Wisdom-Toothless Wisdom?

There are four wisdom teeth less of me!

I'm sick of foods you can't chew and television, but the hot summer has taken over.. Our farm looks like the desert. Hopefully, by the time I'm well, the drought will be over, and we can get back to riding and enjoying the summer!

Instead of teaching this week, my chipmunked self has been watching trashy reality shows like Dance Moms and Cheer Perfection. (And less trashy, amazing shows like Nadia G's Bitchin' Kitchen and Arrested Development. I've got some taste!)

While the parenting on the show is highly questionable, it did get me thinking about all the mom and daughter duos I've seen through riding. In America, this duo is a staple at horse shows and barns.

And what makes a successful one?

The most successful mom and daughters that I've seen in riding all share a similar trait. Sacrifice. Time, money, other sports.. Many times marriages, but I wouldn't count that on the successful side. However, the fact of the matter is that to succeed in horses or anything, you make sacrifices.

And for a sport that almost demands you begin at an early age to do anything more than 'recreational' riding, it requires parental sacrifice too. The mom who gets their kid to the barn, supports them in lessons and language, is the mom whose kid stands a shot.

This doesn't mean living through your kid. It means you recognize what they love and you help them to succeed. It also doesn't mean you don't push. You have to push your kids a little, as does the trainer. The trainer and parent who don't push and still expect more from their kid put too much pressure on the child.

That sounds silly. Let me explain. Children must be taught to look at the big picture; they will not always want to ride. Basketball players do not always want to play basketball. Swimmers do not always want to swim. If you don't teach your children to fight through this, they will not be successful. It's human nature to want to quit when things get hard or when you don't feel like it, but pushing through that is the difference between mediocrity and greatness. And it starts with you, the parent. A child will not and cannot learn this lesson on his or her own.

Now, how does that put more pressure on the child? I'm a living example of this. My mother constantly reminded me that she would not push me. I did not have trainers that pushed me, save for one in my middle teens that I took from sporadically due to distance and money (Sacrifices that were well worth it). When all the 'pushing to succeed' has to come from a young person, all the pressure of failing falls on their shoulders too.

That's a lot of pressure.

Some children take this and turn it into something great. Most don't.

Most, like me, end up looking back and feeling ashamed of the things they did not accomplish through their sport. And it all falls to me; I am what I am in my sport because of me. And now, after years of being allowed to stop when the going gets tough, it's an even harder cycle to break. That's a lot of pressure, built up over many years. It's caused discourse between my mother and I; it's caused personal struggles spilling beyond my riding.

This is not blaming my mother or my trainers. This is a observation I've seen through my time as a trainer and a rider. It is not a phenomenon unique to me.

Push your children, not for yourself but for them. Make some sacrifices; get excited about their riding. Be proud of them. If they are happy about a goal, you should be 100x happier for them.

Don't be the parent that never sees their child ride, the parent who doesn't understand why cantering is a big deal, the parent who gives up on her kid's show dreams because of one off-day.

Please, please, please be more supportive than a stick-on bra.

Love,
Girl

P.S. Thank you to my mom and my trainers. They were very supportive, if not pushy. And my parents for sacrificing a lot. I'm sorry I didn't do more.

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Survivor Week

Whoaaa.

You said you would post every Monday, all summer?!

Um, well, boys and girls.. Just trying to do my civil duty and teach you that everything takes longer than you expect. Now you're prepared for the revenue office!

Just kidding, no one's prepared for the revenue office, so I don't go. Whoops.

Anywho.

This past couple of weeks have been killer for me, and I can't seem to get my feet underneath me. I spent the night in the barn which was as tragic as i'd imagined it. Then it was off to lifeguard at a pool party, sleep like I was dead, and launch into a housesitting job.

Which wouldn't be shabby, but my parents left for their anniversary on Tuesday.
I'm exhausted.

Today involved a carbon monoxide alarm, a trip to the horse vet's (everything was fine), a flat tire, a missing cat, a now neutered dog, and my now raging allergies.

Yay. Whine!

More when I get the chance.

- girl

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I Don't Have ADD, I was Just Thinking About My Outside Rein

I like that.....
My Littles doodle dressage rings on the back of their spelling tests.
My horses are patient but not perfect.
The chickens' barn time has been severely limited.
Feeling I get when a Little trots a diagonal to me for the first time.
I have less fear of my abilities as a rider now.
I don't live in a camper.
I have long hair, don't care.
We're going to shows now!
4 hours at the barn feels like 40 minutes.
The Littles are all almost independent. So, I can chillax inbetween lessons.
My life has the people and ponies it has in it now.

I dislike that..
I ran out of melatonin and clean breeches today.

Not cool.

Ride on, boys and girls.

--girl

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Of Ponies and People (and Long Walks Home)

It was a dark and stormy night...

Okay. No.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and the sun was out. It was one of those days that seemed to ooze perfection; the sun dripping energy into every cell and the wind breathing them to life. I had just made the hour and a half drive home, slept for twelve glorious hours, and was geared up to ride more ponies.
Because, you know, working students don't have enough to do.

I caught old faithful Chunky, an appendix who we bought after a trip to Tractor Supply. (Talk about impulse buy..) He's not much to look at, and he looks better than he rides. But Chunk's got something going for him: You could tie a peacock to him, take him to a screamo concert, and let Charlie Sheen rope rabid reindeer off him, and he'd still look somewhat drowsy and unimpressed.

In other words, he's a saint.
But every saint was once a sinner.
And Saint Chunk was bad, bad pony.

We tore off into that day, galloping through fields and up hills and around hay bales. Now, when I say we tore off, you must understand that Chunk doesn't 'tear off' anywhere faster than a 1950's tractor. But that's okay because he makes me feel invincible.

...... Wait.
I'm already teenaged.
And invincible, right?
So, he makes me feel like I'm invincible, times 10000000.
......
You see where this is headed?

He pushed through the grass, snaking his nose out to grab some as I plucked the furry tips off the ready-to-be-cut grass. The fur on his neck was already stiff with fresh sweat, The back of my tee shirt clung to my skin. And it felt like heaven. My feet dangled from the stirrups, and my reins looped as we meandered through some hay field, a pair of lost but nontragic Steinbeck characters. (But as all Steinbeck tales, tragedy would strike. No worries though; no ponies were harmed in the making of this story.
Just my ego.)

He snorted, which I interpreted as an indication of his relaxation. (In hindsight, he probably had something up his nose.) I took this relaxation as a sign we should head to the creek.

Younger, more irresponsible Me spent tons of time wading through said creek. Splashing friends, swimming. So, responsible Me would have NO trouble.

Right?!?

And of course, I didn't. Because as previously stated, Chunk is a saint and I grew up in them there backwaters. (.. Yes, people talk like that where I'm from. I seen it with my own eyes!)

I crossed the creek and hopped off my horse, who stood still as a statue while I stripped off my tall boots and crash through the water like a labrador retriever. He calmly munched the grass on the bank as I played and complied when I hopped back up to ride him down the creek. When we returned, damp and dosed up on summer, he closed his eyes while I dried my toes and tugged on my socks and shoes.

I stood up from the bank and wrapped my fingers loosely around his rein.

You would have guessed I was an electric eel.

He sprung to life, splashing across the creek. The water soaked me again; he hit the surface like a 400 pound man belly-flopping. (Approximately.) I stood dumbfounded, watching my ride peel across ground at a speed I thought only NASCAR drivers could accomplish.

When he hit the other side of the bank and the first thundering stride struck the ground, my senses returned to me.

I was stranded.
On the wrong side of the creek.
A half hour from home.
With no cell phone.
Watching my horse gallop away from me.
Toward an open gate.
And a somewhat busy road.

I yelled after him, knowing it was no good. My yells turned to curses as I watched his fat bay butt disappear beyond the tree line. I could still hear his gallop minutes later, and I swear I could feel it in my bones for much longer.

Swallowing my pride, I removed my boots once more and sloshed across creek. My tall boots cried when I stuffed my soaked feet back into them. (I heard them.) It wasn't an option though. Crossing into the hay field, I realized it was up to my waist, and it still was a struggle not to be taken on barefoot.

He was gone. The only trace of him was a path cut haphazardly across the field that I followed with the diligence of the old trackers.

I don't know how long it took me, but by the time I emerged from that god-forsaken hay pasture, climbed the hills we'd galloped, and panted against the hay bales we'd dodged (Oh, Southern summers), I was covered in burrs and stickers, sweat and disgust.

I learned later that my pony had arrived home long before me. He had galloped his way home without a single detour or spook and had let himself into a stall, where we found him eating hay with a non-plussed expression.

And me?
I smelled like the creature from the black lagoon for a week.
Nothing new, I guess.

--Girl

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Girl's Perfect Guy, according to the Littles

This is what I heard from my backseat.

"You need a more handsomer man."
"And one that's not old!"
"And a lot more handsomer."
"Yeah! With a million dollars!"
"No, a billion!"
"A trillion!"
"A ka-jillion!"
"But he has to want to spend it all on your horse."
"Not his horse. YOUR horse."
"And he has to be nice! And like your horse too!"
"And dogs."
"And cats."
"And he's gotta love you."
"He has to make you feel like he's The One."

So, if anyone knows a single ka-jillionare who is nice and would like to spend all his money on my horse habit, please point him in my directions.

(I did ask them, "What if he's poor but he makes me feel like he's the One?"
And they both cried in unison, "Go for it!"
... Of course, they told me I had to be married before they were 13 so they could be flower girls without being tacky.
Clock's ticking, folks.)

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Dr. Strangelove or How I Stop Worrying and Loved the.. Embarrassment?

There's one not-so cute aspect to kids and ponies.

Whereas most polite human beings like to keep their 'wobbly bits' (Bridget Jones Diary, yay!) locked and loaded, our equine pals like to let it all hang out.
Literally.

I cannot count how many times I've heard. "Is that his..??"
Cue the big eyes and flustered trainer.
Well, not so flustered anymore. After the trillionth time, you simply nod and explain that pony is relaxed.

Now, having gotten this out of the way, let's jump ahead.

It was just a normal day, and I was rushing off to some appointment, late. As I cruised down our dirt road, I passed a little brown dog. He was collarless and skinny, and when I stopped the car, he came bounding to me as if he were Kayne West and I was some blonde chick getting an award I didn't deserve. It was love at first sight. Truly.

But because my parents are already taking care of their grandkitties and granddogs (only one is mine!), I promised myself that I would wait an hour or two before I picked him up.

I tore myself away as he wiggled into the bushes and immediately called the more lenient parent.

"Dad, there's a puppy and he's, like, super cute and skinny and stuff and.. Please?"
"Of course! Poor puppy.."

(I revert to teenagese when I want/need something or am about to do something my mother will dislike..) I don't remember my conversation with my mother, but I'm 90% sure it went like this...

"Mom, there's a do-"
"No."
"But he's so cu-"
"No."
"But he-"
"When you have your own house, you can have as many animals as you want."
Click.

Contrary to popular belief, I do not bring home ALL animals. Just dying kittens and starving pit bulls and.. Well, little brown dogs.

Whoops?

I picked up two of my Littles during my two hour "no dog" time. (Practically a day in dog years.) They were my first Littles, the ones I cried over leaving when I had to go to college because, of course, no one could love and teach them like I could.
The same has been thought about my growing zoo of cats and dogs that nobody else wanted.
(Remind me to videotape the first time I drop off my first kid to his/her first daycare.)

"I saw a dog, and I'm thinking about picking it up." I said casually to the only people who would share my enthusiasm and inability to plan too far into the future.
Lots of excited screaming and an ungodly amount of questions about the dog that I couldn't answer followed.

"Is he nice?"
"Uh.. I hope so?"
"Does he like kids?"
"He didn't say."
"Are you going to keep him?"
"........."

When we returned, the little dog was curled up in the grass as if waiting for us. When he saw me, his tail started wagging. I mean, c'mon. It was meant to be. We picked him up and hauled him off to the vet to make sure he didn't have anything contagious except for lovability. (I saw that eyeroll, Mom.)

Where we waited for what felt like forever.
Where the girls became more and more hyper.

They weighed themselves on the dog scale. They quizzed the receptionist. They jumped; they giggled; they harassed the clinic kitten. One of the girls' dogs had just been neutered, and she proudly proclaimed. "My dog got his tentacles removed here!"

They finally put us in a room.

Tick littered the floor and the exam tables, and after a squishing a few and squealing loud enough to burst my ear drums, the girls began to stand on the chairs. While keeping one hand on the dog, I reached back to swat them down. My voice hit the exasperated mother sound, half-human half-scary-but-slightly-drugged-alien, which is frankly quite terrifying when it comes from your own mouth. "Get down from there!"

Right as the vet walked in.
Right as I realized this was not my vet.
This was a new vet, and he was young. And he didn't look weird or sketchy which makes you an 8 or a 9 atleast in this small town.

The girls settled down somewhat. (Remaining on the chairs after they apologized profusely to the vet for squishing ticks on the floor.)

As the exam went on, the brown dog began to get nervous, and as with many young boy puppies, he made it apparent.

"He must be REALLY relaxed, Miss Girl." One of the Littles stated.

My face turned bright red, and I thanked Jesus, Buddha, and science when she didn't elaborate.

And that is the story of why I can't go anywhere with the Littles without duct tape and a little bit of fear.
And how we found Marvin.

(Later, the girls made me a list of qualities my future husband needs.. I will post it later.)

--Girl

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A Letter to Two of My Biggest Supporters

Dear Thighs,

You. Yes, you.

Now, I know you aren't worthless. When I run/walk/pant 3 or 4 miles, you guys are right there on board. You don't moan. You don't scream. You don't beg for forgiveness. (Okay.. Maybe I'm doing all of that too loud to hear you... Maybe.) But when I ask you to trot without stirrups or, hell, trot for longer than 30 minutes... All of a sudden, you give up and leave me walking bow-legged.

I'm not cool enough to walk bow-legged, Thighs.
My nails are painted red, for God's sake, and I've never come close to winning my own belt buckle.

(I have, however, herded cattle in my jumping saddle. I don't think that puts me to the level of John Wayne.)

I hopped off my second and last pony today, and you two turned to.. Not jello. Jello can maintain shape.
I was not graceful or lovely, as Dressage riders should be (.. right?), and I'm glad none of the Littles watched me cringe as I toddled up to the barn.

And you knew this wasn't the days of working student-dom (-doom?). We still had Cows to catch and Littles to longe. As I stood there with my knees locked, leaning on an equally exhausted pony, I wondered if you were trying to warn me of something.. Some aspect to riding I had forgotten in my college journeys.

Then I realized that post-ride perfume.
And I was unsure if it came from the pony..
Or me.

Dressage is so glamorous.
Thanks for the reminder, Thighs.

Love,
Girl



Dear Girl,

Maybe if you actually did crunches, we would not have to compensate for your weak Core.

Sincerely,
Thighs

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Cauliflower Pie, Oh My!

This is not a food blog, but that doesn't mean I don't love food. For the past two days I've been stuffing my face feeding my family with the best food ever. I've made two batches. Yeah, it's that good. You could call it cauliflower pie or, as we like to, The Last Way You Will Ever Eat Cauliflower (pie).

After bringing shame to the family name with grilled artichokes, this definitely reinstated me as the 'silver child'. (Despite only having two children, my parents did not end up with a golden child... I blame genetics.)

I tried to snap a picture of the pie, but it was too late.

So without further fuss...

Cauliflower Pie

• 1 head of cauliflower
• Sea salt
• Pepper
• Olive oil
• 2 TBS sour cream
  
• 1/2-1 of a tomato
• 1/4-1/2 of a purple onion
• 1/2-1 of any color bell pepper
• Red pepper, Spike seasoning, and garlie powder to taste.
• Mozzarella

First, you want to cut up your head of cauliflower into reasonable sized florets and toss them with sea salt, pepper, and olive oil. No specific units on these; just make sure you have enough seasoning and olive oil for each piece. DON'T DROWN YOUR CAULIFLOWER. Just a little!
Then roast those puppies in a 400 degree oven for thirty minutes, stirring them twice. That's 400 in Fahrenheit, not Celsius. I don't know the conversion either because I'm American.
After that, you can stop and eat with ketchup. Or..
Scrape out all the cauliflower, even the burnt super crispy pieces, into a bowl. Mix together with sour cream and seasonings with a hand mixer. It won't be smooth or creamy or look too appetizing, but trust me.
Dice the other veggies. Mix more. Stir in a little mozzarella. Stick it in a pan. Sprinkle more mozzarella, cause you can. Stick it back into the oven for 10-15 minutes at 400 degrees.
Whabam.
This is what your pie will look like before you bake it.


And this is what your pie will look like right after you take it out..

Did I mention it goes REALLY fast?
Yeah.
You're welcome.

-- girl

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Move over, HGTV!

I wish there was a show like House Hunters about equestrians.

You could have first-time buyers and the international version. Fixer-uppers and warmbloods that come with personal chefs and maintenance crews. There'd be the pushy sellers, claiming that this horse was the epitome of equine perfection, and the lookers, spending the entire episode with no intention of ever buying.

You could cringe with the impulse buys. ("Well, there's no way that is ever going to turn out..")

You could envy the luxury models. ("If I had $500,000, I'd buy myself a Grand Prix schoolmaster for training level too!")

You could applaud the good decisions. ("What a perfect pony! She's going to have so much fun with him.")

And best of all, you could do it without spending a dime of our own money.

Here's the thing; horsepeople are crazy. (Which makes for great television....) Also, it means that we are really prone to collecting ponies. Whether in our mind or in real life... The only difference is if we have the pasture space.

Think I'm wrong?

How many hours have you spent trolling the online sale horse ads? Ever spend time looking at the pony classifieds in the newspaper? Drool over your friend's latest pony purchase?

Yeah. That's what I thought.

It's okay, fellow horsepeople. I used to spend hours with our newspaper, circling ads and writing out what type of home I though they'd do best in. I'm not proud. B.H.*, I collected so many plastic ponies that Hoarders almost came to visit.

(Many of them still remain in my closet. I justify keeping them because I use them to teach horse colors an hour once a year. This does not explain the pink one.)

If you didn't collect them in plastic form, maybe you have an extensive library. One in which the Dutch Warmblood is circled with a shaky hand and the fat Welsh pony has been check marked.

Now, imagine the joy of getting your first pony or your last pony. Bet you leaned over the fence with some treat in your palm, gazed into those big eyes and wondered what sort of adventures you two would have. You probably pictured all the memories you'd make.

And you definitely bought a new saddle pad in his colors.

Because who ever likes the drapes it comes with?

House Hunters? No. But Horse Hunters?

I'd DVR ever episode.

--girl

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SUMMER.

Finals are done! All my stuff is moved back in! Summer has begun!

I wanted to take a week off in between school and working, so I apologize for the time gap. I have been riding and sweating and signing myself for "responsible adult-like" things. This blog will be updated every Monday after this post, including such topics as "Practical Impractical Ponies", "Ten Things I Hate About Chickens", and "He's Just Not That Into You (... And the treats to change his mind)".

The Backyard Barn has grown big enough to have a waiting list, so I am going to be super busy.
----------------------
The only ones more excited than me were... You guessed it. My Littles flung themselves on me while the new Littles I've yet to teach gazed on with unconvinced faces. "When are we going to sleep in the barn?!"

Uh. What?

In my first week home, we fixed up an old room so I didn't have to sleep in the camper.. I took a breath, getting ready to explain this, when one of them gazed up with pleading eyes. "The Queen said we could have a sleepover in the barn when you came home."

"Oh, did she?"

The Queen is the owner of the barn. And also a real estate agent. And also a geology professor. And also a Dressage junkie. And also a wife and mother of two kids, one who plays the stock market and one who... You guessed it again. Is me.

Now, when we first built the Backyard Barn, the Queen hauled me out there before the stalls were finished. We laid a tarp over the hay and excitedly waited to fall asleep in our brand-new barn.

But we never did.

Hamlet stall-walked the whole night, and when the sound of him stirring shavings and shit had become mildly soothing, the train went by. Our dog spent the night exploring the barn and crawling in and out of bed, and the Queen, who had lost the youthful ability to sleep anywhere, tossed and turned. Needless to say, she was not looking very stately the next morning.

She also was in a very "Queen of Hearts" mood.. Luckily, I was wise enough not to comment, though I'm taking my life into my hands by mentioning it here.

We have never slept in the barn again, with the exception of Horse's birth.

See why she wasn't jumping at the opportunity to spend the night in a barn with 7 to 15 years old girls? (Oh, yeah. There's that too.)

But I am a sucker. One look did it; I committed to a night at the barn with a bunch of kids and a couple teenagers. They squealed with delight as I tried to figure out how to incorporate some form of horse management.

Later, the Queen and I ate dinner. "So, I'm spending the night in the barn."
"Oh," she said, sounding unsurprised with a smile. "We have cots!"

....... Yay?

-- Girl

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Why Riding Will Set You Free

Sobbing, she pushes against his hind leg.  She peeks at me from behind dark hair to see if I've moved.  I haven't.

She tugs on him, leans on him, pulls on him, cries on him.  He doesn't seem to register.  If anything, he seems to focus more on his hay.  She gazes at me with her lips quivering and her eyes wet.

I have seen this look from almost every one of my students at one point or another, on the ground or off the ground.  It's a look of defeat, but it's a thousand times better than the look if I were to get up and do it for her.  Defeat can be overcome; if I taught the Littles that they couldn't do it themselves, I'd have taught them that they are powerless and incapable.

"I.. Can't." A sniffle breaks her words.

"Yes, you can.  Look at the other three legs!  You did those awesome."

I don't know how long it took her, but she did it.

She overcame defeat and picked out all four feet!  (College is doing wonders for my writing!  ... No?)

And yeah, you've probably guessed it: This story has a moral and it doesn't have to do with your underwear choices or not being a stupid teenager.  It's a simple truth, and it's the reason I keep coming back to riding.  It's one of the most important reasons why I teach.

Riding will set you free.  No, that's a lie; there's so much more to this than the minutes your ass has been in a saddle.
Being an equestrian will set you free.

You develop a sense of humor for every time you've eaten dust.  You find independence because no one sits in your saddle but you.  You learn that you control your own path. And yeah, you may have to deal with a bratty partner once in a while, but your success depends on your ability to win them over and compromise.  You find that life isn't painless, and sometimes, you're going to have to hurt for what you want. 
Sometimes, you have to learn that you won't get what you want.

Most of all, though all of these lessons add to this, you learn this one beautiful truth.  So simple, so freeing...  All defeat can be overcome.

You are limited only by your lack of imagination.
And a Dover Saddlery catalog.

love,
Girl

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The Return of Somewhere Down the Centerline!

It's been almost two years since I learned the joys of showering in a camper..

Where did time go?!

Anyway, ANNOUNCEMENT::
I will be returning to Clark this summer, teaching riding lessons, and hopefully getting some of my own saddle time again!!

So, stay tuned! You all know from previous experiences that kids + ponies + Girl = ... hilarity.

To remind you of what life with Clark (my lovely camper) was like before, check out some of my favorite moments.. Like the time I hiked through Hell (Pasture) and back or the time I almost had a heart attack in the camper.

Or check out my mom's favorite moments, about how we became horsepeople or why there is a tag for 'times I should have worn a real bra' on this blog. (... Oh yes, there is.)

In other news, my move to college was great! I miss riding and teaching, but I get to do both when I come home. (Which I try to almost every weekend.. I'm that Girl.) I'll be done with my Business and Economics major next spring and will finish my Psychology minor in Fall 2013.

And then I, Girl, will be a grown up. (!?!?!?!?! AHHHHHH.)

Chestnut Thoroughbred mares are less frightening.

More soon,
Girl

While you wait, one of my Littles, Ashton, jumping the Cow... Too cute, right??

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gone.

She lost the baby.

We go next week for another vet visit, but our chances this year are pretty well gone. (And for you country fans, that's gone for good.)

This blog will be pretty quiet for a while.. I've been having medical problems in addition to preparing for college. Nothing too serious, fingers crossed, but this seems to be the kicker for a year already plagued with bad health. Horse is still chilling out in the field, waiting for me to take her and Miss Manners up to the chiropractor.

Doctors, doctors, everywhere.

When we all get well, what will we do with ourselves? If Miss Manners were aligned, Horse didn't have a lumpy rump, Baby Mama would raise her baby, I stopped having to go to the doctor every month.. I might actually be able to make long-term goals! :)

It's too hard to write about riding now.
When a path starts to form out of this mess, I'll let you guys know.

-- Girl, Horse, and fellow sick animals.

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PREGNANT.

Yes, she is.
How exciting!

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OH MY GOSH.

This is me realizing that this blog is officially over a year old!

On May 11, 2010, Somewhere Down the Centerline began.. And it's been an interesting ride. Now, I'm not the most reliable blogger.. But I promise to keep trying my best to get my thoughts on here. And finish the Saber-toothed Tale. Soon.

So how about a complete update? I usually write these in back stories, so you all don't get a real time feel for what's going on. Plus, some stories just haven't been typed out yet due to me being.. Well, me.

GIRL: After a year of hard work in the barn and in school, Girl is officially worn out. She thought she'd spend her summer by a pool or staring at the ceiling or anything that involved doing nothing... But y'all knew that wasn't going to happen! She is currently teaching a handful of Littles, trying to get pumped up about riding again (after a slight deflation), and doing themed babysitting when needed. She's pretty happy, minus the fact that she's getting up at 6 almost every morning.

HORSE: Well.. Horse is just chilling. Because of her sacrum, she will continue to chill until about August.

BARBIE: The beautiful brainless broad is currently in training to be a racehorse mama after a less than stellar 60 second ride that included a metal wall and a mounting block. Don't worry; she and Girl were fine. But after much thought and discussion with other horse people, Girl decided Barbie would be happiest in the low stress lifestyle of a broodmare.

BABY MAMA: Bred.. We learn if she is officially with baby on MONDAY. YAY.

Not quite the way I imagined the year going, but that's the thing with horses:
You can plan for the future, but you can't dictate it.

A year ago, I had huge plans for Horse and myself. Now, we're just waiting it out until she feels better. A year ago, I had no plans to have another foal. Now, I'm impatiently waiting for an ultrasound. A year ago, I was breaking the sprayer in my shower and trying not to get sick of turkey and cheese. Now, I'm taking ungodly long showers (15.. 20 minutes!!) and.. Okay. I still eat turkey and cheese more than any normal person should.

Here's to another year, Somewhere Down the Centerline.
Here's to more adventures.

-- Girl.

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Is dinner ready yet?

I come from a microwave generation.

If I want entertainment, I press a button and the the television turns on.
If I want food, I type in a number, wait several seconds, and bam! Dinner.
If I want to go somewhere, I can google it and come up with a million deals on airline tickets and hotel rooms.

We live in an instant gratification society, and though the baby boomers started it, my generation can't imagine a world without it. I've never thought twice about using the microwave that my mother considered another "fad" decades ago. I can't even comprehend life without a cell phone or where you didn't have a personal car.

That being said, there's no microwave for horses. Wouldn't it be nice? You could jam your bucking, biting, rearing, crazy, worthless, no good, hopeless green horse into a box and he'd come out the other end sweeter than cotton candy and more flexible than an underaged Chinese gymnast.

So, that's what I've decided to do with my life. I have invented a microwave for horses.

Check it out:

CLICK.

What do you think?
--Girl

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Miss Manners Thinks I'm Running the Glue Factory and Baby Mama Non-drama.

I was all ready to write yesterday.
Practically stuffed full with ideas, but then Blogger decided to go down by the time I got to the computer.
ugh.

Anyway, Miss Manners is having to have a little boot camp on manners. Ironic?

You see, for years I've been convinced that our barn looks like this. Happy, sunny.. But apparently for the past six or seven (or has it been eight??) years, I've been living in denial because, according to Miss Manners after a couple months chilling in the pasture, this is how the barn really looks like:

Did I mention she has two swirls??

So, currently on Day Three. And I have yet to sit on her back.

I have a theory. It's crazy, really. I mean, any modern horseperson will tell you that they make chains, planes, and automobiles that can speed things along.. But maybe, if you take it slow and train your horse from the ground first and build your trust, your horse will be a lot better for it.

Call it what you like; I call it common sense.

Step One: Coax cranky, schedule-driven chestnut mare to get in the barn when asked politely and the first time..

Also, dragging the Baby Mama for a pre-breeding exam tomorrow. Squeal!!
Wish me luck,
Girl

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Girl and the Sabertoothed Pony Shadow, part one

If you've read this blog before, you might be aware that I have a tendency to act first, ask later. (Think later too, if you ask my mother.) This is not always a bad thing.. Most of the world's innovations were created by such people; some by complete accident.

Such is the tale of the sabertoothed pony shadow..

I'm not sure if you know this, but at fourteen, I knew everything. I kid you not. Absolutely everything. Now, I know that's not true. At fourteen, you only think you have mastered the secrets of the universe. You're sneaking wine coolers from your mom's meager supply of liquor, and you're riding your pony like you stole him. You can converse with the adults like a "grown up", maybe even convince a few that you're a hop skip away from eighteen, but when you're alone, you still pretend your Cow has suddenly transformed into fire-breathing racehorse prancing up to the Derby.

Maybe that last one was just me..

Anyway, I decided to stop riding when I was thirteen. I was starting to dance for our school's dance team and also playing basketball and volley ball. Trading my boots for pom poms seemed like a decent idea. Not that I wouldn't trail ride or play with the old Cow some.. I just didn't want the pressure.

Around this time, one of our boarders purchased a mutt of a horse. He was dappled gray, fat and sassy, and horribly cute. "You have to come meet Ungodly-Redneck-Name!" My mom coaxed.

About a month after they brought him home, I finally did. He and Hamlet met me at the gate, a lethal combination of pony syndrome. I offered my hand out to him, and he peered back at me, an inquistive intelligence that I'd never encountered before. He had long white lashes, and he batted them innocently as he sniffed my hand.

Then he nipped me.

"Son of a-!" I jerked away from the fence, glaring at the pony who still seemed quite intrigued. It was then I saw the whorl, running half-way up his neck. Back then I had standards that may seem a bit strange.

1. No whorls running up the neck. (I've leased/owned four since.)
2. No double whorls on the forehead. (Miss Manners is a full on double whorled girl.)

Are you confused yet? Good.

So, a quick explanation. In some cultures, a whorl running up the neck is considered a sign of bad luck (along with having a white sock on the right front leg). In fact, in the Bedouin culture, this marking was referred to as "the shredded collar". There was a custom to rip one's shirt collars off while mourning.. See the connection? A horse with two swirls on his face is thought to be more emotional and over-reactive.. Not my cup of tea at all. Granted, every horse I've ever liked has been just this side of normal. The crazy side, that is.

Now, please note that these are all superstition. They aren't fact, so don't get your feathers ruffled or your panties in a bunch just because I said your horse was bad luck or nuts.

Ungodly-Redneck-Name had the biggest swirl I'd ever seen running up his throat. I spun and made my way back to the barn. "That horse is trouble," I told my mom later. "And he's bad luck."

I bet you're thinking this is one of those sweet stories where I turned out to be wrong. But it's not. Ungodly-Redneck-Name was way too smart for his own good, and we lived in fear that he'd evolve to have opposable thumbs. He tore apart gates. He broke fences. He behaved like he was scared to walk through the barn, and heaven forbid you try to put him on a trailer.

It was all a game though. He'd play the "I'm so scared!" act with his owner and then placidly plod through the barn when I took the lead. If he were human, I imagined he'd be a smooth-talking Eddie from Leave It To Beaver, greasing the parents and then doing whatever he wanted.

Finally, his owner decided he was too much. She was going to take him to the sale barn, where he would bounce around from owner to owner before subsequently ending up in a can. She offered him to me.

I took the bait, and at fourteen, I bought my first pony. He was dirt cheap, but the check bounced by 20 cents. I asked for her to sign a bill of sale. In our drawers, we have the check with the byline of "Ungodly-Redneck-Name" and my overly-cutesy handwritten bill of sale.

After about two weeks of referring to him as the Alpo Pony, we shortened it to just Pony.

Pony was and is one of the strangest horse personalities I've encountered. He'd groom me one day, nip me the next. He'd be perfect and then perfectly horrid (while no one watched and while everyone watched, of course.). I loved him, from his dapples to his sporadic episodes, because he was mine.

All mine.

At the time, I had a friend who also rode a pony, and we'd hop on bareback and ride for hours. There's a big creek that runs near our farm, and we'd splash in it and ride until we found an opening. We'd steer our ponies out of the bank, zipping through the fields with a youthfulness only found on the back of a horse and away from parental vision.

"Are we allowed in here?"
"Do you see anybody?"
"... No."
"Then yes. We are."
(Sorry, Mom.)

Because of this, we'd end up miles from home. For my friend, this was nothing.. Her pony was well-behaved and somewhere between 11.3 and 12.2 hands. For me, each ride was a game of "Can I Keep My Butt on the Pony?", mixed in with a little prayer. Pony is 14.2 hands and not easy to scramble on to. Plus you never want to fall off miles from home.

And if you get off, you want to make damn sure your horse doesn't leave you to walk through the overgrown grass up the world's steepest hill in soggy tall boots. But that's another story.

It was on one of these days that we'd taken off, zipping through pastures like hellions. We'd dare each other to ride across new pastures, flicking nervous glances at the houses on the property. While in one field, a giant Hummer had pulled into the driveway. We scattered like cockroaches when you turn on the light. Splashing into the creek, my friend turned to me. "Where do you think we are?"

I shrugged. I had no clue. In typical teenaged fashion, she shrugged also, and before we could get too concerned, we were pulling our legs up our ponies' back to avoid being soaked by deeper water. We'd been riding for about an hour, trying to escape farther and farther from the fenced-in fields of home.

We finally hopped out into a field we'd meandered through earlier. I gave Pony a long rein. He plugged along like the world's best trail horse. My friend did the same, and her tiny mount stretched and snorted. With the summer sun beaming down and the sway of our horses' walks and the untouched field with no modern convience in sight, it felt like everything was perfect.

I kept one hand on the rein and turned to face my friend. We chatted as I leaned on Pony's amble behind. Then he saw the manhole.

Manholes, you see, are evil. They eat ponies. Especially the gray ones. Those are super tasty.

He jumped and wheeled, and it was one of those moments where you're thanking God that the grass is thick.

Now, most bad ponies would have headed for the hills by the time you were bouncing off the ground (when you're old, you just splat.), but Pony just stopped and started grazing a yard or two away from where he dumped me. I rolled up on my side, pleased to see him nibbling and not making a mad dash away. I crawled to my knees and realized with horror that he was standing on - not one - but both sides of his reins.

On each side of his face, he had about three inches of slack before the reins went under his hooves.

I knew what was going to happen. It felt like slow motion. "No, Pony, no," I soothed. "Don't move."

As I stepped forward, he jerked his head up, popping the leather apart with an anguished cry. (Oh, wait.. The cry was me.) I grabbed him before he could break anything else. It's okay, I thought. Surely he just broke his reins. Maybe I didn't have the cheekpieces really fastened.

I was wrong. He'd broken the metal buckles of each cheekpiece, stranding us an hour from home without a cell phone or twine or any feasible way to reassemble the bridle. I fiddled with the bit, trying to concoct some way to stabilize it in his mouth without the cheekpieces. It looked like one Girl would be leading a now fidgeting Pony all the way home.

As he fidgeted, he brushed my hand with his bad luck swirl. Then he stepped on me.

Maybe, I thought, the Bedouins had it right.

(part 2 coming soon.)

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Economics and English and Statistics, oh my!

Where has Girl been?

Struggling.

I decided to cram everything I didn't want to take at Difficult Liberal Arts College into one semester. Taking these classes at Small Community College SEEMED like a good idea in December, when I was bored out of my skull. I mean, they'd be easier than at DLAC, right?

Well, yeah.. They were/are. But when you stuff your schedule full of them...

Damn this teenage reasoning.

So for the past week and a half, I have written 2000 words worth of guided journal entries, a final grammar exercise, a paper on China's economic boom, a paper on central banking, two article reviews on China's credit card monopoly and what banks can learn from Apple, and an article summary on teenaged drinking in Ireland. I have taken a Trig test and a Statistics test.

And I would like to say, I'm fried.

Two more papers to go (8 pages on teen drinking and 3 pages on the difference in the 2001 or 2002 recession and the current one with reference to government interference), four finals to take*.

On top of that, my finals schedule worked out with my final 8 page paper and three tests... All on Monday. Two of them at 1215. Luckily, I can move the hard one to Tuesday.

Deep breaths, deep breaths.

If I don't spontaneously combust, you will have a hilarious story of innovation, manholes, and one nutcase of a pony next week.

Until then,
Girl**

*currently in Statistics, Trigonometry, Microeconomics, Macroeconomics, and English Composition II.
** lacking in basic planning skills.

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Horse Did What?

Horse will be off until this fall due to messing up her sacrum in the great suicide attempt of 2010. She should have a full recovery.

After I came home, I started working with her again. I longed for several days, and she was very well behaved on the ground and on the line. After the third day, I got on for about fifteen minutes. I walked her around, working on suppling her.. Easy stuff. She was a little fussy, but I chalked it up to being off for several months.

Any horse is bound to be a little cranky after "early retirement".

The next day, I put her on the line. Still good. I climbed on.. And she did not feel like any Horse I'd been on earlier. She refused to go forward and, within fifteen minutes, resorted to rearing. Except, she didn't have the strength to hold both of us up in a rear, and before you could say "I think she's gonna.." and before I could bail off, we went sprawling on the grass.

I bounced up as my baby scrambled to her feet. We were both shaking, and she walked to me, quivering but quiet. She put her head on the full length of my body, blowing nervous air on my hip as I scratched her head and neck. She was terrified, and I felt sick.

Something was wrong.

Well, remember when people were telling me she was just being bad? They were wrong. I should have had her looked at sooner, but I'll admit, there was a part of me that thought maybe they had a point.

On the day the barn stood still last summer, Horse damaged her sacrum on her left side, which caused the flip in December. My biggest regret is not listening to her sooner and thinking her misbehavior was just bad manners.

How many "bad" horses would there be if we would slow down and listen? How many dangerous habits have we fostered because we didn't step back and see the signs?

Granted, there are some bad apples in the bunch.. Ponies too far gone or genetically wrong. But I can't help but think that Horse would have become one of those if we'd pushed her.

-- Girl

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