Men and the Internet, a Guilty Obsession

Alternate title:  The Creepers

No, this is not a post about internet dating. . .or explicit photos of the male of the species.  Sorry to disappoint.

This is a post in honor of my father and my cowboy cousin, both of whom LOVE to creep about on internet social networks, namely Facebook, but will only do so incognito.  To admit that they find the random postings of various friends and family entertaining would be less than manly.  So, they hide behind the skirts (or screen names) of their wives to do their snooping.

This interesting little habit has earned them the joint nickname of The Creepers.  Endearing, no?!?  We, the womenfolk in their lives, think so.


Case in point: 

"Did you see this?  Who cares if she's standing in line at Wal-Mart??  Not me.  These people need to get a life!  Sheesh."

"Yeah, get a load of this one. . . .I wouldn't be caught dead with my gut hanging out like that.  Much less posting a picture of it for all the world to see."

PS.  I have a feeling there will be some backblow from this post. . .eh, well, life was fun while it lasted.

A Celebration

I have briefly mentioned that my good friend Waltraut, who also happens to be the breeder of my dogs, has been battling bladder cancer these last few months.  She underwent four rounds of chemotherapy before finally having her bladder surgically removed.  It is a gross understatement to say that it has been a trying time for her, her family, her friends, and for her dogs. 

To lessen the strain on her family Wal made the difficult decision to place two of her dogs with friends during her treatment.  One of those dogs, Tango, has been with me since early February.  After the initial strain of acclimating to a new environment with new dogs, new people, and new routines Tango has become part of my little family and has reached a level of contentedness.  I had even started to wonder if she might want to stay with me forever.  She followed me everywhere, loved Journer and seemed especially happy on our horse rides but it only took a visit from Waltraut to show me where her heart lies, and rightly so. 

The picture above was taken yesterday and, for me, it speaks volumes to the love and loyalty shared between Waltraut and her dogs. 

The day was a celebration of life.  Those of us in this area that have blessed by one of Wal's dogs, and therefore her friendship, gathered to revel in the return of health to someone whom we hold dear.  And, of course, we brought our dogs.

A Miserably Fun Adventure

This last week has flown by in a hurry and was filled to capacity with a motley assortment of mini-adventures.  It all started last Tuesday with three straight days of track meets in the howling winds of West Texas, followed by an Adventure Race in Georgetown over the weekend, and ending with a trip to SCR to help process bulls.  Thank goodness tomorrow is Good Friday and this homebody can catch a break cause I'm flat tuckered.

The Adventure Race was my first and I can only describe it as "miserable fun".  Ten of us from this area went together and seven of the ten work at the middle school with me.  Let's just say we took bonding with one's co-workers to a whole 'nother level. 

The Mighty San Gabriel Sprint Race:  All the fun of our longer race except designed for the beginner, teams of 2 will run, bike, paddle, facing team challenges and obstacles along the way.  Be prepared for approximately 1-3 miles of paddling, 8-10 miles of biking, and 3-5 miles of trekking plus some surprises.  Estimated winning time is 2 hours. 

Two hours??  Ha!  We finished in six.  The trekking (aka running) was not too bad, and although it took Amber and I a while to get our canoe traveling in a straight line, that wasn't too horrible either but the biking. . .well, the biking was pure misery. 

I grew up riding bikes just like the next kid but the gears on my ten speed were superfluous. In Flatland, TX you're changing them for giggles, not cause you have to in order to climb a stinkin MOUNTAIN!!  Okay, maybe it was a hill but still, you get my point.  I'm pretty sure my calfs caught on fire a few times and I had to use my asthma inhaler twice.  Not to mention the fact that most of the trail was a foot wide with a death drop to the left, flesh eating bushes on the right, and gigantor boulders straight ahead.  To top it all off, I made the genius decision to not wear padded biking shorts because I didn't think they would be comfortable.  ARGH!!  My ignorance knows no bounds.  My butt bones were cussing me six ways to Sunday by mile four.

It really was fun though.  Look at how much fun I'm having. . . .




My teammates plot, I contemplate bicycular homicide.

 
Miserable fun.  This must've been snapped when, after the initial relief of completing the dreadful bike ride, I found out I was going to have to ride the dang thing again to get to the canoes.  I was not happy, not happy at all.  And neither were my butt bones.

I've been asked if I'd do another and I really can't say for sure, but I probably would.  I'd do a few things differently, of that I am sure.  Like wear the stupid padded shorts for starters and maybe train a smidge beforehand. 

Anyway, I left the Adventure Race in Georgetown and made the six hour trip home to shower and re-pack before climbing in the truck with my dad for five more hours so that we could help process bulls at SCR.  A loooong trip but so worth it when this is what was waiting for me. . .

Sigh.

End of Day

Tension was a tightness that moaned and snapped deep in my muscles.  I flexed and rolled my shoulders, laid my head to the side and let it glide back and then around.  The tension didn't have a name, wasn't specific, rather it was simply a by-blow of a busy day filled with the ever-present drama that surrounds adolescents. 

Closing my eyes I took a deep breath and made a conscious effort to let it go.  I relaxed and slid deeper into the welcoming leather of my saddle.  My legs hung long and loose, my calves and inner thighs draped around the gentle slope of Ruby's barrel. 

Releasing my grip on the reins I allowed them to rest on the neck of my mare as I extended my arms out from my sides.  I unfolded my fingers from my palm and opened my hands to the sky. 

The breeze was cool, but gently so, and smelled teasingly of rain.  It caressed my arms and traveled up the sleeves of my t-shirt to wrap itself briskly around my torso. 

My body swayed with the reach and fall of Ruby's hooves.  Left hind, left fore, right hind, right fore. . . .
Tension was now a liquid that flowed out from my fingertips, escaping my body to be carried away on the wind.

Bouncing Back

It was a great weekend and there were many things to be thankful for, such as:

**Friday evening I was able to ride with a gentleman that is a successful competitor in ranch horse competitions.  He was kind, patient, helpful AND complimentary of my horses.  Kinda makes me puff my chest out a little just thinking about it.

I rode Snakebite most of the time and she was very handy.  We worked on rollbacks, turnarounds (spins), and boxed a few calves.  The only drawback was that she is, ahem, overweight and out of shape and was huffing and puffing pretty quick into the ordeal.  Sounds familiar. . . Pot, meet Kettle.

Next, I rode Ruby  and she seemed to go a lot better on the soft dirt of the arena than she has been on the hard ground at home.  She was feeling so good that we worked one slow calf, our first since August of last year.  We were both pretty pumped!

I took Socks but left him standing tied to the trailer.  Dad took him to the vet last week and had his right front ankle xrayed.  The xray showed shadowing around the navicular bone that the vet associated with arthritis from an old injury.  He recommended we try injections to alleviate pain.  Hopefully he'll get his ankle injected this week and I can work him a little next time.

**Saturday, my Dad and I worked at my house trimming trees and building fence for a little side yard.  We didn't quite get done but I think the finished product is going to look really nice.

**Sunday, I went to church with my family and like most kids my age I doodled on the church bulletin. 

One of the scribbles was this picture of my sister, Danielle, chucking her crutches.  She has a stress fracture and has been wearing a boot and using crutches for far too long.  She's just a little tired of it and has taken to throwing them javelin-style when she becomes frustrated.  Did I mention she's a red head??  Well, she is and you know what they say about them redheads. . . .they're awful sweet :).

**Sunday afternoon I took Journey and Tango over to a fellow Leo owner's house for a playdate.  Tango is Waltraut's dog that I'm puppysitting until she is recovered from her surgery.  Tango stayed with me some last year too and is the young female in the pictures on this post.  Liz and I talked dogs and the Bergers got to sniff each others derrieres and play a bit so a good time was had by all!

Liz and Leos Nockerl, Journey, Tango & Tyr

Nockerl & Tango, mother & daughter

Tango giving Liz a little Leo-love

It's About That Time!

Summertime, that is!

Okay, so maybe it's still early Spring but a girl can dream and I've got spring fever in the worst way.  My wisteria is blooming, the grass is greening up, and the days are getting longer.  It won't be too long until it's warm enough to take a day trip to Buffalo Lake with a couple of friends and a pack of dogs. 

It might look a little something like this. . .





When a kiddie pool just won't cut it. . .



Load up a few of your best friends. . .

Make the most of your time together with a little close bonding on the drive over. . .

That kiddie pool's got nothin on this!

Take time for a little sunbathin'. . .

And a romp on the beach. . .



Then commemorate the day with a family portrait.

Old Maid

I thought the cat on the box was a nice touch. . .

I used to play the game Old Maid all the time when I was growing up.   It goes something like this:  players are dealt all the cards of a deck, save one that is discarded and set aside.  Each player removes any pairs they have in their hand and then choose from the other player's hands, without looking, trying to form more pairs.  The object of the game is to continue to take cards, discarding pairs, until all players except one have no cards. That one player will be left with the lone unmatchable card; they are "stuck with the old maid" and lose.

It wasn't until lately that I began to find the whole premise of that game mildly insulting.

To be honest, I don't try very hard to not be single.  Okay, so that might be an excuse instead of a reason.  Whatever.  I really do want to find the love of my life, get married, have kids, and all that jazz.
 
I just haven't pushed that panic button yet.  You know, the one that says you better get married now or you never will.

I don't enjoy going out to clubs or bars or the singles scene, in general.  Late nights have never been my thing (I struggle to stay awake after ten).  Besides, I don't think I'm interested in dating someone that does enjoy those things.  Blind dates and set ups kinda freak me out too.  Not to mention I've got to find a man that is willing to shovel horse manure and doesn't mind the occasional stray dog hair in his breakfast. 

This past February marked the second year of my bachelorettehood, prior to that I had been in three consecutive long term relationships.  After this last one ended and I had suffered through the broken heart phase I really started to enjoy being single (or maybe I should say, thinking and doing for myself without the need to consult another).  In fact, I spent most of that first summer at the ranch (hence the Summer at SCR posts) which I never would have done if I'd had a boyfriend waiting for me back home.  Relationships that had been damaged due to some misguided over-devotion to my boyfriend, and other poorly made decisions on my part, have also undergone healing in the past two years.  I can honestly say that I'm the closest I've ever come to being content. 

But.

I turned twenty-nine last November and the words "old" and "maid" have been kind of rolling around in my head a lot lately.  Along with the words "crazy", "cat", and "lady".  I don't think its time for an intervention yet but it may be heading that way. 

Case in point:

**  I only have three cats (only, hehe) but I did make a run to Wal-Mart the other day and when I got to the checkout counter I realized that my two purchases were a romance novel and a 35 lb bag of cat food.  I'm pretty sure the lady checking me out smirked.

**  This is how I spend my free evenings.  And I like it.

Spring Break at SCR

Sigh, spring break is slowly slipping away. . . .

I guess I really shouldn't complain about going back to school, though.  There aren't many jobs that would afford me the opportunity to go "work" at something I love so often, and that's exactly what teaching does.

For the last two years, every Christmas, spring, and summer break I have relied upon the unending generosity of Grant, Connie, Trey, and Sterlin at SCR.  This break was no different.  My parents came, as well, and we spent three days working and fellowshipping. 

And teasing. 

Lots and lots of teasing.

Dad, Mom and Grant gathering strays in 41

Mending the water gap after pushing the strays back through.



Me on Cinco in East Galisteo.



Mom on Snakebite and Dad on Stormy



Me on Socks.

I took Socks with intentions of leaving him there for Grant to ride a while but wound up bringing him back home again.  He was a gentleman with a purpose from day one. 

It seems that Socks prefers work to dinking around the turnrows. 

All work and no play may have made Jack a dull boy but apparently it makes Socks a grumpy gelding.

Holy Hail!

It started off innocent enough; a much needed rain mixed with a bit of thunder and lightening.  Then it morphed into an all out pummeling.  The hail was the size of golf balls! 

No, really. Golf ball size hail.  Look.

I'll post pictures from my trip to SCR tomorrow, right now I'm going to go curl up in the fetal position on my bed and worry about the damage that derned hail caused.

Journey: Progressions



12 days old



~4wks old



9 wks



~4 mths

~6 mths

19 mths

Journey is evolving.  She has matured so much these last couple of months and it's more than just size and weight.  Agility has helped her to build confidence in herself as well as trust in our relationship but I think it's the loss of Mekka that has made the biggest impact.  Mekka was my best friend and she was Journey's.  Now that she's gone, we're learning to be each other's.

Bittersweet.

How do I love thee?

Let me count the ways. . .

I love your courage and athleticism

and the gentle slope of your roman nose.

I love your sweetness and charm

and the curved roundness of your hip.

I love your stoic workhorse bearing

and the tawny coloring of your muzzle.

I love your calm, quiet demeanor

and your dark expressive eye.



Bare knees and all. . .



Today, I am thankful for Ruby!


More specifically, I'm thankful that I was given the okay to begin riding her again. Of course, there are limitations to what she is able to do but the light at the end of the tunnel is growing brighter. With a little luck we should be ready to go full-bore by March 17th!

(My apologies to Elizabeth Barret Browning for the desicration of her classic poem.)

Crap Happens

Like most dogs, mine love to roll in crap.  Chicken crap, cat crap, horse crap, crap crap.  They don't necessarily go looking for a fresh steaming pile but if they happen to stumble onto one they dive in, snout first. Come to think of it, an old dry one will work too, they're not picky, just opportunists. 

They'll sniff the guano for a minute and then dump their front end over so that one shoulder is smashed smack in the middle of it.  With their hind end still in the air, they propel themselves forward through the excrement, making sure to get the shoulder and side smeared up nicely before flopping the hind-end down.  Then, they'll roll over to their back, rub that in real good before standing up to smash the other shoulder in to make the job complete. 

Sometimes they'll even make a meal of the crap they stumble upon.  Then they trot over to me with a pleased grin on their face and want a kiss and a pet.  (Huh, I wonder if that's where the phrase "crap-eating grin" originated. . .)

Yep, my dogs love to wallow in the crap that happens in their lives.  Apparently, so do I.

Here's a list of the crap I've been wallowing in lately:

(Cue weepy violin music)

• My good dog died. 
• My good horse had to have double knee surgery.
• My sixty year old plumbing is leaking.
• My pipes keep freezing.
• My toilet won't stop running even though I've replaced the ball/cock/flapper thing-a-ma-bobbers twice.
• Did I mention my plumbing is sixty years old??
• My roommate used to be my best friend but now all we do is fight.
• My job has had stipulations put on it recently that make it less than ideal.
• A kid in my fifth period class drives me nuts.
• My good friend, who is also the breeder of my dogs, has bladder cancer.
• My team lost in the playoffs and shouldn't have.
• The team I used to coach is going to state.
• The big 3-0 is lurking around the corner and I'm still single.
• Did I mention my sweet Mekka died??

I realized this morning, in the middle of an especially grand pity party, that I've been wallowing in the poop of my life just like my dogs.  Except for one very important difference, I wasn't finding the experience to be a positive one.

Instead, I've been doing this:
 

 http://forums.gametrailers.com/ 





Yep, that's me. One big ole, snotty-nosed, swollen-eyed, lip-quivering cry baby. 

Well, no more.  I'm tired of being whiney and bitchy and I'm certain the people around me are tired of hearing me whine and bitch. 

It's time for a 'tude adjustment.

The way I look at it, I have two choices:

1.  I can wallow continually in the crap and hate the smell of myself.

OR

2.  I can take a quick roll, then get up and approach the rest of the day with a grin on my face. . . .even though there's poo in my hair.

I choose #2.

Mark that down as yet another lesson I learned from my animals. 

Eu de poo-poo anyone??

The Wide Open of West Texas

An immense canvas for the sun to rise and set upon.

 

The perfect vantage as a storm rolls in.

 The freedom to survey mile upon mile.

 

Unless, of course, the wind is blowing 45 mph and the dirt is so thick you can barely see your back fence.

 

Blech.



BWACK, BWACK!!

Socks

I'm a chicken.

A big fat weenie.

A scaredy cat.

And all the other euphemisms you can think of for being scared.

March will be here before I know it and with it will be the start of many a cowhorse clinic. All of which I will not be able to attend unless I get over my fear.

Oh, I've thought of another one: lily-livered.

My Ruby is out of commission until the end of March while she recovers from having bone chips removed from both of her knees. Luckily, I have another horse that is talented enough to ride in these clinics, my dad's gelding, Socks. There is only one problem with Socks: he has my number.

Curious Socks at the back door.

After six years of riding Breeze the Bipolar you would think that I would have met the ground a few times but for all of her turdishness, Breeze has never offered to buck. She is simply a button-pusher.

Socks has made up for lost time.

Socks makes Breeze look like a good ride, or at least a safe one.

Socks has thrown me off five times.

The ornery gelding is a six year old half brother to our two mares, Ruby and Snakebite (same sire, The Hot Express). He's big, handsome, and super smooth. He had been Grant's personal ranch horse until we brought him home from SCR last April. He even has a cameo dragging calves in a coffee table book called Dust and Smoke.

I gathered on him twice before we took him home and both times he was rock-solid. In fact, he earned my trust on one of those rides when the weather turned ugly. That day we spent a few hours in rain that turned to hail and then snow and even wound up ponying a horse through some of it. Through all of that Socks remained steadfast.

We took him home and I rode him out on a few hacks. He was golden on those occasions as well and had become my second-favorite horse to ride, next to Ruby, of course.

Until one disastrous day in May when he bucked me off three times in a row. The first time it happened I had just climbed on and we had taken a few steps before he exploded. It was a complete shock. I'm not sure I realized exactly what had happened even as I sat on the ground with pain pulsing in my hip and the sharp points of goatheads stabbing the palms of my hands. I caught my horse, convinced it was a fluke, and immediately climbed back on. We walked a bit and then trotted some serpentines before I finally asked him for a lope.

This time the feel of the leather reins burning thru my fingers registered in my brain as he threw his head down by his ankles and erupted again.

To this point, I had never before ridden anything bigger than a dolphin buck. This was turning into a competition between me and this big, stout gelding and I was far outmatched. Nevertheless, my emotions had shifted from shocked to pissed and the third time I climbed on I did so with determination.

And achieved the same results as the first two times.

S P L A T !

This time when I got up it was slowly and my shock and anger was replaced with frustration and a niggle of fear. I caught my horse and stood beside him. I rested my forehead on the saddle and cried. They were tears of frustration and tears of worry. My greatest fear was that I had just ruined a good horse.

I rode Socks several times after that day and each time I climbed on there was a solid knot of fear in my throat that stayed no matter how hard I tried to swallow it down or how good he had been the time before.

Maybe it's cause I braided his hair and damaged his manly ranch horse persona. . .

Number four happened in front of the cross country kids I coach. Pride made me hop back on. He didn't buck and we finished the ride.

On number five he began bucking as soon as I swung my leg over. By this time I had a nightlatch on my saddle and leather gloves on my hands. I held tight for three jumps before I landed in a heap. He bucked a sixth time that day but I finally stuck it out and rode him.

I haven't gotten back on him since.

Yellow-bellied.

Now that I've finally stuck I have no wish to get back on him, which makes no sense at all. Like I said, Socks has my number.

I want so bad for there to be a fixable reason for the sudden change. Like that his teeth are bad or his back is out. But, so far, the vet and the chiropractor haven't given me the excuses that I'm looking for.

Is it my fault? Was the first time really a fluke and when I came off so easily he realized that he had an eject button at his disposal?

Muddy K over at A Fearsome Beauty put it best when she said the following of her relationship with her horse after a fall:

"Suddenly, she was something that could hurt me, and I was something that could hurt her. Everything was different. I was outside of myself, displaced as a rider, displaced as Scout's person. Once my head got involved, my body checked out, taking with it the confidence and skill I had freely and un-self-consciously used all those years go."

By no means do I posess the level of confidence or skill that she speaks of but what little I have has been damaged in respect to riding this particular horse. It has definitely become a head game for me.

So, for now, Socks is a beautiful pasture ornament and I don't have a mount for the Les Vogt clinic in March.

My roommate snapped this as I got up from the ground for the third time that day in May.

Camping Out

Now for the night under the stars. . .

Okay, so it wasn’t really under the stars since there was a canvas barrier in the form of a teepee between me and said astrological markers. However, we did cook out over a fire pit that we dug, skipped most bodily cleansing rituals (save brushing my teeth, I can’t deal with slimy teeth), and froze our derrieres off on a very chilly night. While I had helped Connie with the preparation of dinner Dad had set up the teepee that we would share for the night. My Dad is a very handy man but it was evident that it had been a while since he had last “roughed it” because he assembled our humble abode on a bumpy patch of grass located on an incline. Luckily, we both had cots so the bumpiness of the grass was not a big deal but the incline provided less than ideal sleeping conditions.

Around eight thirty all of us cowboys (and girls!) moseyed on to our tents for the night. Before I could actually slide into the comfort of my Coleman sleeping bag I made a short hike to take care of my nightly need to. . .errrr. . . . relieve myself. It was already dark so with flashlight in hand and a few scraps of toilet paper in my hoodie I wound my way around cedar trees and cholla until I was comfortable with the distance I had placed between myself and my fellow campers. Now, I’m not going to go into detail but I do want to point out that I find it quite natural to relieve oneself in the position required for out-of-doors toiletry. And, if the Asian custom of installing toilets in the floor ever takes off in the US, I will probably be on the short list to have one.

Anyway, by the time I was ready to settle in for the night Dad was already snuggled down into his brand new, high dollar sleeping bag that he had purchased just for this occasion. Unfortunately, when he bought the bag he made sure that it would be long enough but neglected to check the circumference. Needless to say, Dad was trussed up in that bag so tight he might as well have been sleeping in a straight jacket. I realize now this would have been an opportune time to get even with him for the time he had stuck his head out the window of our vehicle and made kissing noises at my childhood crush. I was in third grade at the time and, yes, at twenty-eight I am still traumatized. When I think about it, the boy probably suffered psychological scarring as well. Lucky for Dad, on this night I was just too tired to put any thought into retaliation. I did manage to smirk at Dad’s predicament before I fell into a fitful sleep.

Over the course of the night Dad and I both found out that slippery sleeping bags on cots in a teepee set up on a hill do not a sound night’s sleep make. I lost count of how many times I woke up with my feet hanging off the end of the cot and my body folded up like an accordion. The process of inching my long frame back up the incline of the cot until my full body was situated comfortably was an arduous one but it had to have been much easier for me than for Dad. At least I had full range of movement. With his arms tight to his sides Dad had to wiggle his way up like a caterpillar, a very healthy caterpillar. Added to that, I guess with all the riding we had done that day and the wiggling he was doing that night Dad’s leg muscles had had enough cause he caught a whale of a cramp on the inside of his thigh in the middle of the night. His complaining groans woke me up to the sight of him flopping in his bag like a fish out of water. Needless to say, our night under the stars was a looooong one and the morning came too soon.

**In reading back over my recollection I realize that I have managed to compare my Daddy to a straight-jacketed asylum inmate, a pedophile, a giant caterpillar and a flopping fish. Sorry, Dad, that I sacrificed you for the sake of the story. Please forgive me and I love ya.


---------------

On a side note, the following is information on above mentioned Asian toilets that I borrowed from Wikipedia. Just in case you were curious. . .

Benefits of squat toilets:
-- It is less expensive and easier to clean and maintain.
-- It does not involve any contact between the buttocks and thighs with a potentially unsanitary surface.
-- The lack of water in the bowl avoids the problem of splashing.
-- Squatting might help to build the required exhaust pressure more comfortably and quickly.
-- Squatting makes elimination faster, easier and more complete.
-- Elimination in squatting posture protects the nerves that control the prostate, bladder and uterus from becoming stretched and damaged.
-- Squatting relaxes the puborectalis muscle which normally chokes the rectum in order to maintain continence.
-- Squatting securely seals the ileocecal valve, between the colon and the small intestine. In the conventional sitting position, this valve is unsupported and often leaks during evacuation.
-- For pregnant women, squatting avoids pressure on the uterus when using the toilet. Daily squatting helps prepare the mother-to-be for a more natural delivery.
-- Squatting may reduce the occurrence or severity of hemorrhoids and possibly other colorectal disorders such as diverticulosis and appendicitis.
Detriments of squat toilets:
-- Squat toilets require certain balancing skills. To those in the many "Western" cultures in which the squatting position is rarely used, using the squat toilet can be difficult or even impossible to use.
-- Use of the squat toilet can be difficult for the elderly and others with joint troubles or limited mobility. It can also be difficult for those recovering from leg injuries.
Hopefully, you found that interesting and not too crude!

Branding to come. . . .