Cow's Hill? What?

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.

On the Clifford Cave...

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.

Welcome to the World, Little One...

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.

I Have No Information

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.

Oh, Country Living....

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.)

Updates? I Promised Updates?

I was reading through this and realize that some period of time ago I promised pictures of gardening, home improvements, a tree I decided to name Hope, and a variety of other things.

My horse's attempt at suicide once more prevented me from doing so.

Zydeco's stitches have held through! We are now on day nine, and he is still standing and still with us. I am so proud of myself for the job at bandaging I have done. The art of bandaging is a fine one, and while the vet said that all of the stitches would surely blow, only two of them have opened up and the wound beneath them is minor. Yay for me! Before this time in my life I was never much of an equestrian expert. I still am not one, but the job I did at not cording him, not causing bandage bumps, not bowing his tendons, and not chafing his skin excites me to no end. I don't care who you are, for a first time bandage-r, I did a fantastic job. (My horse is still standing. I am damn well going to toot my own horn.)

My tree named Hope prospers. Have I photographed her? No, I have not. I don't know when she will begin to bear fruit, but I have all kinds of hopeful plans for what I will do with the fruit once it begins to come. (Pear jam? Pear Wine? Pear pie?)

The Ranch continues to need improvements every day, if for no other reason than the fact that nature takes its course. Branches die, trees fall over, weeds reign. I need to take all of this out and make it pretty. The summer will be long this year, and I hope to have an awful lot of work done by the time fall joins us again.

I started at university again in hopes of aquiring an honour's degree. This is sure to be a long and windy road, but in order to make the money that I want to make (there are a lot of horses to support in my future), I need to have a Master's, and before that? The Honour's is mandatory. My new school is heavenly in that the people who speak rudely to me only do so in my native language. The first day was deflating beyond belief as there is a large amount of bureaucratic red tape for me to get through in order for me to get in the program I want, but I am taking that by the horns as well.

I also got a new hairstyle which is pretty exciting to me. I've gotten my hair permed (Pictures to follow at some point, I swear, even though I have made this promise before) and I kind of love it. Well, I love how it feels to not have miles of straight hair hanging out of my head. I'm not sure how I feel about the look yet, but it feels so much lighter and nicer that I don't think I even care how it looks.

The vet is coming early this morning to take out the stitches and tell me how Zydo is doing. I can't wait to see the look on his face when he sees my horse not only standing, but with all but two of his stitches intact.

My First Post From High Speed Internet in Cowtown!

Oh, the speedy, speedy glory. I can now access YOUTUBE! And other awesomeness like videos of all my friends on facebook! How cool is this?

Sadly I have no pictures to upload as I have been busy doing incredibly redneckish things around the house, like shooting and hauling around rocks. I don't know why, but every time I try to make a flower/grass/plant bed suitable for growing things, it turns out that at some point in history, my father used it as a rock pile. Excellent for the upper body workout, not so excellent for planting things that are pretty in.

Like Pear Trees! SuperNan and I purchased a Pear Tree today and I am so excited! I would have preferred an apricot tree for the jamming posibilities, but a pear tree I will settle for without fuss. It must be better than a Manitoba Maple, and cheaper than any kind of Oak.

I am naming my Pear Tree Hope, and will have photographic updates regularly on her progress.

In the throws of my redneckishness the other day, I went to visit a dear friend who said I could use his property to dump burnables any time I wanted. I was sweaty, unnattractive, and clad in my favorite John Deere baseball cap. I was half being glad of and half bemoaning my single status when he said the following:

"Amanda, you're sitting in a big rusted out pickup truck with a load of wood you picked up yourself. You're drinking a beer and covered in mud and loving every minute of it. You drive a Jeep and play with freakin' guns in your spare time. No one is ever going to date you again. No one is that manly."

Sigh. I'm not sure if I should be incredibly proud, or incredibly dejected. Either way, I took two truckloads of wood debris away the other day. I still have something tiny embedded in my right eye and a sunburn on my shoulders that will only get worse as the year goes by.

And hot damn, he is right. I'm loving every minute of it.

A List of Updates, Bullet Style...

- High speed Internet service is coming to CowTown TOMORROW. I haven't updated my links list, or anything, since I've moved home but I hope that changes soon. I also plan to have pictures up now that it will take less than an HOUR to upload them.

- Zydeco has sustained yet another odd affliction. He has a swelling on his belly that is bigger than my fist. And I have giant man-hands, so it is a pretty big swelling. We are monitoring it and taking his temperature to see if he might require a vet.

- I just bought a friggin JEEP. I really can't afford a vet right now, and as such, I'm hoping that prayer will work wonders for my horse's ailment.

- Tia is showing outward signs of her pregnancy! Zydeco is so excited at the prospect of becoming an uncle that he is practicing for racing around with a yearling daily. Tia and Summer continue to be poor players of this game called "I Am So Happy To Be Alive That I Must Leap Everywhere I Go" but Zydeco continues to try and entice them.

- The JEEP is the source of much joy in my life. I love watching my friends climb in and ask me if I have a foot stool handy to make the process a bit more dainty.

- I bruised my shoulder shooting at clay pidgeons yesterday. Pics of the injury to follow once I have access to high speed Internet IN MY HOUSE.

- Summer has arrived (The season, not the horse. He showed up last October and has settled into a steady routine of biting my horse and his eighty five dollar blanket quite nicely). As a result of the onset of summer, I am working on my redneck tan, and in the midst of planning great things for The Ranch.

- My garden plans for this year are in the works and I'm sure that Jooms will be thrilled at the prospect of more home grown sweet corn.

- HIGH SPEED INTERNET. In less than twenty four hours. Life is worth living.

Sanity Reigns...

My parents have left me to my own devices once more here at The Ranch. The last time I was left here alone, Tia lost her mind. No, really. Her mind was no longer at one with her person. She trashed the barn, spun in circles in her stall until I couldn't even get in to feed her, and then she kicked me.

After that, I told my parents that they were no longer allowed to leave me here alone caring for horses, as I don't feel that I should have to risk my life as part of a contract for living here.

And oddly enough, here I am. After lengthy discussions, emergency planning, and ideas on how to deal with every horse misbehaviour that exists, I am alone with horses.

I have my trusty neighbor friend coming over twice a day to help me care for these horses that we own. I was pretty nervous this morning but we went out and fed grain and changed blankets and began this process that we refer to as 'turning out.'

In normal barns, turning out is not an anxiety inducing process at all. You clip your horse to a lead and bring it to the pasture. Process over.

In my barn, however, I am frequently near. And when I am near, insanity reigns. Myself and Tia alone are enough to give normal people full on heart attacks.

Now, Tia does not particularly like men (Except my father. She loves my Dad.) and so my neighbor friend was instructed to not go near Tia for fear that her brain matter would boil up into her skull and make her incompetent to be lead.

On the way out of her stall, Zydeco, that dastardly fool that he is, attacked Tia and tried to bite her. In response, Tia reared high in the air (Or, as high as the ceiling would allow her to rear) and bolted out of the barn.

I knew she was freaking out, so I used one of the tricks my father has taught me over the years: Go Forward. Tia and I went forward with fervor, and once we rocketed our way out of the barn, she heaved a sigh of relief and walked daintily beside me.

And I am not even making this up.

Tia, the Dancing Queen, the Spinning Enthusiast, the one who is known as She Who Can Not Walk Without Being Four Feet Off The Ground...

She walked daintily beside me.

I did think it kind of odd, and wrote it off as shock due to my horse trying to eat her on her way by his stall door.

BUT THEN.

Tonight? On the way back to the barn?

She did the same thing. She walked like a little angel, with her head down and her feet firmly planted on the ground, with no spinning or jumping or staring at objects that aren't to be identified by human eyes. Just daintily into her stall.

And then she proceeded to spend the rest of my time in the barn trying to cuddle up with myself or my friends who were with me, nuzzling into our palms and rubbing her face on our jackets.

Clearly, pregnancy agrees with her and has a calming effect on her personality.

The Great Return...

Tia's boyfriend lives just down the road from us, and a right turn away. However, Tia's ride home from her boyfriend's house was a long and windy one. That's just how Tia rolls.

The romance wasn't exactly over when she was brought home, but everyone involved had had enough of her prancing around with her tail in the air like some kind of harlot. Our mare is a lady.

And so she returned to the land of Thoroughbreds, whose heights outdo her and whose spirits will not be held back by her biting of their faces.

I went down to visit the lot of them, with their noses sticking out of their stalls after work tonight. I brought with me a *plastic* bag of apples.

My one true joy in horse ownership is to feed my horse treats at the end of a long day. That long day generally has nothing to do with having ridden my horse for all he's worth, as I spend so much time away from home that I generally can't ride him.

And so, I feed him treats so that he knows that he is my one true horse, and that I love him dearly. When working with equines, love can always be purchased with carrots and apples.

This is the bain of my father's existence. He hates nothing more than a person feeding a horse treats by hand.

Tonight I approached with apples, which Tia tends to dislike. A carrot, she will accept. An apple? She has to think about. (Zydo and Summer scarfed theirs down so quickly that I don't think they tasted them, but that is neither here nor there. They are boys, they are Thoroughbreds. Enough said.)

Tia was wary of the apple. She had to sniff it and dart back a time or two before she took it from my hand, and ate it carefully as though it was poisoned.

And as she ate her last apple, the bag became empty. I noticed that Tia was concerned about the presence of the plastic bag in her barn, so I decided to crumple it and see what her reaction would be.

She bolted away from the door of her stall and I decided she needed some aversion therapy.

And then Tia proceeded to attempt to escape the solid plywood wall of her stall, kicking out with her hind legs and shivering as though a wildcat was standing in the doorway.

Life here at The Ranch just isn't the same without our much loved Arabian mare.

I'm glad to have her home.

The Midnight Smoker

My brother and his wife, along with their three children under three, are visiting us this week. When they come, smoking within the walls of our old Ranch House ceases and desists...

There have been times when this has been problematic for me, but for some reason, tonight, I am completely at peace with not smoking within the confines of my home.

Night time at The Ranch, outdoors, is very peaceful. The yard light is working, so I can look out at the glory that is the barn. I can commune with God in the late hours of the night, just me, my trusty cigarette, and God, reflecting on the day's happenings.

The silence of the night in the country is somewhat overwhelming, and one of the main reasons I've moved back here. I love going outside at night and not hearing people walking and horns blowing and sirens wailing.

Usually when I post on my blog, I am mid cigarette, mid puff when I think of something to say. But not tonight. Tonight I am free of my addiction, if only for a few hours, and I plan on savouring those moments outdoors.

There have been countless songs written about smokers late at night: The Gambler, by Kenny Rogers, of course, and then Gary Allan's Smoke Rings in the Dark immediately come to mind.

Except, of course, that I couldn't blow a smoke ring to save my soul.

Regardless, I love the sounds of nothing (except Dixie hunting her latest prey off in the distance) and looking out over the expanse of nothingness that to most, appears to be nothingness, but to me?

Is the whole wide world.

A Fly By Night Post...

A lot has been going on here in CowTown, mostly in the form of not showering and finding a way for us to resume our regularly planned showering activities.

I'm not sure exactly what it was that led to the death of our thirty + year old shower; however, it met its end and was escorted out of our home in a somewhat less than dignified fashion.

The trials and tribulations we've faced in trying to obtain a new shower that will fit into our 160 + year old farmhouse have been of great magnitude. It exhausts me to even think of the professionals we've called, the decisions we've been forced against our will to make, the bloodshed and the tears that we have all endured.

We have made numerous trips to the Big City in my dad's (not so) Trusty Pickup. We've gone to fancy shower stores and regular shower stores; we've dealt with helpful shower salesmen and not-so helpful salesmen.

Our first shower experience was not a good one, and as we tried our mightiest to bring a shower home and wedge it up the stairs of our old house, we gauged out the panelling on the walls and gave up in a fit of rage and unshowered misery.

To experience a fit of rage and misery is one thing. To experience a fit of rage and UNSHOWERED misery? Let me tell you, that is misery on a whole new level.

We've successfuly brought home a shower today, successfully taken it apart and brought it to the second story of our beloved house. Tomorrow is the big test, the test to see if we can actually get this mass of fibreglass and piping to turn into somethig suitable for modern day body-washing.

May the Gods of hygiene smile down upon us from their freshly showered heavens and grant us the ability to resume normally functioning hygenic practices once more.

The One I Forgot To Mention...

Zydeco has returned home to us here at The Ranch. You'll notice, in the picture above, how the trailer appears to be carrying two horses.

The Thoroughbreds around here are multiplying.

My mother purchased a horse on September the twenty first. His name is Summer Game, and he is a lovely, button-nosed dark bay Thoroughbred. He spent five years of his life racing, another two jumping, and now he is going to learn the fine art of dressage. Come Hell or high water, that damn horse is going to put his nose down.

But first he must befriend Tia.



Summer spent the first month being owned by SuperNan living at my coach's stable with Zydo. There they had a grand time, both of them having the crap beaten out of them by that dastardly Chestnut Trakheiner named Stetson. Apparently trauma can cause two horses to come together, and Zydo and Summer seem to have a strong, well functioning relationship thus far.

Summer's introduction to life here at The Ranch consisted of walking into the barn, looking amicably at Tia, and being greeted in return by her up on her haunches, screaming at the top of her lungs and flailing with her front feet. Seeing as I, too, have recently come to know contact with Tia's dainty hooves, I must say that I commiserate.



Watching the order of horses at pasture is quite entertaining. Horses choose who is the king of the castle, and who takes a beating depending on each of their personalities. Tia has decided that she will be the boss. She must have one gelded Thoroughbred on each side of her at all times, or hooves will fly. Neither may the Thoroughbreds communicate with each other at any time, lest there be fisticuffs -- Arabian style.

Life at The Ranch has been slightly more complicated (We now own twelve horse blankets, as opposed to just nine, for example) and we shall all ride the winter together on the backs of our fine steeds, or land sweetly in the snowbanks here in CowTown.

Time will tell.

Just Call Me Madame Positivity...

1) I'm meeting up with an old friend this Thursday, a friend who has access to HIGH SPEED INTERNET, and as a result I've been promised lots and lots of very fast, very happening music downloads.

2) I brought Zydo in from the cold the other night, and he cuddled up to me and licked my hand and nuzzled into my chest the way he always does. Because of my work schedule, I've been neglecting him something wicked, and it was just too thrilling that he still seems to remember who I am. Either that, or he liked the fact that my barn coat smells like Reed Canary grass, which happens to be his favorite. Regardless, I got cuddled by my horse, and I'm happy with that alone.

3) The Little Chevy died on me the other day, ceased living right in front of the shop I was driving her to. I didn't really understand what was going on when the battery light came on, the radio became wavery, and the windshield wipers were groaning with the effort of standing up and sitting down every time I asked them to. I mean, I groan and whine every time I have to get up off my big fat butt, so why wouldn't they? It turns out my alternator died, but before it died COMPLETELY, it made it to the mechanic's place. As per usual, the mechanic I deal with seemed perplexed that I was a woman allowed out of her house without her veil, but fortunately, my father met me there with my mom's car. So I only had to talk to him for a moment before I dove into the safety of the Vue and spun the tires on my way out. Because this is TOTALLY 2008, and I can TOTALLY handle a stick shift like its my job.

4) Dixie and I have a newfound love for one another, and I'm not entirely sure why, but every time I return to the house she howls and jumps on me, whining in such a beagle-y fashion that it makes my heart melt. Perhaps she realizes that last fall, I threw the tantrum to end all tantrums and demanded that THIRTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS be spent to save her life. Tonight I came home from work and she jumped and squealed and licked my face with such vigor that for just a moment, I thought perhaps the layer of skin that has all the acne on it would simply melt away. No such luck, but regardless, I have to say that the six hundred dollars I paid toward her surgery are the best dollars I've spent in my life.

5) I've managed to make it to month eight in my field of work, when some people I know thought I wouldn't last two weeks. And really, its not like I'm COUNTING the months, but having made it that far past the two week mark makes me feel very happy indeed. I haven't lost my mind because of the work I do, I haven't fled a shift in tears (at least until the shift was over), I haven't called in sick when I really just wanted to sit at home and drink beer, AND I've been congratulated on the way I can write up reports. That's right. I CAN WRITE UP REPORTS, DAMMIT. If I never have another positive quality about me than that, I can die a happy woman, because I am ever so happy to be congratulated on my grammar. My dress? I could care less about. My grammar, however, is what makes me feel like a person worthy of drawing breath form the air, and when I get congratulated on that?

I TOTALLY FEEL LIKE LIVING.

A Good Day to Feel Like Death...

My parents went away this weekend, leaving me all alone to tend to The Ranch. I took care of Tia and Zydo as if it WAS MY JOB, and damn, those horses have never faced such neglect as when they were left in my care.

I love my horse, and I even love my father's horse, the crazed and maniacal little lunatic that she is.

The problem is that on Saturday evening, I started to feel a strange scratchy feeling in my throat.

And then things just went downhill from there.

I came home from a night out on Sunday morning and fed and put out the horses, fully intending to clean their stalls properly, and even fork the cleanings from their stalls to the top of the shit pile. (See how I wrote there, 'the cleanings from their stalls'? Aren't I polite on the Internet? Usually, I would just say 'fork the shit to the top of the pile'. I love how being in the public eye makes me classy.)

Today was a snow day, and I had no intentions of going to school regardless of the weather. At ten, my mother informed me that she and my brother were going shopping, so, in hopes of scoring some free coffee, I begged to go along for the ride. We arrived home back at The Ranch in a beautiful afternoon, one of those afternoons that just screams how Spring is coming, and Damn, Girl! You should tack up your horse and ride him for all he's worth.

And instead, despite the fact that Zydo was looking balefully at me from the pasture, I got home and found myself in my warm and cozy bed, and I slept for two hours LIKE IT WAS MY JOB, and I woke up...

And then it was dark, and all chances of riding were over and gone....

And I have nothing left but to think that perhaps another such day may come. Perhaps another day will happen upon us here in The Great White North where I will feel like getting my lazy ass off the couch to spend some time with my horse.

Sadly, today was not that day.

Sometimes...

I received a call from Mal in the early hours of the morning today, to listen to the latest in her life. I was awake at almost three a.m., because that's what the Crazy people do, they STAY AWAKE. FOREVER. Amen.

Mal was talking about what makes life worthwhile, and I was trying to explain to her how I feel about it, how no one thing can make you want to keep going on, how it has to be something that is not concrete. That even if you change your surroundings and your last name and get yourself a cat and end up living in the Depths of Hell, happiness might not find you because Hey, you might not have been looking hard enough.

And really, it sounds so trite. It sounds so pathetic and ridiculous to say "Go out and sniff the sunshine, and then your heart shall fill to the brim with JOY." Trust me, if anyone had said that to me last fall, when my life had completely fallen to pieces and I was driven over the edge by everything that was going on with me? If someone had said that to me, I would have gouged out their eyes with a wine corker. No lies.

I was driving home tonight and it was particularly frosty out. When I got on the road that leads me to The Ranch, at first I saw a patrillion little animals in the ditches, because all I could see were what I thought were eyes.

And then I kept driving, cautiously, and I noticed that all the trees and growth were covered in a frozen bit of frost, so that the road that leads me home looked as though it was lined with diamonds.

And sometimes, when this life acts like a giant pile of smashed assholes, you have to see the little things and hope quietly to yourself that everything will be ok, simply because you have no other choice but to go forward.

The Great Sweet Feed Debate of 2007

Breeds of horses, like people, have stereotypes that go with their names. If you say Arabian, some folks will think 'hot headed crazy horse'. If you say Danish chick, some people think 'drinks like it's her job'. As we all know, these stereotypes are not always true.

Horses fed a high ration of grain each day are said to become hot. Hot tempered, high energy, hopped up on speed... that sort of thing. When Zydo came to live with us here at The Ranch, we had to threaten my father (Also known as He Who Feeds Much Grain) with all kinds of cruel and unusal punishment to stop him from feeding my horse grain. He firmly believes that horses need grain, and when that man feeds grain, he's not here to fuck around. He feeds the horses grain. Lots, and lots of grain.

Zydo is a Thoroughbred, a breed typically known for not reacting well with grain. And because I'm such a fraidy-cat rider, I really don't want my horse to have any more energy than is absolutely necessary for him to trundle around the ring. I'm looking for a horse who is barely conscious, ready and willing to take a nap at any point in the day, and likely to fall asleep in the track if I don't chirp him around every corner.

And so, He Who Feeds Much Grain relented. Zydo was fed a small ration of a fat and fibre pellet mixture for most of the summer. My mother and I rejoiced, and we sang and we danced. We clapped ourselves on the back for reining in He Who Feeds Much Grain. We had WON the Sweet Feed Debate of 2007, and all was right with the world.

But then Zydo started getting a real workout a few times a week. And then he got sick. And even after he was better from his nasty sinus infection, he was still losing weight.

And so, ever so cautiously, I allowed my father to do what he does best. I allowed my father to feed my horse much grain.

I was fully prepared for him to have some sort of psychotic break because of all the stories I've heard of Thoroughbreds and grain. I have to admit that feeding Zydo grain has not made any difference in his temperament.

And while he has never fit the description of the sleepy horse who needs to be chirped around each corner, he certainly hasn't gone through any major personality shifts that leave me wanting to reach for horse-quantity rations of anti-psychotic medications.

And so, Dear Blog, it is here that I admit that I did not actually win the Great Sweet Feed Debate of 2007.

He Who Feeds Much Grain reigns supreme over all matters pertaining to grain. To him must we all turn in all questions regarding grain; our ever-present and all-knowing leader of grains.

Jobs and Ducks and Guns -- Oh, My!

I've been phenomenally busy as of late, that type of busy where you sleep for two hours at a time, and each time your body reaches proximity to your bed, you are unconscious before you even make contact with your down duvet.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you, because my sleep has been deep and luxurious and well-deserved.

I had one of those nights at work on Friday that leaves you standing in your horse's stall near midnight with silent tears working their way down your cheeks. I haven't posted much about my job here, other than that I have one, for confidentiality reasons. I'm working with kids and I'm not allowed to talk about them, much less write anything about them on the Internet. I will say that thus far, I'm feeling really good about my job. I feel like I'm getting the hang of how things work, like I go every day and am part of the grown-up world of those who have jobs in their field.

Like every new thing in life, however, it has its ups and downs and I think that working with kids is particularly frustrating.

Fortunately, my mood was quickly changed when my parents returned from The Big City bearing yet another gift: A Mossberg 500 12 guage pump shotgun. It comes with a rifled barrel as well, so I can use it for ducks and deer.

I need to put a note in here and say that this purchase was entirely by surprise and entirely the fault of my father. He simply refuses to share his 12 guage Remington Wingmaster with me, the selfish type of dude that he is. Personally, I think he's just scared of how damn good I am with his gun. Nothing quite like getting your butt whooped by your own daughter with your own gun, I'm sure.

At any rate, yesterday was the opening day of duck season 2007 and this morning, after being at work until one thirty, I was up before the sun getting ready to sit by the river and wait for some ducks to fly overhead.

At one point my father called in a whole flock of them and, as luck would have it, we all must have decided to shoot at the same duck. The ballistics came back and it turns out that my mother hit it in the chest, and my father hit it in the neck. However, my dad and I were shooting the same type of shot, and since I'M THE ONE WITH THE WEBSITE, I'm telling the Internet that I SHOT THE DUCK.

So there.

Caution: Wet Paint and Cranky, Overworked Women

This is a picture of me after spending another day laboring endlessly in the barn. The Berry Queen asked me this morning why we would choose a thirty-one degree day to paint a barn. Oh, you know, ONLY BECAUSE WE LOVE TO PUNISH OURSELVES. Plus, I'm hoping the extra sweat will melt off a few more pounds. Note the abnormally large shoulders. If this stint working with kids doesn't work out, I can always try out for a quarterback in the NFL.



Here you can see the door. Now, I am a fully incompetent person and I am actually incapable of drawing a straight line. But, I did not want the doors to be a boring, solid color. So, I had to employ the hands of my mother in creating these little diamond shapes. I took the picture from afar so that you wouldn't notice all the green paint that I got in the white, and so forth. She stayed with me all through the day making sure that no green was put into white and vice-versa. Thank God she did, or else I'd still be down there a week from now trying to cover up mistakes.



Here you will notice the cieling. A little tuft of my hair is still in it for the sake of memories. (Oh, the memories of balancing eight foot sheets of plywood on your head. While your family laughs at you. How sweet they are.) If you look again at yesterday's pictures, you too will want to pull out your hair by the roots and scream WHY DIDN'T THEY DO THAT TWENTY YEARS AGO?! The answer is, of course... Uhm. We had other shit to do? Ok? Sheesh.



Finally, the interior of the barn. My life's work. My goal for the summer: To make the inside of the barn beautiful. I haven't accomplished nearly as much as I originally wanted to this summer. But my God, its a start.



Hopefully by spring we have appropriate housing for some livestock. Preferably of the variety that grows bacon.

Oh, God, how I love painted barns and bacon.

Putting the Red in Redneck...

We were supposed to do straw today. By 'do straw' I mean make it into bales, transport the bales from the field to the barn, and then deposit them inside the barn.

I know that it doesn't sound like such a difficult task, but really, it is a monumental task when it is time to put straw (or hay, or anything that exists on the planet Earth) into a mow. Everything had seized from the last time we tried to use it. I shattered the motor on the elevator before the fifteenth bale got in, the baler refused to make bales after the first load. The wagons would not extend so that the smaller tractor could pull them, and I think we made four trips in total to the tractor dealership.

However, I did manage to get some posts painted, a load into the mow with the help of SuperNan, and a helluva lot of work done in the barn. Clearly I spent enough time outdoors to end up looking like this:



I also did a good amount of work indoors today, work that started out with a trip to the lumber mart. Now, clearly, women should not be permitted within the walls of this sacred building; however, those darn hippy liberal yuppies have gone and made it legal. So in I went.

This is what the barn looked like when SuperNan and I started out:


This is what it looked like when SuperNan, my dad, and I finished:


Now, I know I make it sound like I did ALL the work here, but mostly, I just supervised, throwing out suggestions here and there while wielding a can of Bug-Whacker. At one point my father yelled that if I didn't stop spraying the damn bees, he would collapse before the job got done and THEN who would make the power tools work?

It was a bit of an adventure to start out with. If you look very closely at the finished product, you might see that there is a tuft of my hair stuck in it. Before we realized that we were in over our heads (there's a pun here... wait for it) I was standing on a chair with a drill in one hand, an assortment of screws in the other, and an eight foot long piece of plywood on my head. SuperNan was holding up the other end.

Now, I would have loved to grab a picture of me with this lumber on my head, but, well, you know... THERE WAS AN EIGHT FOOT LONG PIECE OF PLYWOOD ON MY HEAD. The drill was giving me some lip over something or other. I think it had to do with making the screw go into the wood. In the end, I gave up trying to hold the plywood to the cieling with my head, put it down, and made my mother search out my father, who was still stewing because NONE of the equipment for straw-making would co-operate. In fact, I think he may still be stewing now.

Hell, he may be stewing from now until every last morsel of that straw has been peed on by our horses.

At any rate, I think it is by far the most productive day off from work I've had in weeks. Tomorrow I get to start painting the barn. I've wanted to beautify the place since long before I had a horse, but now that I do, I want even more for him to have a lovely home to live in.

As soon as I get the Clifford border off my bedroom walls, I think he and I will be about even