The Serious Moonlight

(Hey, name that lyric!  Prize= my admiration.  Sorry, that's all I got.)

It occurred to me this evening, as I was stirring through the charred remains of the  burn pile with a hose in my left hand, that this is the night before Halloween.  What a perfect night for it.  The streaky clouds were chasing each other across the moon, pushed by a very odd south wind.

The moon is close to full, making that wonderful silver glow on everything.  It's not the same as the light from the lamp in the middle of the barnyard or the big light on the wall of the shop.  It plays tricks on me.  A few times I thought I saw an ember but it was just moonlight reflected on a stalk of wet straw.

Sometimes my imagination plays tricks on me.  But I let it.

I had to get some new drugs from the emergency room doctor to counteract the (perfectly harmless) annoying shooting pains radiating from my eyeballs to my fingertips.  One drug keeps me from crying at the wall all day and disturbs my sleep; the other dulls pain and knocks me on my butt.

I don't even know what house I'm waking up in 98% of the time on a good day.

I feel kinda woozy.

Unlike this guy, I don't look heavenly and sexy when I feel woozy.  How does he do that???

Result: if you trick or treat at my house this year (not this house, the other one) it won't be a particularly short and rather feminine Captain Jack Sparrow opening the door.  Sorry darling.  It never would have worked between us.

Tonight the horses galloped into the corral; the white in the coats glowed in the silver light.  When they were done their grain they both looked out the back door of the barn.  By the time I had the lights out and locked up, they were gone.  I squinted out into the dark pasture but all I could find were two ghostly shapes out there.

I wanted to be the Headless Horseman for Halloween when I was a kid.  I wanted to ride around the country block on my little black pony with a coat pulled up over my head.  I wanted to go to school like that.  With the pony.  I never was allowed to do that.  Not even a discussion.

I love Sleepy Hollow the way Tim Burton did it.  I don't like scary movies but I love this one.  It's creepy and beautiful and not quite earthly.

I probably wouldn't like to meet up with the Headless Horseman while standing there in the bottom of the yard looking for smoking embers.  Way down there in the dark with only the moonlight, digging through the charcoal with the last wisps of smoke escaping from underneath the wet dripping rusted remains, me all alone with two ghostly horses behind me.

Have an imaginative Halloween.

Fencing, with a chainsaw and hammer and nails, not slightly creepy white outfits and fake swords

Earlier this year I made a decision: I will no longer have the manure pile in the corral!  I don't care how convenient it is to have it just outside the barn door, I want it gone.  I don't care if I have to push the wheelbarrow twice the distance through snow and mud.  I don't care if it means a day's work to cut a gate through the corral fence.  No more manure pile in the corral.

I don't mind of that corral has to double as turnout area for the horses as well as training/ riding space.  That's fine; we can ride without walking into the watering trough.  But the pile, man, it not only gets in the way, it cuts the riding area almost in half, and creates a big mucky moat around it.  Not to mention the flies.  And stink.  That's IT I've had enough. So far this fall, if the horses have spent the night in the barn, I've pushed the wheelbarrow all the way out the pasture gate and around the corner to the new pile.  It gets old fast.

I figured with the old liquid manure tank right on the other side of the fence, I already had the perfect spot.  It's concrete, it's got drainage holes into the tank for all the nasty runoff to disappear into, and I can just drive the tractor onto it to scoop everything up in the spring and take it away to compost.  All that stood in my way was that fence.

And in case you're not from the country and you're wondering... YES much of my thinking space is taken up with fences and s**t.  These two topics are a constant concern.  If these are my biggest problems I consider myself lucky.

Yesterday afternoon, I convinced my ol' man to come out to the corral and bring his tools.  It wasn't raining and I wanted to get this done.  Armed with the chainsaw, hammer, knife, crowbar, and a box of nails, we got to work.  Dad cut the rubber strips which we use instead of planks.  I like this system, because it looks good (black, and never needs to be painted) and when it sags we just tighten it up like a belt through loops.  We had two cedar fence posts to be used as cross braces.  A fence post holding a gate or corner can't just be sunk into the ground and expected to stay up.  It has to be braced to the next post.

My ol' man is an Eyeballer.  He eyeballs the angle he's about to set the angled post, and then cuts a matching notch into the vertical post.  Over the years he's learned to not cut too much off at once, because there'll be a few adjustments before it sits just right.  The brace post gets a slanted end cut, and then we do the other side.  My job is to hold the brace post so he can eyeball it and cut it.  He doesn't measure when doing a job like this.  Kinda blows my mind, even though I'd probably do it the same way, only I'd for sure screw it up.  Maybe he's just screwed up often enough by now that he doesn't have to anymore.

Once the end post is braced to the next one, we get out the fence stretcher tool.  Like a lot of stuff around here, the ol' man made it.  It's just a metal pole with a curved spike at the end.  I stuck the spike through a hole at the end of the rubber strip, braced the pole against the post, and leaned on it with all my weight.  He hammered a few nails in at strategic places and we're on to the next one.

Most of the time taken, truthfully, was locating and carrying all the darn tools around.  Also, the fact that neither of us moves particularly fast, that really stretches out a task.

I had to laugh at our horses.  They had to come up and see what we were doing.  I joked that Phoenix, aka "The Mechanic" would be watching and learning, because he has that look.  Sometimes I swear he's gonna start speaking to me in my own language, he just looks clever.  He likes to untie his lead rope then just stand there, to prove a point.  We're lucky he doesn't have opposable thumbs. (I have a thing about curious geldings: Champ was the same.  Dad used to joke that that horse would be driving the tractor if he could ever figure out how.)  Phoenix had to sniff each tool and pick up a rubber strip in his teeth.  When Dad fired up the chainsaw they both did this totally lame routine where they went, "Wah, we're horses, like, we're supposed to act like we're scaaaared, whoo ah, awright what are they doing now let's go see."  The second round of chainsawing had the two of them flicking their ears and rolling their eyes but they couldn't be bothered to do more than that.  I sure do like my Appaloosas.

They weren't sure about this new gap in the fence.  It took Phoenix about a half hour of investigating before he ventured through.  I still haven't seen the little mare try it.

This afternoon, we'll build brackets to hold the planks in place.  When I need to get through with the wheelbarrow, I'll lift the planks out of the way.  Easy, right?  I might have to put the manure on a toboggan to get it across the snow, at which point I'm sure I'll see my ol' man snickering at me.

In the evening I worked a bit more on my tack room project, while thinking about all the fencing we need to do around here.  One side hasn't been changed in decades and is looking pretty rough.  Do we have enough materials to fix it?  I sure don't have the funds to buy any new fencing and my parents aren't able to throw any money at it.  At this point, any new fencing will have to wait until spring.

I sat on my decrepit chair gazing around my tack room, thinking about these things, these things that are so important in a life full of horses and pasture and a busy highway out front.  A lot of folks have no idea how much thought goes into this.  A fence keeps the neighbour's kids out of their dog poop in the backyard, or vice versa, but in my world, a fence keeps horses out of the path of oncoming transport trucks.

I actually worry about that less than you'd think, simply because of all the thought put into fencing already.  For now all I'm thinking about is keeping my horses out of s**t.  Which if you think about it, is kind of the same thing, not?

IT’S NOT THE BIGGEST, IT’S THE MEANEST: talking horses with people who don’t know horses.

I got into a discussion the other day with a couple of my Ol man’s buddies.  You know how it is with buddies - they are always up for a chat.

Jim Bob -yes there is a buddy called Jim Bob - says he sometimes feels like he should hop on and go for a ride when he’s out there working, or waiting to start working, or supervising the working.  He sees me out there with them and it looks so great.  Then he talks himself out of it.  

Then the other buddy - we’ll call him “Keef”, he looks like a Keef- tells us a story about his first horseback deer hunting trip.  His friend gave him a big thoroughbred $50 ex-racehorse to ride.  “Um, nice friend,” I commented, attempting sarcasm.  You know, like who needs enemies, that kind of thing.  (Honestly, why do people put first time riders on half-trained horses????)

Well, Keef described this wild ride.  The friend headed on out his horse expecting Keef to follow on his unruly wild beast.  “I had the reins in one hand, and the rifle in one hand, and my third hand around the saddle horn...”   He was desperately trying to hold this horse down to the ground, but all he got was that “bouncy speed.”  I knew what he meant and I could picture it: big long legged horse with his head cranked back to his chest at a big frustrated trot.  I haven’t had any experience with racehorses but based on what I’ve heard, they know one thing other than how to behave in a barn, and that one thing is RUN.  

From what I have experienced, if any horse is determined to run, I don’t care how strong the bit in his mouth is, or how strong the rider, he’s gonna run.  

“Finally, I had the rifle in my right hand,” he says, and I’m thinking the worst, “and I started with it right here,” hand beside his knee, “and I swung it right over like this and-” he made a quick stop motion in front, “Bam, right between the ears.”

What do you say to that, eh?  

Keef raised an eyebrow.  “That sure as hell smartened him up.”

“Well of course it did,” I says.  “He’s not gonna misbehave once he’s had his brain rattled like that.  You’re out hunting deer and he’s seeing little tweeting birds circling his head!”

It got a laugh, but I have to put in a defense for the horse.  “It’s a respect thing.  He figured out that you weren’t playing around.  That’s just the extreme case...”

I tell them about this annoying, seemingly harmless habit my gelding has.  He likes to stand with one hoof rested.  It looks like nothing, but it’s a pain.  Try getting a saddle on straight when his back is tilted to the side. More importantly... it’s disrespectful.  He’s being lazy and ignoring me when I ask him to stand up straight on both hooves.  It’s not too much for me to ask.  And when I request that, I expect him to comply.

Seems like nothing, but I think it’s little passive-aggressive tricks like that which eventually lead to me landing on my friggin head.  Which I do not want.  

I want his respect, willingly and unquestioningly.  

After saying this in much less words, Jim Bob looks at me with concern.  “Horses seem kinda mean...”

“No, not mean, just... they have to know who’s in charge, and they’ll be fine with it once you tell them where it’s at, they just have to know.”

“That’s right,” says Keef.  “They have to know who’s boss.”

How many times have I heard that in my life?  It’s true, no denying.  BUT.  It’s so often mistaken as brute force, as a hostile relationship, and I don’t have the physical strength or emotional hardness to do things that way.

Then I remember that I’m an instructor now.  There are standards I have to uphold.  I have to sound knowledgeable.  And, you know, I really like horses and I want to stick up for them.

“It’s not about strength though, it’s all attitude.  You go anywhere with horses and 90% of the people are women my size.  Like, I don’t have the brute strength so I have to outthink him, and when he respects me he trusts me.”

The men nod like they’re getting this.

I continue.  “Like, if you look at a herd of horses in a field, all one horse has to do is put her ears back and nip, and all the other horses get out of her way.  It isn’t about size either, because sometimes the smallest horse is the boss.”

“Yeah.  It’s not who’s biggest.  It’s whose meanest.”

Ah yes, my speech has been completely misunderstood.  Again. Wherever you find horses, you’ll find humans who just don’t friggin get it. 

A horse is a big animal, obviously, and anybody who can bend it to his or her will is admired by other humans.  Sadly, too many humans do not understand how it’s achieved.  How does she do that, when she’s only 110 lbs?  How can she manhandle that big horse?  She doesn’t.  She gives him the message the very first time she comes into contact with him.  

Hey horse.  Nice to meet you.  Get your shoulder away from me and don’t step on my feet.  There, now we can be friends.  Except for that. If you push me or drag me I’m gonna get after you like your mama did and then you won’t do that again. Ok?  Yup.  You are my friend.  

And she can convey that without saying a single word.

How do I tell this to a bunch of dudes in their 50s and 60s, guys who have worked outdoors, built things, raised kids, punched the clock, and know stuff and about stuff?

I smile.

“Well...I only have to be mean once.”  

These guys know, because they work across the yard, and they see me out there regularly with my horses, that it’s pretty lovey dovey out there in the corral.   They know I don’t spend every ride wasting my breath yelling and cussing at my horses. They see my horses doing pretty much what I ask them to do, even if I have to ask harder one more time.  

When Keef whacked his horse with the butt end of his rifle, it was the last time he asked.  He did not have to ask anymore because that horse probably was scared to blink the wrong way.  Effective, okay, but I sure as hell do not intend to carry heavy objects around to whack my horse with!  I know for a fact that you cannot love or sweet talk your horse into being nice to you, but I also know they work better for me if they trust me to be in charge without beating the hell out of them.

My horses are so far from perfect.  I’m even farther from perfect - I know I have a lot more to learn about riding, horse training,and teaching, and horses in general.  But I’m not big, and I’m not mean.  Looks like I’ll just have to go on demanding their respect and earning their trust!

Jethro says I sleep too much.

To which I say, WHAT?  These days I'd spend all day in bed if I could.  Dark of night, sun outside, doesn't matter.  You know, maybe that isn't good.

Maybe I'd rather do anything other than face all this damn work I have piling up.  It's not being lazy, exactly, it's more like um, burnout?  Forced apathy?  Emotional overload?

I'll tell you one thing: moving house has meant excavating layers of sedimentary paper.  I have found some interesting stuff.  I knew I'd always kept my Dracula story from Grade 6, the one Mrs Prosser wrote a very complimentary note on the back page beside my mark, telling me to keep writing.  I had to keep all that proof that I have always loved to write and have always been halfway decent at it.  But then to find all these short stories, written before the computer phase of my life, in big juvenile handwriting, is both heartbreaking and encouraging.

Heartbreaking because I know, and realize all over again, that somewhere along the line I stopped believing in my ability, or maybe (more likely) never really believed it.

Encouraging because I know I've always had it, and still have it.

The handwriting matured, and from the quick glances before shoving it all in a box, the stories improved.  By high school I was starting into all these concepts and big ideas.  If I'd put half that effort into actual schoolwork I'd have done much better, I guess, with the whole report card thing.

Anyways.  I have so much to do and not much gumption to get at it.  At least the sun is poking through the clouds, and leaves don't rake themselves.

I must stir the snoring Pug and make him come outside with me.  Who exactly is it sleeping too much around here???

What the? What? What day is it? Where am I?

People, it's technically not even Friday anymore and I should be sleeping right now, but I've got a head full of paint fumes.  You should see Jethro - he's the one who did the nasty oil paint in the kitchen.  Me, I was downstairs with the tunes and the latex paint.  However, I was halfway around the room on the second coat when I realized that I was painting the damn room BEIGE.  Yeah it may say "Toasted Cashew" on the lid, but darnit, it's BEIGE.  Gah.  Oh what the heck, it was 13 bucks for a gallon.  We figured we couldn't go wrong.

Actually it looks pretty decent.

I mean, before it was BEIGE it was ivory.  Booooring.  The kids didn't care; that room was so covered in dents and scratches it was obviously a playroom.  You know what?  The more you type BEIGE the weirder it looks.

So I've been back and forth between two houses and regularly wake up in the dark totally unsure where I am.  This morning the radio went off at the crack of confused o'clock, playing the new Muse single, during which I had this amazingly detailed dream that I was hanging around in a highrise apartment building waiting for Jethro and decided to venture out into the city, which was entirely lit by neon and made up of buildings painted in bright colours to match the neon, and I was walking around the block singing, They will stop degrading us!  We will be victorious!  I was lurking around like a spy... wondering why I wasn't singing a Radiohead song instead, You know... I'm a creep, I don't belong here.

What was I talking about?

Paint.

I'm too good at it, I mean it.  I did that whole room, two coats, with cheap paint, and it looks awesome.  But if I did this for a living I'd get fired because I'm too picky.  Just get it done.  Nope, gotta get all precious about it.

No not that kind of painting.  Hold still so I can squint at you.

But I think a nice picture would go well right about now.  No reason.  Just for fits and giggles.  What?

Every muscle in my body aches.  Tomorrow I have to paint the trim and then go outside (YES!) and trim some bushes and stuff.

Is it Friday?  It feels like Sunderday.

Alright I'm down to 4% battery, which means I'll have to tell you about ponies next week.  Ponies?  yeah, not unicorns.  The paint fumes are wearing off.  OOooooh the colours....

Spotted ponies?  Goodnight.  See ya.  Bye Johnny.

There's just no figuring out what people are going to like, is there?

What?

Later, gator.

My poor old truck gets no respect...

First of all, I don't consider a twenty year old truck to be OLD.  It's a truck; it's supposed to last.  Like a Rock and all that, right?  I grew up with a family farm truck that was already twenty years old.  It's still kicking, too.  All summer every day of every year, the old Ford hits the road.  It probably gets more miles in a year than mine does.

So my GMC is not old enough to be an antique, not new enough to be nice, not customized, not special.  Except to me.  It is MINE and my name is on the paperwork.  Therefore it's the best truck in the... well, not world.  Best truck in my driveway?

Jethro juts out his lower jaw and announces that it's the last gas powered vehicle in our family.  The Jetta has him converted.  Diesel or nuthin.  For his next vehicle (which will be a long time from now, the way our income is going) he's thinking of a nice diesel VW Toureg.  All wheel drive.  Or.  A Ford F-250.  Because that way he'd have a man-truck, not this girly Chevy truck.

Geez.

We were driving along with a utility trailer in tow, after a trip through the slob-thru.  Jethro launched into his usual post-slob-thru tirade.  "How can a truck be designed to carry six people and have zero cupholders?"

I rolled my eyes like I usually do and reply, "Because twenty years ago trucks were designed to work, not have coffee shop meetings."

Then he waves his hand around the interior and makes some crack about all the carpeting and upholstery and velvety sun visors.  This makes me sigh in defeat because I know, I know.  Carpet in a truck is STUPID, I mean what were they thinking?  It's really hard to get the clods of mud out... and the woven upholstery is so hard to vacuum the pug hair out of, not to mention horse hair and whatever else got picked up on any day.

On this particular day my ol Man was riding shotgun and of course, his truck has vinyl floor mats all the way across, a vinyl bench seat, and a metal dash.  No pansy fabric anywhere.  Nothing to catch all the dirt, he could just wipe it all down clean, which he wouldn't do if car shows didn't exist.  Me, I gotta spend half an hour and about eight bucks in coins to get my interior clean.

So my GMC loses again.

When our hot chocolates and coffee were gone, I asked Dad to shove then in the Hick Garbage Can for me.  You know what the Hick Garbage Can is right?  The door panel map holder things, in the door panel, you know, where you keep all your stuff and junk but not your maps.

Well.  Doesn't he make note that his Garbage Can holders are much bigger than mine.

Jethro laughed because the Ford's doors are hollow, basically, although the steel is probably twice the thickness, and theoretically Dad could fill the entire door with Root Beer cans.  And still get the window down.

Of course, windows, that's another thing.  I like power windows.  Argument: just another thing to break down and spend money on.

And speaking of spending money!  He has basically the same engine in his truck, but gets waaaay better fuel mileage.  Well if my truck was half its size... I give up on that argument.  I mean, why bother?

Besides, his truck can kick the ass right offa mine.  Most Grandmas can kick my truck's ass.

So what's it good for?  The interior is a pain, it's too big to park, it's horrible on gas.

I'll tell you what.

Other than IT'S MINE, it can carry six people, or, me and my kids and three friends.

I can fit a 4x8 sheet of plywood no problem, with the tailgate closed.  And yes, I've done this many times in the last five years.

I can fit twice the amount of junk than Dad's little old Ford.

Unlike Jethro's F-250, my truck exists.

Oh, also: I am not very big, but my truck is, and yes, size does matter.

My guys really should be kinder to the big ol monster.  She pulled two trailer loads of stuff down the highway on the weekend, with both the cab and box loaded up.  Emptied the gas tank but it was still cheaper than renting a cube van.  I told Jethro that brand new engine two years ago was totally worth it.  He is not convinced.  He tells me when I say things like that, that the truck owes us and we'll have to drive it for the next ten years to get our money's worth.

I say, "YOu're darn right we'll be driving it ten years from now!"

Then my ol Man scoffs.  "No you won't be," he growls, "it's made out of plastic!  It won't last."

Maybe he forgets how stubborn his daughter is.

I kept telling them how great my truck is, mostly in protest.  It is, I admit, looking kinda rough these days.  Too many studio moves, studio construction projects, backyard deck/ shed projects, too many trips to the dump, horse shows, too many winters.  The shiny silver paint Dad sprayed on it five years ago has dulled.  Next time I'm doing flat black.  Well, I'll do the primer, he'll do the paint.  I don't do paint on things with wheels.

I wonder if I can talk him into painting pink and purple flames on it.  How awesome would that be???  He refused to paint my first truck purple; he let me drive it with primered wheel wells instead!  I wonder if Jethro would be seen in it...  I mean, it's not like either one of those guys approves anyways.

Heh heh heh...

FOURTH BLOGIVERSARY FALL CHEER UP HORSE BIRTHDAY GRATITUDE PARTY!!!

HI!  C'MON IN!!!

Oh my gosh, I've been slaving over a hot MacBook for two hours but I've finally got my party ready to go!  You'd think after four years of blogging I'd have this all figured out, but there's always something new to learn.  It's okay.  Blog parties are always easier than real parties.  And despite me having my feet up on boxes right now, my house looks awesome!

Just come right in through the kitchen here... take a daisy with you on your way.  Stick it in your hair, I'm going to.  Later we'll get some brown-eyed susies and sunflowers, we can shove them into our beltloops, hatbands, boot tops, we'll just be a bunch of raving flower children.  Flower season's almost over, and we are going to enjoy it, right?

But first, snack time.  You must be hungry... I know some of you have travelled great distances to be here!

I've got some of these nifty little sandwiches, with a whole bunch of stuff in 'em, like, um, let's see... apple slices, bacon... oh wait, they're all different.  The best part is, you can have as many as you want and not gain anything!

And you know by now that no blog party is complete without... TINY CHEESEBURGERS!

Good for any occasion!

While we're at it, and since this is an alternate universe where stuff like this is good for ya, try one of these bacon wrapped deep fried sausage on a stick with sticky sauce on it.  They're great because they appeal to almost every subculture.  Except vegetarians.

Oh, here you go.  Caramel apples.  Sweeeeeet.

Just remember, sugar has no effect here.  I will not hear the phrase "blood sugar level" because here in Hick Chic world, we have this magical unicorn dust which we sprinkle on all imaginary foods.  I know, it's amazing. 

I hear in October, it's customary to drink beer.  Like I need an excuse. 

Blog parties, yay!!!

Okay, since this is partly about Fall Cheer-up, we MUST go for a walk.  It appears to have stopped raining, so get on your boots and coat!

Of course you brought boots.  You know you always bring boots to my world!

My lavender crop is lovely this fall.  All the photographers from Country Home Living Life Beautiful magazine were very impressed.

And the colours!  You know what?  I love fall colours.  There's always that ripped-off feeling that summer is over, and the dread of winter coming up, but let's just focus on what fall gives us.

Stunning, isn't it?  We can stay out here as long as you like.

You know how here in imaginary blog world, where I throw great parties on my little unicorn ranch, and my house is always fan-freakin-tastic, we never run out of food?  Here's the thing... it has gotten kinda scary for the last while in the real world.  But we're here and we have not starved.  The check shows up in the mailbox just in time, we make a meal out of rice and leftovers and whatever we find in the freezer. I pray to be taken care of.  We have not starved.

I'm pretty darn thankful.  I thank God, I thank Mom, I thank clients who pay on time.

Not everybody in this world is so lucky.  The concept of "poverty" in Canada is much different than that in some parts of the world.

Well that was sobering.

Let's keep walking, and enjoy the scenery.

We can find beauty anywhere, it's just easier in some places, eh?

(Don't trip over my garden tools... I know, I should put them away.  I will.  Later.)

And while we're out here...

Let's say hi to the Birthday Boy!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY PHOENIX!

Ya handsome fella!  Look at you, all clean and shiny for your picture!

He's 9 now.  I guess officially he has been considered to be 9 years old since January, but I've been told he was born in October.  I'm guessing he was a surprise.  Foals are generally born in the spring.  Oops.  He's got to be a tough little monster, surviving his first winter at two months old.  And look at him now.

All growed up and always ready for attention.

It's been two and a half years, and I am quite stuck on this big doofus.

C'mon over and give him a virtual scratch on the neck.  He loves it.

Ahhhh, after a horse cuddle I need a drink of water.

And here's the bathroom.

You're welcome.

Time to warm up.  I've got just the right spot.  A fireplace, books, a comfy chair and a blanket.

I know!  Who's ever gonna leave?!

So, yeah, I did a few changes in the library here.  There should be room for all my books now.

Well, I'm ready to get my feet up and do the old chat n snack.  What have you got with you there?  Man, I do love blog parties.

Happy fourth blogiverary to meeee

Happy ninth birthday to Pheeeeeee Nix

Happy cheer up to Yooooooooo

I'm so glad we're all here!

Party ON!

People, I think we need a party.

There are so many reasons to throw a party right now.

Such as...

In real life, my house is full of boxes, packed, taped, half packed.  Drawers and cabinets are hanging open. Recycling boxes are overflowing.  It's ridiculous and upsetting and I'd like to pretend everything's all magazine-quality perfect right now.  Of course, when it comes to perfection, that's all my house will be: PRETENDING!

Man I love to pretend.  It's great.

More reasons to throw a party...

It's wet, cold and windy outside.  My least favourite.  A blog party could cheer us up.

I'm too poverty stricken to throw a real party but this is free.

I could get really friggin' bummed out about certain things in my life but I must choose to think about the blessings I have.  There really is so much to be thankful for.  Have to think positive, have to think positive!

It's Thanksgiving this weekend.  Virtual pumpkin pie anyone?

Oh- October is my blogiversary.  Four years!

And also Phoenix was born in October, nine years ago.  Aw, getting so grown up.

Party motives are now established.  All we need is a date and some participants.


Now, if I were to plan this thing in real life, I'd beg all party people to bring food, because I freak out whenever I have to do food planning, and also, the broke thing.  Imaginary food I can pretty much handle, but I still need some help here.

OK?

PLEASE SHOW UP AND BRING A FRIEND, OK?

What I mean is, tell others about this and get the word out.  You're all invited to my Fourth Blogiversary Fall Cheer-up Horse Birthday Gratitude Party!

Aaaaand... let's do this on Friday.  OK?  OK!

I'll get busy finding some imaginary food and a nice pretend house with a fireplace.  It'll rock.  And none of us will have to do any cleaning before or after!

(Oh my gosh, I have a lot of work to...)

OK!  See you then!!!

(ps - coming up next week: horse stories, progress reports, and maybe something with actual thoughtful content.  I'll keep you guessing.)

It's October: that means 3 things. It's Friday: you know what that means.

You're here, I'm here, outside the cold rain is dripping like misery, but it's Friday, so Johnny's here too. I kinda missed him. Thanks for reminding us to dress warm, Johnny.

Summer is over, kids. I'm as melancholy as you, I'm sure.

October means:

1) digging out the warm hats and flannel shirts. That brings me just a small comforting measure of happiness. I busted out the earflaps hat the other day.

I love flannel. For me, a good plaid flannel shirt is one of the best things about cold weather. It represents warmth and reality and signifies a trustworthy, honest person. Sounds corny, but that's what it says to me.

I'm taking any comfort I can these days. Now that it's over, I can confess that it wasn't the best, most fun summer of my life. We were totally broke, not in the "Can't afford to go to the movies" kind of way (which is why I did NOT get out to see Johnny Depp's latest), but in a "Can't buy cheese and meat in the same week" kind of way. Since I'm training myself to always look for the bright side - even if it hides from me - we did not starve. (I thank God and loved ones for that.) We are not homeless, despite not knowing where we'll be living a year from now. This past summer was all about uncertainty, but we got through it.

There were a few good things about this crappy summer.

I had visitors out to the farm. I got to use my tiny saddle on the little Lady so my friend Cute Stuff could ride her. See, I'm glad I decided to hang onto those cowboy boots my kids outgrew!

We actually did ride, but she would have been okay with standing around and being admired.

It's good to have friends over. Even dogs need friends.

We got one trip to the beach. One. We picked the only nice day in August.

September, however, was beautiful. I'm thankful for weather that allowed me to enjoy the great outdoors with my horses, and kept my kids out of the house after school.

Now it's rainy and miserable and feels like our two weeks of summer never even really happened.

October also means:

2)the Ol' Man will be packing his truck away for the winter. I finally drove it again after a few years of chickening out. If the seat moved all the way up, it would work better for me, but heck, I don't have to shift it into 5th, right? Too skeert to open that thing up and go full speed.

Like the door lock? I think my dad might be a redneck.

He's still got his winter van, but it only seats one other. I need to roll my truck down the big highway. I need wheels (under a cargo box) out at the farm. I need to do something about that highway phobia if I'm ever going to get my truck there.

October brings me a jarring change this year. I'm wandering around my house putting things in boxes. It makes the house look less like our house. My dog is following me around all day looking very confused and concerned.

I'm staring at bookshelves feeling very indecisive. Books don't belong in boxes. They need to be on shelves where they can breathe! This is very hard. I haven't even started on the bedrooms yet. I'm still fretting over books.

Know what else?

October means:

3) It's my Blogiversary.

It's been FOUR YEARS since I started this bizarre little interactive journal. Many of my readers have gone on to other things, and I've gotten new readers, and I'm still writing although finding the time gets harder.

Help me out here. What should we do to mark this occasion? What would you like me to write about? I'm overdue for another H the Heidi magazine but that's really hard to pull off on dial up. Maybe you should tell me about a particularly memorable blog post and I'll re-run it with updates and commentary. I do want to know what readers want to see. I'd be here typing anyways, but it sure is nice to know somebody's reading.

Gotta go. Boxes do not fill themselves.


ps  I pressed a few virtual buttons so that now anybody can comment.  (I think you all know who you are!)