tend to be generally disorganized and long-winded

77. I am writing a One Hundred Things List to replace the one I wrote several years ago.

78. I do believe that this list is a bit more inclusive

79. I once went to a horse show and won red ribbons and a prize for being top scorer in my division

80. That day still gives me a thrill to think about

81. When I get bored, I sit at my computer and look at pictures of me and my horse

82. Then I critique them and curse myself for not being a better rider

83. I own a Gibson ES137. It is a limited edition and has a real pearl inlay on the fretboard

84. One time I went to an open mic night and the announcer spent more time announcing my guitar than he did announcing me

85. When I was 20, I made a demo CD

86. When I was 21, I made another demo CD

87. When I was 22, my uncle sent out some of my demos to record companies, thinking he would get me a record deal without me even knowing about it

88. Instead, I got rejected by record companies without even knowing that I was up for rejection

89. I used to think that I might get famous some day.

90. I'm totally cool with not getting famous at this point in my life

91. I don't know if I want to have children at some point

92. When I was dating the man who is now my ex husband, I was so excited to spend a day with him that I spent fourteen hours sitting on the fender of his tractor while he hauled wagons during hay season

93. The lyrics of country music songs can make me cry

94. I have a specific playlist of music that I listen to when I want to cry

95. I cry over a lot of things, most of which are not worth shedding tears over

96. One of the most precious memories I have of my nephew is him offering me a Kleenex when he was about three. I had been crying and he came to me and said "Clean eyes for Auntie"

97. I don't watch very many movies

98. But I love horror movies

99. I don't know how to change the barrel of my own gun

100. It took me about twenty five minutes to complete this list

Updating the Ol' Blog

2009-11-19T19:02:00.002-05:00

So, the time has come.

I've had the same info up on my blog since Joomy encouraged me to start writing it way, way back in October 2005. At that time I had just met the one I had dubbed Cute Boy, I was living in the depths of Hell, in a city I detested, with a kitten named Copernicus.

I figured that all of that information is completely outdated. Further, I have decided to take blogging on again in such a fashion that hopefully it becomes interesting to read once more.

My first task is to update my sidebars and perhaps give my blog a bit of a new look (From one of blogger's templates, lest you be concerned that I may take up the art of HTML.) My next blogging goal is to do a write-up of the significant players. Bear with me, old readers. I'm going to make a sidebar dedicated to The Players in my life so that newcomers can link to them and find out who they are.

After that, I need to re-evaluate exactly what it is that I'm writing about here. I sometimes read through some of my older posts and think, Damn, I used to be interesting! Lately my blog is boring and mundane and lacking in substance.

So, here we go!

This Will Not Take Two Seasons...

2009-11-17T23:16:00.002-05:00

Years ago I went through a breakup. Surprise! That breakup, which I posted snipets of, was chronicled somewhat on my blog. I was thinking about how to blog about my current topic when that breakup came to mind, and I recalled that it took me a whole season of Road To Avonlea and a season of ER to get over it.

I do remember opening the gift of Road To Avonlea and thinking, this is exactly what I need when the breakup happens. As it stood, it took me more than a season of Road To Avonlea and as a result, directly after that, I moved on to ER. I sat on my couch with Dixie, I watched mindless television, and I recovered.

I've done this in the past, needed something to distract me while I move on.

I went shopping today and bought a book by Marian Keyes, who I think I love more than anyone in the world right now. Her novels are fantastic and if you start reading them, please start with Rachel's Holiday as it made me laugh and laugh until I was nearly in tears. Wonderful author, that Marian.

I had high hopes for my current dating situation and like so many others, it just hasn't turned out the way I imagined. Mal asked me how I was feeling about some decisions I've made and when I told her, there was silence on the line. And then she said "Ouch. That sounds like it hurts."

Yeppers!

The fact of the matter here is that I am not in the depths of despair. I have moments in the day where I feel kinda sad, and the odd time over the past two weeks I've felt, momentarily, like I've been punched in the gut, but other than that, I'm totally fine.

So I'm making the decision to not require a minimum of six weeks' worth of mindless television. I'm giving this one a book. A Marian Keyes book.

I will read it in peace in my parents' living room with my trusty deer hound by my side.

In about seventy two hours, I will have moved on (And I say this with utter confidence) and then?

Then, Dear Blog, I will post the exciting details of my new job, which is looming closer and closer to me each day.

There is hope!

On Impractical Vehicle Ownership...

2009-11-16T12:20:00.002-05:00

So, I love my vehicle. I love everything about it. I love kicking up dust, spinning out on gravel, leaving tire marks on the road, and blaring music while I drive aimlessly through rural routes. I think everyone in the world knows how much I love my JEEP.

But now that winter is coming, I have some reservations.

The JEEP is a spinny, spinny vehicle. The first time I drove it in heavy rain, I almost spun into a bridge after having eased very gently onto the gas and off of the clutch. A few other times we have done some near donuts not on purpose, and these moments scare me. I love doing things like this under my control. The rest of the time? Bad news, Bear.

I've been consulting a number of people (read: everyone I know) on this matter. I've heard a number of responses on how to drive a JEEP in the winter. Some people have stated that the first time I see snow, I should turn on the four wheel drive and leave it there until the snow melts. Other people I have consulted have warned me against four wheel drive, stating that should I be in four-by and spin out of control, I will then have four wheels propelling me towards the nearest tree or hydro pole rather than two. Interesting logic, this.

I consulted my brother, and he had some interesting information on driving in four wheel drive for me. First, he asked me exactly who I had been consulting. I rattled off a list of people and he stopped me. He then stated "I'm willing to bet these are the same people who think that if you shoot a twelve guage shotgun, it will kick so hard you'll fly back twenty feet and land on your ass. They also probably think that it actually is possible to tip a cow." Right. Consider the source. That little tidbit.

I've been pondering a number of ways I can make my vehicle handle better in the winter. Being rear wheel drive, I've thought about packing some sandbags into the back to make it heavier, thus lessening my chances of kicking out sideways in slippery conditions. I've also thought of buying new snow tires for it, despite the fact that I can ill afford this move.

The end advice that I really plan on taking comes from my mother and my brother: Gentle touch. Soft hands. Drive slow. One of my reservations about owning such an underpowered vehicle is that I am always holding up traffic: It takes a long time to get from first gear to fifth, and people always end up passing me when I turn onto a highway, no matter how much time I allow. My mother tends to say I should forget about the rest of the people on the road and worry about myself.

Not spinning the tires is often difficult for me. Sure, there are times when I go out into the middle of nowhere and spin for the sheer joy of spinning. I have to say, though, that I'm actually not that good with the clutch and there are a few places that I spin my tires accidentally as I try not to stall the engine. I've been practicing this as much as I can and I have to say that after seven months of bliss together, Da JEEP and I have still not gotten it right.

I suppose that now all there is to do is wait and see, use the gentle touch, try not to spin the tires, and hope that the JEEP and I do not meet our end together in a haze of snowy glory.

Unhealthy Attachment

2009-11-15T12:14:00.002-05:00

My precious puppy has returned to me, praise be.

Dixie ran off after a deer, or perhaps a rabbit, but this time she stayed in the forest. It is typical that, if you lose your dog, you leave your jacket in the place where you last saw her with a tidbit of food and hopefully, the dog will know enough to stay there until you return.

About twelve hours after her disappearance, my brother returned to the bush and lo and behold, there was my Dixie! She was tired from her shenanigans and slept for a large portion of the day. I returned to the house to fawn over her and she didn't even get up off the couch to muppy with me.

Please know that I use the word 'muppy' here as a verb. Dixie and I have this tradition whereby I squeal "Muppymuppymuppy" at her and she begins to howl, whine, wiggle all over, and generally fly into a frenzy. We muppy over each other when I come home from work, during commercial breaks on TV, if I've been drinking too much, or if she discovers me sleeping in my bed. A big fan of pushing me off my pillows and hogging up the covers, that Dixie.

I sat for the evening that Dixie was gone trying very, very hard not to focus on the fact that I may never see her again. I simply can't imagine a life without her, a life free of muppying, a life free of my trusty couch companion. My life is severely lacking a cuddle buddy to watch mindless TV with, and Dixie fills that void quite nicely.

At any rate, rather than trying to fix my unhealthy attachment to my beagle, I am just going to bask in the fact that she is mine and that perhaps this year was her last year deer hunting. I know she loves it but I have to wonder if it would be worth it should her mind falter and she forgets her way back to where we hunt in the bush.

I Am Trying Not to Despair...

2009-11-12T17:52:00.002-05:00

Oh, Dixie.

I love my little Muppy. And I openly call her Muppy in front of the whole wide world simply because I love her.

Years ago, this happened.

Dixie is now nine and I fear that she may have lost her mind, if not just a little bit. She chased a rabbit the other day, quite out of character for her. I think she's just having a bit of an identity crisis and has forgotten that she is a deer hound.

Well, today Dixie chased another rabbit. (How do we know it was a rabbit? Good question. Dixie is such a fabulous deer hound that she has a particular howl for deer, and a different howl for everything else. The howl she let out today and the other day were not her deer howls.)

And now that she is off chasing the rabbit, she has not come home. She didn't meet the gang back at the trucks to go home.

And now my muppy waits, alone in the forest, for my family to return in the morning.

I'm doing surprisingly well. I am not weeping uncontrollably or laying in the fetal position on the living room floor. I feel like someone should give me a token for such behavior on my part.

I can't imagine a life without Dixie, a life without squealing "MUPPY! Muppy muppymuppymuppy" in such a fashion that Dixie goes crazy and spins in circles howling her delight. I can't imagine not having my cuddle buddy lay beside me on the couch. I don't know what I will do with myself should my beagle not return to me.

But I am keeping my spirits high. She has run away from home before, and now she has run away again.

Here's hoping that Dixie returns home safely once again.

Well, That Was A Letdown...

2009-11-10T15:49:00.002-05:00

I have been hunting now for four years. And I use the term hunting very seriously here because I have HUNTED with ferocity in hopes of at least SEEING something worth shooting at in the bush.

But I've yet to see a deer.

I fought tooth and nail to get two consecutive days off of work so I could go hunting. I dressed up in my Blaze orange and put my gun in Da JEEP and loaded down my pockets with slugs. I had a cup of warm coffee, a knife clipped to my belt, and my trusty hound dog at my side.

AND I DIDN'T EVEN SEE A DEER.

I'm feeling a little deflated about the whole situation.

Dixie, however, had a grand time chasing a rabbit. This is a terrible habit for a deer hound (As her time is better spent chasing deer) but I figure out of hopelessness, she just wanted to chase something. I feel for her and several times contemplated shooting at a squirrel, or a tree, or into the open sky but chose not to as this is considered poor hunting etiquette.

She did chase a deer today, howling her way through the forest like her beagle-y little self, but sadly she took it about eight thousand miles in the opposite direction of us, so no deer was to be had.

Da JEEP made it through with flying colors. I was so pumped to get to use the four wheel drive for real, to tear it through the mud and laugh in the face of other hunters who would surely be stuck in the mud.

This was not the case and after driving a little ways with the 4X4 turned on, I stopped and turned it off because all it was doing at that point was burning gas. A person could probably make it in with a Honda Civic if they so desired, that is how dainty the road has become.

But, if nothing else, I braved the four a.m. alarm clock ring, the freezing elements and the whipping winds to bond with nature and make some decisions about my life while hoping that the elusive ten point buck would walk out in front of me.

And Then Boredom Struck

2009-10-30T23:22:00.002-04:00

I've worked out on my excercise bike now twice.

OH MY WORD IT IS BORING.

I love walking in the country for a variety of reasons: I'm out in the open air, there are things to see, my mind can wander.

While I'm cycling in my living room while watching CMT, there isn't much to do.

I must, must, must keep this up as not walking for three weeks has packed on a whopping seven pounds and I just gave away all my fat pants.

But the boredom. Oh, the boredom.

On the job front, I am very excited. However, there is paperwork that needs to be completed before I can begin to apply to jobs. Essentially, I've been accepted to work for this company, and once my paperwork is through, I will be doing casual/part time work. This means that I will be working on top of my current job for a number of months.

Insane, yes. However, I have a host of newfound debts that need to be paid: Alfonso, who I'm typing on right now; my next school course, which is officially in the mail and on its way; my horse debts over the summer; and of course, my trusty JEEP.

(And I have to go on an aside right now and say that since April, I have paid off over HALF of Da JEEP! My goal was to have it paid off in a year and this means that I am bang on, so this is pretty exciting for me.)

So, I'll be doing more than double work for a few months. This casual job means that I will be able to apply for full time jobs within the company once I've got my employee number. Once I have full time work (Which I am well aware could take up to six months) I will continue with my current company part time.

WHY would I do this to myself?

Many reasons. Mostly, I'd like to own a house of my own at some point and be able to live luxuriously should I so choose. In order to do this, I need some fundage.

So those are the two most pertinent updates in my life right now. The Moose Hunter saga continues, and I have no idea what is going on, although I assure you that my copy of He's Just Not That Into You is at my bedside because I have grave fears that this may be the case. This makes me sad because not only does he own six or eight or however many pairs of cowboy boots and drive a spectacular car, he has TWENTY TWO INCH TIRES on that car.

I aspire to that sort of status, let me tell you.

Adventures in Private Excercise

2009-10-29T19:20:00.002-04:00

I haven't been walking these last few weeks.

And my body knows it.

Damn this body of mine, always knowing what I'm up to.

Today I bit the bullet and did not buy a gym membership. Instead, I went on the shopping trip of a lifetime and ended up purchasing an excercise bike.

I would really prefer a treadmill, but the space they take up is too much for the house here at The Ranch.

So, a bicycle it is.

It is small, it is dainty, it is uncomplicated, and with a little help from the motivation I don't typically have, hopefully it will make me svelt once more.

And it is MINE

2009-10-26T11:07:00.002-04:00

The job called me today.

IT IS MINE.

A few more minor details to work out, and things are starting to look up.

The moose hunter and I had another date on Friday. Turns out, he did call me upon his return but I missed the call.

I feel like I should be using a lot more capital letters and superfluous punctuation in this post, considering how much I wanted both of these things.

I just got off yet another overnight and I am planning on completing my course work today so that I can celebrate in true style later in the week.

Once that is done, prepare yourself for the onslaught on PUNCTUATION AND CAPS, Baby.

So, So Tired...

2009-10-22T20:17:00.002-04:00

I just finished a twenty five hour shift.

Working the way I work is kind of insane, I get that, and I am the one who chooses to keep going back there. I get that, too.

But right now this is the job that is paying for my trusty JEEP; my new computer (the one that has a functioning K key, even); My horse's many, many needs; my newfound addiction to Booster Juice; and of course, that whole thirty thousand dollars worth of education thing. Right. That.

And really, I just need to whine. I came home with every intention of working on my final for this class. I really did. But I just wanted to sit and reconnect with the fact that a world exists outside of twenty five hour shifts. So shoot me. I sat at my computer for an hour. And then my mother came home from an outing she was on, so I chatted for a little while with her. I took a call from the Berry Queen and then BAM.

The exhaustion hit me. I always do this, I think that I can just stay awake until the next normal sleeping hour but the fact is that I rarely, if ever, can. And then I'll be sitting somewhere, having a can of pop and functioning relatively normally and suddenly I feel as though I've been drinking. I start to mutter my words, my eyes just won't stay open and it is generally not safe for me to operate heavy equipment.

So I collapsed into my bed with Dixie for two and a half hours, thinking that this would suffice to get me through the rest of the day and when Dixie and I woke up I still was not able to function.

Working this long honestly makes me feel as though I have a hangover. I'm kind of shaky from the caffeine I drink to get me through the shifts. I generally have a mild headache, mild stomach upset and sometimes a very irritable outlook on life.

I now want nothing more than to write up fifty pages of final sociological information on consumerism and globalism and neo-liberalism but I am JUST SO TIRED. I really feel like I am not going to get this course done and that the next nine courses are an insurmountable task.

Today is a good day, so I think I'm going to stay positive. On a bad day, I might weep uncontrollably and curl up in the fetal position. I think I'll go right now, hydrate myself with some flavored water, drink down another pot of coffee, curl up with my nephew to watch Survivor and swear to myself that I will do some form of productive work after the water and coffee set in.