Our annual AIRPLANE TAXI HOTEL DRESS UP PARTY WITH ROCK STARS thing.

Suitcases, mostly full and hanging out on an empty bed.

Fancy clothes hanging on a hook behind the door, garment bag sprawled over the arm of the couch in the spare room.

Bathroom stuff all over the counter top, medications all over the kitchen counter top.

Boots all shined up.

Tomorrow's clothes set on the chair in the bedroom, ready to slip into at dark o'clock in the morning.

Dog resting his chin on my leg as I type this, looking veeeeeery concerned and slightly annoyed.





I have been either not able to decide what to write about lately, or else just plain not feeling like writing anything.  So I haven't been very active here in blog world.  But as of tomorrow morning Jethro and I are heading off to Calgary.  Our lovely young adult daughter will be holding down the fort for us -- well, Dobby is the official guard dog around here, but he'll show her what to do.  They'll be fine.

My official attitude this spring is, I HAVE NO CRAPS LEFT TO GIVE.  Therefore I do not give a crap.  So my horses are crusty and dirty and shedding hair constantly?  I don't care.  Barnyard is a soggy manure bog?  There's enough s**t there that I do not have to give any.  Packing for five days in a different province?  I don't give a ****  I mean, I care.  But not enough to get all twisted up over it.  I didn't buy any new clothes.  I borrowed a thrift store dress and the rest of the time it'll be leggings, cowboy boots and a baggy top.  I have gained some weight in the last few months (I blame the drugs, of course) and although it's tempting to fuss and fret over that, what-friggen-ever.  So what if my nice clothes don't fit. I have a poncho.  I'll be fine.  Anxiety over travelling and flying?  Well as much as I blame the drugs, sometimes it's nice to have a little orange bottle of pills that your doctor told you to take if you need them.

Calgary, people.  If there's one place in this whole country where you can wear beat up cowboy boots all weekend, it's this one.  I'm bringing my pretty shoes for the Saturday night dinner but otherwise, boots it is.  Jethro is not nominated this year, so the pressure is off and all we have to do is cheer for the artists we worked with in our recording studio last year!

(If you're interested to know, look out for Emilie Claire Barlow's album "Clear Day" in Vocal Jazz; Robi Botos for "Movin' Forward" in Solo Jazz; Mark Kelso and the Jazz Exiles, "Stealing From My Youth" in Group Jazz; and "Refined" by Don Amero in both Aboriginal Album and Adult Contemporary.  Yep, we did a lot of Jazz records last year.)

I'm grateful that I do feel better than I did a year ago, even if I'm not totally well yet.  I can walk a straight line and I'm not shaking and trembling. So I'm a little puffier and fluffier.  What's a little padding compared to that awful feeling.  And I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna puke up anything I eat, even if I feel like it, so hey, it's all good.

 Most of all I get to hang around with my favourite guy.  We have fun together, and I am always proud of him!  This is a celebration of this industry's accomplishments… or basically, "Hey everybody, we're all survived the music business for another year!!!"

 It's a work trip, but yeah, once a year work involves free drinks.


Hey -- want to see?  Go to Instagram and look up "hickchic" of course!

Hick Chic Fashion Week

Yep.  It's time.  Fashion designers are rolling out all their fun stuff for next year, displaying all kinds of artful things that most people will never actually wear.  This coincides with the time of year that I'm starting to think about those thermal coveralls hanging on a hook in the cellar and admitting that yes, very soon, I won't be wearing my nice Wrangler Q-Baby jeans out to the barn anymore...

...but don't despair!!  Last month, a nice designer did me a real solid and whipped up a nice batch of HIGH FASHION COVERALLS!!!!   I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYTHING LIKE THIS.   (and shouldn't ever again.)

Please enjoy this virtual fashion show.

Have you ever wished you could get all your dirty work done, while still looking super fabulous?  Have you ever wondered why nobody makes leather coveralls, which would clean up with just a swipe of saddle soap and never get hay stuck to it?

And also bring an air of classy formality to those activities that don't usually make you feel all that special.  Who could feel dull while flinging horse manure in neck to toe black leather?

Looking for something more casual?  Here's the classic denim.

Paired with a jacket I have terrible mixed feelings about.  On one hand, I'd like a quilt like that.  But without the scratchy metal parts. It's a work of art.  But on the other hand, it's kinda ugly in jacket form.  

But wait - there are no pictures of this jacket with actual arms inside the sleeves.  

Which changes everything.  How am I supposed to get a hay bale out of the haymow if I can't raise my arms?  I critique this to be a bad idea. But you can't go wrong with good old denim coveralls am I right?

Unless you still want a matching outfit.  

Pinstripes.  For those days when you have to go to a parent-teacher meeting right after chores and you just want to make sure everybody at school knows you really care.  

But of course, for a really formal occasion, you must  go with the black leather again.  Here's an outfit I like to think of as, daytime to evening wear.  

It's all about the accessories.  Just swap the plaid flannel for that fancy little sheer number and brush off all the hay and horse hair and you're good to go.  

Oh, I'm joking.  You all know you should never wear your barn boots to town!

It's been a heck of a winter. And it's not over yet.

The calendar can tell me it's spring now, and the commercials on TV flaunt colourful skimpy clothes, and the horses are shedding clouds of loosened winter hair, but I'm not buying it.  The wind is still whipping across the corral like it's trying to kill me and it still feels like winter.

But you know what?  I AM SURVIVING IT.  Every November I'm pretty sure I'll freeze to death before March.  I know I've blogged about it but I'm too lazy to look it up and link it.  If you've been around here any length of time, you know how this goes...  I'm Canadian; it is my patriotic duty to alternately complain bitterly about winter and brag about how tough we are to simply live through it year after year.

This is what my lessons looked like during March Break this year:

Oddly enough I don't have any pictures of lessons during March Break last year, because I only had one student.  And THIS is what it was like outside then:

NO SNOW.  It was actually warm. The grass was turning green.  I have videos of the kids and I off checking out a really interesting spot on a dirt road a few miles away from home, now that the Girl is always on the search for photo shoot locations.  All three of us were wearing shorts and T shirts.  In March.  In Canada.  It happens maybe once every ten years or so.  We've had a few mild winters, but this year reminded us what the deal is.  

Here, my daughter and I hopped on bareback and bit less.  That's my favourite way to go in winter - body warmth and no cold metal in the horse's mouth.  But as you can see, we didn't venture away from the barnyard! And yes, I am riding in my thermal coveralls.  Until somebody invents winter riding gear that doesn't look like I'm off to a hunter-jumper show, I'll be wearing coveralls from November to April. 

See - proof that I did get on and ride in the snow! I don't know what's going on with my hand on the reins there.  That don't look proper.  Maybe my fingers were too frozen to hold them with any kind of effectiveness.  Ah heck who cares.  It was minus-freezing-degrees celsius and I was on a horse - yay me regardless, I figure.

This is the path I dug from the house to the lane.

This is the trench I dug from the lane to the barn.

This is the trench I dug around the snowdrifts so the horses could get to the hay feeder.

And finally, the trench I dug to the manure pile.  Sigh.

But y'know, these guys seemed okay.  I am not one for pampering my horses.  I believe in taking care of them and keeping them from becoming stressed.  But they will choose to stand out there in the wet snow.  Everything runs down their hides and ends in little icicles dripping off their bellies, and they look pretty okay with the whole set up. They've got hay, they've got shelter, they've got a water source that doesn't freeze thanks to modern technology. 

It's just us humans who have the problem!

These pictures were taken by my friend Leslie, my former neighbour, who came with her younger son (aka Cute Stuff) to visit the farm during March Break. She's pretty tough too.  Every morning she takes a 120 lb dog for a loooong walk so she gets the concept of good outerwear.  She took these pictures through the dining room window.  

Dig me in my fashionable thermal coveralls.  That's western, people.  Quit screwing around and get to work.  

So yeah, my rider and I are pretty tough and all.... but our actual ride was about twenty minutes.  

It'll get better.  I mean, it'll get worse first, now that everything that was frozen is melting, and my mares have decided to hate each other because there's a gelding involved, and I'll need more hay before the pasture comes back.  My riders are coming back to me despite the cold and lingering snowbanks.  We're going to be okay.  Repeat after me: WE'RE GOING TO BE OKAY.

Oscar Report? You're really just here for Angie's Leg.

What's the best, most entertaining, hilarious, memorable moment of the 2012 Oscars?  Heck with the awards.  For the next few days, all we heard about was... The Leg.  

The Leg had its own show.  The Leg took over.  

I dont' know what she was thinking??!!!  I like to picture a designer screaming, "It's supposed to SHOW THE LEG" while a frantic stylist whispers, "Just do it, Angelina, just work it okay?  He's driving me nuts I'm not kidding.  Please just wear it like he says and shut him up."

And some other stylist/ handler/ manager/ sycophant tells her, "Hey, you know what?  If you really want to do this right, stick out your leg and put your hand on your hip, just like that.  Awesome! It's perfect! YOU ARE MAGNIFICENT!"

I don't even know if Brad was there.  Did anybody see him?

Oh I'm so glad Angelina Jolie exists.  

Also, these two crack me up.  I'm not sure why there were there.  Do they get paid to show up at parties looking fabulous?  Check out the face on Posh.

"This is my photographing face."

And now, just because he is stupendously brilliant, uniquely stylish and good looking...

RDJ

But honestly, The Leg just made my week.  

I mean, she reads my mind.  I do this ALL THE TIME.

Almost spooky, eh?

My job involves moving horse manure. Their job involves dressing up and giving each other awards. Almost the same thing. Golden Globes 2012

This is a strange awards show.  It's like the practice-Oscars, but all the TV people get to join the party, and they sit at round tables like at a wedding, and there's booze.  I have two complaints about the show this year.

1) Nobody wore a golden dress with ridiculous cleavage, enabling me to make a totally immature boob joke.  

2) Nobody spilled anything on themselves... Are these people superhuman???? How do they not get something on them????

But they gotta do the show- up.  It's promotion, and without promotion, people don't go see stuff.  It's part of their job, even if all they wanted to do was to get paid to pretend to be somebody else.

Johnny Depp reluctantly puts on something clean and jitters his way through a presentation, clearly feeling like he's burning alive up there on the stage.  He then promptly disappears for the rest of the show.

The Jolie-Pitts spend a couple hours dressing up - well maybe not Brad so much, at least not his hair, because I suspect he's decided to just ignore it for awhile and see what happens - and stand still for the cameras  Part of the gig.  Just do it. 

 Have some small talk prepared for reporters.  Don't forget to gaze at each other lovingly/ lustfully.  Wonder what the kids are up to... they better go to bed on time... whoops, that might have been blank facial expression there, pick up a smile.

Angie has perfected her "I AM A FRIGGEN MOVIE STAR" stance.

RDJ showed up in a tux and tails outfit like he owned the place.  He really appears to loooove his job. Which he should.  He's extremely good at it.

Clooney looks like he doesn't even try, it's just there.  Is it possible he's that cool and funny all the time???

Madonna pretended to be speechless. 

It wasn't funny.

Peter Dinklage appeared to have forgotten he was at work - he was just really cool, happening and  likeable.

Tilda Swinton looked like she was from a different planet,  and I swear I am going to write an entire novel around her.  

Ricky wasn't quite as nasty-funny as last year, but I think the bar was just raised too high last year.  

And I'm going to go against almost everybody else's opinion and say that I like his suit.  It's different.  Ever noticed he has fang teeth?  The guy is a wolf!  

I think it's probably a lot of fun getting dressed up and doing the thing.  I enjoy it immensely!  But I've never been nominated for anything.  Jethro says it's excruciating and embarrassing.  But yet also flattering.  And you know what else it is, this business of getting nominated?

It's part of some people's jobs.

So at the end of the evening, they probably all breathe as sigh of relief, get the vicious shoes off the feet, go home and take a shower and hit the sack.  It was a long, tough day at work.

Rainfall warning? Rainfall WARNING???

Rain.

It's one of those things that we can't live without.  Or live with.

In the spring it rained so much we were damn near floating away.  I couldn't work; I could barely get to the barn without my boots getting sucked right off my feet in the mud.  Our neighbours and friends couldn't get into the fields to plant, and those who did worried that all the seed would wash away.  The cellar of the old farmhouse here had rivers going through it, and this house is on the highest part of the property.  My father muttered, "I've been living here for 67 years and I don't think I've ever seen it this wet."

In June, the rain finally stopped.

It stopped for over 6 weeks.

The fields were full of stunted corn that started late in soggy soil, only to get pummelled with heat and dryness.

Nature gives and takes away.  She don't care.

The crops ended up being okay... but the price of hay has gone up.  If a farmer could normally get four cuttings off a hay field, he'd get three, if he was lucky, this past summer.  Hay is scarce and expensive.

And today.  RAINFALL WARNING.  All the little cricks around here are full and still rising, there is standing water in every low field, and my corral is slop.  It rained so hard on Sunday, the water actually got in under the big barn door and trickled down until I ended up with a tiny river running down the aisle in front of the stalls.  And now we have a rainfall warning.

I get all catastrophic about things, so in my mind, my horses are already half dead from starvation, the house is half underwater, the old stone walls of the barn have been pried apart by torrents of water rushing against the foundation and the whole damn thing is falling down.  Also, in my worst case scenario the dog will never go outside to defecate ever again because he's convinced he will melt.

In reality, the horses are in the open shed... one is wearing a rain sheet to keep her dry when the other two chase her out.  I have a bright yellow rain suit and waterproof boots.  I have a couple wheelbarrow loads to push across that wet corral this afternoon, and I have to just do it, because it ain't getting any drier.

Well, at least, not until the temperature drops to where it usually is this time of year... and it starts to freeze over and snow....


(And despite all of this, I still want to live in the country for the rest of my life.)

When Laundry Attacks...

I thought I had it defeated, but then I walked into my bedroom...

The dirty clothes and sheets had oozed out of the hamper...

AND GOT MY PUG!

This is out of control!  

Look at his worried face!!!  Oh wait.  He always looks like that.  Never mind.

I wrestled the dirties back into place, but not before throwing a good batch into the washing machine.  Ha! That'll learn 'em.  I scooped up my Pug and put him up on my bed, where he is currently snoring away as I write this.  

Poor little house dog.  If it isn't clothes with stinky armpits, it'll be two feet of snow to jump through every time he has to go outside for a wiz. No wonder his forehead is all wrinkled.

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.

Quick, what do Angelina Jolie, thermal overalls, and my birthday have in common?

NOTHING!

I promised last week I'd write about how much it angers me that quality workwear is so hard to find in small sizes.  I also mentioned my plan to launch a big bloggy birthday party for myself this month.  Then I got distracted by this movie.  

I don't even know if I'll go see it, to tell you the truth.  Other than the lovely scenery and stylish outfits to look at, it's not really my thing.  It's the Johnny factor that would change everything.  

Apparently he's a bumbling math teacher on vacation who gets tangled up with this scary skinny big-eyed woman.  I kind of think this movie sounds like a giant DUH.  I mean, we all know Johnny himself has a thing for scary skinny big-eyed women.  So this couldn't be a stretch.  

I bet shooting this one was like a vacation... hang around, do some acting and stuff, get all overwhelmed by the Jolie-Pitt Traveling Road Show. And then, show up at the premiere looking FANFRICKINGTASTIC!!!

The girls at Go Fug Yourself wrote the funniest bit about the premiere.  It cracked me up and you have to read it - there's a slide show and everything.  It's awesome.    They made up this thing with Angie ordering Brad around and Brad being a goofy himbo. At least I think they made it up. It's funny.  Just go read it.  Then come back.

I will have to special order overalls, you know that???  I can't get small or extra small overalls or coveralls in the store!  This is at TSC for cryin' out loud!  The girl at the cash register told me some brands don't even make a size small!  They only start at Medium!  What the hell???

I'm gonna say it again: women and children need good workwear too!  Snowsuits don't cut it!  They make swishy noises.  That is really irritating when cleaning stalls.  Irritating.  Not good.

Plus it'll look like BUTT.

Would Johnny wear a snowsuit to the barn?  Hardly.  Would Angie?  Hah.  She'd wear a black cashmere jumpsuit.

Actually she probably wouldn't.  She'd wear cruelty-free organic fabrics made domestically for fair wages.

So I don't know if I'll go see that movie.  I need to spend that cash on other things.  Having said that, I'd have to avoid movies for like, five years to equal up how much I'd have to spend to get special-order tiny coveralls.  GAAAAHHH!

Also I am turning 40 in a couple weeks.

I AM TURNING 40.

You wanna join me for a bloggy birthday party?  Right here?  Tell all your friends and party crashers?

I'll settle a date soon.

Now I gotta put on my cheap and sub-optimal inadequate "ladies" coveralls and get a dump run into the truck.  Time to take out the trash.  haha.

Workwear for writers, or, "Sequestered Writer Chic," as demonstrated by Mr Johnny Depp

Being appropriately dressed is important.  I say this even though I don't dress like a woman who loves clothes.  I do love clothes.  I love clothes that fit well and do their job.  I like soft natural fabrics.  On rare occasions I might even wear something that looks half decent, or even good, which can be tricky.  

Some people look good in anything.  Johnny Depp, actor, musician, father, imaginary pirate and generally cool interesting person, looks good in anything.  But beyond that, he has STYLE.  (You could say he's got chic and you'd be right.)

OMG a grey scarf with a brown hat?  Can't be done.  Shouldn't be done.  

Wrong.  He's making it work.  Now with me, that would just look like I rolled out of a dusty old closet after falling asleep on the floor after a disorienting day of sorting things into boxes marked "keep" and "thrift store" and "garbage," not that anything like that has actually happened to me.

But I digress.  What I'm talking about here, basically, is workwear.  Normally this would be canvas coveralls and waterproof boots (ha, water?  It ain't water I'm worried about) because I spend a couple hours a day in the barn.  But the other half of me works in the house, typing words into a little white computer.  This requires a whole other kind of workwear!

I've chosen our boy Johnny to demonstrate something I'm thinking of naming "Sequestered Writer Chic."  Like it?  Johnny will be using scenes from 2004 movie adaptation of a Stephen King story, called "Secret Window."  

In this movie, Johnny plays a writer with a few problems.  I'll tell you what he's got right though: a sweet cottage in the woods and a killer gnarly ugly old bathroom to lurk around in.  He loves that old bathrobe so much he wears it over his clothes.  This particular writer character is not particularly well dressed, being a fan of dull drab argyles and grandpa-type cardigans.  But the bathrobe.  Dude.  You just know that ratty old thing is so well washed it's as comfy as... an old bathrobe?  Okay.

It's a cute portrayal of an enduring stereotype.  Writers sit around, unwashed and tangle-haired, in their jammies, probably smelling bad, convinced that every word that spills out of them is magic.  Or garbage.  It's one or the other and sometimes both in one day.  Is the stereotype true?  Well I don't know about you but I can tell you, if I didn't have kids needing to be driven across the highway to the bus stop, and critters needing to be cared for, I might never get dressed.  I'd be in my flannel jammies and my blue and red ugly old bathrobe.  With my glasses crookedly perched on my face.  And my hair looking like a haystack. Heck I might not even get out of bed.  

That's not so bad, is it?  Is it so bad, Johnny/ Mort?  I'm ahead of the game for style though, because I have these nifty little fingerless gloves. They're basically small legwarmers with thumb holes.  Oh, and they're hot pink.  I got 'em on right now.  Suddenly I am almost unbearably hip.  

Ahhhhh.... speaking of unbearable....

JOHNNY.  SERIOUSLY.  STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT.

Okay, no, go ahead, I'm just exaggerating or kidding or something, it's okay, you can go ahead and look at me like that as long as you need to.  I'm cool with it.  

Is this guy going to keep on with the good looking stuff?  I don't always make such a big deal out of his looks because I do genuinely appreciate his talent.  No really I do.  But hot damn. He is the King of that Scruffy And Pretty Guy thing that I am stoopidly drawn to.  And he's just so darn cool.  Yet hot.  AT THE SAME TIME.  I'm not into tattoos but I think he's got some new ink and I could spend an hour or so examining all the pictures.  I mean, tattoos on him aren't repulsive.  

And the vibe.  This set appears to be some skeevy old abandoned house -- I swoon over abandoned houses, I don't know why, but it's like a moth to a lamp with me -- and he's totally upping the property value here.  

 I'd buy this house.  Okay, truthfully this house would probably turn my crank even if he wasn't sitting there on the kitchen table daring me to order him to get his boots back on the floor where they belong, dammit.  And I'd let him get away with it, by the way.  I'd draw the line at the smoke.  Geez, maybe I wouldn't even.  Oh my gosh, would I let Johnny Depp smoke in my gloriously decayed ancient house?? Maybe I would!!  Probably I would not let him.  Most likely I'll never have to make that decision.

I'd at least run a broom across the floor.  I'm a bad housekeeper but I don't like filth.

What was I talking about?

OH YES.  Sequestered Writer Chic.  Much like Hick Chic, only predominantly indoors.  Yes, I am going to champion this style.  I'm going to come in from the barn, put on my nice soft worn-in jeans, tie a scarf around my neck, add the hot pink fingerless gloves and slip the questionable bathrobe over it all.  Instead of the smoke, I'll hold a purple gel pen between my fingers, because that is my instrument of choice.  When I run out of words I'll stare at the lumpy imperfect wall in my room, in this 150 year old farmhouse, and any time I doubt myself I'll look at my delightfully slovenly appearance and say, I Am A Writer!

(And my hair smells like pine shavings and horses.)


Today's blog post has been brought to you by an extremely high stress yet happily exciting week.  

Yeah. Okay. Uh-huh. Yup. Awright.

My butt is becoming shaped like a truck seat from all the driving I've been doing.  You know, now that I read that over, I'm not crazy about the visual but I'm leaving it anyways because I'm REALLY BUSY right now and don't have time for um, literary accuracy or whatever.  Let's just say I haven't been spending much time at home this week and it shows.  Dirty horses, dirty dishes... at least teenagers can take care of themselves.  Sort of.

Here are things I plan to blog about soon, very soon:

-Ozzy and his ability to make me clap along, something not even the most enthusiastic church song leader can do.  I am not sure what this says about me, Ozzy, or church song leaders.  And come to think of it, why is it I'm so blinkin' Mennonite I flinch at anything too outrageous in church, as in, I like those old hymns with the shaped notes and four part harmonies... I just can't get excited about all those new Jesus-love-ballads but at an Ozzy show I'm clapping and yelling and jumping up and down?

What does it mean???

Okay I think I just wrote about that.

NEXT!

-How much fun that Ozzy Osbourne show was on Saturday night!


AND!

-I'm gonna throw myself an imaginary birthday party.  WANNA BE THERE?  You should be!


ALSO!

-I'm still angry about the lack of legit workwear for small individuals.  Let the women and children be warm in the barn!!!



AND DON'T FORGET!

-It's Friday tomorrow, therefore at some point before midnight I will find an excuse to post a picture of him.  Trust me.

Okay I gotta do the thing at that place, with the people and stuff.  See ya.

Is this what's meant by the term "Hot Mess?"

Because if so, I'm all for it.  I think "Hot Mess" should be part of our daily lives.  I think this is both HOT and A MESS which when put together is a good combination.

You might be asking why this is today's topic, other than the excuse to put up a picture of this handsome fella.

I'll tell you why.  It's because I've spent most of this week sweating.  It's not particularly hot here in my neck of the woods, but I've been sweating like a horse.  Trust me, that's a large amount of sweat.

The ongoing Clean-up Project here at the farm is at full-on, hardcore, ON A MISSION FROM GOD intensity.  I'm out there flinging bits of metal into the trailer, throwing bags of garbage into the truck, sweeping up ancient mouldy straw, and moving things I probably shouldn't be moving.  I'm wearing either coveralls or overalls, depending on the temperature.  I'm wearing a hat to cover my hair and keep it out of my eyes while I work.  I'm wearing a dust mask over my face; pretty much the majority of my child-sized face is covered.

The sweat drips soaks into the brim of my hat and then drips down my nose, inside that stupid mask, and trickles into my lips.  More drips go slithering down my neck.  I can feel my shirt getting wet under my coveralls.  

My ol' man swaggers along to give the go-ahead for stuff to get pitched out.  He does most of the heavy lifting.  He goes off to do a landscaping job between my trips to the dump.  And get this- he doesn't break a sweat.  I may look like him but I didn't inherit his coolness.

The mess in the barn slowly works itself out... engine blocks in the corner, bumpers and hoods up against the wall... Yeah, what else would be in the barn?  Geez, what kinda farm did you grow up on?

...and as the barn shapes up, I become the mess!  Dust of all kinds sticks to any bit of exposed skin.  I end up sticky and filthy.  

As I'm working away, those two words HOT MESS keep popping into my head.  I disgust myself though, so I'd rather think of THIS.

That's better.

Maybe I got it all wrong though. Should I be swinging a Telecaster instead of a shovel or broom?  Or backed up by a Marshall stack instead of an industrial lawn tractor?  I have gotten the plaid shirt thing right a couple times.  

I'll say this for sure: it looks a hell of a lot better out there in the barn. Neater, tidier, and dare I say, cleaner?  I'm even getting a little silly and doing a few things that make me happy, like setting a few pieces of chrome from an old car on a wall beam just because I like shiny things.  

I need to cheer myself up when I'm tired and dirty and damp under my work clothes.

Today I was driving to the dump in my pickup truck...

...with my window down, the passenger window down a crack, the dog beside me with his tongue hanging out, my new pink John Deere cap on my head and a can of no-name "Sprite" in one hand.  Under my feet were the Taz floor mats I found up in the barn (buddy who left 'em there ten years ago probably not gonna miss them I figure).  I was wearing a plaid shirt and rubber barn boots.  The sun was hot, the air was cool, and I had a truckload of garage and barn garbage and useless plastic car parts I just couldn't wait to get rid of.

I took stock of the whole thing and realized, "Holy crap, I really truly am a hick.  There is just no fighting it."


(Also not worth fighting: trying to decide if I'm going to write about our weekend in St John's Newfoundland, or musing about moving the last of our worldly possessions out of the mostly empty house that will only be ours for another four days.)

Turns out I drink a can of pop once year to remind myself I don't like it.  Scratching the top of the grinning Pug's head is more fun than steering with a can in hand anyways.

So chic. So cute. And such a little hick.

She learned everything she knows from me, obviously.

Gaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh

Yeah I'm still here.

Working on the barn - pictures soon.  Maybe.

Not writing.  Want to, would like to, but any spare hour is often spent sitting on a couch watching something on TV that does not stimulate my brain in any way - and I like it.

My mom's taking a few weeks off work.  Did you know you have a little internal filtering organ called a gallbladder?  Well she doesn't anymore.  And soon she'll be much happier about it.  Until then, I take over all grocery shopping duties as well as all dish washing, cooking, and bathroom cleaning.  I continue with my laundry jobs.  She continues to instruct the universe from a position of relaxation, and continues to be amazing.

My dog is now full time foot warmer for Grandma.

I'm glad I'm here for her.

My ol' Man is 67 years old and might be close to admitting that he ain't 45 anymore.  Nobody believes him though. Will keep you posted.

Tribble wrote her Grade 10 english exam today.  Good thing she can read.  She doesn't have to go to school again until Friday, when she performs her Dance exam.  I fully intend to work her like a rented mule, hahahaha!  Good thing she likes the barn.

Bucky has to be at school at 7 am tomorrow for a field trip.  I will be getting up around 5:30 am, leaving the house with him at 6:30, returning home at 7, kicking the horses out of the barn with a half bale of hay, taking the Pug for a quick run in the melting snow, then going back to bed.  (Where Tribble will most likely be, taking up as much room as a 102 lb person can.)

Jethro got the floors in that house of ours sanded.  Looks gorgeous.  I think we should do that again soon in a house we intend to live in for many years.

There's a big grey and white tomcat hanging around the barn.  Larry and Moe kind of avoid him.  I figure if he's gonna hang around and eat our generic feed mill cat-kibble, he better tame up.  I can get almost 2 feet away from him, but he still looks at me like I'm a cat eating monster.  Maybe I should stop picking up Larry and telling him he's deliciously cute.

Lucy In The Sky With Ladybugs is still insane, stalks shadows, pounces on my feet in bed, thinks she's weightless and eats like a dog.  I suspect she might be a shapeshifter but she's so damn fast I can't catch her at it.  Hmmm.

Phoenix and the Little Lady both in need of hoof trimming.  I have neglected them.  I feel awful every time I look at their hooves, especially his.  I shouldn't even be posting this on the internet.  His hooves are all long and cracking and I must be a bad horse owner.  I had to choose between parasite control and hoof trimming.  Then I had to buy feed.  Then shavings to bed their stalls.  Then... my own children needed new pants.

I hate being broke.

I am working on getting work.

People I know are dealing with problems worse than mine.

That doesn't make me feel better.

I have a dream of wearing really expensive high quality overalls out to the barn.

I like having a radio out there.

I'll need a new corn broom soon.  This one's wearing down from sweeping all those miserable cobwebs. Will it ever end?

I miss Jethro.

My imaginary people talk to me while I'm working.  I hope they don't stop.  I'm listening.

I am behind on EVERYTHING.

I just remembered that my coveralls are still in the washing machine and I think I'd like them to be dry before I put them on to go back out to the barn.

I still have a huge amount of re-arranging to do before the last of our belongings will fit into this house.  I have nightmares about brown webs and cardboard boxes and garbage bags.

So, yeah, I'm just gonna mosey on down to the cellar and do some laundry.

I hope it doesn't take me a week.  Stay tuned.

How to get the hay from the hay mow to the horses.

I took my iGadget out to the barn with me this morning.  I was expecting a phone call and figured I'd better give the old reliability thing a try.  Since I had to go up to the hay mow and had the Gadget with me, I figured I'd take a few pictures up there.  Then I decided I could get a blog post out of it!

This is the view looking to the south.  You can see my barn gloves parked on the bale in front there.

Just behind this spot is a square hole where I throw down the bales.  I flip them end over end then give them a shove with my knee.  It works pretty good.

Now we take a little walk along the edge of the mow.  This usually freaks people out real good and proper.  That small path of planks... that's it.  That's your path.  And the boards themselves aren't very close together.  Jethro won't go up here, because he hates how the planks flex under the weight of his size 13 barn boots.

I'm not so worried. I'm not as big as him.  There's a big solid beam just to the left, and I can grab that if I need a little security.  Plus, I used to spend hours up here, decades ago, looking for kittens with my little sister Sweetie.  I kind of like it up here.


See the white glow over there, past the hay bales?  That's where  we throw the hay out of the barn.  Go... to... the light....

But don't fall out.

No really, don't fall out, because that window, on the third floor of the barn, is pretty high up.  Long way down.  Look at this, my horses look like toys.  Not often you get to see them from this angle, eh?

I'm at least kind enough to give a yell before I throw hay down.  They look up, but not usually all the way up (I don't think their necks are designed to look up!) and swivel their ears to the direction of my voice.

But they're mellow little Appaloosas, and this doesn't really excite them all that much.  Even if my aim is bad, or there's a brisk wind, and they end up with a couple flakes of hay in the head, they don't do much more that walk a few steps and dive their noses back into the feeder. A flake, by the way, is a section of hay.  The baler gathers it up and binds it together into a bale made up of sections.

For perspective, here's a shot with my toes in the picture.

Ya like them purple barn boots?  I got them for my daughter at the thrift store a few years ago.  She quickly outgrew them, and instead of moving them along to another kid, I tried them on.  Much warmer than unlined rubber boots.  And kinda flashy!  Really brightens up the old boring navy coveralls!  But I digress, as I often do when I start talking about workwear.

So yeah, it's fun to see the world from that viewpoint.  Sometimes I take a few deep breaths while I'm there.  I should do that more often.

After throwing some hay down into the corral, it's time to go back down the ladder to the second floor.
I repeat my bale-flipping to get over to the hay chute.  A sturdy piece of plywood with a hand hold fits flush into the floor until I need to push the hay downstairs.

I even get a push broom and sweep the hay leavin's down the chute.  I don't like to have a layer of hay on the cement floor up there.   It eventually rots into a musty smelling mat if it gets left long enough.  Also, sweeping it up means more edible hay makes its way out to the corral.

And I'm sooo cheap, I'd rather have the horses eat every little stem than throw decomposed hay onto the compost.  Of course all of this hay is just compost waiting to happen, if you catch my meaning.  I'd just rather have the horses enjoy it first.

More vertigo! Have a look down the hay chute! Each bale slides down the sheet of plywood, and lands on the one thrown down before it.  When I get downstairs, I stack them up at the end of the aisle, and rake up all the loose hay that's escaped on the way down.  I like to keep about five bales of hay down there.  It shouldn't be stored long term on concrete, but four or five days is okay, and means I don't have to go up to the haymow every day.

Oh look, there's my purple toe again.  Beside the plywood, you can see a gate (which is not as closed as it should be).  This is the section up by the stone wall, not big enough to house a horse, where the stairs go up.  I also park my wheelbarrow at the bottom of the stairs.  I would like to point out that nice cleanly swept concrete floor.

So that's how the hay gets from the hay mow, down to the stalls.

And just remember, people: Make the world a better place. Less Hatred, More Hay.