Dumb Dog

5:28am—Alarm goes off.  

5:34am—Realize the alarm is going off.

5:45am—Drag self out of bed with great difficulty and a surprising amount of determination.

5:55am—Down a cup of strong coffee. Plug loud music into my dull mind.

6:00am—Throw hair in ponytail and place fuzzy headband thing on my head. Forget the makeup. Head for car.

6:05am—Ready for work, in car, heading down driveway.

See! I do have a routine, and I stick to it meticulously. My exactness of time is purely involuntary. At five thirty in the morning, my mind follows my body, not the other way around. For almost three weeks I have survived the early mornings, and without anymore difficulty than you would expect a teenager to have getting up before nine. I enjoy my job. It’s what makes me happy, most days.

My routine isn’t the only thing that never varies. For the last few weeks everything has been the same on the way down to the stables where I work. The journey is relatively short; the road winds and curves unpredictably; there are only three houses with lights on; and I go through two valleys that are notorious for being inhabited with animals that are highly unwanted in the grill of your car, especially in the grill of mine. At dawn, these animals, such as deer, opposums, raccoons, and the occasional squirrel or coyote, are especially bad about running into or in front of passing cars. Only yesterday, my mother almost hit a dozen deer, who were just standing in the middle of the road, hanging out. She was obviously the one who was intruding upon their territory.

Despite these animals unmistakable presence, I have never hit one nor have I ever come close… until this morning.

I was driving along, going less than 45 mph down one of the two curvy hills. I am not usually a Driving Ms. Daisy at all, but when I saw those beady little eyes peaking out from behind the yellow sideline of the road, I instinctively tapped the brakes, but continued on the beaten path. I was merely hoping that the unidentified animal would stay put for another two seconds, and I would be out of its way. But that would be too convenient. Out the critter dodged, and from the light of my brights, I identified those beady little eyes as being a raccoon’s. Thump, clump, thump. Silence. Oops.

For the next half a mile or so I had a pit in my stomach thinking that I had killed something, a living thing. I didn’t know I was capable of murder! It was highly depressing until I realized that it was, after all, just a stupid raccoon. I hate raccoons! I have sworn since I was in third grade that there was a whole pack of rabid raccoons living in the hayloft of the abandoned barn at my house. If I had eliminated one of those critters, ba-bye!

Okay, so I’m not that heartless, but by the time I pulled into the driveway of the stables, the issue was no longer on the forefront of my mind.

After running over a raccoon, I thought I was completely awake. As it turns out, I was only 50% awake. The other 50% of my mind became active after my barn manager said, “Have you seen Frank?” Frank is a small black and white female Border Collie, who is older and has a tendency to run off without Sue, the lively male Border Collie.”

“No,” I answered, unalarmed but curious.

Before I could ask a further question, the barn manager filled me in. “She ran down the driveway in the dark, and the last time I saw her, she was headed for the highway.”

You mean the highway I just came from??? Ummm…..

“No, I haven’t seen her,” I said without flinching, but inside I felt like I had swallowed a quart of butterflies. I immediately jumped to the conclusion that it might not have killed a raccoon after all. “I might be a dog murderer,” I thought and couldn’t keep quiet. “Does she kind of look like a raccoon in the dark?” I asked probably more quietly than I should have.

The barn manager looked surprised and said, “Yeah! I’ve almost missed her a couple of times in the woods because she looked so much like a raccoon.” That was the worst possible thing she could have said until she continued, “It was definitely her if she was up on the highway. There aren’t any raccoons up there because the coyotes are so thick this year.”

At that moment I wanted more than anything to disintegrate into thin air. But rather than come clean and send the barn manager into a panic over the death of her “babydog,” I kept quiet. Maybe I hadn’t killed her; maybe I just knocked her over. But such rational conclusions were quickly replaced by thoughts such as, OMG! I killed a “she” instead of an “it!”

I could not stop thinking about how this sweet, old, innocent dog that I had petted less than twenty-four hours ago was dead, and I was the cause. Her epitaph would read:

Frankie Lynn

The best dog a barn could have until SHE ran over her.

Died February 16, 2011.

With this and several other morbid notions running through my mind, I decided not to say anything about seeing the dumb dog, thinking that it would be the path of least resistance.

More than an hour later, I was well on my way to being done with chores.  I must admit that I had the music on my iPod turned up just a little too loud, and the sounds of the outside world were tuned out, but my sixth sense was far from eliminated, and I trusted it to tell me should someone have needed me.

Side note: I am terrible with latches on gates. They are horrible creation if you ask me. Somebody should invent latches that are magnetic.

It was while I was fiddling around with a stupid latch that I sensed a presence. I looked up and around. There was nobody in front of me. I turned around. Sitting directly, and I mean directly, behind me was Frank, the dead dog! Except she wasn’t dead! Her ears were perked up and before I could even find the words to commend her or congratulate her for being alive, she was off in the direction of the barn where she knew I would be heading to retrieve another horse. As she ran she would look back to make sure that I was well in tow.

And here I was thinking I was going to have to check murder off my “List of Nevers.”

Dumb dog!

Eat Up

You know your life has degraded to a new level of pathetic when the highlight of your week is a trip to Walmart. As all of the other highlights from my life have been relatively interesting, you might assume that something amazing happened today at Walmart. But it didn't. Nothing about Walmart has, or will ever, change. It's universally... blue. 

The only truly blog-worthy aspect of the trip was that instead of there being simply small, medium, and large marshmallows like I remember as a kid, there are about a million kinds, varying in size, color and texture. But the small, white, jet-puffed ones, perfect for popping in your mouth ten at a time, were nowhere to be found. There were, however, plenty of the Great Value brand, but I must point out that the generic ones don't melt; they sort of, well, wilt. (I have in fact experimented with this over a live fire, so don't tell me I'm wrong.) When I was asked to pick up the little, white, jet-puffed marshmallows, I thought I'd really got off easy! Clearly not! Sigh.... And it didn't help that the remainders of a sinus infection from hell still have a death grip on my head. My only words upon finally escaping through those shiny automated doors were, "I think I need a nap." Just not cool.

And here so ends all rational statements. I have nothing else to say, so if you want to hear something devastatingly witty and equally as charming, you had better stop reading. But if you're brave and would like to know the insides of my sick mind, listen up. 

Here's what I learned during the worst of my sinus infection, while staring at the ceiling, trying not to stop breathing:

#1) Two HotHands over the eyes does more for a throbbing head than any heated towel.

#2) The Bears losing to the Packers does not seem morally right.

#3) Emergen-C is tolerable if mixed with apple juice and water.

#4) Meghan Martin is not nearly as mean as Lindsey Lohan.

#5) Just watch the video...

Ok... You can't tell me that wasn't the best 32 seconds of your entire day! Eat both squares?!? Love it!

Personally I've never tasted anything better than a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup, except for maybe a Snickers Bar. Why not combine them??? I've been saying since the beginning of time that somebody a heck of a lot more powerful than me should stumble across the idea, and finally, he did. Maybe "Snickers Big Square" is not as good "Sneeses" or "Rickers," but it's still works. Whoever came up with the idea.... You are a sweet and savory genius, and I love you!

So I suppose there are some good things that come out of being sick for almost a week. I get the chance to see commercials, implying that I had time to watch TV. That's a luxury only reserved for those not writing novels, finishing school, and trying to maintain a hint of a social life. You know what else is perfectly fitted to the busy student???? I'll give you three hints:

1) It's scientifically proven to reduce stress.
2) Is excruciatingly pleasurable to experience.
3) It's something everybody wants from age 12 up.
 
Click here.

Eat up, Reader.

Behinds

I have a question for you, Dear Readers. Why do certain young men feel that it is perfectly acceptable for them to walk around with their behinds hanging out? As this issue has been literally before my eyes the entire day, I have spent plenty of time thinking about it, and clearly I have no answer.

Today I attended an auction that was located not half an hour from my home. I am here to tell you that in this area of Central Illinois, you hardly ever see those that lean towards the ghetto side of things. Hicks, yes. Gangstas, not so much. For the most part, everyone dresses, talks, and acts decently. That being said, you can imagine my shock when entering the auction to see a whole group of behinds staring at me. Behinds. Not eyes, they were covered by smirks. Not smiles, they were hidden by the cigarettes. Not actual people, but some kind of mixture between human and demonized creature.

Granted these behinds were covered by sheer boxers, but still. The very fact that I know that these random dudes were wearing boxers is revolting. And the ironic part was that they were all wearing belts!!! What is that about? Whoever heard of wearing a belt around your knees? I just have to point out that if I was going to walk around in the frigid Illinois air with my rear end sticking out, which I am not planning on doing any time soon, I really would not bother with such an inconvenience as a belt!

But anyway… I might as well tell you that all of these young men, if you were to hose them down, strip, and redress them, would have been decent looking. In fact, I might even stretch that to attractive. But no. They’re too cool. Such a crime against society. It will be no surprise to you, then, that I kept my distance from these shadows in the crowd.

A few hours later, when returning to the auction, I realized that I had absolutely no choice but to walk directly past this crowd of behinds, but that was not the intimidating part. See, unusually I have absolutely no problem walking up to a perfect stranger, but apparently that’s only if they have a suitable clothing situation on their lower halves. It didn’t help that they were all staring at me.

Okay.

I’m younger.

I like to think I’m decent looking.

I’m alone.

I have no way of defending myself.

There’s one of me.

Four of them.

There’s no one else around.

Their eyes seemed to breath fire while their mouths steamed smoke.

I’m all about the bad boys, but that was just plain scary.

Yet, I mustered up boldness, carried on my planned course, held my head high, and avoided any eye contact whatsoever. But as I walked closer and closer to them, I could feel their eyes cutting into every inch of my body, and I could not help but shoot the very well practiced “Flip off!” glare in their direction. Here’s the thing: While giving them this silent warning, I happened to catch a glimpse of their faces. Beneath their sideways hats and oversized clothes, there stood four kids! Just like me and every other adolescent I know! One, however, stood out to me in particular: blond hair, blue eyes, tall, and (the most interesting part) he still had baby fat on his face. He reminded me very much of a certain someone a year ago, only with worse clothes and short hair. This made me realize that the guys that we standing before me were some mother’s babies! And there they were, definitely younger than I am, smoking, checking out random girls, with their rear ends hanging out! What happened to them? Here’s where appearance is everything comes into play. For all I know they could be smart and caring human beings, but no one would ever see that! Most of us would only see the hocus pocus of what’s apparently cool.

After making this two second realization in my own mind, I was now standing within a few feet of these, dare I say, people? The instinctual glare resumed it’s position locked deep inside the mind, only to be disturbed for other such important times, and to my surprise, a smile and a graceful, “Hey!” came flying out of my mouth! They all about jumped three feet in the air, obviously not expecting a girl to talk to them, and after clearing their throats and straightening up their stances said hi back in an all too macho way.

I wasn’t quite brave enough to stick around to have a conversation them, but I couldn’t help seeing them differently for the remainder of the day. That’s where my question comes in: Why do certain young men feel that it is perfectly acceptable for them to walk around with their behinds hanging out? It ruins everything. Had they been suitably dressed and adorned with a halfway inviting smile on their faces, they might have had the pleasure of conversing with the great and wonderful Sanity Mochas. What a loss! And if I, who does not consider herself to be a judgmental person, would shy away from them, think of the countless other opportunities they will continue to miss out on daily… all because their behinds are hanging right on out there for God and everybody to see. And I am here to tell you, if my own dear Prince Charming ever, and I mean ever, dresses himself in such an inappropriate fashion, I just might have to kill him. And no, not literally.  :)

Non-Shopaholic Syndrome

You see, most girls love a new pair of shoes like I love a new piece of tack. Most girls get high from successfully matching an entire outfit, while I get a high by jumping my horse over three-foot oxers. Most girls crave a spree at the mall like I crave my Mocha Frappuccino.

I have my differences with these most girls, and I am more than fine with that. But every once and a while I get sucked into a “most girls day” at the mall. Being as a day spent with my best friend was long overdue, we took an afternoon out on the town, or rather, out on the mall.

Here’s fact: I’m the type of girl that goes shopping half a dozen times a year, each with a very specific purpose, i.e. new dress and heals, or jean shorts and kicks. The little shops with all of their glory do not appeal to me for one very concise reason: All of the clothes look amazing on me, but I’m flat broke 95% of the time. To avoid falling in love with clothes I can’t afford, I avoid the designer shops as a whole.

Yesterday was the exception to my rule. We weaved and wandered and window-shopped until I thought I was going to die should I come across one more article of clothing that was obnoxiously screaming my name. I’d had enough. It was time to try on something pretty.

J.C Penny’s (which I realize is not one of those compact designer stores, but go with me here) had all of their prom dresses on sale. I’ve been in love with prom dresses since I was thirteen. I fell in love with a big, poofy, pink, floor length ball gown that made me feel like Cinderella. It was like the ultimate game of dress-up. Unfortunately my mother made me return it. Prom was to be a very, very long time away. Hence, my continuing fetish with prom dresses. I at least had to try on the pretty ones.

The last time I had one physically on my body was probably two years ago when a large portion of my baby fat still remained firmly, and very unattractively, on my legs. I’m the first to admit that I was downright misshapen! I avoided any dress that hung straight or was shorter than my kneecaps. Most of the time I still see myself as that little girl with the weird body and look for the more sophisticated styles.

Oh, how times have changed!

I talked myself into trying on some short, short, “You actually wore that in public!?” short dresses. THEY LOOKED AMAZING!!!  I’m no longer misshapen, nor does it need to be catered to with non-teenager-like styles. I can rock the junior section!

Here’s the sad part: I fell in love with two dresses that I can’t afford simply because I have nowhere to wear them.  One is a floor length, straight ball gown. It is dark blue with beaded straps. My best friend said I looked like a Grecian goddess in it, and I happened to agree. However that was not the aspect that particularly tempts me. The temptation arose when I remembered that I do in fact have an event that I could wear it to if only I could find a colored sweater to wear with it, and it’s 50% off! Sigh…. Despite all of this, I left empty handed. Fortunately, should I be convinced to return, I know the way.

Just to reinforce my disdain for the mall life, let me give you a true example. While I was trying to talk myself into or out of this beautiful dress, I was asked to retrieve another dress for my best friend. Sure, I would go get it. When I walked out of the dressing room, the prom dresses were nowhere in sight. Hmm… So I started walking in the direction in which I thought I might find them and eventually they appeared. By the time I found the correct size, the dressing room was now the thing that was nowhere in sight. Again I headed in the direction I thought would lead me back to my desired location, except this time I was not successful. I now knew that their about a gillion dressing room in the upper level of J.C. Penny’s, but the one I was searching for had disappeared. I was lost. Yes, the girl who can find her way out a strange city, in the dark no less, was lost in the mall, in a prom dress, with no phone. It was only after I began to pass the same few things time after time that I resorted to desperate measures. I asked three different clerks if they had happened to see which dressing room I came out of. They hadn’t. I got several stern glares from passersbys, but smile I did. It was really quite ironic to be lost, in a mall, in a prom dress, looking like you’re totally high, on a mission to find a dressing room. Ha. In case you were wondering, I did eventually find the dressing room that contained my belongings. As it turns out, it was the only one in the entire store that wasn’t marked. So I’m not that stupid, just directionally challenged within the walls of the mall.

Today was not such a “most girls day,” and so I decided to wear my two new purchases: a sparkly headband and a pair of patterned tights ($1, and very cute I might add) with a pencil skirt and black shirt. Simple, elegant, accessible. That’s how I’ve always been.

Because it is awfully rare that I get new, noticeable items in my wardrobe, I received several compliments on my headband, and only one comment on my tights. This one particular comment came from the mouth of an older woman who is known for talking just a little too much. She has probably spoken to me 10 times in the entirety of my life, and only once had a legit conversation. Out of the blue, she comes up to me and says, “I’ve been trying to figure out what your hose remind me of, and I finally figured it out! You look like a cow! I mean, your legs; they look like cow’s legs. Yeah, okay, bye!”

I looked down at my tights. They’re black. They’re shear. They have a pattern that swirls randomly. Does that sound like a cow to you, dear reader? I swear some people would be much better off if they just never spoke out loud at all. But then again, I suppose that’s why I don’t have the power to shut people up. If I did, there would be an awful incident of mute people in central Illinois.

Despite being told I look like a cow in my tights, I still rather like them. They’re different I suppose, kind of like me. I’m not like other girls, remember? And, let you tell you, standing out as different is not a bad way to be. As it is, I am blessed with three people I explicitly trust in this world, one I truly love. I have one passion, one goal: to live, to love, to laugh, to be happy. And I have officially accepted, cow tights and all, I am who I am, and I’m okay with being just that. 

The "S" Trade

Have you ever ventured outside on a bitterly cold, no sunshine kind of day in central Illinois? If not, you’re lucky. They’re the worst! They are especially bad when you actually want to be out doing something, but dang it! Fuzzy socks and a cup of coffee are awfully hard to leave for chilled bones. It would be the equivalent of leaving Ryan Reynolds for Arnold Schwarzenegger. Have you seen Schwarzenegger lately? Just not appealing. Hence my reluctance to leave my fuzzies and pack up in my Carhartt.

But, I did it. Why? Because K-pony needed a ride. Love endures all things… so true!

I was on the way to the facility where I board K-pony, when A, my beautiful little sis, mentions (several times, getting increasingly louder) that she would love to ride K-pony too. If you haven’t already gathered from previous blogs, I love my sister more than life itself, and she too has a passion for riding. However, because I’ve been so preoccupied with life, she hasn’t been able ride him since the middle of September. With all of that in mind, why not let her come? Sure it’s freezing cold outside and K-pony is bound to be loony! Eh, no biggy.

Ha. I sneer at my own stupidity.

I arrived at the barn, saddled up, avoided as much conversation with fellow boarders as possible, and wasted no time in getting on the horse. My fingers were about three seconds from falling off when I finally got K-pony moving. Yep, he was indeed a fruit loop. Why, oh, why do horses always pick the worst days to be stupid? Don’t answer that.

It took about ten minutes until he settled into his gaits, and after that he was fantastic! I’m not over exaggerating when I say that we had one of the best rides that we’ve had in weeks! He was so good that I momentarily forgot the fact that I couldn’t feel my face. Lovely, I tell you, lovely.

We finished our dressage work exactly fifteen minutes before my sister was supposed to return, and I had no desire to walk around in circles when K-pony had all of this wonderfulness to show off. So I thought that I would just set up one jump and do some practice sets. Nothing big, nothing hard. Just fun.

Ha. Again with the sneering.

I set up a little cross rail. We could do that in our sleep, and we practically did! He was marvelous, as to be expected. Within five minutes, I had bored with our practice and so had he. It never ends well when K-pony gets bored. With ten minutes to spare, I set the jump higher and into a three-foot vertical. Eek!

Ha.

K-pony flew over it the first time. Distance could have been better, but it was good. We practiced our simple exercise a couple more times until a thought crosses my mind.

Why is my head freezing and my hair in my eyes? (Gasp) I have no helmet on. ****!!!!!

But it was too late then! I was already within feet of the jump and turning away wasn’t really an option. Oops. Big, huge, monumental oops.

You think I fell off dear K-pony? Please. I don’t really see falling off as an option. Ungraceful emergency dismounting, yes. Falling, never! We cleared and landed immaculately, but I wasted no time in retrieving my helmet. I would prefer not to die, as my bucket list is far from complete!

By that time A arrived, along with our brother, G, and my mother. My siblings were heatedly engaged in a “ME FIRST!” “NO ME FIRST!” discussion. All Mom had to do was see K-pony’s and my Good God, there’s two of them expression, and she quickly ended their sibling’s quarrel. A was to go first.

A is eight, but I am far from trusting her on the beloved K-pony alone. I put her in the saddle, and then swung up and onto his buttox. (Yes, I just wrote buttox.) Her excitement was inspiring! She giggled the entire time, and all we did was walk! It makes me appreciate the little things that I often take for granted with K-pony. I was busy teaching her to sit up, hold her hands in the proper position (thumbs up!), and not to kick poor K-pony for no reason, when G called over that it was his turn now. Only because A truly had spent a reasonable amount of time on K-pony’s back did I comply.

G’s reaction to K-pony’s worn out gaits were quite different. He wanted to “drive,” as he calls it, and why couldn’t we run again? He inherited my desperate need for speed. Poor kid. He quickly figured out, much to K-pony’s dismay, that he could, what’s that word again? TROT!!! In his six year old language: "This is the coolest thing ever!!! Except for maybe that new holster Grandpa got me." :)

K-pony then parked himself in front of the three-foot vertical, and G then wanted to not only “run”, but “hop over” that “white thing!”

Ha. No, child.

But, K-pony seemed to have a different opinion when he knocked it over and literally “hopped over” the ground poles. If you would have asked me directly before the take off, I would have said that G was sure to fall, but he maintained his balance and the only danger he was in of falling off was from laughing too hard. I was stunned in to giggles myself out of shear amazement! A horse, my previously western pleasure horse, just knocked over a jump so that he could “hop” over it! Priceless!

I guess the point of this rather lengthy account is that sometimes trading Reynolds for Schwarzenegger can turn out decent enough. Just make sure you throw in a horse and a couple of munchkins. 

Stabbed

I am such a wimp. I pride myself on being able to fall off a 1300lb animal and get up laughing and more determined than ever, but today I was a wimp. But, I do have a reason, as you will see. I was stabbed in the arm… Okay, maybe stabbed is a little dramatic. It was more like poked, stuck, or “pinched,” as they call it, they being the dreaded nurses.

Due to the fact that my body has decided to take up a number of abnormal activities that are rather alarming, my doctor, wonderful man that he is, ordered every blood test in the book, which led to the stabbing incident. (Thanks, Doctor. I really appreciated your thoughtfulness after the seventh, yes seventh, vial!)

As my father dear drove me to the hospital, I suddenly felt shooting pains running up and down my left arm. I looked down and saw the spot, the spot where they always get me. I have two prominent veins that are apparently full of life, for every time I need any type of treatment, that is the first place the nurse looks and subsequently stabs. Oh, how my arm did cramp! It was as if my muscles were going into rebellious spasms against the impending event.

It did not help my nervousness when I saw that the nurse who called my name had crazy eyes. Only the looniest of people would choose human stabbing as a profession, of that I was sure. She tried to distract me by talking about what seems to be on everyone’s mind: Christmas. I think she got the message that I really just wanted her to shut up and get it over with when I stopped talking altogether.

Just kidding.

Me having a very hard time being rude to strangers + my talkative nature= me talking to her about what I am planning on doing over my winter break. Sadly I was not even to the interesting part when I felt a horrible pain in my arm. My heart stopped beating. My lungs felt paralyzed. The room swirled out of control. Nothing was clear.

And then the nurse’s face was before me just as it had always been. Wait, I wasn’t fainting at all. I was fine. She asked me to continue my story. I looked down and saw the number of vials filled was less than the vials empty. Great, the worst is yet to come! But I respectfully continued my story, speaking of everything and nothing at the same time, and before I knew it, her work was done, and there was a gaping hole in my arm. I shuttered. She put a piece of tape over the bandage and told me I was good to go, but to leave the bandage on so as not to contract any viruses. Oh, gee! Thanks! So if I’m not already, I’m sure to die from a virus that I contract through the gaping hole in my arm. Comforting, to say the least.

I walked to the lobby to find, and Father Dear laughed at the sight of me carrying my arm in my right hand, being careful not to bump it against any obstacles that I may have encountered. What can I say? I told you I was a wimp!

Throughout the whole night I would randomly get a cramp in my arm and have to stretch it out a few times before it would release its grip on my nerves. Oh, the horror. A, my little sister, saw my “owie,” and she just stared over the now bruised hole that the needle left behind like I was the biggest hero in the world. I had endured a great feat in her eyes, being as she hates getting her blood drawn even more than I do. So I suppose something good came of it, but still. Stabbing? Isn’t there another way to test someone’s healthiness rather than completely invading not only their bubble but literally, their BUBBLE?

I’m thinking that maybe, since I am so impassioned by this issue at the moment, that instead of becoming a best selling novelist, I should perhaps be the renowned inventor that comes up with a new way of drawing blood, one that involves no stabbing whatsoever. I presented my idea to a good friend and her response was as follows: Hahahahahahaha. Yeah right. Stick to writing. Haha.

Sniff, sniff. Okay :( So I remain an incredibly wimpy, almost novelist, flat broke student that will have to forever endure the moors of stabbdom.  

A Prayer

Dear God,

You have a wicked sense of humor. In my deepest thoughts, I asked you for a tall, blond, blued eyed Irishman…. And low and behold, you provided one!!! His only issue is that he isn’t particularly Irish, but then again we are in America. However, judging from the day’s events, I suppose you misunderstood me. When I prayed for a Blondie, I meant for me!

You already know what happened but let me tell you again:

My six year old brother, my eight year old sister, my timeless mother, and I arrived at the salon a few minutes early, a rare feat. For most of us humans, getting a haircut is no big deal, but for sweet A, my sister, it is quite a traumatic event. She has Down Syndrome, and many people look at her phobia of haircuts with criticizing eyes, but let me point out the not so obvious: Exactly how many people do the rest of us allow anywhere near our faces with sharp objects? Needless to say, we saved her cut for last, hoping for the best, when who shows up but the tall, blond, blued eyed, MLB candidate, son of the hairdresser! “Oh my, my, my,” was all I could say, thanking you the entire time. I sat in silence, reserving my flirtatious powers, listening to him explain his reason for being there at that particular moment to my mother and his.

Then out of the corner of my ear, I hear a small voice in the background. “Hi,” it said over and over again, grasping for attention. I recognized it as A’s and saw her beaming in his direction.

It wasn’t long before he noticed it too, and to my surprise answered her greeting with a kind, gentle, “Hi!”

I was shocked! Almost everyone to whom she dares to speak out loud either doesn’t respond at all or is very reserved and mechanical. R, on the other hand, answered, looking straight into her eyes, actually caring for her response.

I couldn’t help but notice her ivory cheeks turn rosy, and she covered her face in playfulness. She would peek around her fingers once every few seconds, and R would be waiting for her giggly reaction. Suddenly, she no longer yelled at the suggestion of a haircut, but gently said, “No cut cut, Mamma.” It only took one proposal from R, and she was willing for anything. You should have seen the display of bravery! She covered her eyes and held back the tears with valiant effort! Within minutes a good inch and a half of her hair had been trimmed, and she stood up, looking more beautiful than ever. “Where’s R?” were the first words out of her mouth. 

“Oh, boy,” I thought, as she swaggered towards him, with her hands behind her back. “Pretty,” she chirped as she flipped the ends of her newly trimmed hair. A ridiculous case of eight year old flirting, if you ask me! She spent the next several minutes playing peek-a-boo with him around nearest corner, and the most amazing thing of all was that he was able to carry on a conversation with G, my brother, at the same time! Not an easy task and truly impressive! I haven’t heard my sister laugh like she did today more than a dozen times in her entire existence, and it is the most beautiful sound in the world, nor have I seen her connect with someone that fast, especially with a guy! The three talked sports until it was time to go, and I sat back and watched in fascination.

It warmed my heart to see someone care that much about her feelings. Anyone who knows me is well of my attitude about my sister: If you’ve got a problem with her, I’ve got a problem with you. If you can’t accept her, than you better just walk away. (Oh yeah, I can be like that. ;)

A few hours later, as we sat in front of Sam’s Club, waiting for G, Mom, and the groceries, A talked up a storm about wanting to go see R play baseball. She must have told me a hundred different ways. It was the sweetest thing.

So, dear God, in reviewing all of this, I see your point. I learned something today. I learned that the people that can accept her and love her immediately for who she is are few and far between. She deserves all of them she can get! Besides, how could I steal her first crush? Despite all of the logic, your humor is really quite ironic, and because you have teased me so, I’m going to assume that there truly is an Irishman waiting for me, right around the corner ;) Maybe today was just practice.

True Love

Known fact: I love my horse.
Known fact: There are days when there is a significant part of me that says to the same horse, "How do you feel about being a slightly sticky adhesive that kindergartner's just looovve??"
Yes, I know... some may say cruel. Trust me. After spending the better part of an hour on the back of a 1200 lb animal having a silent war dealing with whether or not we should trot collectedly and be gorgeous, or whether we should plop around like we're fresh off the race track, this solution does not sound in the slightest cruel. And then we have the issue of why in the world we would canter in hand when we can gallop around like a Thoroughbred with serious mental issues? Ah yes... the joys of horsemanship. Any horse owner can testify that you just have those days when you can say, "This is how you do it, dear pony."
And they say, "Yeah, I get it."
"Then do it!!!"
"Well I could.... but... no."
"*!#$)*)(*)(#*$)(@**"

Then after allowing the animosity to fly uncontrollably out, you are able to think much more clearly and you realize that glue factories are a wonderful, God-given gift. My Quarter Horse gelding, under all the "dur-dur-dur" disguise, is a stubborn mule with a big rear end! However, I am more stubborn and anyone that knows me is well aware that I get my way one way or another. Therefore I held my ground and the mule finally cooperated to an acceptable degree.

Whew! It's hot outside. I think I'll be nice and give you a bath. But, noooo... That would mean the mule would have to walk into the wash stall that he's been in 20 times in the last month. No amount of bribing, pulling, begging, backing, beating would persuade him to take a step into that stall. Now you can only imagine how frustrated I was after fussing with this thing I call my horse for twenty minutes. Barn owner walks in and offers to help. "I DO NOT NEED HELP! I NEED A GUN!" Outwardly I was barely maintaining composure and was willing to take what I could get. So she takes the lead rope and he goes right in like it was a sugar coated mountain of apples. Mule. Absolute. Total. Mule. I swear he was laughing! Ugh.

Naturally I did not hang around the barn just to give him extra hugs and kisses and as I sped out the driveway, all in a fluff, I couldn't help but laugh. How stupid! It's the little things like getting into a mental war with my horse and winning that truly keeps you humble. You can't always have a perfect day. And as I look back at all the events of the day I smile. Hmm... what kind of mischief shall I stir up tomorrow? 

Wingless

I am a firm believer that there is no possible reason why a person would get up any earlier than they absolutely must. Yet, if a character must rise before their liking, they might as well start their day off in the place that they love the most. For some this place might be their own kitchen or perhaps on their front porch rocker. In my case there is no place I'd rather be at 6:00am than in a dirty, dusty barn. I know! Unlikely choice! I'm a country girl with an absolute obsession with horses. The last four days I have been filling in for the usual barn worker (for lack of a better word). Being as I haven't worked in a barn for over a year, I had forgotten how much work taking care of a whole aisle full of hungry horses truly is! Having a dependent that you can lean on (quite literally) makes the work well worth it. One of my best friends calls it the Unwritten Dependency Plan: We feed them. They don't kill us. :) 

I love being the first one through the barn doors on a crisp fall morning. Naturally at 6:00 in the morning my senses are not nearly as adroit as they otherwise would be, say at 8:00am. The doors creaked stiffly open, resembling my own feelings and movements. I took my first uneven step into the barn and was immediately greeted with a whinny. A nicker. The lights. A muzzle. Another, and another. All in a row. Suddenly my eyes brightened and the spring in my step returned from the previous day. Ahhh... I've been missed. And then off I trotted to perform the morning chores with flare.

It has been said that horses give us the wings we lack. Apart, neither horse nor mankind can fly; neither possess the necessary qualities. But together they form a new kind of creature, one that is more courageous, determined, and willing to face the seemingly impossible. There is something magical about the feeling that encroaches on the mind and body when two such beings connect and conquer a new feat. Without horses, the human race would be grounded permanently. In my opinion that is a fate worse than death. I am determined to never join the inexperienced section of the human race that will always remain wingless.