Pigs Are Flying, And Lily Is Quoting A Country Music Song

I'm not saying that I'm old.

Definitely not.

But at 28, I WILL say that I am most certainly older than I used to be, and I think we can all agree that one's ten-year highschool reunion, once is upon them, brings with it a certain note of sobriety and the realization that no, those jeans that you've been saving since college are just not going to fit, honey, so let's just go ahead and donate them to goodwill before they go completely out of style, shall we?

In the words of Pepe Le Peu,

"Le sigh."

I fell off a horse the other day.

At first glance, this doesn't appear to be that alarming. Anybody who rides as often as I do is eventually going to fall. And CERTAINLY anyone who rides the crazy, fearful, "holy-shit-that-car-is-going-to-EAT-ME" kind of horses as often as I do is just asking to be dumped.

Its just that...I...don't fall.

It's kinda my schtick.

You see, it took me 4 years of weekly lessons to take my first dive - heroically - into a thicket of wisteria bushes after my out-of-control mount chose to take the road less traveled while out on a trail ride.

Oh, there were other falls.

Some were epic - like the time I got clothes-lined while out on a fox hunt with yet another out-of-control horse and they had to call an ambulance (Can you imagine that converastion?!? 911 dispatcher: where are you located?; Concerned fellow rider: Uhhh....the woods.)

Many were less dramatic - resulting in no more than a dirt smudge, a baffled horse, and a slightly bruised ego.

But regardless, I can say with all confidence that during my 21 years in the saddle, I have fallen significantly fewer times than my comrades, while riding significantly wilder horses. Because the people who don't fall?
They ride the crazies.

So yeah...I fell yesterday.

And here's the deal...I was riding a horse considered by all accounts to be very, very safe.
I've ridden him pretty regularly since December of '09. He's a fantastic horse - good natured, hard working, and again, I can't stress this enough, very, very safe.

So we went to take a jump, as we've done many times before.
But yesterday? He wasn't feeling it.

So he went left, and I kind of tipped forward because, okay, my heels weren't down but again, he's the SAFE, HARD-WORKING, HONEST horse that you don't really need to keep your heels down with because he ALWAYS takes the jump...

...except for yesterday.

So he goes left and I tip forward and...
Here's the weird part:

I could have stayed on.
I swear to god, I could have used all my strength to pull myself back in the saddle, swing that horse around, and make him jump that jump like it was going out of style.

But instead? I kind of looked at the ground - which was so close anyway on account of my head being down around his shoulder - and I just kind of ...went limp.

Went limp as in, I honestly couldn't be bothered to keep myself in the saddle.

This is the same girl who once, when she was riding and her horse slid and fell on its side, was STILL IN THE SADDLE when it struggled to its feet because she refused to fall off.

This is the same girl who took two final jumps of a jump course with her saddle SLIDING OFF THE SIDE OF THE HORSE because she refused to fall off (especially when she was wining the competition).

This girl...
THIS GIRL...
As of yesterday, chose to fall rather than break a sweat trying to stay in the saddle after her very, very safe horse skipped out to the left of a jump no taller than her knees.

Even the horse, after coming to a stop, turned around and looked at me like, "Really, Lily? REALLY?"

I think he was embarassed for me.

And that, my friends, is how I know that...while I'm not OLD...I am most CERTAINLY older than I used to be.

It's kind of like that Toby Keith song...
"I ain't as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was"

Except that doesn't really make sense.

But you know what he's trying to say:
Shit only gets suckier after you hit 22-ish.

Amen, Toby Keith, with your rugged goatee and appropriately battered cowboy hat...Amen.

Consequently, I wrenched my neck while falling.
But it didn't hurt at the time...or later that night...or the next morning.
No.
It hurt exactly 27 hours after the initial impact.

Again...Not old

....just....

Older.

Le sigh.

Chuck Norris, A Kangaroo, And A Jailhouse Romance

You know how when you have no money in your bank account it's like pulling teeth to check it online? Because looking at it will only fill you with suicidal thoughts and stomach bile?

That's kind of how it's gotten with this blog. Because I used to write 5 days a week but now it's all "oh man, it's Tuesday again. That means a week has gone by and I haven't blogged. Better try to be creative."

So I take a deep breath and try to fill my head with creative thoughts, but instead I start thinking about the partially-filled easter basket sitting on my counter and I'm all, "hmmm I bet chocolate would help me blog." So I mosey on over and help myself to some sugary goodness, and by the time I've finished , I've completely forgotten what I was about to do because we all know I have extremely-early-onset Alzheimer's (or so says the half-eaten sandwich that I started eating two days ago and forgot to finish - no lie).

It's just that I'm working.

Alot.

And I guess I could work a little less and make time for blogging, but the truth of the matter is I LIKE MONEY.

Alot.

And it doesn't help that I have to hand over 1/3 of everything I make to Uncle Sam, which I think is pretty bogus because hey, I'm the one doing the work while he sits around with his feet up drinking Pina Coladas and "waging a war on terrorism" (which is actually a code for running over to the neighbor's house, ringing the door, punching them in the face, and stealing their kid's bike).

So he's all,

"Yo, man, hand over yo' cash"

And I'm all,

"Naaah, man, it's mine. Get your own"

And he's all,

"Gimme yo' cash or Imma put you in jail, beeyatch"

And I'm all,

"Damn, that's cold, man. That's cold."

And he's all,

"That's what yo' mom said last night"

And I'm all,

"That doesn't even make any sense....STUPID"

And then he takes my money and roundhouse kicks me in the neck just for fun.

It sucks.

But I'd rather hand over a third of my paycheck than get violated by "Big Agnes," so I guess in the end, everybody wins.

...Except for Big Agnes.

Because with this face?

I bet I'd make a pretty sweet jailhouse bitch.

Hoarding vs. Whoring: The Difference Is In The Details

Jericho: Lily
Me: What is it?
Jericho: Can we talk?
Me: I'm kind of busy right now buddy. Can it wait?
Jericho: I really don't think it can.
Me: *sigh* Okay, what's the problem.
Jericho: I'm concerned.
Me: I can see that. What about, bud?
Jericho: I think you have a hoarding problem.
Me: Excuse me?!? Did you just call me a whore?!?
Jericho: No, not a WHORING problem....a HOARDING problem.
Me: Oh, okay, because I was gonna say.... Wait. What? Why in the world would you think that?
Jericho: Because the number of animals in this house continues to grow exponentially.
Me: Ummmm...no it doesn't. What are you talking about?
Jericho: Well, there was me and Skittles, and that was okay. But then you got Milo...
Me: Don't even go there Bud. Before we got Milo you barely moved. He's probably put two years on your life!
Jericho: Another two years with Milo? Bestill my heart...
Me: Knock it off.
Jericho: Okay whatever. And then that fat cat moved in...
Me: Tiger? We had to! Brian's ex-wife was going to have her put down!
Jericho: Do you know what she costs you in food ALONE?!?
Me: I know. But that's not a good enough reason to have her put to sleep. What if YOUR first owner had wanted to put you down rather than adopt you out?
Jericho: Impossible.
Me: No it's not. She could have and you'd be dead right now.
Jericho. She never would have. I controlled her thoughts with my superior brain power.
Me: You are so weird. You did not.
Jericho: I could be controlling your thoughts right now.
Me: But you're not. Because you can't control people's minds.
Jericho: I guess you'll never know...
Me: MOVING ON....
Jericho: Oh. Right. And now this little black cat is here and you know what? I think she's kind of a punk.
Me: Okay, one...she's not living here. We're just watching her for Aunt Emmy. and Two...she's not a punk. You hate everyone who doesn't want to just lie around on the couch all day.
Jericho: She thinks she owns the place
Me: I know, but she's just a kitten. Ignore her.
Jericho: It's a little hard when she's using you for a landing zone for her base-jumping expeditions.
Me: Well she's leaving Friday so just deal with it.
Jericho: You said she was leaving LAST week.
Me: I know, but Aunt Emmy had to leave again and it wasn't worth it to bring her back and forth and you know what? Stop complaining. You have food. You have a roof over your head. You're fine.
Jericho: That beagle isn't moving in, is he?
Me: Who. Bandit? No, we just watch him for your grandparents once in a while.
Jericho: He's weird.
Me: I know.
Jericho: Like, REALLY weird
Me: I know.
Jericho: Like, BAD TOUCH weird
Me: Okay, okay, I get it. He's weird. He's not over very often, so just relax, okay?
Jericho: And you're not planning on getting any other pets?
Me: Nope. Just one more puppy and we're good.
Jericho: WHAATTT?!?
Me: KIDDING. Kidding. No. No more pets.
Jericho: Good. I'm glad we had this talk.
Me: Can I go back to work now?
Jericho: Oh, by all means yes. If you need me, I'll be on the couch licking my privates.
Me: Great. Thanks.

Touching Base and FYI...I'm Not Dead. Yet.

I'm going to borrow a phrase from my good friend E over at Flukes and Flames.

Stuff Going On (or SGO, for short)

Dudes, I have a massive case of SGO right now.
Which explains both the fact that I haven't posted much of late, as well as the fact that I still haven't come to terms that March is over and April is in full swing. As in, I can't really remember the past month because I've been running around like a chicken with it's head cut off.
Or...like a Milo on 10 lines of pure, uncut Columbian blow

Whichever image you prefer.

The freelance writing thing? Is going fantastically, frantically, horribly well. Maybe it's because I have a hard time saying "no" (TWSS), but the work is piling up BIG TIME. And no doubt - I'm thrilled with the extra income and the fact that we can go back to our lavish lifestyle of using shampoo instead of dish detergent and feeding the pets instead of making them hunt each other.

It's just that....well...I'm down to my last pair of "laundry day" underwear.
And I haven't seen the bottom of the sink since March.
And dammit - it's nice out and I WANNA GO OUTSIDEEEEEEE.

Needless to say, time management is kind of an artform at the moment.

And then there's the horse thing.
My good friend up and started a lesson barn approximately 5 miles from my house. And god help us all, she's asked me to be the other instructor.
And it's not that I'm not good with kids. Surprisingly, they love me. It's just that reining the potty mouth in has been a challenge unto itself, and on top of that:
WHAT, exactly, is my motivation to go home and sit in front of the computer all day when the sun is shining and I have a barn full of horses at my disposal?

If you're at a loss...that makes two of us, my friend.

So right now I'm sunburned and dirty and smelly and happy and REALLY behind with my freelance work.

In other good news...Brian is not going to lose his job.
In fact now, it seems, he might be up for a promotion.
Is anybody else confused by this drastic change in events?
But that's the (ahemcough Insert Township Name Here) Fire Department for you - never a dull moment.

PS - dear (ahemcough Insert Township Name Here) Fire Department:
Thanks for the heart attack. You owe me $80 for therapy copays. And a new pair of pants (shock does terrible things to my bowels).

So everybody is working and everybody is (relatively) happy.
But the SGO?
Still present and VERY MUCH accounted for.

I'll post again when I find a free minute. Until then, enjoy this blog of cute things falling asleep.

You're welcome.

A Eugoogoolie

Dearly Beloved,

We are gathered here to mourn the loss of our good friend and faithful companion, Green Purse.

Green Purse was a purse of unlimited potential, yet surprisingly modest beginnings; she was picked up, brand new, silica gel packet still in place, at the local GoodWill store for the humble price of $5.99.

Green Purse had then, and still had until the day she passed away, an enormous capacity for stuff. All kinds of stuff. Yes, she carried all of the basic necessities - cell phone, wallet, keys etc. But beyond those bare basics, she was known to offer shelter to a wide range of tools and equipment. When somebody brought a sweatshirt and had no need for it, she took it in. When somebody was convinced that he or she could not get through the day without 2 or 3 bottles of water, she gracefully accepted her load. And who could forget that time when she sheltered the mystery knife? Oh, Green Purse, the surprises you had in store for us all.

Green Purse was well traveled. With her owner, she went on business trips that took her to exotic destinations such as St. Cloud, Minnesota and Jacksonville, Florida, always providing a snack or reading material during long waits at in the terminal. Passport safely enveloped, she had adventures and Canada and honeymooned and Bermuda. Wherever her owner found herself, Green Purse was always in tow, clutched safetly in the armpit of her mistress lest she be snagged or pickpocketed.

Green Purse saw it all. She saw her owner quit her job and get another job. She saw her owner married, separated, divorced, and married once again. She outlasted two generations of wallets, three cell phones, and countless tubes of lipgloss. She survived a run-in with the resident cat (although she wore several scratches bravely for nearly two years), and numerous close calls with the resident NoMiloBadDog.

It was only in the last several months that she began to show her age. Hairline cracks in her shoulder strap slowly turned into unsightly gouges, until she was deemed no longer fit for public display. But up until her last day, she did what any purse should do.

She held my crap 'till the end.

Oh, Green Purse.
The places you went.
The things you saw.
The lives you changed.

You will be forever in our hearts.

Imma Outlive ALL You Beeyatches

Water and I...we don't get along.



I hate hate HATE drinking water.

And I know a lot of people say that, but riddle me this Batman:



When was the last time you met a person who could drink 2 cups of coffee in the morning and NOTHING ELSE for the rest of the day?



Convinced that I'm an alien?

Yeah, that makes two of us.



I went to my doctor recently to get some bloodwork done. Some of my levels, like potassium and vitamin D and creatinine, were off.



But on the good news, I'm HIV- and Hepatits-negative, so there were no uncomfortable discussions when I got home.



Anyway, after some though, he cocked his head at me and asked, "Is there any chance you could have been dehydrated on the day they drew your blood?"



And I was all, story of my fucking life, doc.



Doctor: How much water do you drink on average?

Me: Not much at all.

Doctor: Like, how many 16 oz glasses per day

Me: None, ususally.

Doctor: None?

Me: None.

Doctor: Not even one glass?

Me: Not if I can help it.

Doctor: Other beverages? Tea? Juice?

Me: Coffee in the morning, but nothing else really.

Doctor: You know coffee is a diuretic, right?

Me: Yeah

Doctor: So you drink diuretic liquids in the morning and nothing else all day.

Me: Pretty much.

Doctor: How many times a day do you pee?

Me: I dunno. Maybe 2.

Doctor: Does that include nighttime?

Me: Yes.

Doctor: Ever get up in the middle of the night to pee?

Me: Sometimes when I drink too much.

Doctor: Well, alcoholic beverages are diuretics too.

Me: Yeah, I know.



I think they call this a stalemate.



Have you ever had anybody look at you like you're supposed to be dead but for some reason, you're not?

That was kind of the look he gave me. It was creepy.



So I took the opportunity to ask him the question that's been burning in my mind for years now:



If I were stuck in the desert with a bunch of other people, would I be the FIRST to die from dehydration...or the LAST?



As in, is my body so used to being dehydrated that I'd be making fucking sandcastles while my companions were dropping like flies?

Or am I so behind the 8-ball when it comes to being hydrated that I'd shrivel up like a raisin after 10 minutes?



The expert consensus? After careful consideration, my doctor guessed that I'd probably be the last to die.

"Heck," he said, "you might even set a new record."

YEESSSSSSS!



"Of course," he added, "that's not a good enough reason to drink as little as you do. Barring any trips to Africa, I'd recommend drinking more....A LOT more."



He's such a party pooper.

Spring Fling

We could talk about my virtual abandonment of this blog...
...but let's not.

Instead, let's look at pretty "spring-has-sprung" pictures!
Yep.
Good plan.

*Not Pictured: poor droopy crocus that got pummeled in the rainstorm. Poor crocus :-(

Blog post coming tomorrow, I promise!!