I don't want your damn umbrella...

 

So, this picture has made it's rounds again. I die a little inside for women everywhere whenever I see this.

 

I guess I should cook and clean and have babies for my man while he works outside everyday and provides for my weak mind and body. I wonder what it would be like to have soft hands.

 

I've tried a million ways to interpret this differently but I just can't change my opinion. This is crap. It's a slap in the face to someone such as myself that has worked so hard, and as an equal, to have everything I want and then be cut down like I will never be in a successful relationship because I don't know where my 'place' is.

 

I know where my 'place' is...

 

It's not under your umbrella and it's not using my umbrella to shelter you. It's getting a bigger umbrella and standing shoulder to shoulder.

 

It's not being submissive and allowing you to single handedly run a household. It's talking about choices and coming to mutual agreements with you. It's compromising.

 

It's not taking care of a house and a life you fund because the man is the financially stable one in a relationship. It's sharing responsibilities and being dependent on one another regardless of our job titles or salaries.

 

It's feeling like I'm important and loved and cared for but it's also knowing that I'm more valuable than what my womb can produce and my ability to bleach your socks.

 

My 'place' is with someone who respects me, not with someone insecure enough to feel the need to lead me.

 

Let's stop sharing this garbage in an attempt to organize the family dynamic to your ideals. I might've put on a long skirt and had the dishes done if I was born 40 years earlier but today I'll kick off my boot the same place you did and we'll warm up some pizza rolls.

 

 

 

I've never been lost...

I've never been lost. I've also never been found. I'm a runner, a reformed drifter. I follow the rules I make for myself. I break the rules I make for myself. The devil can't catch me if he can't keep up with me. Too often I can't keep up with myself.

It was 11:11 and I insisted everyone should make a wish. It's a game I like to play, life is a game. I silently made my wish, it was typical, the same wish shooting stars are getting bored with. I've got my wish memorized, I think if I make it enough times whoever is in charge of granting wishes will allow me my glory out of sympathy. He'll say, "this poor girl is hopeless, let her have that boy." Everyone deserves a fair shot after all.

That boy told me he knew what my wish was. I hadn't said it out loud. I may have eluded to my desire, my eyes might say more than my lips. My face flushed because I knew he had seen through me. Where is this person that grants wishes and why isn't he listening to me? It's remarkably hard to let go of something I've never even touched.

All those songs you make me listen to; the words that tell my story, the words that tell your story. Those thoughts you make me think, the dreams that come when I force myself to sleep. I've changed a little since way back then, when we danced and I didn't want to let you in. I didn't want to let anyone in. Now you have the key, I'm vulnerable in a way I haven't allowed myself to be before. You're wrong for me, but gosh dang, you're so right.

I need you to keep up with me; be someone who can rope a stray because I've strayed for too long. Lead me to a better pasture because I can't survive this drought. See me through my better days because I've weathered too many storms. Find me because for the first time I think I'm lost.

Once Upon a Time...

Today I'm sad for all the 'once-upon-a-time' dreamers who forgot who they really are. They laid down what they wanted and they picked up what they thought they needed.

The girl who found Mr. Right Now and turned him into Mr. Good Enough. They got married because that's what they were suppose to do. An illegitimate child might be the worst thing that could happen in such a small town so they rushed the nuptials. She was happy for the moment. It could've been the hormones. Staying home all day couldn't be that bad but cleaning crayon marks off of the walls is a far cry from her wild ambitions she once clung to so defiantly. The late nights wrinkled her face, the dishes and laundry wrinkled her hands and the weight of losing herself wrinkled her heart.

The boy who had a few too many drinks and didn't get to make a decision when he found out his mistake a few months too late. Her daddy sat him down and he thought for the first time he was a man, and he tried, but he wasn't. Working midnights was a lot harder than running amuck at midnight and it wasn't any more gratifying. His friends didn't waste any time finding new adventures when their old pal hit the end of his chain. Everybody finds their time to settle down, to live a life worth living. That's what they say anyway. He needed to shed it, it was time to grow up, but rushing things never quieted his restless soul.

When asked, they'll reply. "I didn't lose my dreams, they just changed," and then they'll add with a tired smile, "for the better."

They've had a lot of time between sitting at a steel press sometime around last call and praying that the crying will stop long enough to take a bath to come up with appeasing answers to the trivial questions of childless, unwed commoners.

If it's your dream then you should chase it and have pride. Congratulations on your life well spent.

If you've had to change it to fit your circumstances then it's not a dream, its a prison sentence.

Today I'm sad for the 'once-upon-a-time' dreamers.

National Day of the Cowboy

Lazy or fun??

I'm an hour late for the "National Day of the Cowboy," but it only seems fitting that I was at a ranch bronc riding.

I'd like to thank all the cowboys that have let me in. Some of y'all have welcomed me into your inner circle and for that I am forever grateful. I've lived a life so far that is better than any book and wilder than any imagination.

Thanks to all the old cowboys who have shown me the ropes and taught me how to act right; that ever so important cowboy etiquette. Thanks for being patient and explaining yourself more than once and thanks for making me do things on my own.

Thanks to the young cowboys, a little less patient but wise enough to look up to. Thanks for yelling at me when we were in a rush and I didn't know which way to go; you gave me a hole to fill and it made me feel important. Thanks for cussing me when I missed a yearling that we really needed to catch; you were kind enough to give me a chance. Sometimes I got upset but I sure learned fast when I was threatened with a chapping, y'all never followed through but I always took it to heart.

Thanks to the cowboys with good reputations who talked their bosses into letting me help. I don't know what kind of strings you had to pull but I will always remember cashing my first check for day work. That is the most honest $100 I've ever made. Thanks for trotting through all of your country with me and telling me the names of every pasture; I've tried to remember every one.

Thanks to the cowboys who let me shoe your horses, if I can't be horseback with you I'm thankful I get to help you do your job. Thanks for trusting me with your livelihood and thanks for paying me your hard earned money.

Thanks to the cowboys who didn't laugh at me when I wanted to do cowboy stuff but who helped me instead.

Thanks especially to the cowboys who call me a cowboy, there is no bigger compliment.

Our country is...I can't continue without being deported...

Other countries, take note. If you make these, I will come.

I have a game I like to play, I refer to it as 'Attempting To Find Hope In Humanity.' I peruse Facebook until I find an over-shared post that is completely irrelevant or blatantly false and I scroll through the comments until I find someone that fell off into a Brittani approved rant about how wrong everyone is. Then I slow clap for the seemingly last shred of intelligence left on planet earth and I often click on the person's name and find out some basic information about said genius.

I've arrived at a fairly accurate estimate that 99% of these scholars are of foreign origin.

*gasp* Foreigners? If you're half as narrow minded as I am
(someone else's words, not mine) then you would also believe that all foreigners wear butt flaps and live in thatched roof huts on stilts. I'm under the impression that most of them die from childhood malaria and raids amongst feuding tribes.

Yet, some how, there are some greats minds that rise from the depths of disparity and horrors of oppression to become intellectual, well spoken individuals with an alarmingly natural bit of common sense and more understanding of the English language than a country that has been solely English speaking since, ever. (I'm talking Christopher Columbus, not Indians, just to be clear and not racist, God forbid.)

Why did I even notice that the people I was impressed by were Australians, Zimbabweans, South Africans and New Zealanders? Because American's are too far immersed in a deep, dark, bottomless hole of ignorance. Some people are still interested in world leadership, the current state of affairs and whether or not we are all going to die like turkeys in the rain because we are too damn stupid.

Twerking, text message lingo, race wars, Obama, twelve year olds dressing like prostitutes, pop music, people bashing hunters and ranchers, PETA, and for the love of all things holy, POLITICAL CORRECTNESS. I want to continue but I'm just irritating myself.     

I'll wrap this up before I have to climb into my straight jacket for the evening. Can't we just start caring about the things that matter? We're not number one anymore. We're not even number two. If we aren't already a joke to the world then we're on our way.

If some other country could start breeding cowpunchers that would be great because it's the only thing holding me down.

Australia, get that done please.

Today it won't stop raining...

She couldn't find a cup that was clean, the dishes have piled up for days.
So instead she took the whole bottle, there's errors in her ways.
The rain has finally done it, when it comes it really pours.
So she'll tip back that dark bottle and she'll dream of something more.

It's a warm rain this time of year, there's plenty she's lived through.
She knows because its fallen on her and she keeps coming back to you.
Throughout the years and the promises made she's never found something worth keeping.
It might be her mindset or the way that she lives that keeps her drowning in the deep end.

She'll open her eyes today or a day soon and she'll see all that she's been missing.
It's you that she's had every step of the way through all the tears and all the wishing,
and the rain will wash her memory clean like it has a habit of doing,
and all of those others that have knocked at her door won't be worth pursuing.

One day she'll look back on the path that she's chosen and she won't have any regrets.
She traveled too far and she was gone for too long but she paid off all of her debts.
That woman will reflect and she'll remember her days spent in the pouring rain,
she'll never forget your hand and how one kiss could erase decades of pain.

Her bottle is empty, the rain hasn't stopped coming, today she made up her mind.
It's you that she's wanted, your skin and your words and she knows it's not just the wine.
For too long she's faltered, but not anymore, she's only shared a dance and a goodbye,
Everyone wishes, but few get to know, she's learning how it feels to fly.

Rodeo man...

Photo Credit; Scott Slusher Photography

Hey handsome man, don't you ever get tired of the road? I'll bet it's easy to forget when you pick up a check. I'll bet it's easy to forget when you spur a good one. I'll bet it's easy to forget when you're tipping back that little can you like so well. There'll be times you're not drinking, but you wish you were. You'll see the morning sun burning the fog off the next town on your journey and you'll feel the fog you've put yourself in being replaced with aches; your body, your mind, your heart. How does it feel now?

Hey handsome man, do you think you'll stay young forever? Those dance hall girls and rodeo fans won't be at the next town. Those same distractions won't be there next year, but you'll be. They'll forget you like you forgot them, but there will always be more. Always young, still as pretty as the one you left at the last arena, and when you're dancing and laughing she'll be smiling like she'll stay forever. Forever is just closing time and it's already last call. How does it feel now?

Hey handsome man, do you like being lonely? Those that watch you think you handle it well. Your smile is beautiful and your name is written on so many big checks; it's always felt good when they cheer for you. They call you 'champion' everywhere you go. Lonely are those that blaze their own trail and you're setting the world on fire. You surround yourself with fellas that share the same thoughts, but, surprisingly, you never talk about how tight your chest feels and how often your mind wanders to someone you walked away from one night. How does it feel now?

Hey handsome man, isn't it time you find someone that can keep up with you? You found her once and you let her go. How does it feel now?

Lost earrings, lost hearts...

She lost her favorite earring,
The drinks made her memory dim,
That night she also lost herself,
She lost herself with him.

He has his reservations,
But he's a little past his prime,
He's done more wrong than he's done right,
But I guess that's just his kind.

It's something all cowboys have,
He'll never lose his outlaw heart,
It's not the best thing about him,
But it's the biggest part.

Despite his ways, he shows her love,
And when he drinks he wants to fight,
He never knew how to say it though,
So he often wastes the night.

He'll never know what happy means,
He married off before it was too late,
He might've had the chance one day,
But time just wouldn't wait.

She'll speak her mind to him,
Over a bottle of something strong,
He really had it coming,
But regardless, it was wrong.

She stays awake all night sometimes,
She remembers how he smelled,
Among all the others she's held before,
He was the best she had felt.

They had let each other go,
For reasons that were lost over tears,
The feelings were real, the time wasn't right,
The healing has taken years.

One day he'll find that earring,
Dropped beneath his bed,
It's not from the one he married,
But from the one he loved instead.

I can't let it go...

I'm kind of stressed. Kind of. A lot. I'm majorly stressed. Besides hormones (I'm still a woman) here are some reasons. I'll start off lighting the kindling on fire.

• I washed my truck this morning then remembered I had to drive down thousands of miles of dirt roads to shoe horses. I drove so slow everywhere I went that I didn't get all of my work done. Truck is still trashed. Schedule is still booked.

• They raised the limit on my credit card without asking me first. That was pretty sly Capital One and I'll have you know I took huge advantage of it. Slap on the wrist, do better next month. Just kidding. 27% APR ho.

• Don't have your horse shod for two years, alert me to how much of an emergency it is and then question why my work looks like the contents of a portable John. Do it yourself next time champ, and get your own tools. PS: your horse is a dick.

• My bronc riding idol is at a rodeo I was suppose to attend tonight. He's also engaged, or serious, or something. Failure on so many levels I'm going to induce a wine coma.

• 90% (I'm being lenient) of the folks I associate with are pathetically under educated, overly liberal and less than critical of the things that actually matter. Is common sense still a word? Didn't think so.

• Baltimore. No explanation needed. I'm going to do it anyway though. If you're throwing rocks, chanting, intimidating anyone in any fashion or threatening police officers you are welcome to come to my home. We can sit down and have a little chat about your misconduct. When we conclude our meeting I'll make sure to have a hole dug to drop you into and plenty of dirt to cover you up with. Normal folks are done wasting their time with your trashy ass.  

• Anyone who supports the Baltimore riots or calls cops 'Pigs'; go to Hell. You're worthless too. Take your parents with you, they did a horrible job.

• The Facebook challenge where mindless bodies lacking even peanut sized brains stomp on the American flag. Just leave. Go somewhere fun like Iraq or Nepal. I don't think there's many American flags there for you to defile. Read a book, have a little pride, learn some respect before real citizens choke you in the streets.

Now we have a full blown forest fire. I'm thankful for the very remote location that I live and the numbing effects of booze or else I may be writing this from death row.

Police brutality...

I am so absolutely sick and tired of the police brutality videos and stories circulating around the internet. I am a large supporter of due process of the law and I firmly believe that a suspect is innocent until proven guilty and sentenced by a group of peers, but y'all are overlooking some serious common sense.

If you are caught red handed stealing, raping or abusing then you should have the shit beat out of you. I'm not backing down on this. It doesn't matter how polite you were being when caught or how quickly you laid down and put your hands behind your back. Not running may have prevented you from getting shot but being still isn't helping your case any now, you're a waste of air.

Do we really want criminals to be slapped on the hand and told they've been a bad boy/girl? Not me, no sir, I want you to whip their ass until they cry and find Jesus. A little bloodshed and public humiliation tends to yield immediate results.

Since I'm on the train now and it's steaming full speed ahead I'll dive into this as well; this is the parents fault (or lack of parents.) I was a good kid and I still knew that if I stepped out of the line I may be ripped limb from limb by my mother and I held that fear very close to me at all times. The police wouldn't have to kick your dumb ass if your daddy would've made you pick your switch you incompetent menace to society.  

I have yet to watch a police brutality video where I did not sit back and slow claps for the men in uniform while they punched the stupidity out of a second class citizen. I have not witnessed one personal account thus far where the ass clown on the ground did not deserve what he asked for. You're wrecking it for the rest of us who want to leave our kids with a babysitter, take a jog in the middle of the night or buy fuel without having to prepay. You morons deserve a beating every morning before you brush your teeth.

Respect has dwindled to such a pathetic low that people don't even know how to behave with an authority figure. The laws are easy to understand, there's no fine print. Most laws are common sense we've been aware of our entire lives. When the officer comes to your window you know what is expected of you; what's up with not rolling the window all the way down, refusing to give them information and generally trying to make their jobs difficult? They are there for YOU, you selfish son of a bitch!

If you did something wrong and it was minor you have two options; fess up to it and allow them to proceed with the process of the law or act like a fool, waste everyone's time, look like an idiot and then get into trouble anyway. If you did something majorly wrong then lay down and let them kick you in the balls a few dozen times because I know for a fact that you KNEW you were wrong when you were stealing, raping or abusing. You KNEW there were consequences and you KNEW the law may catch up with you. Quit being a sorry loser, loser.

Nobody in the land of the internet knows what they want, man up and take a stand and be consistent with your opinions. I watch videos of an abused animal and every single comment eludes to the fact that they want the humans responsible dead, beaten up, tortured horribly or some form of physical justice to be dealt. I watch a video of a thug car thief high on heroin speeding away from swarms of cops, crashing the vehicle and the cops dealing out a very appropriate form of physical justice and everyone is crying for the bastard! An animal deserves to have his abusers mutilated but a thrown away life that is causing harm and destruction to many people deserves to be treated with respect? Sorry buddy, you lost that right when you decided that breaking the law was an enjoyable free time activity.

I'm going to end this before I break out the hard core cuss words because I'm headed there. I'll just leave y'all with this and please feel free to come to my Facebook page and comment on this link if you disagree with me, you're wrong and I will spend the rest of the day defending that; if you can't spend your time productively, being a decent individual and not harming good people then you needed a whipping long before that police officer gave it to you and when he's done trying to break your face I'd be happy to shake his hand.

Bronc riders as heros...

My heros will always be bronc peelers

 

I started thinking pretty highly of bronc riders the first time I nodded for the chute gate to open. I didn't think anyone else in the world could possibly understand what I felt or feel it the same way I did. I've spent three years trying to simplify that emotion and it's something I just can't do, it's almost impossible to analyze a feeling. I want everyone to feel what it is that keeps me awake at night; every jump, every rowel stroke, every crash.

It could be fear. It's a little bit like gazing over the wheat as a norther blows in. It's a little bit helpless and a little bit empowered all at the same time. You won't know how big of a storm is going to hit until it gets there and you don't know how well you're prepared for it until the hail starts hitting your roof. Sometimes I can match my breathing with the horse I've got my saddle laid across and sometimes they're breathing too slow and deep. Sometimes the crowd is big and the only breathing I can hear is my own, often shallow and usually masked by the heartbeat that is thumping in my head. My ears get plugged by my heartbeat.

It could be acceptance. It's knowing that you might not walk out of the arena and it's knowing that you'd be honored for something so strong to take you down. It's not hard to think about what's going to happen before you step onto the chutes but it changes when the anticipation gets thick in the air. Knowing what needs to be done and trying to talk your muscles into doing it can be a challenge. Accepting fault for your buck offs and broken bones can be taxing and it can be enlightening.

It could be pride. Most broncs look like they could be re-made into a child's toy; their feathers twist and curl above their hooves, they trot with their heads carried high and their knees pulled up to their chests, their manes hang down their necks and flow towards their shoulders and they bounce like they're light as air. Their appearance evokes pride, they know they're special to us and they know they've got the upper hand. Their pride overflows and those of us who ride them get to share some of what's leftover. Every once in a while I'll make a ride and my heart will grow until I feel like it may burst from excitement.

It could be addiction. I've never felt like something belonged in my hand more than a bronc rein. When your heart is beating faster than normal all of your senses are heightened, that's a fact. I can feel each strand of that rein slide across the calluses on my fingers and the little piece of mane I tied in there blows and tickles my skin like it typically wouldn't do. I wouldn't trade this for a white sand beach or Christmas day.  

It could be camaraderie. I feel like I know a bronc buster when I see him. I want to shake his hand and I want to share stories. I want to watch every video he has and I want to see all of his pictures. I want him to know that I'm as excited for him as he was the day he rode that bad one. I feel so full of happiness every time I get a handshake offered to me, or a pat on the back, or a compliment. We're all friends even if we don't know each others names because we've all bathed in an emotion deeper than most care to know.

It could be anticipation. Time slows down. Every thought I think takes hours to play out in my head. I could write a novel in only a few real life seconds. I've written dozens of novels sitting beside a saddled bronc, one boot rested in my saddle and the other keeping me balanced above him. I've written dozens of novels I've only ever shared with a horse. I've erased dozens of novels too, I forget them when I slide into the chute. Twenty some years of blackness, nothing, blank pages waiting for ink as I catch my stirrups and tilt my hips.

It could be strength. My dance partner's head creates a whirlwind of humid air and arena dust as he twists his neck, he knows the way out. His front hooves slap the ground at the same time, his legs close together, he's strong and fast and my teeth click together although my jaw was tightly clenched. There's no other power comparable to the first jump into the arena. I didn't know I had that kind of strength; my spurs glide along his smooth hair, I can feel his twitching muscles beneath my rowels and under my calves. My thighs lock tight against the rough out of my swells, I grip so hard the inside of my legs are often bruised. Every muscle in my left arm contracts and strains, it's connected to his nose through my rein and he wants his head free from my grasp. I know he's stronger than me but maybe I can fight back for eight seconds.

For the rest of my life I'll be able to sit in the stands; maybe crippled, maybe old, but never regretful. For the rest of my life I'll have a hero in a bronc rider; always bold, always proud and never underestimating of the feeling we share.

  

How to not be a feminist...

I couldn't find gender inequality if it hit me in the face.

I looked up the definition for feminism. It makes a lot of sense to me, I like equality, I even contemplated calling myself a feminist. Then I remembered that women often perceive things much too literally and taint the innocence of common interpretation.

Feminism-the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.

There is a gentle, easy to swallow definition of something we should all, male or female, appreciate and hold in high esteem. All of that really makes me want to become a feminist! That's very empowering and makes me feel very connected to my fellow females!

Then some clown decided to gather a bunch of other barbies without brains in the streets and burn their bras. You just went too far feminists. You had something that men could appreciate and stand behind you with, then you had to do as women classically do; you blew the civil agreement out of the water and pissed everyone off.

I like being an equal and I have never had a problem being one. I hear women whine all the time about how men talk down to them for their interest in stereotypical 'manly' activities. I've only ever participated in manly activities and I don't recall one bad thing ever being said to me, they may have jeered behind my back but I never heard it which means no harm was done. Woman are professional jeerers anyway; does your own medicine taste bad ladies?

But all of that may come down to interpretation. Maybe Susan piqued an interest in automobile mechanics and when the boys suggested she go to school for it rather than trying to get a job with no prior knowledge she let her confidence fail her. Instead of considering that school would be an excellent idea she instead saw a challenge to her gender. Brittani wanted to be a horseshoer and the boys told her she wasn't strong enough but Brittani knew there was no reason why she couldn't be as strong as the boys so her confidence exploded and she was inspired to succeed. Susan is a sad nurse, Brittani is a happy horseshoer.

In my oh so humble opinion, feminism is none other than an excuse for woman to remain seated on the bottom step. Why climb over everyone else when you can just comfortably evade responsibly for your failure? It's harsh but I don't see woman trying. Women get paid less because they're not aggressive enough with the higher chain of command. Ask any woman and she'll even tell you that woman are less aggressive than men. If you want to be treated like a man then start developing the enthusiasm of men rather than dwelling on the injustices dealt to your gender.

Women are not equal to men though. In a broad sense of the word, woman cannot be men. There are some things woman cannot do; these are physical limitations and that is okay, we were all wired the same upstairs so don't get up in arms but be considerate of the endeavors you chose for yourself. If you're five foot tall and 90 pounds on your best day I wouldn't advise you to seek out employment as a firefighter the same as I wouldn't advise you to make your bid for Miss America if you're fluffy. (I want a hefty girl to be accepted on that level but I'm not the one who makes the rules.)

Men know their limitations because they weren't drilled from infancy on their gender disability and it's because there is none. There is an intelligence barrier, there is a strength barrier, there is a 'right place and time' aspect to success and there is a desire to achieve that not many have developed a taste for. 

Quit hiding behind your feministic hopes and aspirations because you're fighting a loosing battle, with yourself mostly. In my experience, guys will appreciate you, even look up to you when you excel at something that was deemed to be gender specific. Men aren't the ones holding us back ladies, adjust your own binds because your limitations are only those you put on yourselves.      

October in Texas...

You'll drink what they give you.

While procrastinating about shoeing horses in the new spring heat, I began to reminisce on all of the other things I'd like to be doing instead. I found this picture on my phone and that day came flooding back to me immediately.

It was October and it was cold and dark at 6am so I grabbed my felt hat and I loaded up Tulsa for her second day of work. Tulsa is race bred and she is tall and no bovine can outrun her. The day before we had gathered a big brushy pasture. She has lots of try and enough grit to make me proud but the miles had made her sore, I could tell because she quivered when the girth touched her belly. I barely got my foot in the stirrup before she humped up and spun a few circles with her head between her knees. I caught my other pedal as she spun into me and I gathered enough rein to be able to feel her head. The guys were watching from the door of the medicine room so I asked her for more, they laughed when she didn't have anymore to give. I was secretly glad she didn't have more to give.

By the time we were done riding pens I had already shed my wild rag and gloves and was wiping sweat that ran down a wrinkled trail between my eyes. My boss was the only one smart enough to not give up on his straw hat yet, this is west Texas after all.

My first loop from a new rope drug a sick heifer out of a tank she had run down into while trying to evade our horses. I spent the rest of the day peeling mud off of my leggings. The yearlings were straightening out so we didn't have too many to tend to. That's too bad because Tulsa was just starting to get good at working a rope.

Late in the afternoon we wasted cotton pads and casting material to attempt a vet's job on a calf that broke his leg. He shouldn't have tried to jump that pipe fence. Or he should've made it. The break was in a bad spot, that steer was on the hook and our work didn't hold. I don't know for sure but he probably didn't make it. 

We helped ourselves to a Miller Light as the sun began to set. I don't even like Miller Light but I did right then; it really doesn't matter what you prefer when you're hot and tired and frustrated. I wanted another when I finished the first.

I got lucky, that wasn't the last beer I was offered. We processed three loads of bulls that night; cutting and doctoring and tagging. I do believe it was past my bedtime when we made a beer run. That's when I was educated; never work for a man who has lights in his barn. Lesson learned.

Tulsa got the next day off. I did not.     

Being real...

I'm real because I'm not the same person I was before.

And I'm wildly inventive with jump construction.

 

 

I had things to do this afternoon. I had lots of things to do. I'm behind on my work, my house looks like it should be condemned and my pickup smells like a foot. A dead foot. So I came home from working and I jumped right on the 'responsible adult' bandwagon and began to check chores off my list.

Just kidding.

I laid on my stomach in the grass in my front yard for 45 minutes and I picked through every patch of weeds I could find looking for four leaf clovers. I'm ate up with bug bites, my jeans have grass stains on them and nothing got accomplished in the life of me. I didn't even find a four leaf clover. But my sanity was restored. I laughed at my dogs while they rolled in the clover patches I was tying to sift through and I took 100 pictures of my horse doing this...

 

All of this took me back to a conversation I had with a friend. He suggested that I may be portraying myself as being 'larger than life.' That concerned me. I want to be real. I don't want to be above anyone else and I most definitely do not want anyone to think I'm cool because if you meet me you will be terribly disappointed. I'm negative cool. I have afternoons like the aforementioned frequently, it doesn't get any more real than a grown woman picking grass.   

So I began to study myself, I wanted to realize all the bad or weird or unkind things about myself. I didn't feel like this was a negative endeavor because I saw it as a way of connecting with myself on a deeper level and being able to link my social maladies with those of the world. I advise everyone to explore their weaknesses, fears, complications and concerns. Start making yourself real right now.

Being real to me is being the person who makes you happy. It's doing the things that make you feel whole even if those things are not in line with your peers. Being real is being truthful with others about your knowledge and abilities but it's even more important to be true to yourself. Don't be who others want you to be. I'm real because I missed a turn into normalcy somewhere along the road to here and I'm real because I chose not to stop and ask for directions. Here's some other things that make me real.

• Most people close to me know I have an unhealthy infatuation with dinosaurs and dairy farming. They both get brought up a lot. I just want a stegosaurus to tear down some brush one day and walk across a wheat field in front of me, I imagine they would be pretty gentle if you left them alone. Every time I see a dairy farm, whether or not its been in production within the last 100 years, I make sure everyone knows about it and I delve into a classic textbook definition of what kind of parlor and milking system they are probably using. I've never seen this as being debilitating amongst peers but evidently it's weird.

• Some of you might think I posses a certain level of intelligence because I'm articulate when in fact I have the spoken word processing ability of a fetus. I transfer my thoughts via writing because I can not speak. I mumble, I stutter, I use the most basic form of communication not limited to waving my arms around, cussing like a sailor and yelling. I'm a yeller; I imagine that this comes from my upbringing because whenever I get into a fit I resemble a drunk Yankee Doodle which is reasonable. Very often I am, in fact, a drunk Yankee Doodle.

• Here's a good one for all my die hard puncher friends that don't already know and constantly remind me. None of my family is involved in any sort of agriculture. Not now or ever. No cattle, no crops. They're not ranchy by any stretch of the word. I was not raised with longstanding family values passed down through generations of corn pickers and tit pullers. I've even encountered some opposition from folks who seem to think that a certain passion or the ability to preserve this way of life is limited to a royal gene pool or where you were birthed. They're wrong.

I just want to be real. I want you to be real too. I want to be who I aspire to be and I'm blessed that nothing physical or mental is standing in my way. I've chipped away at those walls of oppression for too many years to back down now and if you haven't started chipping yet I hope I can give you tools to get to work. Nothing is out of reach if you know who you are and where you came from. I don't know any paleontologists to be responsible for my obsessions, I've passed the point of no return with my capacity for speech and my daddy didn't have to be a cowboy for me to be one. Just be real; acknowledge your capabilities, work past your disabilities and never stop striving to make life your own. I've been accused of running away from things when they didn't turn out in my favor but the way I see it is that I couldn't run toward my next goal fast enough, that's why I'm real.

Girls like me...

Girls like me are a little different.

Girls like me fall for bronc stickers and guitar pickers. It's as raw of an emotion as you will ever witness when a man climbs down onto a bucking horse and you'll be able to see the lust in this pretty little lady's eyes when my bronc sticker strums my favorite tune.

Girls like me are smitten by curly blonde hair that pokes out from beneath a wide brimmed silver belly. I like that he told me it was punchy and I believed him, girls like me can be jaded at times.  

Girls like me want bits and spurs because that used patina will always be more precious than dying roses and chocolate that really isn't even that tasty. You speak to my heart with gear I can cherish.

Girls like me would rather be in the pasture than at the beach and I'd rather crack a beer than sip a mojito, girls like me can be as uncomplicated as you can imagine but I can make your head spin like you never dreamed.

Girls like me value rough hands over soft hearts. I'd rather tend to your sores than try to mend your scars. Girls like me have a past but most importantly I can look forward to a future.

Girls like me don't want to drive your pickup, we have our own. I don't want your money and I don't want your land, I'm proud of the life I've made for myself and I don't need charity.

Girls like me don't need a man, we want one. I can hang off of your arm but I'm still my own person. You're still here because you make me better and I hope I can do the same for you.

Girls like me are a little wild. I'm a little mean but I'm a little sweet. I'm a little rude but I'm a little kind. I'll pick you up but I'll likely throw you around. If you keep your guard up I might let mine down.

Girls like me fall for bronc stickers and guitar pickers because their minds are right and their hearts are whole.

Build a relationship with your farrier...

Dirt is okay! Mud is not!

 

I have recognized that I was a complete moron as a horse owner when I had to maintain a relationship (or lack thereof) with a farrier. I was oblivious to the reasons why I couldn't get ahold of anyone to take care of my horses hooves and why they typically wouldn't come back for a return appointment. I blamed it on horseshoers; they are, after all, irresponsible drunks that can't hold a real job anyway. Right? Them are fighting words. Professional farriers, myself included, take their careers incredibly seriously. I can't imagine another set of professionals that spend their personal time and money as wildly as farriers do to advance their knowledge with continuing education clinics, meetings, books, certifications and competitions.

In my first year as a hoof care specialist I could've wrote a book on the aggravations of working with the public. If that book were to have been published I would've lost all of my clients because of my increasingly hostile attitude. Several years later I've learned to see the humor in life and I've been able to brush off the inconsideracy of many good intentioned, but unaware, horse owners. That experience has led me to the realization that the frustrations farriers encounter could be smoothed out if clients were willing to recognize their wrongdoings and work to correct a few inconsistencies in their procedures.

I've compiled a little list; I've left out the snarky attitude I often expose as much as I could because I appreciate each and every one of my clients and I hope that our relationships continue to grow. I strive to make your horses become better partners for you as much as I am capable of achieving, so my fellow farrier brethren and I could use your help.   

• Catch your horses for me. Please do not make my job harder by making me catch your horse in a twenty acre trap in the 110 degree west Texas sun. I am not his human and he doesn't want me to touch him. It's not fair for me to waste my time playing horse whisperer when I have other horses to attend to. Catch your horses and leave them tied for us or at least gather them into a small pen that makes it easier for us to catch them.
• Eliminate mud for me. You cannot control the weather and neither can I. Please dry off your horses muddy legs, I can handle dirt and mud in their hooves but when he has been standing in mud up to his belly I can't do as good of a job as he deserves.
• Make shade for me. Allow some sort of cover for me in the brutal summer heat; a tree, an overhang, your garage. I understand that your budget determines whether or not you can have a climate controlled barn but there are some ways you can prevent my slow decay in the elements. The sun is not only bothersome but it is dangerous when I work as hard as I do.
• Have some compassion for me. Sometimes I have to reschedule on rainy/snowy/icy days. I don't want to get behind with my work but if you don't have an adequate place for me to work out of the elements then I will find someone who does and I will have to switch you to more horseshoer friendly day or time. 
• Let me work. You may have a spoiled horse. That is okay if you want to operate like that but I cannot. You may need to leave the barn while I'm shoeing your horse because we have developed respect for each other but he does not respect you, therefore he misbehaves when you are present. Don't get defensive in this situation, recognize the difficult behavior I am having to deal with and then let me tend to it in a way I see fit. Don't get in the way.
• Work with your horse. I don't want to be a horse trainer. If your horse will not tolerate me working on him then you have work to do. I do not have time to turn an hour shoeing job into a three hour shoeing job. I will likely be inclined to quit working for you if your horses are inconsiderate of me or dangerous. I don't have a way to pay my bills if your horse injures me, my way of life is at stake.
• Keep your horse on a schedule. I'm not trying to take your money or do a quick job for beer money. Your horse's hooves will never stay in good shape and look like how you think they should look if you only get shoes replaced twice a year. It takes almost an entire year for a horses hoof to grow out which means that all of the flares and cracks you have let develop from negligence will never resolve if you're just trying to save money. I want to be able to stand behind my work and be proud of the condition of your horse's hooves and I cannot do that if you don't allow it. You should want to keep him in the best condition possible as well.
• Pay me. I understand that life happens. It happens to me as well. I'd be happy to let a good client hold off for a couple of weeks but when you go all the way until the next cycle without paying me and I see you posting pictures of your vacation on Facebook I may get agitated. I need the money too, after all, I already completed the work.
• Communicate with me. Tell me about yours and your horse's needs. If something is not working please share that with me. I want to do the best for your horse and I don't typically get to see him worked so I have no idea if something needs to change.
• Trust me. I'm not a vet, I don't claim to be and I don't want to be. If your horse needs vet attention I will recommend it. I'm not overly anxious about medical conditions and I will not suggest that you spend money unless I see it is entirely necessary.
• Be loyal to me. I hold you and your horses in high esteem. Not only are you responsible for my livelihood but I spend every waking minute thinking of ways to further my education to be a better asset to you. If a vet or fellow farrier talks badly of me or my work please evaluate it thoroughly before you jump on the band wagon. Come to me with your concerns and we can talk about it civilly, there is probably a pretty good explanation for something they are seeing and do not fully understand. I value you, please value me and my knowledge.
• Be courteous of my business. If you decide that we are not a good match for whatever reason it may be, please continue to be respectful towards me. If I made a mistake while working on your horses I would be happy to make it right if you allowed it and I would most definitely offer an apology for anything I unintentionally did. Horseshoeing is an art, not a science, it is fairly easy to make the wrong decisions and often necessary to make corrections. If you decide to let me go please let me know so I don't repeatedly try to contact you to set up future appointments and please do not talk negatively about me to other horse owners when I had been willing to fix, or discuss, our differences.

Build a working relationship and an open line of communication with your farrier, it will benefit both of you and you may be able to avoid the mistakes I made!

I never want to forget...

 

Can't forget 2005! We were babies.

 

I never want to forget my first truck; it was purple and ran on gasoline and it gained me entrance into the elusive high school "truck club." Or the first blue ribbon I ever won on the first horse I trained myself, I swear he would've jumped the moon for me.

I never want to forget watching them ship my boyfriend overseas and feeling like every muscle in my body quit working except the ones that made tears. Or the day my first horse took his last breath and knowing that God needed a good pony.

I never want to forget my childhood best friend; the trouble we got in, the fights we had, we laughed until our stomachs hurt and then it was over like it had never begun. Or the day I left home and promised I wasn't going back, and never did, but always wanted to.

I never want to forget the first racehorse I ever rode; my hands raw from gripping the rubber and nylon reins bridged across her neck, her body flattening out and the wind blurring my vision. Or the first bronc I ever climbed on; her eyes trained on the chute gate but her ears pointed at me, 1200 pounds of rock hard muscle quivering beneath me.

I never want to forget the first time I crossed the Red River and I knew I was somewhere I belonged. Or the summer we tied bronc saddles onto the headache rack of my flatbed Ford and toured Texas. We lived like kings in bedrolls, rode like fools and never made enough to cover fuel.

I never want to forget the first dance partner who pulled me close and meant what he said; nothing else in the world mattered. Or the sun rising on the back of my first home bred colt; she was perfect, she still is perfect.

I never want to forget anything that hasn't happened yet that fills me so full I could laugh or cry or scream. There's something special about the kind of emotion that lifts you up and marks your soul and truly makes you feel alive. Find what it is that makes you feel alive.