Where Have You Been?

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.

On The Moosehunter, and Other Dating Woes

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.

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

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.

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

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.

Ok, I Tried to Keep it Light...

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?

On Finding My True Love (Not Horse Related)

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.

Are you KIDDING me?

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.

This Will Not Take Two Seasons...

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!

A Plan...

I have a plan of sorts.

And really, I'm aggitated that I have to even make a plan for this sort of thing. Like, really? I'm twenty five years old. That's right. I'm TWENTY FIVE YEARS OLD. And I still have to plan this sort of thing.

Four days ago, I wrote this post.

I was feeling deflated and confused and then elated that I had done something so productive as to have clicked my mouse and make my desktop pretty.

(This is, in fact, the sort of thing my life has come down to. Sigh)

I wrote that post after another date with The Cowboy.

(Only instead of riding up on a wonderful steed and riding double into the sunset, he drives up in a North American car. If only he'd shown up in a golf shirt and flip flops with a Mitsubishi Lancer, I don't think I would have nearly as much trouble with this. But he does things with his spare time like hunting moose and he doesn't look at me in horror when I talk about things like mud and guns and blaze orange. And I have to say, I'm a sucker for someone who digs blaze orange.)

I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON WITH THIS GUY.

Does he dig me like I dig a twelve guage shotgun? Does he think that opening day of deer season is the best day for a date all year? Does he want to sit by the river decked out in camo with pockets full of bird shot, talking in whispers until dark? How would he feel if I took his car out and spun the tires on the gravel? How would he feel if I took out my JEEP and spun up some mud?

I have all these pertinent questions to ask and now he's off chasing Bullwinkle eighty thousand miles away.

And I know he's in his blaze orange.

At any rate, I have a plan. It took me days to come up with this plan, lots of thinking and calculating and practicing while I drive down the road in my oh-so-sexy JEEP.

I'm going to call him.

That's right. Twenty five years later, I am grown up enough to come up with a plan that involves calling a person on the phone.

Only I have to wait until he returns from his chasing of Bullwinkle.

And while that happens, I am going to write this essay that has been weighing on my mind and also? Also?

I'm going to stop being a crazy person.

Don't say I have no goals, dammit.

The Number One Thing...

I ran into a family friend the other day. We had just finished lunch with my Grandmother, and he was sitting at a booth near the exit.

My mother and I stopped to say Hello, and I got the odd, creepy feeling that he was checking me out. My right hand was in my pocket, and my left hand was holding the strap of my purse over my shoulder.

He was looking from my right hand to my left, and I was feeling very, very unnerved by the situation. I mean, the guy is the same age as my mother.

As it turns out, he was NOT checking me out. He was examining my hands for rings. He gave my left hand a final nod and stated: "Still not married yet, eh?"

WELL. For your information, NO. I am not MARRIED.

Nor have I even been on a date over the last six months.

I am the unmarried, dateless, boobless wonder, and I live with my parents, working a job that is sure to lead me nowhere and a student debt load I have no hope of paying off.

THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR POINTING THAT OUT.

Ahhhh, life as a single person. How I love thee.

That Friend...

The winter that just passed was a little bit rough for me, and I was just going over some of the events with a friend.

There was a night where I was in an individual's apartment, and I knew that night that the relationship with that individual had come to a close. Only I was an hour from home and without my car, and so I was stranded in this location with nothing but a cell phone.

And sometimes I wonder about fate: if fate exists and if so, what for. Because for some reason that night, my cell phone rang when I most needed it to ring, and it was Mal. She talked to me for hours, for so long that the battery on her portable phone died. And when the battery died, she hung up, charged it for ten minutes, and called back. We went on like this for about three hours, with the battery dying and her calling back as soon as it had enough charge to hold a few minutes' worth of conversation.

I was stranded and crying and unable to sleep, in very close proximity to someone I had just broken up with. And his name was added to a very long list of names of people who I have unsuccessfully dated; people who are not suited to dating anyone but somehow end up dating me.

And I feel -- quite often -- that I have really lost the game in the dating scene, that I have gone through so many traumatic breakups and upsetting relationships that there is simply no point in going further, no point in hoping for something better.

These bouts of troublesome dating are an ongoing theme in my life, one I want to work on improving greatly before I end up married to some schmoe who can't walk and chew gum at the same time. (Although, if that were the smallest worry of someone I dated, I would probably be a happy girl.)

But then I realized that there is another theme here, that there is a theme of people stepping in and helping me pick up the pieces, and I think, Hey. Maybe I'm not so poorly off altogether.

Maybe I'm not so poorly off at all.

Introducing the Latest Members of the Family...

Here is my new niece, Brooklyn Lori Elizabeth. Her features are fine, she is dainty and looks like a perfect lady.



Here is Tristan.... I love this picture. He looks so much like the Precious Boy did when he was born, almost EIGHT years ago. I love the family resemblance here, how even though so many years have passed by, our genetics don't seem to change at all.



Here is The Princess, kissing her new baby brother.



I was very distraught to leave the babies and The Princess last Saturday. I have the long weekend off, the whole thing, four whole days, and I was planning on going down South to see Mal for the weekend. But when I left the hospital, and again when I left my brother's house, I felt like weeping for hours on end.

I never get to see my brother's family, in part because of the ridiculous hours I work, and in part because they live so far away. My niece has her first ballet recital this coming Saturday, and I'm going to be on a train to drink my face off?

Of course, I love Mal. I need Mal. I feel empty when Mal is not a regular presence in my life.

But those babies, that toddler...

They are my family, and I need to see them.

So this weekend, instead of drinking my face off down South, I plan to go up to visit the newest members of my family, to smell their perfect, velvety soft baby heads, to hold them in my arms and kiss them and admire them; I plan on watching my niece dance her little heart out; I plan on seeing my brother and their wife and I plan on being happy with my decision.

Two Points for the Good Team....

For those of you dreading the world's end due to overpopulation, I have some bad news.

The rest of us, however, are quite thrilled.

Today was the day, and the twins have arrived safely and soundly. Tristan weighed in at a whopping seven pounds, two ounces, and Brooklyn was a little less at six pounds, fourteen ounces. Tristan is going to be quite the little acrobat because he decided to do a somersault and come out backwards, but other than that, no surprises in the delivery room.

SuperNan was there the whole time (Yes, actually IN the delivery room) and apparently a grand time was had by all.

Hopefully by tomorrow I will have some pics to put up.

Hooray for babies!!

Where We Don't Slap Our Weiners At The Table...

Tonight was a Thursday night, one of the better nights for me here at The Ranch because the Precious Boy comes over to spend some quality time with his Auntie (And Granny and Grandpa, but they are secondary to me unless I'm napping. Because I'm the shining star in everyone's life unless I'm napping. And even when I am napping, I still manage to be the shining star in many people's lives. Like Dixie's.)

The last several Thursdays I have found to be quite trying because by the time Thursday rolls around, I'm getting kind of CRANKY from working and going to school and maintaining my status as a well-functioning human being. As a result, I've found myself over-correcting my precious little nephew on many occasions; like last Thursday when I gave him a quick reprimand for talking about the farting noises the Ketchup bottle made when he squeezed it.

And really, come on. Who reprimands a seven year old for talking about THOSE kinds of noises?

So tonight, I let everything slide. I was the hip and cool Auntie (Who was only asleep on the couch for forty five minutes of his night. Tops.) I didn't tell him to sit up straight and properly, or remind him to use his 'proper table manners' when dinner was served; I didn't remind him to put his milk glass at the top right of his plate or any of the other inane things that I remind him to do in a night.

And it was amazing, because I wasn't stressed out and the world didn't stop turning at any point in the evening. And when he started whacking the weiner on his plate with his fork, I didn't bat an eye until my mother told him that in this house, WE DO NOT SLAP OUR WEINERS AT THE TABLE.

And I quietly finished my Kraft Dinner and weiners, and I drank up every last drop of my milk and left the table. I made my way to the living room where the laughter that was held deep inside of me through dinner let out, and my stomach ached and tears rolled down my cheeks because my MOTHER said that we don't slap weiners at the dinner table.

Only in this house, I swear, would such a statement pass anybody's lips.

Oh, Dropping the Ball, How I Love Thee...

I dropped the ball at work tonight, and as a result I had an assload of paperwork to do before my shift ended.

Usually when I drop the ball, when things happen that could have been prevented, I come home and cry into my pillows before breaking out in a nasty case of hives that takes four days and a case of beer to get rid of.

But not THIS TIME!

This time, I'm taking it as a sign that I am learning. It wasn't a huge error, just an error I shouldn't have made, and now I know that, hey, next time, I can't do that!

My, it is amazing how a person grows in time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Because I mentioned hives just now, I feel it is time to talk about my skin a little bit. A week or two ago, my mother was examining my face in rather close proximity to my person. I can't stand it when people get near my person, in case I have to breathe out of the same air that they are breathing into. And so, I inquired as to why she was peering at my face, and she said "Your skin. Your skin looks lovely!"

And I said "Yes, I thought it had cleared up quite a bit."

And she said "A bit!? No, Dear, it looks WONDERFUL!"

And yes, my skin has been looking much better as of late.

You see, I recently broke up with a boy, and when I do ridiculous things like date boys, my skin breaks out. Sometimes a hive or two will pop up, but mostly I break out in hideous acne that makes me look like a hormone-ravaged twelve year old.

And now I'm broken up, and I know that everything is well and good in my life. I watched the final disc of ER's Season Eight, and I was right. It cured me of my break-up.

I was talking to someone of the male species online the other day and my mother happened by the computer, inquiring as to who I was chatting with. When I told her it was a Boy, she told me that she didn't think she could take it.

And I was all like, "But MOM! This one might make me break out in SHINGLES and I haven't had those yet! Imagine the possibilities!!"

And then she had no words to say, and exited the computer room and sat down in front of the television, and I could hear her wondering in her head: What will get me through my daughter's next break-up now that ER is over?!

A Day for Coffee and Beer....

Today I got to spend the day with two of the kids from work, and they were so wonderfully behaved that I allowed them to come back to the farm to pet the horses. Zydo was a perfect gentleman, and didn't bite either one of their arms off, for which I am ever grateful. After that, I went back to the house and played my guitar while they played a modified game of baseball in the basement. All in all, it was a wonderful shift, one of those shifts that makes you want to keep your job rather than move into a cardboard box on the street and take your chances with the local bums.

While I was out and about today, I had a mad craving for a cup of coffee. I went to the Tim Horton's nearest to where I was, and because I AM PENNILESS, I was using the Tim's card that I receieved for Christmas. BUT THE TIMS CARD MACHINE WAS BROKEN.

I briefly contemplated ending my life, right there in Tim Horton's in front of all those innocent people, and I smiled at the lady behind the counter and told her that I understand, I'm a farmer and when you depend on machines for stuff, THEY BREAK AND FUCK YOUR SHIT UP.

And then, this elderly gentleman beside me said "Oh, you know, I knew those machines would ruin someone's day. I'll buy you a cup of coffee." And I was all flustered and horrified, because only homeless opiate addicts beg cups of coffee from random strangers. And I assure you, I am addicted to NOTHING (Excepting cigarettes and coffee and oversized sweatshirts washed with Gain) and I live with my PARENTS. Therefore, not homeless, not addicted to opiates. Read: I should not be begging cups of coffee from strangers.

Just then, the manager came out and the gentleman explained that he was buying my coffee because of the mix-up with the Tim's Card machines, and I was all like "No, I really don't need a coffee that badly, really, you're too kind..." And the gentleman said "Of course I'm buying you a coffee. It can be your Valentine's day present." And I was all like, "Oh, that's the only one I'm going to get today!"

BUT THEN, the manager was all like, No, I'M buying her a cup of coffee, dammit! And then the two proceeded to argue over who got to buy me a coffee, and the woman made me my triple triple, and I made a hasty exit with many thanks, and the twelve year old I work with was like "HEY! THAT GUY WAS HITTING ON YOU AND HE'S LIKE EIGHTY!!!" for all the world to hear.

And then? My shift ended and it was time to go home and I got home and not only was the Precious Boy here, but my mother had purchased me a case of Valentine's Beer!

And now my day is complete, and I know that random strangers still do have good in their hearts, and that my mother loves me most when I'm slightly inebriated.

Because that's when its easiest to get me to clean the kitchen.

Happy Valentine's Day!

On Again, Off Again, On Again, Off Again...

Last week, I posted about an individual I've been spending time with, about how I decided to no longer spend time with him because I have issues dating people. Unfortunately, we work together, and last Sunday we were stuck under the same roof for a consecutive twenty seven hours. Our cars were both wedged into snow banks over three feet high, I hadn't taken my CrazyMeds in two days, and my boss strongly suspected that both of us were close to losing it.

He, not knowing that we had decided to stop spending time together, told us to help ourselves to his car, and get our crazed and maniacal persons AWAY from the crazed and maniacal teenagers that he was about to spend the day with. So, we went, in the same car, exhausted and not talking, feeling slightly like death, to his apartment.

I'm sure that in some people's lives, the story that follows would involve passionate kissing and make-up making out, candle light and tears flowing freely. In MY story, however, it involved me getting to his apartment, curling up in a ball on his couch, and passing out because my brain was TRYING TO CRAWL OUT OF MY EARS. That's what happens when I don't take my meds, my organs simply try to escape my body and I feel like I'm going to die.

He was supposed to return me to work after my brief nap, where I could work yet another shift and then go home to my bed. Unfortunately, I wasn't yet very coherent, and I was convinced that I would show up at work, slap each of the children silly, swear at my boss, and quit for good. At the time, it seemed like a perfectly sensible plan; but this boy had different ideas.

His idea involved buying me beer, setting me up with jammies in front of the television and a high speed internet connection, and allowing me to veg out in silence, where I was not at risk for assaulting those who came into contact with me.

Clearly, he is a clever, clever man.

Ever since I lost my mind last fall, I have been very cautious about doing anything to my personal life that may cause me to lose sleep or points on the Amanda Sanity Meter. So, I haven't dated people because, even though I've met nice people, the idea of a breakup or any relationship turmoil kind of makes me want to throw up.

I've been in a really good place mentally and physically for the last year. I've been mostly sane and rational, mostly able to cope with the stressors of every day life. You know, those things you do every day, like putting on pants or washing your hair, that are just downright impossible when you're living in the depths of emotional hell.

I suppose that the main fear I have is that I don't want to do anything that messes with this good place that I'm in right now. I don't want to add anything or take away from my life in any way in case it is the factor that causes everything to go right back to where it was a year ago.

But that's the problem with mental health issues; they catch you in their grips and they don't ever let go; they make you fear them and cringe when you think of them so that they control almost every aspect of your life.

I really think that it is time for me to quit living in fear and put an end to living in the grasp of something that is currently right within my control.

So, I have a New Year's Resolution this year, for the first time ever, to try and date this individual and be worry free and just bask in the fact that I have someone to talk on the phone to.

Hopefully, all goes well. If not....

Well, Jack Daniel's has always been faithful to me.

Just When You Think You're Making Progress...

Typically when I start dating someone, when I go out a few times and feel like I might start to like someone, I try to keep it to myself. Joomy might not believe me, but I really do tell very few people. There are several reasons for this: One, when my feet find themselves back on the ground again, the breakup is easier to deal with if you don't have to tell anyone.

Ok, I said several reasons, but that's the only one I can think of.

This most recent individual is a coworker as well, and we work in a field where we are quite literally shoulder to shoulder for most of our shifts. I suppose the main reason I didn't want anyone to know about it is that. I like to keep my home life entirely separate from my work life, and if people were to find out that I was seeing this individual, it wouldn't be separate any more.

I chose today, in the way I often do, to inform this most recent individual that I couldn't spend time with him any more, that he shouldn't write or call or send pictures or stand beneath my bedroom window singing love songs because I simply can't cope with this relationship at this point in time.

And now we have to deal with the fallout, which was why I thought this was such a bad idea in the first place.

I just didn't think the fallout would come so soon, that after a single day I'd no longer have someone to talk about nothing with and that once more, I'd feel like ice picks are being plunged again and again into the depths of my being.

I think that one of the most discomfitting things about this whole situation is that tonight, when SuperNan was making EggNog, she came to me and asked, "Do you have any booze? Some scotch or whiskey? Or anything?"

And I was all like "For Fuck's SAKE, I do NOT HAVE any booze, not a beer or a drop of tequila or even any FUCKING COOKING SHERRY."

And you know, since I moved back home, I've made a concerted effort to tone down the drinking, to not stockpile alcohol and act like someone who can't live without it. But I'm really starting to think, would it BE SO BAD to be one of those people who keeps a mickey stored in the back of the toilet? WOULD IT BE SUCH A CRIME???

On Neglecting My Blog...

So I haven't been writing very much of late, and it seems that when I do write, the only thing I have to say is that I haven't written. I'm just chalk full of useful statements like those.

And you know, I'm a full time student and I work four or five shifts a week, and I like to pretend like I have some sort of social life. The type where you actually get out of your pajamas and go beyond the doors of your own home. A social life like that. Exactly.

And I'd love to blame my busy-ness on my school and my work and my horse, but they are not to blame at all. I can generally manage school, work, some of the horse care and my blog all at the same time. But the real reason I'm too busy to blog?

Is a boy.

I met this individual only four weeks ago, and for the last two weeks we have been spending a considerable amount of time together. He is a very lovely individual, the type of individual who has blonde hair and blue eyes and a thing for shoes that my brothers are all sure to make fun of. He hunts deer and has a four-wheeler and likes to do things like chain smoke and drink beer. He's never milked a cow though, and I find this a little bit troublesome.

Joomy has already asked me for details on this individual, for an email updating her on the goings on and the kissing, because she found out that there had been kissing and OH MY GOD, there was kissing? And then she was kinda pissed that she has been out of the loop.

This individual has lasted longer in my life than most individuals, because in most cases, I'm done with them and have kicked them to the curb a few days after our first meeting. In fact, I've twice made motions to cut it off completely with this individual, and twice I've talked to him about it, and twice I've decided that fine, I'll go ahead with it. I'm hesitant to date this person or call him my boyfriend.

The problem here is that we work together. I've been through enough breakups to know that they are hurty and not nice, and that in every case, every time I've dated someone? Its ended in a breakup. So chances are, this isn't my Prince Charming, sent to sweep me off my feet and prevent me from being an ogre ever again in my life.

I want to date someone. I want to cuddle up and watch a movie, I want to have someone to call when I want to chat about my day. I want to have someone who will hold my hand and let me lean on them when I am sad and lonely; I want someone to eat lunch with and talk about nothing with and drink beer with and have a cigarette with. I want all that so badly that I can almost feel it when I'm living my day-to-day life.

But at the same time, I want to just be me. I want my alone time, my napping with Dixie time. I want to spend a day with my horse and not feel guilty that I should be spending my time with a person rather than something of equine descent.

I'm just a jumbled up mess of mixed up emotions right now and I'm not sure what to do about it. I am genuinely interested in this individual, I genuinely like him and enjoy spending time with him.

But in the event of yet another painful breakup, I'm not sure how we're supposed to go on as coworkers or friends, or how I'm supposed to get used to the fact that once he's gone, I'll have no one to chat about nothing with anymore.

I think the chatting about nothing is what I like the most.

More Like a Puppy Than a Horse...

I went down to the barn this morning to hang out with Zydo before my ride to school arrived. I love going to visit him in his stall, because it is time for us to just chill without the pressure of having to get tacked up and ready to go out.

Sadly, Zydo doesn't like to have his picture taken indoors and tends to prance around a lot when I do so. But this morning I got there and his eyes were all dozy, with sleep in them. His hair was mussed up and tousled, full of straw and standing up on end. He looked at me briefly before he opened his giant horse-sized mouth and yawned with his tongue sticking out.

Then he took his big, giant horse head and rubbed it up against me so that I flew back and was pressed between his cuddly nuzzling and the chain link of his stall; I was stuck there being squished and squashed, laughing and trying to maintain some semblence of an ability to breathe.

And suddenly, so suddenly, I had sympathy -- and better yet, empathy -- for Emily, the girl who owns Clifford The Big Red Dog. All Clifford wanted to do was play with Emily like a normal puppy: He wanted to play fetch, and accidentally fetched her a telephone pole, and when he wanted to chase a spool, he stole a spool of telephone wire from the phone company.

And Emily looked on in horror as her giant dog terrorized the neighborhood, and wondered how she would teach this dog that he was special.

I understood where she came from and so much of my early childhood suddenly made sense.

And only then, in my bleary first-thing-in-the-morning stupor did I realize, wait a minute! I don't have to teach this dog that he's special! I don't have to teach him to play different games than other dogs!

HE'S A FRICKIN' HORSE.

But sometimes, he's just so damn cute and cuddly that I can stop for a minute while he nuzzles and plays, and just be a girl and her horse. Species appropriate behaviour, be damned.