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Ends. Odds. Partially Popped.

October 2nd, 2015 · 8 Comments · Daily

When the phrase “Japanese Cherry Blossom” starts looking like “Pajama Cheesy Balloon” it’s probably time to schedule an eye exam.

This morning I drove to Trader Joe’s because last night Jeff mentioned that he has heard good things about this stuff:


(I purposefully filtered the hell out of the photo to make it look stupid because partially popped popcorn IS stupid, yet also very tasty.) I opened the bag, tried it, and then stuffed it into the pantry because I have less than two weeks left with my health coach, and I don’t need partially popped popcorn to untie my stamina shoes.

After Trader Joe’s, I drove to Starbucks where the parking lot was full and I could have parked at the bank but I really don’t like the morning crowd at Starbucks, so forget it. I took off for home with my zombie book on the iPod and the chilly air in my face.

It’s cardigan season, and today I went with this one.


(Zombie fiction. I’m currently reading The Girl With All The Gifts. I started it because I thought it was nonfiction and about gifted kids, and I’m the first to admit that I’m not as sharp as I used to be.)

When I turned onto the road by our house, I saw a guy with what could have been a tennis racquet in his backpack, but it also could have been a baseball bat or a roll of wrapping paper or a gun. (Please re-read the first sentence of this post and know that I just left a message to set up an appointment.) Anyway, I started thinking about yesterday’s school shooting (the 45th school shooting of 2015) and how the odds of being shot right now seem so much higher than they were when I was a kid and if anyone in my family is going to be shot, I really hope it’s me and not them. (I don’t have a gun. I will never have a gun. I don’t trust myself enough to know that I wouldn’t make a mistake or stay completely sane in a situation where I might need to use a gun.) And how sad it is to have these thoughts jumping around while I’m wearing a spiffy cardigan and listening to goofy zombie fiction and surrounding myself with partially popped popcorn and raw cheese. We need to be louder. I need to be louder.

Today I’ll be spending a bit of time with this guy. I started the wrap in 2008 and I’m really tired of not getting things done. I hope your weekend is a good one.


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Una poca de gracia pa mi pa ti!

September 28th, 2015 · 8 Comments · Daily

Although I quit band before I finished high school, I picked it back up in college. (I was a piano performance major, and some sort of ensemble class was a requirement. I couldn’t see myself in the orchestra, so: Marching Mizzou!)

1992! (I think!)

During my sophomore year, Marching Mizzou traveled to Denver to march at a university football game and a Broncos game. I packed up all of my overnight stuff, I packed magazines and books for the bus ride, and I packed a few tiny bottles of alcohol. (Looking back I really have no idea how I did that because I was only 19. Maybe someone gave me a few tiny bottles of alcohol? Maybe I’m making up the part about the alcohol.)

When our bus broke down in Kansas, a friend of mine joked that we should grab our instruments and practice our show in the corn field beyond the smoking bus.

This is a photograph taken at the exact moment when I realized that I had left my instrument in my best friend’s car back at Mizzou.


Because my timing is impeccable, I chose to approach our band director when he was on the phone trying to charter another bus.

Me: Mr. Ruebling?

Mr. R: I’m on the phone, Reiner. What do you need?

Me: Well, I need to tell you that my instrument is back in Columbia and I—

Mr. R: YOU will take care of this. YOU will get a replacement instrument. I don’t want to hear another word about it.

I don’t remember much about the rest of the ride to Colorado. I’m sure I spent it staring out the bus window and trying to figure out how in the hell I was going to conjure up a mellophone, which is a marching French horn in case you are curious. (A French horn’s bell faces the rear. The mellophone twists that bell around to the front so the horn player is now blowing through what looks like a fat trumpet.)

After the university band director in Colorado welcomed us to their school, I approached him and asked if I could borrow a mellophone until the game was over.

Colorado Band Director: You’re really lucky. We typically wouldn’t have an extra, but one of our mello players is out with a foot infection. You can borrow his horn!


(If you know me at all, you know that I don’t want to talk about feet. I especially don’t want to hear the word Foot buddying up with the word Infection. AND, I don’t want to put my mouth on someone else’s horn, much less someone with a Foot Infection, but I was stuck.)

Me: That is awesome. Thank you!

(I won’t bore you with the rest of that day, although I WILL tell you that I celebrated something or other that evening by singing with a Mariachi band as they strolled around a Mexican restaurant. My memory is fuzzy.)

Because our marching show had a Batman theme (of course) and I was good friends with the piccolo player who was portraying Batman in the show, he allowed me to “play” his piccolo at the Broncos game the next day, and although it looked silly to be a lonely piccolo in a line of brass, I was grateful.

Fast forward 26 years to yesterday.

Meredith’s band was scheduled to play God Bless America at the Cardinals’ final home game. We splurged on tickets, we bought Meredith a Cardinals shirt to wear, we packed our bag with snacks, and off we went.

When we were a little over halfway there (20 minutes into our 40 minute drive), Meredith announced that she had left her instrument at home.


We turned around, grabbed the instrument, and hauled ass to the stadium where Meredith and I jumped out of the car and ran to the entrance gate, rushed through security, ran down the ramp into the catacombs below the field, and eventually found the band right before their rehearsal started.

After leaving her with the band, I got lost trying to find my way from the catacombs to the main level. When I eventually located the ramp, I ended up right in front of a whiskey booth. (I know!) I haven’t had any sort of alcoholic beverage in 19 months. I almost broke that streak yesterday.


The band played beautifully. The Cardinals lost, but we were able to sit by friends and the weather was perfect so I have zero complaints.

Biology IS destiny, and Harper will begin playing the clarinet in less than a year.

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Biology is Destiny

September 22nd, 2015 · 9 Comments · Daily

After struggling with crappy sleep for more than a year I’ve finally decided to brand myself as someone who no longer sleeps. I know they say that practice makes perfect and if I started practicing now, I could probably play Rhapsody in Blue on the clarinet in about a decade or so. I also know that I could trade in all of my shoes for skates, yet I will NEVER skate as well as Dorothy Hamill. I will die having never done a back flip. It’s time to just roll with every single punch and So Be It. I no longer sleep.

(My mother just got a CPAP machine and she’s sleeping like a baby (one of the babies who sleep) for the first time in years and Confession: I’m a wee bit jealous.)

At 1:58 in the morning, I found myself in the bathroom looking in the mirror and clicking my teeth to the Soul Asylum songs in my head. Less than ten minutes ago, I accidentally hit myself in the face with a seven pound bag of apples, and that bag of apples had no business being above hip level because I was simply trying to move them from one countertop to another.

Do you remember my new doctor? The one I love? (I really don’t expect you to remember anything you read over here.) I saw her yesterday, and: 1. She gave me exercises for my shoulders. 2. She told me to get regular massages. 3. She recommended physical therapy for my shoulders and neck. 4. She recommended Botox injections to deaden my shoulder muscles. 5. She doubled my Celexa in an attempt to lessen my shoulder tension. 6. She noted my “profoundly low” B12 level and will be giving me a shot tomorrow. (My mother has been getting B12 shots for a dozen years. She’s also a knitter and has very short hair.)

While I sit over here in the corner thinking about a Gehenna tattoo, please know that the girls have been showcasing Jeff’s DNA. This evening we’ll be attending Meredith’s National Junior Honor Society induction. Last week Harper told us that not only did she make it into student council, but she is now the PRESIDENT of student council. I will rest (un)easy knowing that as I high five Edgar Allen Poe for describing sleep as “slices of death”, 75% of my family is Lake Wobegon-ing.

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Cleaning House and a Mention of Milestones

September 12th, 2015 · 16 Comments · Daily

Because I spend entirely too much time on Facebook, this week I made one of my smartest Facebook moves yet. (I’m making moves! On Facebook! Just watch me change the world!) Anyway, I visited the pages of each and every one of my friends and then asked myself the following question:

Does this person lift people up or tear people down?

If said person is mostly a lifter upper? They’re still in!
All tearer downers? Not unfriended, but no longer invited to hang their stuff on my wall.

After reading an article that Tempe sent this morning titled “The Rise of Victimhood Culture” I have determined that I mostly chill out in a dignity culture (as opposed to an honor culture). When aggrieved, I exercise covert avoidance, quietly cutting off relations without any confrontation. Some people may see my ghosting as a shitty way to handle relationships, but it has served me well over the years. Peaceful detoxification? Just as necessary as colonoscopies and flossing!

I’d like to take this opportunity to thank those who lift. The world needs more people like you.

Last week I finished my 2015 cardigan. It fits better than any cardigan I’ve made, which can only mean that I’m finally getting to know myself better.

This website of mine will be fourteen years old one week from today, and fourteen is my favorite number because it used to be Doug Wickenheiser’s number when he played for the St. Louis Blues. Anyway, half of my words are located here and half of them are spread out in other places and Fluid Pudding has taken me from my weirdo single life in Nashville, Tennessee to my weirdo married with two kids life in St. Louis. It is one of my very favorite things, and I want to thank you for stopping by. Let’s eat apples and wear cardigans and celebrate by lifting each other up.

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I know it feels like a Monday. I know. Holidays mess with everyone.

September 8th, 2015 · 6 Comments · Daily

On Saturday morning, Jeff and I drove across the river to the capitol of Illinois to attend the wedding of one of my very favorite people. While there, I was able to see several of my other favorites—some who know me, and some who don’t. (I’ve had internet access for eighteen years, and it still widens my eyes.)

Oh, this wedding. It could not have been more perfect. The bride and groom were encircled by friends and family and that big circle of people was lit by dappled sun and everyone was smiling and: So Much Joy.

After the ceremony, I found myself sitting at a table with six people who have accomplished great things with their writing and because I love writers and I love weddings and I love hearing acorns being crunched and I love eating toast corners with egg slices and some sort of spread (I have no idea what those things were, but I can’t get them out of my head), I just kept thinking things like, “I want to be Better. At writing (and at social situations) and at life.” I’m just sort of grateful that we left before the music kicked up, because I was starting to feel carbonated, which means it was only a matter of minutes before my whirling dervish tendencies kicked in. (No one would want to see that.)

With Labor Day behind us, it feels like the summer is finally ending and you know how much I love it when the summer ends. Here’s hoping the end of summer also means the death of webworms because they’re ruining my life by running their tiny wispy ropes in a design that makes it impossible for me to walk from my garage to the mailbox, and my neighbors think I’m batty for driving twenty feet from garage to mailbox, but I don’t care what they think anymore because I just need to not feel webs on my face ever again. Ever again. (I want to be Better. At writing (and at social situations) and at life.)

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Wear cocksure shoes until the drugs kick in.

August 31st, 2015 · 18 Comments · Daily

The girls’ pediatrician retired in July and then my primary care guy left the practice and then I found a new pediatrician for the girls and then my primary care guy’s office caught on FIRE but I was somehow able to squeak in an appointment with one of his partners, and I love her.

Dr. W: I see you have one sister with thyroid issues and one sister who dealt with endometriosis and one sister who has no health issues at all.

Me: That’s all wrong. I have only one sister.

Dr. W: I can fix it in the computer, unless you want the record to show that you have three sisters. I know I’ve always wanted more sisters.

Later in the appointment we talked about headaches and anxiety, and if you sit down with me for any length of time you’ll learn that headaches and anxiety are two things I can buzz about endlessly. (I can also buzz about seeing both The Commodores and The Beach Boys during the summer of 1981. A woman once accidentally put her cigarette out on my leg during a Helen Reddy show as Helen was singing “Candle on the Water.” I won a national contest for which I designed an eco-friendly Pringles can. I used to have a birthmark on my leg that looked exactly like Africa.)

Dr. W: I think the anxiety is causing the tension that’s leading to your headaches. I’d like you to take an SSRI.

Me: Nope. I don’t want to take pills that make me feel hazy.

Dr. W: Okay. What are you doing right now to control your anxiety and headaches?

Me: Um, essential oils and mind games and magnesium and prayer and avoiding crowds and singing along to Air Supply tunes.

I’ve now been on Celexa for eleven days, and the first seven days were REALLY CRAPPY with haziness and stomach stuff and me thinking entirely too hard about how my BRAIN is being MANIPULATED with a DRUG. But. BUT. I haven’t had even a touch of a headache in three days, and that is worthy of a burrito parade.

The doctor said that it will take four to six weeks to see if the medication is a good fit for me, but because I’m often a fast learner I decided to take my new little buddy Celexa for a test drive last week at a lakeside food truck event.

The parking lot was so full that we had to park in the grass. Normally, this would put me on edge, which is exactly what it did. As we approached the food trucks, I noticed that each truck had a line at least twenty people deep. Normally, this would rattle me, and that’s exactly what happened. Luckily, Jeff knows that I handle myself best when I have some sort of assignment.

Jeff: Why don’t you grab burritos for us, I’ll grab ravioli for Meredith, and we can meet at the hot dog truck for Harper?

Twenty minutes later, the four of us were standing in line at the hot dog truck. As Jeff took the first bite of his burrito, the woman in front of him lit a cigarette and blew smoke all over him. This is the sort of thing that makes me want to eat my own hair and the only way to settle down is to put every bit of my concentration into creating a list of How This Event Could Be Better For Me.

Me: I would really love it if it was maybe twenty degrees cooler. Lightly snowing, even. Or just haystacks and pumpkins. Less halters, more hoodies. That would be good. More dogs, less people. Less flying bugs. Less Meghan Trainor, more something quieter. And it would be dark. And there would be a pit of fire. I need a chai wagon.

I’m still waiting for the Celexa to work all of its magic. Until that happens, I’ll be wandering the streets in these, because I think that’s what Amélie would do.


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“I don’t like to take more than I need.”

August 24th, 2015 · 8 Comments · Daily

Harper has decided to run for student council this year, and one of the requirements for running is to participate in some form of community service for two hours. On Saturday, the four of us went downtown to stand on the street and help hand out food and water to the homeless. (A friend of ours is involved in a foundation that provides meals and clothing to the homeless every month.)

Over 100 homeless people went through our line. Every single one of them was grateful and kind and every single one of them broke my heart—and that wasn’t their intention, it’s just that my heart is easily broken.

One man (I’ll call him Smiley) returned to Meredith and me after he went through the food line.

Smiley: Let me guess. She’s your daughter.

Me: She is! How did you know?

Smiley: Because she looks just like you, except her hair is longer. Do you think she’s smarter than a fifth grader?

Me: I sure hope so, because she’s in the seventh grade!

Smiley: She looks brainy, but I bet I can outsmile her.

Smiley then stood there with the biggest smile on his face until Meredith busted out laughing. He then turned and walked away carrying everything he owns in a dirty duffel bag.

As the line wound down and it was almost time to go, Meredith noticed that she had only three drink packets left, and they were all raspberry lemonade flavored.

Meredith: Will you come with me for a second?

Me: Sure, where are we going?

Meredith: That guy sitting on the sidewalk over there told me that raspberry lemonade is his favorite. I’m going to give him the last three.

All of this to say: Our family had no idea what to expect when we drove downtown to help out on Saturday, and as clichéd as it sounds, we were a different family as we drove back home.

Meredith: After working there this afternoon, I almost feel silly complaining about my Windows 10 update not working.

We’ll be back.

(Current thoughts scrambling in my head: Homeless shelters are good, right? Right. BUT, what if a homeless shelter is full of bed bugs and feeds their residents only three bologna sandwiches each day? And what if the bread is moldy on those sandwiches, and the residents are told to just rip off the moldy parts? And what if that same homeless shelter tells its residents that if they accept food from us, they are no longer welcome to stay in the shelter? Despite what many people believe, not all homeless people are addicts who just need to get off the stoop and get a job. It’s too easy to sit back in an air-conditioned house and think that. Or to think nothing at all past the fact that Windows 10 can really suck sometimes or how crappy it is that a football game in overtime might make The Amazing Race run late.)

I’m really looking forward to hot chocolate and clogs with wool socks on a snowy day. I’m so lucky to be able to look forward to those things.

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We Spirits of Christmas do not live only one day of our year!

August 17th, 2015 · 9 Comments · Daily

School started.


The girls are now in the fifth and seventh grades, meaning we’ve entered the final year of elementary school and also the Wednesday of middle school. Before leaving the house last Tuesday morning, Meredith said, “Well, I’m off to start the second half of my public education!” (She doesn’t count kindergarten, because although she loved it, she doesn’t feel like she learned anything new. “First grade is where the learning started to happen.”) Anyway, I look at the photo above and all I see are legs and potential. It’s going to be a good year.

I’ve walked into exactly 3,492 spider webs in the past week, Henry brought a screaming cicada into the house a few nights back, and yesterday I stepped into the car and noticed that an inch worm was on my leg and getting ready to crawl under my shorts. Enough is enough!

The pest guy arrived today at 11:00 because some living things should live inside and some should live outside. Although none of the creatures/detritus (are webs considered detritus?) I mentioned in the paragraph above are part of our pest scheme (no spiders were harmed, the cicada was returned to the yard, and the inch worm went from leg to index card to leaf on the driveway), our pest guy was interested in hearing about them, particularly the beast that stirred us to make this sign:


Sir Thadeus is a wolf spider who is the size of an actual wolf, and that’s about 2.7 feet shoulder to shoulder, in case you were wondering. I came within inches of walking into his web last week, and I’m still shuddering. Anyway, after I sang my spooky spider song to the pest guy, he cheered me up with his muggy weather song!

Pest Guy: The temperatures aren’t bad out there, but the humidity is terrible, especially since I’m Father Christmas!

Me: Are you serious?

Pest Guy: It’s the reason I’m growing out my beard. Publicity photos are in October, so I have to start growing my beard early. This humidity makes it really rough.

Me: I love that we’re having this conversation. I was raised in a church that has a live Nativity. All of the deacons grow their beards out at the end of the summer, so I totally get what you’re going through.

Pest Guy: I always enjoy giving Bob Cratchit some ribbing when I see him walking around on Main Street. If you see me this year, be sure to say hello!

Me: My best friend was a tiger in college!!!

(I always tend to take things one step too far.)

Our house is protected, I met Father Christmas, I have the worst cold I’ve had in decades, and I had a pinto bean burrito for dinner. Three of these items bust the heck out of the fourth, rendering sneezing and coughing completely unimportant.

Finally, our clematis is vining on the pergola:


Also, I painted a gnome and the girls helped me name him.

I am thrilled to introduce you to Governor Narcissus P. Snickerdoodle. (His nickname, given by Meredith, is Garlic Naan.)


He honors Christmas in his heart and tries to keep it all the year.

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In which I try on a few hats…

August 8th, 2015 · 18 Comments · Daily

I am a blogger without a medical degree, but with OPINIONS on medical topics.
Instead of throwing a bunch of pills at your headache, you need to go get a massage or two. Ask the massage therapist to concentrate on your shoulders, neck, and face. Bonus: If there’s a service dog in the room, you get the added benefit of hearing a dog snore during your massage, and I’m here to tell you that there’s nothing more relaxing. Massage is NOT an indulgence, and should be completely covered by insurance. (It’s not covered by my insurance.) I’ve now gone to the massage place twice in the past three weeks, and my head is improving and that’s nothing but good, mainly because I’m not swallowing a bunch of pills that I don’t understand.

I am a fashion blogger. And also, a makeup blogger.
I bought this shirt last week and I love it because it carries all of my hobbies. (Please know that the paintbrush represents the makeup brush I bought a few weeks back to aid in the illusion of eyebrows, as I’ve reached the magical age when eyebrows start to fade away like powdered sugar in a windstorm or Kristy McNichol in my lifetime. (Where IS she? I LOVED her!)) ((Please also know that I don’t consider makeup a hobby, because if you saw my face you would know…))

I am a health blogger.
Back in May I knocked all processed foods out of my diet, and I decided that bread and I were no longer friends. (Warm bread gives me a headache, and regular bread messes with my stomach.) I don’t exercise beyond walking with a Fitbit on my left wrist, yet thirteen pounds are gone. And here’s the thing: I’m not eating like a jerk, and I still eat doughnuts every once in awhile because I love them. This is not a diet. This is simply no bread (except for doughnuts and the occasional tortilla because doughnuts and burritos are important to me) and nothing from a bag or can with ingredients that are hard to pronounce. Shoot a message my way if you want to talk to the woman who has supported me through this. (Actually, many women have supported me through this, but only one of them actually calls every two weeks to check in and give me Wisdom.)

I am a political blogger.
Hey, did you see that Republican presidential debate? Whoa, Nelly!

I am a DIY blogger.
We’ve been in the house for nearly a year, and the only thing hanging on our walls is a weird painting of a tree that I did last year. (Wait! Maybe the paintbrush on my shirt really CAN represent an actual paintbrush!) COMING SOON! DIY STUFF THAT SMELLS A LOT LIKE SOMETHING YOU WOULD FIND ON PINTEREST! PROBABLY WITH MASON JARS AND TWINE!

I am a food blogger.
You guys. I picked green beans with some friends a few weeks back, and then we boiled and blanched and froze them and a few nights back I cooked them. We also pickled some green beans because we are hard core and I’m a food blogger! For breakfast this morning, I had a banana dipped in almond butter!


I am a music blogger and a master at not-so-vague life references.
This song has been in my head today for reasons that are no one’s business. “A heart that’s full up like a landfill. A job that slowly kills you…” (You have no idea how smelly and appropriate that landfill reference is, but you do know that the author of this blog is completely responsible for the opinions found within this blog and that these opinions don’t necessarily reflect the opinions of anyone else. Also, I know it’s a Radiohead song, but when it plays in my head, it smells more like Regina Spektor.) Anyway, if we had a family crest, this song would play when I press the little red button that is positioned between the cat and the word Guacamole.

I’m a knitting/spinning blogger.
This is on my wheel right now.

Also, this arrived in the mail today.

It will become one of these, and is the same exact yarn I used to finish this today.

I am a vlogger.
No, I’m not. Have I thanked you lately for hanging out with me? Dear Lord, I’ve thought about quitting this blog thing so many times over the past few years, but honestly? It’s one of my favorite things, and why would you never watch Seven Brides for Seven Brothers again if you really really loved it? Why would you deny yourself a burrito?

School starts on Tuesday, and all I want right now is three more weeks of summer and a long drive to anywhere.

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Shiver and say the words of every lie you’ve heard.

July 29th, 2015 · 20 Comments · Daily

As I mentioned yesterday, I saw a chiropractor on Thursday, July 16th.

She was all, “You’re a DISASTER.”

And I was all, “You don’t even KNOW me.”

And she went, “Do you know what I call people like you?”

And I go, “A disaster?”

And she was like, “Yes! And also? A TURTLEHEAD.”

And *I* was like, “Well, you haven’t seen anything yet, because in two days I’m going to ride a horse for the first time in my life! And that’s probably not the best idea!”

On Saturday, July 18th, Harper and I met half of her Girl Scout troop at a ranch near the airport for a horseback riding session. Because I had never ridden a horse before, I was matched up with Luke, and then told that Luke’s bad habit is stopping for snacks. (SO IS MINE!!!) Helmet on, quick lesson in steering and stopping, and off we went! Into the woods!


(Into the woods without delay! But careful not to lose the way. Into the woods, who knows what may be lurking on the journey?)

Anyway, all of the scouts and the scout leader and the wranglers were in front of me on our ride. The fact that I was last in line and riding on a horse that liked to snack made me a little nervous, because Luke? Luke really did like to snack. Often. Every time he stopped to grab some leaves off of a tree, the wrangler two horses in front of me would yell, “Kick him. KICK him!!!” But I was wearing my suede sneakers and I’m afraid my kicks felt like velvety love pats to sweet Luke, so: No luck.

When you’re me, you tend to take things entirely too personally. And you’re working on it, but you also know that you’re 45 and still completely self-conscious and it’s hard to NOT take “You’re a disaster!” personally, even if “you” is referring to the musculature surrounding your shoulders and neck and not to The Whole You. When you top all of that off with a (very) young wrangler encouraging you to kick a snacking horse, well, it’s taxing for a fragile flower in the wilderness.

Thirty minutes into the ride, the horse in front of me stopped.

Wrangler: KICK him!!! KICK HIM!!!

The Girl Scout on the horse in front of me tried to kick her horse. She tried to steer him. She tried everything. Resting Horse was done. (The mud on the trail was knee high in some places. If I was a horse, I wouldn’t want to slop through it, either. (Sometimes I take three showers in one day for no good reason.)) The wrangler looked back at me and said, “Take Luke up and see if you can smack her horse on the rear.”

Me (in my head): I’ve never even spanked my own children!!!

Me (to the wrangler): Gotcha! Tally ho, then!

So suddenly I’m trying to inch a snacking Luke up to Resting Horse and I’m leaning way over Luke’s head to see if I can touch Resting Horse’s butt and my fingertips barely touch him, but my fingertips clearly feel more like a fly than a command because Resting Horse starts throwing his beautiful white tail into my face and I Quit. I quit, damnit! I’ve never ridden a horse before and I also have no idea how to swim, and I’m so sick of feeling tired and headachey and ugly and unmarketable and my life is halfway over and my brain STILL hiccups when I try to change a halogen bulb and twice in the past week I’ve forgotten to put detergent in the washing machine and I think my eyebrows are getting thinner which means it’s only a matter of time before my bones start breaking and I spend all of my time talking about illnesses and funerals. You know what? If my horse wants to eat and her horse wants to stop, let’s just GO WITH THAT, because how many of us have the opportunity to do whatever the hell we want WHENEVER the hell we want?! Not many of us! More power to the horses! IT’S SNACK TIME!!!


(I’ve always been intrigued with the programs that pair horses with troubled teens. After spending 45 minutes on Luke, I totally get it. Breakthroughs can happen on the back of a horse.)

Quick route to a happy ending: The wrangler did a very impressive U-turn on her horse, grabbed the reins of Resting Horse to get him moving, and then Luke followed along without snacking again for nearly ten minutes, which was just long enough to arrive at the clearing where The End Was In Sight, where The End = My Hyundai.

(Suddenly, the way is clear, the light is good, I have no fear, nor no one should. The woods are just trees, the trees are just wood. No need to be afraid there.)


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