Not showing up for work: Johnny Depp is not hanging around my place, honest, I'm not hiding him.

I haven't worked in… six months.  There are times I seriously question whether I ever did really have a job type thing or if I made that all up and believe it because it sounds like fun.  I can't imagine going back to work.  I can get the chores done, but the thought of being upright for two hours, long enough to get the horses and barn ready, and get through a lesson, is exhausting.  I'm working on convincing myself to just sit on a horse.  Not go anywhere, just sit. I might need different drugs.  I'm broke, I'm tired, and I'm indecisive.  But despite all that, I'm actually doing much better than I was half a year ago.

Meanwhile, Johnny Depp bags off work for a week, and it's plastered all over the news.  Yesterday it broke, and there was talk of him holed up somewhere with no electricity that can only be accessed by donkey, or something, hiding from his wife.  Oh the speculation!

Well settle down, world, because he has conveniently arrived where he's supposed to be: back in Australia to resume shooting the 5th Pirates movie.

You know I fall for this stuff.  I get my news off internet entertainment sites.  Right now that's  the only news I care about or can emotionally handle.  There are people in this world who make a career out of making headlines about The Famous.  If Johnny disappears, it's news.  If he shows up the next day, as if all it took was a little disruption in the news ripples, that's even better.

"EVERYTHING'S FINE."

I'd link to something but I seem to have busted my computer, or maybe I broke the internet, I don't know how this crap works.  Feel free to assume that I got my information wrong and don't know what I'm talking about, okay?

So awhile back, on the set of THE FIFTH PIRATES OR THE CARIBBEAN MOVIE, Johnny had some kind of mishap that resulted in a broken hand.

Here's what I took from that: another Pirates movie!  Heck yes!  I don't care if it sucks.  Gimme my Captain Jack.  You know how I am like that.

Accidents happen, and I'm sure there's a whole crew of people tasked with keeping everybody undamaged, but occasionally something happens.  I don't know what it was here.  Maybe it didn't even happen on the actual set.

Here he is getting on a plane to go fly to some hand fixing hospital somewhere.  

I can get behind the duct tape arrangement.  I was raised on a farm; this isn't the first time I've seen someone literally tape their hand back together and head off to the hand fixing doctor.  

And of course that's usually accompanied by the "Awright catchyalater, I'm aright seeyasoon."

About two years ago, he was still his crazy looking normal.  He looked like he got a bag of hand me downs from somebody's uncle, and the day of the Grammys he was like, aw crap, I gotta present a thing at that thing today, what's in the bag here… everything.  I'm just gonna wear it all.  And then snickers to himself as he imagines how all the tabloids are going to rip a strip off him for it, and how many worst dressed lists he'll end up on.  

But then...

He showed up to another thing, looking pale and waxy.  I'm not entirely convinced that's not a wax figure up there.  

And it got worse.  Last fall he was staggering and stuttering and it may not have been cute or funny.  

It would worry me greatly if he were an actual friend of mine. I'd be wanting to check on him and see if he's okay.  He's not looking okay.  

 The thing is, I see movie stars and celebrities as playing this very strange role in my life where I get to live vicariously through them.  I'm hiding from the world in my room, with my snoring pug, writing my little stories and listening to the vicious spring wind, while my horses roll in the mud and eat hay.  I like to look at pictures of interesting Famouses doing things in their interesting lives.  The problem is that I know just enough about how this whole thing works to totally suck the fun out of it.  Nobody on this planet has nothing but good days, first of all, and also, the career of Being Famous is a full time job.

I could be easily manipulated by those whose job it is to manipulate my feelings.  I like Johnny Depp as an actor, and I'd like to believe that I'd like him as a person.  I want to like his wife.  Depending on what I read, she's either really cool and different and interesting, or she's an opportunistic blank slate.  I can't even rely on photos because it's so easy to manipulate those too, just by inclusion.  Those pics of Johnny above?  I carefully chose one from two years ago where he looked pretty good, then chose ones where he looks slack jawed and pale.  See?  I'm not even making a living on this.

But I'm always making up stories in my head.  You know how your teacher in grade 3 showed the class a picture and we all had to make up a story to go with it?  That's my life.  That is constantly going on in my brain.  I can't shut if off.

 For example: Because I like Johnny, as much as I can like a person I've never met, I want to believe that his new marriage is a happy one and that they are well suited to each other and they're good for each other.  So this is how I see the following picture:

AMBER: You okay, darling?

JOHNNY: Sure, love, just walking down the airplane steps.

AMBER: Let me reach out my hand lovingly so that the wind doesn't grab you by the hair and whip you away from me.

JOHNNY: Thank you, darling, take the uninjured hand which bears your huge honking ring of enduring affection, which I offer to you as I gently brush my fingertips along your delicate beautiful skin.

Only I'd hope it's all a lot more sincere and less cheesy novel style.  

But I fear it may be more like this:

JOHNNY: Where are we, Amber?

AMBER: Australia.

JOHNNY: Movie?

AMBER: Pirates.  Hold my hand, okay?

JOHNNY: I wrapped it in a scarf.

AMBER: It looks great, honey.  Let's just do this okay?

JOHNNY: Did I lock the door of Marilyn Manson's house?

AMBER: You weren't there, you were at a motel in Arizona, remember?

JOHNNY: oh yeaahhhhh.  Netflix.  

AMBER: Hey everybody, we're back, he's back, I found him, take your pictures and we'll go do the thing.

JOHNNY: Okay let's go do the thing.  That I do.  Do you think anybody will say anything about me being a week late for this?

AMBER: Not if I can help it.  We're all good, ready to work!  Happy!  See?  All good!

I mean, at first glance, it's fine, right?  He's got a scarf raggy thing tied around his busted hand, so that's normal.  He looks like he was recently rolling around on the dusty cement floor of a garage, fixing something with wheels, so that's normal.  He's got a bunch of things hanging around his neck and his shirt appears to be half ripped off at the bottom and pinned together with a big safety pin, so that's all normal.  And she… honestly, who can wear pants like that and still look good?  She's just wearing mom jeans and a white T shirt, but she's got glorious thick blonde hair and she's wearing fun shades, and to top it all off, she's carrying a giant hardcover book, which works on me.  Right away, I'm assuming she's alright because she carries big books, which I assume she also reads.  And that's a nifty belt too.  I'm a sucker for a nice leather belt.  I want to like all of this. 

HOWEVER.

Say what you want about Johnny, love him or hate him, prefer he takes a bath first, either way,  you know he's got a reputation for being all-in when he's working.  He shows up.  He works.  

Maybe it's nothing.  

Maybe people all over the Greater Ol Homestead Area (including downtown Smallburg) aren't whispering about me either.  Maybe they are.  Maybe I'm not getting a lot of calls for lessons because everybody around here knows my horses are just hay burners and emotional therapists these days.  

Maybe Johnny didn't have the advantage of asking his pastor to just say a little note during the Joys And Concerns part of the sermon a few months ago about taking some time off and starting new medication. 

But in any case, I am still mostly hiding in my cozy bedroom, and Johnny Depp has shown up for work, and you don't need to come out here looking for him.  Even if he was hiding in my barn, I'd lovingly pep talk him into giving me Amber's number so she could come and get him.  Or send him to the emergency room, if it's bad enough.  I'd take him, but I let my driver's license expire in December.  Or maybe we'd drink tea and talk about how frickin hard life is sometimes and how loud it gets inside the skull.  We'd talk it out, man, we'd talk it out. 

It's what we do for our loved ones.  

Goodbye to Larry - he wasn't JUST a barn cat.

Guard cat Larry.  Trespassers will be caught and purred at.  

Our little buddy Larry has died.  He was badly hurt yesterday.  I usually can take care of injuries at home, but this looked like more than I could handle. The problem wasn't just severe wounds to his hind legs though.  His left hind leg was broken in several places as well as dislocated.  He was in a lot of pain and unable to walk.

We love our animals and don't want them to suffer.  The decision was made to euthanize him.  He very quietly died and was no longer in pain.

Many people who believe that cats should not be allowed to wander outside.  They have a point; it's a dangerous world out there.  Bigger animals can hurt them, which is probably what happened to Larry.  Cats can be hit by cars.  They can pick up diseases.

BUT.  Our barn cats have such a great life.  They are free to go where they please, and do what comes naturally to them.  They get to be cats.  They have a warm place to curl up in winter, sunshine in summer.  Trees to climb, rodents to catch.

Larry the kitten, 2008

Larry and Moe have had an exceptionally happy life because they get all the benefits of being free cats, but also healthy human contact.  Best of both worlds.  We make sure they have something to eat, rabies shots, and medical attention.  They have repaid us over and over with purring and companionship.  Very few barn cats can have a life like this.  My father couldn't afford to send cats to the vet back in the day, not when there were so many. That would have been ridiculous.

Soaking up the winter sun in some nice warm hay

I wish Larry hadn't come to the end of his life because he was hurt so badly, but in my opinion, it's the chance we take in exchange for everything he enjoyed.  And I'm just so grateful that we found him in time to give him a break from his pain and end his suffering.

Haven't we been lucky to have such wonderful cats to share our barn with?  They're not "JUST" barn cats.  They're our rodent control team, greeting committee, and good little friends.

The Brothers

Moe is okay.  Who knows whether he realizes his brother is gone.  So far he's hanging around in his usual napping spot, insisting on being petted whenever I'm in the barn.  He will have to soak up all the attention now!

Most recent picture of Larry and Moe, this summer.  

I will miss Larry very much.  We all will.  He'd walk across the yard to come get a pet, he joined us when we ate outside (and we persistently told him we wasn't welcome to actually eat with us) and I can't tell you how many times I taught a riding lesson with Larry sprawled across my arms.  He'd let me know when he was hurt and needed help.  He let me fix him up.  He insisted that I take time out of my day for a few slow minutes of cat time.

Moe will make sure I get my cat time.  As long as we have Moe, we will be smothered with friendly affection and loud purring. I'll have to check email in the barn so Moe can take over my lap and bump his little wet nose under my chin.  He'll take care of me and I'll take care of him.

Amateur Cat Vet

Larry gave up and settled the side of his face against my hand, and the gauze pad soaked with epsom salts.  He wasn't purring but he accepted my help. With my free hand I slowly rubbed under his chin as I whispered to him.  Good boy, good kitty.  We'll get you fixed up.  You'll be okay.  You're such a good patient.  What does the other guy look like, eh?

He looked a little puffy last night when I did the chores.  I saw a bit of blood on the side of his face,  a bloody streak on one ear, and a big tuft of loose hair on his back. "You've been scrapping, eh little dude?"  I gave him a quick check, didn't find anything gaping open or broken, and left him on his perch on the biggest saddle, where he licked his wounds.

This happens to barn cats.  When the snow melts, the feline wanderers set off looking for new girlfriends and trouble always follows them.  They fight.  They come away with some degree of damage.  Usually they get themselves over it.

Larry the Barn Cat

But this morning the whole side of his little cat face was swollen; his eye was almost closed.

Lucky for Larry, Heidi here has a whole cabinet full of first aid supplies in the tack room.  I poured some water into an old margarine tub, shook some epsom salts into it, gave it a stir with the tip of my finger and tucked three gauze pads into the pocket of my coveralls.  I set the water on one of the chairs over by the windows.  The cat, all curled in a ball, was lifted carefully and carried over to the windows.

He wasn't crazy about having his tattered ear bathed but he put up with it.  I didn't expect him to be okay with having his face messed with in his condition but I had to try.  Three times I dipped a pad into the salty water and held it to his swollen eye.  Each time he made a less feeble attempt to leave and each time I held him that way longer.  He sank into my hands like he was giving up.  I don't like it when cats act like they're giving up.  I dabbed at the corner of his eye and took some yuck away.  I held him away from me and got the best look at him I could without my glasses.  I could have convinced myself the swelling was down already.  I could see a tiny puncture mark on the bridge of his nose now.  And his eye was open more than it had been when I picked him up.

He's still got an eyeball.  That's good.

Doctoring done, he tried to wiggle away.  I ran my hand over his back.  Easy little yella fella.  Have a cuddle.  No need to run away, see, everything's fine.   I carried him over to the saddle rack, where I set him down like he was made out of glass.  That's when the purring started, a roar of gratitude.  I had to stand there for a few minutes while he turned himself around to get the maximum attention, rubbing the good side of his face against my chin, nibbling my fingertips, batting a paw on my cheek if I leaned away from him.

I rubbed the back of his neck one more time and left to clean up the barnyard.  When I came back to put away the wheelbarrow and forks, Larry was curled up again on the saddle, and his brother Moe had just jumped up to get comfy on the saddle in front.  He stepped right over Larry to get there.  Larry's ribs rose and fell as he snoozed.

Blasting the lid off the can of shame and embarrassment that is depression!

Today, Bell Canada is doing their Let's Talk campaign, which is striving to take away the shame and silence that often comes with depression and mental illness.

Clara Hughes is involved for the second year in a row.  You might not be aware of this lady if you're outside of Canada, so just a quick review:  she's a six time Olympic medalist.  Six.  Oh, and they are from both the summer and winter games.  Cycling and speed skating.

She has natural red hair.  She has sparkling green eyes and a big stunning, joyful, honest smile with a cute little gap between her front teeth.  She's obviously got the the body of an Olympian.  And she's been very open about the depression she dealt with after her first Olympic win.

You know, I've been told over and over that exercise is really good for beating depression, so yeah, I was pretty flattened to hear that an elite athlete battled with it too!  Man, what hope do the rest of us have?

Well, I think it's one of those things that doesn't really care who it hits.

In her case, the letdown after reaching that huge goal was devastating.  

We all have our own story.  I think it's so important to share our stories because we are not alone.  We aren't weak.  We feel alone and weak but we're not.

A doctor on TV this week made a very important point: don't ask somebody you suspect is depressed "what's wrong" because how the hell can that be answered?  If I knew what was wrong, I'd do something about it myself!!!!  It's too difficult to pinpoint it, so just ask.  Is there a chance you've got some depression?  Would you consider going to see your doctor?  Can I take you out for a walk?  Want me to buy some groceries for you?

Because the worst thing to do is... nothing.  Someone dealing with this should not be hanging around in that state, and it's next to impossible to get out of it alone.

Never be ashamed to ask for help.  I was.  I probably could have gotten help years earlier, but I put all the effort into "normalizing" and putting on the functional face just to get through a day.  My own family didn't know how bad it was.  I didn't even.

So don't bother trying to be "okay."  I'm a big believer in feeling how you are feeling.  It's what it is.  And here's the thing: it doesn't have to be permanent!

I'll tell you right now how my mental state is:

Pretty okay.

I am sleeping pretty well.  I go to bed early, take at least half an hour to get ready for bed, and read for awhile.  Say goodnight to my kids.  Turn off the light.  Talk to my husband.  Talk to God.  Pat the snoring Pug and close my eyes.

I still don't like waking up but I do it.

I have medication that works.  Yay!

I don't have three naps a week anymore.  Sometimes I can get through a week without a nap at all!

I take care of my horses every day, and I cherish them.  I am actually enjoying the physical work involved!  It's been a long time since I felt that way.  I have killer biceps and you know what, I am kind of proud of my physical strength.

I have the Official Best Pshrink Ever.  I see him ever week or two.  I got an ADHD diagnosis, which is beginning to explain a lot about me. It really helps to talk it all out, sort through anything on my mind, figure out how I can make my life better.  He's there to listen and guide.  And I don't have to tell anybody else what I talk about in that room.

I still believe we should stop saying "Crazy" like it's a bad thing.

I still cry a lot but sometimes it's not from being so deeply sad, but because I feel everything, and it's just the way I am.

To be totally honest, because that's what I'm doing here, I have pretty much drawn my life into a very small focus.  I don't go out much or call people, I don't even blog as much as I used to, but it's not from withdrawing from life -- it's that I am absolutely focussed on my own quality of life and my own family.  It's what I have to do right now.  I believe my kids are better off for it and I feel pretty alright about that.  I hope I make sure my friends know I still love them and I know for sure I'll be the life of the party again!

I laugh vigorously every day and it is fantastic.

So there you go.  Getting hit by mental illness is not something to be ashamed of, it doesn't mean you're weak, it doesn't have to define you, and it doesn't mean you'll be miserable forever.  It'll come and go.  You'll find ways to deal with it and you'll figure out how and when to ask for help.  You're still breathing and you're still talking.

Keep up the good work!

Never thought I'd be the person whose life goes totally sideways without my cellphone....

...but holy heck I just had a tricky couple of weeks here.

Long story short, we are now a FOUR iGADGET FAMILY and I have a brand spankin' new, not hand-me-down, all mine iGadget.

Long story long, I am officially one of those people: useless without my damn phone.

I held off on having one until two years ago, when I no longer had a land line.  It's taken me this long to really get the hang of it.  I have finally figured out how the "contact" section works and how to copy things in email and how not to text a message meant for the husband to the farrier instead.  (Good thing it was just boring stuff like what came in the mail today...)

As of two weeks ago, the family situation was like this:

Jethro - newish iPhone 4 with a sticky home button that sometimes worked right.

Me - his previous iPhone 3GS (whatever the heck that stands for) which I really liked even though there was a little dark spot in all the pictures it took.

Bucky & Annyong - his first iPhone, 3G I believe, which I thought was totally adequate in the first place but apparently not bell- and-whistly enough.

He'd given Bucky the old Gadget to use as an iPod, since Annyong already had a nice iPod.

Then the two teenagers landed a babysitting gig which they traded days... and the family has no land line.  I had awful thoughts about a kid breaking an arm or something and one of my kids out there beside a corn field needing to cross a busy highway to use a neighbour's phone to call for help.  So after a long discussion about responsibility usage and blah blah blah we activated the old Gadget.  No data, no email, just text messaging and calls on weekends and after 9pm.  Bucky gives the Gadget to Annyong when she goes to work.  And they'd have to each come up with some cash for the phone bill, what with them being employed and all.

It was working halfway decently, this system.

About two weeks ago this thing started.  My phone didn't work.  I missed a call from a student and wasn't here when she showed up for a lesson.  OOPS.  She was cool about it but I was getting worried. I wasn't getting calls, I wasn't getting messages, I was afraid I'd lose all three of my riding students!!!

Turns out it had to do with Jethro getting really sick of that wonky home button.  So he went out and got a new iPhone 4GS SS R/T whatever the heck acronym that phone's hauling around.

Everybody moved down a phone.

He spent a whole afternoon talking to the phone company to get us all four set up, get a number for each kid's phone, set up the data plan, bitch about the astronomical amount they're charging us and getting a better plan and oh man it was hardcore boring.

I walked away from that with two teenagers packing cellphones, something I'd vowed wouldn't darn well happen for a long time yet, and a newish iPhone 4 with a wonky home button.  I spent a couple hours setting up all the apps - which I find amusing because in my world the Apps are out in the field grazing and swishing their tails over their spotted rumps - making sure everything had moved over to the newish phone and recording a new voicemail greeting.

I also had to do some damage control with my students.

At least I had some peace of mind knowing that if one of the kids missed the bus or something, I wouldn't be driving all over the county and the town looking for a lost teenager.

Well one night Bucky decided to upgrade my iGadget to OS 10 or 10.5 or man I am not good with numbers.

THINGS LOOKED DIFFERENT.  AGAIN.

Like, I'm easily confused.  If it looks different it's like I've never seen the damn thing before.  Every time Google changes the email page I almost cry.  I'm lost.

I'm like a horse who walks into the barn one day and there's a DIFFERENT COLOUR BUCKET IN THE STALL and I cannot go in there because clearly, that is not my stall.

But Bucky 'splained it all and I was getting hip to the whole thing.


About a week into my new relationship with Newish iGadget, that sticky wonky home button just gave up.  I was on email and I had to turn the damn thing off and turn it back on again to use the phone.

Know what I hate more than trying to figure out something new?  I hate when things don't work.  I just want things to work, dammit.

I found myself at the Apple store 40 minutes away from home, relieved that it wasn't further away than that, with a young fella in a blue T shirt telling me I'd be getting a new phone.

Which resulted in a frenzied discussion with the teenagers about whether or not Daddy backed up all the crap on my gadget with the computer.

A couple hours later, I was in my bed, calling Bucky over to my room because... EVERYTHING WAS BACK TO MY OLD KIND OF DIFFERENT AGAIN AND ALL THAT STUFF I PUT ON THE DEFECTIVE PHONE WAS GONE OR SOMETHING.

I don't remember what happened next.  I think it involved recording a new voicemail greeting that might end with me giggling because Bucky tickled my foot on his way out of my room.

I'm liking my new gadget, I must say.  It's NEW new.  I got a bright pink bumper to put on it.  The screen is perfectly clear, even to my 40 year old eyeballs.  It doesn't dim enough for those eyeballs but I just look at it sideways and it's ok.  I've got all my favourite head banging tunes on it.  At some point I will again organize the pictures into albums like I did on one of the other iterations of this thing.

All's well, right?  We can put the techno-drama to rest for a time now?

Nope.

Last night the computer got upgraded from Liger to Lion.

LOOKS DIFFERENT DIOFWEHFSOIDJ.  Really slick and awesome, but different.  And of course in the morning my gadget and computer are all like, "Dude, who?  Man I don't even know you."

I try to scroll down the computer screen and it doesn't move.  Ohhhhh.... turns out it scrolls the same way the gadget does.  Backwards.  Ok.  Sigh.  I'll get used to it.

I've got all my little pictures (icons?) on the iGadget screen in the right order again.  Some time I'll reorganize the photo albums for the third time.  And delete duplicate contacts out of the phone list again.

I am pretty sure all my students can reach me if they need to.  But then, how would I know if they couldn't????????


When I go out to the pasture to visit Phoenix 1.0 and Oakie 1.0 and Copper 1.0  I'll be quietly pleased that all I need to do to upgrade them is go at them with a brush and a bottle of ShowSheen.

When it comes to this little horse, any shred of logic I've ever had disappears.

So I've been really busy this week. 

My tiny mare came up lame last weekend.  She walked past me Saturday evening totally normal, got a drink at the trough, and came back with her right hind sort of... dangling.  She's had her hind legs wrapped up good and tight since then.  

And she's walking on it.  Trotting and loping too, actually.  

The thing about Copper is that she's been a strange combo of fragile and resilient her whole life.  And we are stupefyingly in love with her.  She's so cute.  Look at her up there.  Everything about her is short and compact.  We joke that she's got a big head compared to the rest of her, but that big head is little compared to any other horse.  I buy stuff for her in the pony section which suits me fine, cuz I buy my clothes in the kid section sometimes.  

The kid section?  She belongs to my kids.  This summer we've had to finally admit that they have both grown out of her.  We knew it would happen.  So what?  She stays.  I'm not outgrowing her.  She's got a home for life. If I'm the only person who ever gets on her back from now on, that's fine.  

I decided years ago I'd probably not use her in lessons, partly because she is ridiculously sensitive and responsive.  I can stop her without touching the reins, just a shift of my weight and a quiet "whoa."  She moves from a walk to a jog and back again the same way, just with me shifting my seat.  Having an inexperienced rider would frazzle her.  She kind of spoiled my kids, having learned to ride with her, because they can't get why every horse isn't like that.  I'm not saying she's easy to ride; you have to be on top of every cue or she gets confused.  She's so eager to please she almost turns herself inside out to get it right for you.  But it's not work to ride her.  

I'd also not use her for lessons because she's had problems with That Leg before. 

I mentioned fragile and resilient.  

She's had all kinds of crap to deal with.  As a weanling, the other two foals in the herd only let her up to the feeder for leftovers.  Last year I figured out that her new bitchy snappy behaviour was due to a stomach ulcer.  She got a nail in her hoof a couple years ago and before that had to have stitches in her forehead.  (See why I'm paranoid about sharp things???)  And before that, when she was a yearling, soon after she arrived at the Ol Homestead here, she had a broken leg. 

Yep.  Right hind.  

We fixed her up the best we could.  Our vet couldn't promise anything.  We knew that... and decided to keep her anyways.  She healed up quite well, and I went ahead and saddle broke her when she was three, always keeping an eye on That Leg. She didn't take a wrong step, although her back end has always been a little... swishy.  I don't know how else to describe it.  She would probably have a little swagger anyways but it seems like her stride is just a tiny bit shorter on one side.  But then, I admit that I am looking for it.  Always looking for it.

We have enjoyed nine years with her.  She taught my kids to ride, which I would never recommend - young green horse plus little kids?  Nooooo! - but under my watchful eye they all thrived together.  

For nine years, it never left my mind that she could possibly end up really, terribly lame again.  I was always looking for that limp. Time bomb.

All the crap this horse had dealt with, and she just goes with it.  She still wants her forehead rubbed. She's always happy to see us.

When Dr Rob the Vet came to look at her on Tuesday, after I'd been wrapping her for a few days, I opted not to do the $200 Xray.  What difference does it make if it's cracked or sprained?  The treatment is the same:  wrap her legs, keep her still as possible, mild exercise, a little bute for painkiller, some mineral ice gel to help with the swelling... and no promises.     

I lived over an hour away the first time she was damaged, and had two small kids, and couldn't do much to care for her.  Copper got put on stall rest and got walked twice a day, usually by my dad.  Dr Glen the Vet was amazed at how this little yearling filly walked at the end of the lead rope with her head level, well behaved after being in her stall all day.  I wasn't there: no bandages and no fussing.  Now, at the age of ten, I don't know if she'll heal as well as she did then.  I'm cautiously optimistic.  

Part of our decision all those years ago to give her a chance, was that we would NEVER sell her.  I mean, you could tell a buyer that she has a healed injury and should not be worked hard - no jumping, no barrel racing - and after she appeared sound, it might be, oh heck, she's fine, let's take her to the rodeo, and then a few months or weeks or years later she's ruined and suffering.  It didn't matter because the kids wouldn't consider selling her in any case.  But, we also had to think about... the end.  I told the kids she might not live to be an old horse.  If she is suffering and I can't help her, we have to make The Hard Decision.  

I don't wanna talk about that right now.  Like I said, cautiously optimistic. 

Look at the muscles on this little fart.  

If she hadn't been injured, I think she would have been one hell of a competition horse.  She is blindingly fast, and can turn on a dime.  Just plant one hind hoof and pivot.  (Hmmm.  Wonder how she hurt herself this time?)

I've been putting her in a stall overnight, with the top of the barn door open so she can get lots of fresh air and see the other two, who are in the corral overnight.  During the day, they go in the pasture and she stays in the corral.  They have to be in her sight or she'll go berserk.  She can't function unless she knows where they are.  She'd hurt herself worse if she's left to spin and fret in her stall, worrying about the other two.  

This way she can see them, without them pushing her around, and also get some exercise as she walks in the corral.  

I make no money with this horse.  I can't afford to spend a whole lot on these horses at all but it's especially hard to justify for the little pet here.  I don't care.  For the cost of a few bags of shavings to bed her stall, I'll stable her at night for stall rest.  It doesn't cost anything but time to wrap those legs until I see the limp go away.  Maybe it's a stupid priority to keep feeding her when she's not the most useful horse in the herd, when I've got debts to pay and a truck that needs work, a husband who needs to go to the dentist and kids who need to go to college some day.  I don't know... My farmer's daughter practicality tells me it's foolish.  My foolish heart tells me I can't let her down.  She deserves to be taken care of.  

...those blinky eyes and brown ears, and that soft pink muzzle... 

Oh hell, what's a few hundred bucks a year for a couple hoof trims, a few squirts of dewormer and a  rabies shot?  

She's priceless.

The 27 Curse strikes again.

Amy Winehouse.  Dead at age 27.

Another talented self-destructive musician added to the eery list.

Well, sadly, I'm not shocked.  

I'm saddened though. You know I love my rock stars and musicians.  I have a ridiculous amount of admiration for people who can make music.  I might even have a clue about what makes them tick, even with my bad sense of pitch and inability to think up melodies.  I understand that creative drive.  I understand the rebellious streak that's never content to leave normality as it is.

I was just talking about her the other day with somebody who didn't get it.  "Why is she such a big deal? She's a wasted addict and a total mess."  That kind of thing.  And I replied something like, "No, she really is a big deal.  She's the real thing."  And also, "Man, I really hope she turns it around.  She's meant to be a star.  She's got so much left to do."

Because when she was good, she was very, VERY good.  She was sassy and unique and had a rich voice packed with attitude.  She didn't fit into either an older decade or the current one, which made her timeless in a classic way but also in a difficult, transient way.  

People who don't fit into this world full of rules have a hard time with life and the very concept of how to live. 

(Especially the brilliant ones.)

You'll be seeing all kinds of photos of messed up Amy.  

I'd like to remember her at her best.  

So if any of you out there happen by some strange chance to be potentially messed up cracked out confused frighteningly talented young musicians...

Just know that yeah, you're troubled and strange but we need you. Please stay off the junk and take care of yourselves.   

The Dead 27 Year Old Rock Star Club is big enough.  Don't join it.

DIY DETOX DAY 29: Things I Learned While Suffering the Cold Quit

As of Day 29 here, I'm almost, almost normal.  Well considering this is me, "normal."  I can stand having the curtain open during the day, I can speak without my head exploding, and I don't get the shocks every time I move.  Just sometimes.  And the shocks are only in my hands and face now.  I can walk without feeling like I'm about to fall over.  This morning I woke up at 6 am and haven't gone back to sleep.  I'd like to.  Boy would I ever like to have a sleep.  But I'm awake.  It's kind of good to be awake.  Yesterday I went out to the barn TWICE and today I took the dog for a walk about a quarter of the way around the yard.  (It's about an acre of yard.)  Hey I even cleaned the toilet today.  Progress.

I'd like to forget how horrible days 11 to 13 were.  I'd like to never ever think about the physical agony and mental torture.  I don't want to know how awful I was to live with for awhile there.

I just want to get my strength back, get my horses back in shape too, and man, I seriously have a whole novel to write, I'm not kidding.

I don't think I ever will forget how awful it was.  I had my doctor's supervision, I prepared myself, I knew it would be bad.  But, and this is the whole reason why I did it this way, I won't be weaning off for six months of mid-grade misery.  I will have a summer.

So... while I was spending a week or a month or however the hell long it was up here in my dark quiet bedroom, I had to occupy my brain.  I couldn't read or listen to music or even look at a TV or computer screen.  It was just me and the pain and my brain.  Wow.  What a combination.

I have a few things I'd like to share.

1) SASQUATCH IS REAL!

 It's true, I saw him in a dream I was having.  I was walking down a dirt road through the bush, not anywhere familiar, just a regular dirt road with trees on each side.  I looked down at the hoofprints on the side of the road and wished I was riding instead of walking.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a big brown furry thing heading into the trees, so I did what anybody would do. I followed!  I had my iGadget out and I was ready to take a picture as proof because that's also what anybody would do.  As I was fumbling with it I looked up and I was face-to-face with Bigfoot!  And no, it wasn't my husband.  He was doing the deer-in-the-headlights look and I said, "Dude, I need a picture of you," and he said, "I don't wanna have my picture taken!" and I was all "But nobody believes you're real" and he was all, "I don't wanna be real!  You're not real either!  Or something!"  Frustrated, I told him he would just have to go on being imaginary, after which I drove somebody else's giant pickup truck into a snowbank, parked it at a house which my sister-in-law does not live in real life, then got lost, and stopped at a garage where they were doing free hoof trims while you wait.  So yes, Sasquatch is real.  You heard it here.

2) WRITING SONGS IN YOUR DREAMS IS REALLY UNPRODUCTIVE

Man, I had these words that just broke my heart and mended it back together.  They fit together beautifully.  I even had a melody to go with it and that's something I've never been able to do.  That's why I am not a songwriter.  I was going over those words, singing them to myself to try to remember them, and thinking, "I am not going to remember how this went when I wake up, and that's a damn shame cuz when I'm awake I'll be thinking about how I'll never know if these songs are actually really good."

3) IF YOU LIE ON YOUR SIDE FOR A LONG TIME YOUR EAR GOES NUMB

Unpleasant.  Especially when the other side has already been numbed.

4) WHEN THE DRUG LEAVES YOUR BODY IT TAKES A WHOLE LOT OF EMOTIONAL CRAP WITH IT.

It's like the mood-stabilizer did the stabilizing it needed to, by suppressing a few things, and when the drug goes, it all comes flooding out.  It's good for the rest of the family to go see a movie when this is happening.

5) BOB DYLAN'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY IS AWESOME.

I was reading it when I started off on this little vision quest.  I finished up about Day 8 or 9 or thirty-seven or whatever.  Just as it was getting too painful to read.  Bob.  Bob loves music.  Bob thinks too much.  Bob speaks in poetry. Bob's memory for detail is stunning, microscopic, and vivid.

6) BOB DYLAN IS THE REASON I DISCOVERED... wait for it...

FINNISH TROLL METAL!!!!

Flow chart of discovery:

Reading CHRONICLES: VOLUME ONE

V

V

Look up a few details on Wikipedia, on account of Bob having extraordinary details for some things but not so clear about other things, like chronology, which was fine but I was curious.

V

V

Follow link to learn about Woody Guthrie, Bob's hero.  (Who, by the way, was stricken with Huntington's Disease, a horrible incurable evil horrible condition.  His second wife started what is now the Huntington Society, to help families and victims.)

V

V

Woody Guthrie is like, the godfather of folk music.  

V

V

What exactly is "folk music?"

V

V

Well there are all kinds of folk music.  There's even, gasp! a sub-genre called folk metal!

V

V

You think I see a link for FOLK METAL and I'm not gonna follow it?  

V

V

(and yeah, this took all day, accounting for eyeball rest breaks)

V

Wow!  Wow wow wow!  A link for TROLL METAL!

Well this is just too good to be true. Turns out there's this band called... ohmygosh this is brilliant... FINNTROLL, and it turns out this is a THING, and it's been going on without me knowing anything about it, which isn't shocking since I pretty much live under a rock, but still!  

So they're Finnish, but the lyrics are in Swedish, because the vocalist was from the minority of Swedish people in Finland?  In my slightly altered state this was just the best, funniest, heaviest, headbangin'est, craziest most rockin' and rollicking thing EVER.

Not only is this possibly my new favourite song, but it also proves that there are, in fact, a few less-than angelically gorgeous people in Scandinavia.  

Now I've got to share this around, because just as I was going into the worst part of the Cold Quit, this cheered me up like you wouldn't believe.  Sometimes I'd lie there with my jaw clenched and think, TROLLHAMMEREN!  Actually the one night when I was trying to explain this to Jethro and the kids I started laughing so maniacally I was in tears, like sob-laughing, and it sent sharp shooting pains all through my upper body but I couldn't quit.  They were borderline alarmed.  But come on.  Seriously.  They're Finnish, but the words are in Swedish, so now any future vocalist has to learn to growl in Swedish, and I still can't understand a friggin word of it!  It's BRILLIANT!  It is seriously brilliant!

Warning: if you are offended or grossed out in any way by dirt, cellars, rowdy consuming of fermented beverages, dreadlocks, windmill-headbanging, scowling, growling, or large angry looking hairy dudes dressed like Friar Tuck, do not watch this video.  But DO LISTEN because this is awesome.  

And that's how Bob Dylan made the whole experience just slightly bearable.  Thanks, Bob.

Last but not least...

8) BAD TIMES LIKE THIS CAN LEAVE A PERSON OPEN TO SOME TRULY WONDERFUL BRAIN EXPANSION.

...because what else was I going to do?  

I'm going to go do some more recovering now.  Catch ya.

INCOMMUNICADO: So far the drug withdrawal isn't as bad as I expected...

Might not be hearing much from me this week!

That's because last Tuesday I decided (with the help of Dr Santastic) to get off the Effexor, or as I like to call it, Side-e-ffexor.  It never seemed like the right thing for me. Although it did do what I needed it to do, which was to stop those awful thoughts I was having.  Those kind of kill-kill-die-die thoughts.  The too-hard-to-live thoughts.  The just-fall-down-and-die thoughts.

If you've been reading Hick Chic since the beginning, you might remember the Celexa withdrawal.  Then the drug-free years.  Then the admission that all my carefully learned techniques for mental health weren't cutting it anymore.  That's when I knew I had to GO GET SOME HELP and if that's a trip to the family doctor and a new prescription then that's what it takes!

Let me repeat: IF YOU NEED HELP GO GET IT.  Never be afraid to ask.

So that was three years ago. Last summer I totally lucked out and landed in the office of DR SANTASTIC!  He is awesome.  I feel so fortunate to finally find a pshrink who Gets me.  He figured early on that this ain't the right stuff for me.  The constant low-grade nausea and intermittent mild zapping shocks through my skull were solid indications.

I hope this isn't boring to read... i just feel it's important to share this stuff.  If blogging has taught me anything it's that I'm not alone with this stuff.

In January Dr Santastic started me on Wellbutrin.  So far so good.

We have talked about the whole tangled mess of ADHD and depression and a life without a diagnosis of  either/ both and all kinds of other heavy stuff...which I won't be sharing here cuz it's mine and it wouldn't help you anyways.  For various reasons we agreed to stop the Effexor and later try something for ADHD.  Last month we tried just lowering the dose and slowly wean me off of this but that just dragged it out and was fixing to be a long drawn out stretch of HELL.

I have a severe sensitivity to drugs.  All of 'em.  It took, like, 5 months of small agony to clear out the Celexa.  I can't do that.  Don't want to either.  A whole summer of misery and lost income...here's where I confess that I haven't been teaching... or even riding.  That's when you know there is something wrong with me.

Short story long:  I'M DOING THIS THE HARD FAST WAY.

Not exactly Cold Turkey.  Kinda room temperature turkey.  Yuck.

(Just so you know,  I'm not saying this is the way to go.  It's just the way I decided, with my doctor's advice.)

Last week I took out the morning dose.

Okay... not as bad as I thought...

Seriously I expected worse.

I was all set up for full on rock star level, Keef Richards style, sweating and puking and shivering on the floor of a hotel bathroom, chewing my own skin off horrible withdrawal.


Hmm.  Okay.  Don't want to eat but I've been like that for over a month now.  Shooting pains?  Yeah.  I've survived that before.  I reported it to Dr Santastic and he told me it's up to me to decide how I can take this...as I sat there with trembly hands and numb lips, trying to finish sentences... no I did not drive myself there.

I said, you know what, screw it.  I've washed the bedding, I pulled weeds, I wrote up lists of things the kids have to take over for me and warned the family.  I'm pretty much never alone in this house; if I got any withdrawal-induced psychotic ideas I'll be stopped.  I'm taken care of and if I'm gonna do it now's the time... Let's just DO THIS.  I wanna get it over with.


Saturday I cut out the last dose and here I am.

I feel pretty much medium-grade miserable.  Every time I move I feel sharp pains shooting through the back of my skull and often right through to my hands.  If I hold still I'm okay, sort of.  I sweat my way through the night.  I don't really want to eat at all.  I'm dizzy.  My hands are shaky and I'm a little off balance.

BUT 

it ain't as bad as I expected it to be!!!!!

I don't know how long this will take.  Weeks?  Months?  A couple more days?  Hey man, we'll get through this!

But dudes, people, readers, cyber pals.  Typing is kinda not happening right now so I don't think I'll be blogging much.  Just wanna drink water and read (when my prickly eyeballs can tolerate it) and not have that zapping pain every time I hit a key.  I'm in a surprisingly decent mood.  Can you all just kind of keep the party going in the comments section for me?  I'd appreciate that.  I'll check in sometimes.

SEE YOU ALL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS! 

Mud. Only it's not just mud. If you know what I mean.

Long ago in a different kind of life, I loved mud.  I squished it between my fingers and formed it into shapes, which I then put into a fire until those shapes were hard.

Yeah, it was fun, but my future already included one career notorious for being a hard living.

So I gave up the clay thing.

These days, I curse the clay on a regular basis.  Like, daily.

When it's dry, it's rock hard, much like those pots became after sitting on a shelf for a few days.  When it's wet, it's a sticky, slick, sucking mess - much like those pots became after I decided they weren't good enough to fire and tossed 'em into the wet clay bin.  When clay is so dry it's powdered, anything with nostrils is in danger of getting a case of silicosis.  Potter's lung. How about riding instructor's lung?

I just don't love mud like I used to.

Right now I can't look at the corral without disgust.  It's wet.  Most of it is a six-inch deep bog of manure and wasted hay.  Three sets of hooves churn it into a blackened stinking mess pocked with dark poisonous looking water.  The horses sink to the fetlocks with every step and I worry about tendons and stifles.

Have I ever mentioned that spring is NOT  my favourite time of year?

I'm not proud of this, but I have not yet been on horseback this year.  I can't face it.  I don't want to sink to the ankles before I even get onto my horse's back. I hate thinking of the result if the horse slipped in the mud and landed on top of me. I keep thinking I could finally get these horses out of the corral, out onto the hay field and down the road, except that two out of three are not very road and trail experienced yet... and after a long winter is really not the best time to try it out.  I won't ride in the pasture because the grass is too young and the ground too soft.

Also.  It doesn't smell very nice outside right now.

One of my neighbours will be over this week with his skid steer loader and all that crap will be pushed out and over the hill.  Then that clay will at least be just mean ol' clay, without the nasty layer on top.

I hate spring.

I like my neighbour.

We are going to talk more here about the best kind of footing for a riding area.  I'm kind of obsessed with the concept and I'd like to hear other horse-people thoughts on the subject.  Next I'll tell you about The Estimate for turning this corral into a well drained, non-dusty, reliable riding ring.

This week I'm watching the grass turn green and waiting for the ground to firm up.

(Dude.  Boring.)

Pants! NOW!

*Quick, tell me what movie that's from!*

I watched the SAG awards last night.  It's so weird!  SAG stands for Screen Actor's Guild, but it's really a great excuse for me to make more immature boob jokes.  What?  We all like boobs, don't we?  Of course, I'll be composing a report on the awards show, because that's what I do: watch the awards, so you don't have to.  You're Welcome!!

Meanwhile, I am STILL fighting with laundry.  What the crap???  Are we really that dirty?  Depending on which way you want to see it... We're either the dirtiest people or the cleanest.  Glass half empty, glass half full.

I am behind on replying to emails.  I'm shamefully behind on phone calls, and pray my friends won't give up on me. My horses look bored.  Damn you Laundry, and your nasty sidekick, Dishes!


So.
The Pants.

My sister Sweetie gave me a gift card for Christmas.  Today my daughter and I ventured into the store with the intention of getting me a new pair of pants.  I have two pairs of jeans that fit: one for riding, one for being seen in public.  There was no way I'd go into that store without my teenager.  No way.  I hate shopping for Pants.

Pants are a problem.  I'm not proportionate.  All these stores claim to have innovative pants features like "No-Gap waistband"  and "Curvy fit"  but apparently I am some weird shape that manufactured pants do not understand.  This is why me and Pants have a problematic history.  We just don't always get along.




It's really hard to buy clothes when you're shaped like me.

Right???

Anyways, I was ready to bolt after trying on one pair (Yeah, Curvy Fit my ass!)   and not trying on a second pair when I saw the price tag.  Hold me down, I want the heck outta there.  I was lamenting my waist-to-butt ratio when darling Annyong, the girl who looooves to shop, brought out one last pair... size 6, 30 length...and did they fit?  Hmmm.  Not awful.  A belt will be necessary but that's normal.  Maybe a little on the snug side but these new meds seem to be taking some weight off me, so...

I GOT THEM.

They're sort of a muted grey plaid which sounds awful but they're--- wait for it--- nice.  Which will make Sweetie proud.  She's so well dressed and I suspect my wardrobe  of shlumpy old track pants and band T-shirts and hoodies might embarrass her just a little bit. Maybe not embarrass.  Maybe just inspires her to help!  

I mean, a girl can't wear evening gowns every day.

Not practical for cleaning out the barn.

The Cat is CRAZY

Lucy The Feral House-cat is not quite right in the head.

She lived in this house for like, a year before she discovered that the water jug has BUBBLES IN IT!

Since then, her life has been consumed by those evil bubbles.  She's gonna get them some day, even if it means she has to get right in there between the water cooler and the wall.  Maybe she'll climb into the jug through the taps.

Sure she looks all cute.  And furry and soft and cute. 

So CHARMING!  So ADORABLE!

Awwwwww!

But then...

You notice the One Eyed TWITCH.

Do NOT touch this cat when her eye is twitching.  

(Unless you didn't need that hand.)  

Within seconds of shredding you, she's suddenly all, "I'm so cute.  Oh look, a bug."

Did I mention that this cat caught a BAT? You know, flying mammal?  Flies all zigzaggy not straight like a bird?  Yeah.  One of those.  She caught it.

She can ignore you, while drawing you in... it's a real skill.  It's like flirting by excluding.

"Oh, I'm not noticing you.  But you notice me!"

"I'll just be over here sleeping adorably."

But.  With no warning, she'll be gone.  All that's left will be the frying smell of shorted out wiring and a few fluffs of tabby fur.

What is going on in that little head?

Maybe I don't want to know.

She's got me wrapped around her little needle-sharp claws.  Darnit.