Right Job, Wrong Tool

Yesterday afternoon, while I was sitting at a red light, it occurred to me how often I make things harder than they have to be by trying to do the right job using the wrong tool. Butter knives as screwdrivers. Shoes as hammers. Not always with good results.

I don’t know what made me think of it - I hadn't done anything particularly stupid that day. 
It was at the corner of Maryland and Serene and I was idling along about midway between the beginning and the end of a long line of traffic waiting to make a right hand turn. There was road construction on Maryland but there wasn’t an arrow and I always forgot how long the line grew between greens. I had one foot on the brake the other on the clutch as I waited for the car ahead of me to inch forward because God forbid I not take advantage of four inches of progress. The cars behind me might self-combust with honking indignation.

Anyway, I was staring through the windshield thinking how I needed to wash my car but it was monsoon season so that would be a waste of time, and watching the clouds drift behind the tall steeple of the LDS church on the corner, when a guy on a crotch rocket got tired of waiting and cut across the parking lot. There wasn’t an outlet on the Maryland side of the church, but maybe he didn’t know that. Maybe he was going to jump the curb. I didn’t know. It crossed my mind to follow him.

That’s when I thought about Cissy.

She was a blood bay. I always had a soft spot for bays. Crooked streak down her face, ending in the black velvet of her muzzle. Liquid eyes. Old timer snorted at her. Said you can't ride pretty. I knew that. But dang if she didn't make me want to try.

Backing up a bit, the first dozen years or so we lived on the ranch, we rode ranch horses. This stock was not a bunch of pets. Hell, they were barely horses. They did not approach to be petted. They barely stood the indignity of grooming and even that was a quick once over with the curry comb. They were work animals, nothing more than tools. I tried to love up on them at first but it only made them nervous and the men laugh, so I gave up. So there I was in 1983. And that’s how I learned to ride…on a beast that tolerated my presence only so far as my skill allowed. Get off balance a little bit? Any one of them would be glad to help you the rest of the way out of the saddle and then leave you there to walk home. Talk about an incentive program that worked.

And God forbid you take them out for anything less dignified than moving cattle. They were NOT (all caps, emphasis on the not) trail riding ponies - which was okay for a cattle ranch, really. Except they weren’t exceptionally cowy either. They were too long legged to squat, their necks tied in at an odd angle so they couldn’t really round their backs and most of them had clean throats but they were too hard headed to tuck their chin.  But seeing as how that’s all that was on the menu, we made the best of it for a dozen years or so.

Until Cissy. That little mare was about as pretty as a piece of apple pie. Only five, somewhere along the way she’d met already up with a bit of bad luck: her front right fetlock was circled with angry scars that looked a whole lot like the work of barbed wire. She was funky about standing tied. She’d do it, but it made her nervous. Men made her nervous, too. But women and children were welcome in her world which was fine with me because that’s why we bought her.

The first time I worked cattle on her, God, I remember like it was yesterday-we were in the pasture around the hill-a big old full section and a half with cuts and draws and old downed fencelines that shoulda been cleaned up a hundred years ago. It was rife with mesquite. Not little bushy stuff either-the tall as a tree version with branches big around as a man’s leg just aching to drag you out of the saddle and thorns like a ten penny nail. 

The cows in that pasture weren’t exactly social. Oh sure, they were friendly enough all winter when the feed wagon went honking, but come spring when the grass started greening they were done with the small talk. It was less like herding cattle and more like hunting.

I got sidetracked, sorry.

 Anyway we set out after this yella charolais with a big old white steer on her and she hightailed it into the mesquite. I’m not going to go all Louis L’Amour on you but it got really western for a while. When it was all said and done and the yella cow and calf were tucked back into the herd and my legs expanded in rhythm with  Cissy’s ribs, she snorted and gave a little jig and I slid my hand under her mane, resting it against the sweaty hide on her neck. She calmed back to a walk and all I could think was how different it was to ride a horse that worked with me and not against me. How much easier it was. How much more fun.

See, I didn’t know working cows could be fun. I thought it had to be all about getting yelled at and bucked off and then yelled at some more.

Damn. I wasted a lotta years riding knotheads.

Back to the corner of Maryland and Serene and the maverick on the crotch rocket – he was probably going to cut across the parking lot and then out a back road on the other side and then back on to Maryland on the other end of the construction. Not a bad idea, altogether. If I had been driving The Beast, maybe I’d a followed him… but in the little car? No. Right idea. Wrong tool.

I think maybe there’s a lesson in all of that. One that I need to apply to relationships. If I figure it out I’ll let you know. For now I’m just not going to take Serene.

Old Friends and Flea Collars

I had dinner with an old friend the other night. Not old friend as in, someone who is old – Old Friend as in, someone I’ve known a long time.

You know, one of the best things about time-worn relationships is the ease, the familiarity – the groove. As always, our conversation started exactly where we left off, as if we had merely been interrupted for moments not years.

First we talked about careers. Mine more than hers because it is new and shiny and a little bit crazy. We discussed moms. Her mother has just moved in with her and she is adjusting to the ‘not-empty-nest’ syndrome. Mine has just been widowed. Diets, weight, (ugh!) the indignities of aging.  Common friends came up next, and then kids and grandkids. Lots of laughing. Lots of pictures. Lots of eye-rolling at the antics of 4 year olds.

But eventually – inevitably –  gravity pulled the chit-chat down to the nitty-gritty of it all - relationships.

Shit got real.

For once, I had nothing to bring to the table. Zero. No drama with the ex. Nothing. So, I leaned forward, ready to listen to her tales of man-woe… but it seemed she was equally impaired. Words dwindled to silence as we studied the sweet potato fries.

“I’ve given up on men,” she admitted.

Given up on men… my brow furrowed. Lots of things darted across my mind, I admit.  I mean, sexual preference is ambiguous these days.

“You mean…”

She stabbed a fry into the dressing. “No! God, no. No no no,” she laughed. “I’m just done with the whole dating thing.”

I should insert here - I don’t date either. Hell, I don’t do a lot of things. I don’t win the lottery. I don’t win American Idol. But I haven’t given up on them. I still imagine what I’d do with the big cardboard check. Still wail along with the radio.

Still hope there is soul mate out there somewhere, drinking his morning coffee, thinking of all the little things in his life that he wants to share with me.

I asked if she got lonely.

She said she bought a dog and whipped out a picture.

I admit. It scared the shit out of me. If this confident, attractive, smart, witty, financially secure, emotionally stable woman had failed to find a mate, where did that leave me?

I studied the little shaggy beast. A flop of hair fell over his eyes. Admittedly, he was cute. He probably didn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink.   

We visited a bit more and then parted ways but two weeks later the image of that damned dog laying in the middle of her sofa is still stuck in my brain.

Friends, I beg you this – the day I start showing pictures of my dog/cat/fish on my phone, just shoot me… because if my soul mate wears a flea collar, life is simply no longer worth living. 

Starting Over

Congratulations! You figured it out! Yes, it's true... Smart Mouth Girl is back. Actually, she's been driving me nuts the last several months, prodding me to get back to the blog. I've been successful at ignoring her, for the most part, but lately she has found other outlets for her mischief, so I guess to be honest, I'm just trying to reduce the collateral damage by giving her limited access to the keyboard. 
Where do I begin? 
In the two years I have been absent, much has changed. I'll spill the details later, but the sum of it is this: I lost it.
I lost it and I didn't blog because hey, it was fugly. And ain't no body got time for that, right?
But I finally reached the other side and I think (hope) I'm ready to open the closet and let the skeletons spill across the web-miles. Fingers crossed, I headed for the computer this morning, armed with coffee and some serious musical inspiration.
Once I remembered my password, I entered my blog only to discover the entire internal layout has changed. It may look the same to you, but to me it felt as if someone had rearranged my dresser drawers. 
Sigh.
Starting over is hard. I forgot about that. But let's face it - I have lots of experience.
It's really, really good to be back, friends.
Here goes ...

A Roll of the Dice

This is my life now.... Palm Trees, Slot Machines, Casinos.... I remember six months ago driving through the snow in northern Utah, wondering if I would ever feel so far away from home again.

Now I know the answer.

And the funny thing is, I have the nagging suspicion this is only the beginning of the craziness. I think the next Great Adventure may be just around the corner. So, hang on. I'll tell you all about it. Just not now. Now, I have to leave for work. Hard hat - check. Steel toes - check. Security badge that says I'm allowed to go in the mine - check.

Funny. I never thought I'd be a miner.

Where I've been....

Can we talk?

I haven’t posted this because I didn’t want to ignite a three alarm fire, but 6 weeks ago I got the call that we might lose the ranch.  Again.  Only this time, there was nothing I could do about it. No money, no payments, no nothing was going to stop the force of nature.

I sat at my desk, head in hands, and stared at the wall. It's 2009 all over again. How could this happen?

So, that’s the main reason I haven’t blogged. I haven’t had one modicum of energy that wasn’t channeled into coping with the loss of the ranch.

Why? That’s what I need to know. Why does it matter to me? It’s a thing. A possession.

It is also the vessel that holds my memories. It is the soil that grew my family. It is the only thing I have that resembles a home besides my grandmother’s house, which I will never again live in.

This month I’ve really soul searched, trying to unroot the hold this place has on me. I don’t live there: may never live there again. And yet its talons reach into my deepest self, unearthing 48 years of need and loss and pain, turning them over like rocky soil, exposing them to the light of day.

Here’s what I learned: Get a note pad, you’re going to want to post this on your bathroom mirror.

It’s better to let it go willingly than to have it ripped from your bloodied fingernails.

I kept remembering a picture of my granddaughter, at 2, arms loaded with toys. She wanted up on the bed but couldn’t get up there without letting something go. Stubbornness seems to be a family trait, so rather than lay it down, she tried every other way of clambering up, always falling back on her diapered bottom. Frustrated, she stomped her foot and started to cry. My daughter leaned over the edge of the mattress.

You want up here?

Jaiden nodded yes.

Grace picked her up and set her on top of the bed.

A light went on in Jaiden’s eyes. All she had to do was ask.

God, I don’t want to lose the ranch. I know I can’t stop it. So do what you’re going to do. But I want it. I want to keep it. You know why.

I got the call Friday.

Safe for now. One more bullet dodged.

For now, I am a two year old, legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, little toys clutched in my hands, trying to remember why I didn’t just ask in the first place.

ETA

Smart Mouth Girl has told me if I don't get my butt back to the blog, she's going to take over. So, while I'm not going to blog tonight, I will promise to have something up this week. I'll either tell you about the latest adventures on site or I'll confess to my venture into ...
Nevermind. I'll just tell you about the latest adventures on site. Hold me to it, y'all.

Out on a Limb

I’m sorry I’ve been absent so long. I’m going on the third week of Hell Month, except my month is actually five weeks long. Today I only had to work twelve hours and when I got home I discovered I had extra time on my hands. What to do? I could clean my room. It’s a disaster. Or I could take care of business from home. But that’s too much like work.

I could climb a tree.

Yes. You heard me.

Climb. A. Tree.

This is what exhaustion does to you: it makes crazy ideas seem logical.

While changing clothes, I looked out my second story bedroom window and spied apricots growing on the tree that grows along the fenceline.

Apricots.

August.

They glowed orangish, tempting. Big succulent orbs of juicy fruity apricot-ness.

I tugged on my shorts and tennies.

Safety caught me at the door. “Where’re you going?”

“There’s an apricot tree out there.”

Her brow furrowed. “So?”

“Get a basket or a trash bag or something.”

Awareness dawned. “No,” she said firmly. “No. No. No.
Hopping on one foot, I pulled the other sneaker over my heel. “Yes,” I said, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Fifteen minutes later, with branches spearing my breast, I perched in the fork of the tree. Damn fruit was all out on the ends of limbs, just out of my reach. Okay. Well out of my reach.

“You’re crazy, Stella.”

“I am NOT crazy. I want an apricot. I’m getting an apricot. That’s not crazy.”

“Why don’t you get one of these on the low branches?”

“There aren’t any on the low branches,” I snarked.

She moved into sight, biting into a perfectly formed, fuzzy, fruit.  “There’s a whole bunch down here on this side.”

Dang it. I didn’t look on that side.

Slowly I exited the tree, scraping my chest, elbows, knees and one leg all the way down to my ankle. Safety looked at the peeled skin and shook her head. “Pshss. You’re crazy.”

I don't know. Maybe she’s right.