I've Been Hijacked!

By the Christmas Police.

Apparently it's a crime not to have a Christmas tree, so Mamaw issued orders to that effect today, and bought the tree and decorations.

So I now have a three foot pre-lit tree and ornaments. It's not up yet, and I'm not sure where it will go, but it's in the apartment.

Soon as I get things cleaned up, I'll put it together and have a pretty pretty tree.

As ordered.

You're not who I thought you were...

I had those words spoken to me recently, and it just struck me. It's been mulling around in the back of my head for days, like an endless loop.

"You're not who I thought you were..."

In this case it was more of a compliment than one of those last minute, throw it in your face things that that phrase brings to mind. For me it does, anyway.

But it got me to thinking about first impressions. Those instant judgments that we all make, upon first sight of a person, by their clothes, their hair, the way they walk, even before they ever open their mouths. And how wrong they can be.

Hair back in a pony tail, grimy, stained jeans, old wore out t-shirt, ball cap that looks like its better days are far behind it, skinny as a rail, walking in a fluid slouch that saves the knees and back when walking long distances on hard surfaces.

That's what I look like.

It's not who I am.

I love movies and books, horses and learning.

I like clothes shopping, as long as I can do it at my speed, which is fast.

I like tall shoes, I was the smallest person around for so many years, I like having the extra height.

I dress for what I'm doing. If I'm working, I dress for work, if I'm goofing off, I dress for comfort. When I go out, I dress for going out. I don't dress to impress the people I see every day, because I don't care if they're impressed with how I look.

I love to dance and to sing, even though I'm no good at either of them.

I love Edgar Allen Poe, e.e. cummings, Mercedes Lackey, Laurell K. Hamilton, Hemingway and Mark Twain and Robert A. Heinlein.

I cuss like a... well, like a construction worker, and I make a decent meatloaf.

I'll dig a hole, climb a hill, stand all day, and shovel shit, but I don't have to be happy about it.

I'll drive off into the sunrise with nothing more than a cheap road map and a car full of camping gear. I'll park myself in the middle of a wheat field and just sit for hours.

I'll park in front of my computer and surf the web for hours, talk to friends and work on papers.

I hate feeling helpless, and I hate when people don't follow through on their promises.

I can live in the world that is around us today and I can still have hope for the future.

I can live in the world of technology and cars, four wheelers and automated everything, and still believe with every ounce of my being that there's a place for the horse mounted cowboy in the world.

I can watch the skills that made my grandparents and great grandparents their living be turned into a hobby, or a curiosity, and still know that those same skills are valuable, and honorable.

All of that still doesn't add up to who I am.

And some people will never look past the grimy jeans and hat far enough to see any of that, let alone see more.

Their loss.

Letter to Me

Got the country music channel turned on, and this song caught me, made me stop washing dishes, and sit down and listen.

(Mostly) Lazy Day

As planned, I awoke at gawdawful in the morning today, to sit with the nephews whilst the majority of the FarmFamily made the pilgrimage to the Black Friday sale.

Ok, ok, I was awakened at gawdawful in the morning by Farmmom because I had forgotten to set the alarm on my cell phone. Sue me.

Froze parts that I'm rather fond of on the trip to the Farmbrother and Sister In Law's house, then stretched out on their couch to catch a couple more hours of z's before the munchkins awoke for the day. Or so I thought.

A few minutes into my warm up period I heard a rustling in the other room. Well, along with FB, SIL and the munchkins, there are two cats and a dog living there, so I didn't think too much of it. That is, until I heard something else.

"Auntie Farmgirl,"

The oldest nephew was awake, and the sleepily annoyed expression on his face told me he'd been being very quiet (just like his mother and father had told him he had to be when he got up before anyone else), but I was supposed to have heard him anyway. Considering his volume at that point was somewhere slightly above that of a mouse tiptoeing across plush carpeting, I thought I was doing good to have understood him at all, personally.

"That would be me."

"What are you doing here?"

"I was trying to sleep."

"But why are you sleeping here??"

At this point I decided that as fun as playing word games with eldest nephew is under normal circumstances, if we continued in this vein he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. Which, of course, meant that I wouldn't be able to either.

"Mom and Dad had to go to Lamar to get some stuff, so I'm staying with you till they get back."

"Oh."

"What did you need, kiddo?"

"I'm thirsty."

"Ok, let's get you a drink, then you can go back to sleep."

"Ok."

He stepped back from the edge of the couch and turned to walk to the kitchen, and I realized that while he was big enough to want underwear like his dad's, he wasn't quite big enough to fit the boxer briefs, since they were hanging off of one cheek.

After FB and SIL came home from the war, I migrated back to the Old Homestead and curled up with a good book for several hours. I then realized that I had to make a trip to the horses, since I had left Red shut in the top pen for ease of catching when I had time to ride him again.

See, early this morning, sometime between Eldest Nephew's groggy interrogation and the time I woke up for the day, it snowed about two inches, and then froze.

Red's pen had only a shallow tank, shallow enough to freeze solid. Red's pen also had the hay bale. Snow on the ground, freezing temperatures...

I had to let Red out where he could get to water that didn't resemble the world's largest ice cube, and so that the other horses could get to the hay.

So, I bundled up and went... eventually. See, there's a secret about driving in rural areas in the winter time. If the highways are icy, but the entire world isn't one big bruised tailbone waiting to happen, your best bet for travel is the dirt roads.

That is, as long as they aren't muddy. The moisture will make them slick, but if the temperature is below freezing, and they haven't been churned to muck, they're safer than the highways. Better traction.

By the time I realized that I had to go to the horses, the temperature had risen above freezing, but it was already on it's way back down. So I waited.

Got Red turned out (for which he was eternally grateful, and showed it by farting in my general direction as he ran out of the corrals calling for his buddies) and checked the big water tank... Which they hadn't gotten the tank heater in yet.

So, I had to break ice. Without an axe. Or a hammer.

I was in my car, fer gossake, I didn't have anything bigger than a socket wrench, and my tire iron is collapsible.

So I broke ice with my foot, and Farmmom's Toastytoes Boots.

It worked, and I didn't wind up hip deep in cold, cold water, mostly through luck and excellent traction on the soles of the boots... I had to jump up and down on the ice a few times to get it to crack, then balance on one foot on the edge of the tank (and holding on to the fence) to get it broken up. But I did.

Tomorrow, I'll take an axe.

After that, it was more laziness with the book, and my feet up. Best way to spend a winter day, I just wish there was a fireplace.

Be Thankful....

Now that the food portion is out of the way, I thought I'd post something more along the lines of the original meaning of Thanksgiving.

Feasting is an integral part of the day, but there's also the fact that we're supposed to be thankful for everything in our lives.

I'm thankful for the opportunities that I've had. I'm in college studying in one of the best programs in the country, doing what I love to do.

I'm thankful for the things that I have, because let's face it, nifty toys are fun.

I'm thankful for my friends, and all of the memories that we've made together.

I'm thankful for you, my readers, and your patience and support when my muse goes wandering, or my time is simply taken up with the necessity of life and school. This blog gives me a vent for my creative energy, and you all give me an ego boost whenever I see a compliment, or look at my sitemeter. I'm woman enough to admit that there are days when that boost is sorely needed.

But most of all, I'm thankful for my family. I realized today, while I was flaked out in the recliner, listening to them chat and loose the occasional turkey flavored belch, (and they all thought I was in a triptophan induced coma) that no matter the embarrassment they sometimes cause (mostly on purpose), I wouldn't have anyone else.

I wouldn't be who I am, or where I am, without them, and their support.

Mamaw, who has taught me the high art of the prank gift, and that it's best when the gift is really nice, something extremely touching, or perfect, and it's lovingly packed in the perfect sized box, beautifully wrapped... then taped to the bottom of a refrigerator box, surrounded by bricks, buried in ghost turds, the box covered in duct tape, then wrapped with garbage bags and topped by a smashed bow dug out of last year's Christmas things and attached to the whole thing with a large piece of duct tape over the top. (Don't get any ideas, woman! It's just an example.)

Farmdad, who always encouraged me to be curious and learn, and who turned me on to science fiction by naming me after a Heinlein character, and making me read the book when I asked him why.

Farmbrother and his wife, who gave me two fantastic nephews, and also give me other things, like their old couch, and who I can count on to be where I used to be, and help out where it's needed on the Old Homestead.

Grandpa, who rekindles my enthusiasm for what I'm doing now every time I talk to him, no matter how lagging it's gotten thanks to business class or the sheer exhaustion of Feed Crew, simply by being so enthusiastic himself.

Farmmom, for so many, many reasons. For being my mother, for supporting me no matter what I chose to do, for crying with me over my first heartbreak and for everything else that she's done for me, (and to me,) over the years to help me become the person I am today. But most of all, for being my friend, no matter what.

I'm thankful for each and every one of them, for many different reasons, most of which aren't even mentioned here. I don't think I could ever compile a complete list, it's just too damned long.

So remember to be thankful for the blessings in your life, whether they're people, things, or just a warm ray of sun to curl up in while you're reading a good book.

And maybe, when you think about the small blessings, you'll realize that they've added up to a pretty danged good life, when you weren't looking.

Turkey Day

Ahh, Thanksgiving. That one day of the year when even the most svelte supermodels sit back from the dinner table and unbutton their two hundred dollar jeans. Well, who could blame them? They're not used to eating, after all.

Me? Well, I restrained myself from donning pants with an elastic waist this morning, mainly because of the cold, and I regretted it.

Turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy with giblets, hot rolls, corn, peas, egg noodles in turkey gravy, deviled eggs, stuffing, cranberry sauce, green bean casserole, and quartered cornish game hen with it's own stuffing. Plus all the goodies on the relish plate, and to top it all off.... pie.

I stuffed myself, leaving a carcass on my plate from the game hen that closely resembled something from one of the Saw movies. Then I sat back and sighed and digested. For about twenty minutes. Then I had pie. And more pie. And then... you guessed it... more pie.

Leftovers are packed away, game hens in the freezer. I think I'm going to wind up with most of them at the apartment.

We'll see how many people I can convince that game hen is pigeon. There's a long tradition of eating "pigeon" for holiday meals in the family.

The first year that we tried it, just for something different, Farmdad told my great grandma that he was just going to go out and shoot some pigeons for Christmas dinner. She laughed, until she saw the little birds in the kitchen. She was about half horrified, but she was good farm stock, and meat was meat, so she agreed to try it.

As long as we got a turkey breast and cooked that too.

It wasn't until she'd eaten nearly half of one, and pronounced it "good bird" that anyone told her what it was, and from there on out, cornish game hen was pigeon.

Wonder if I can gross the city slickers out with it?

Tomorrow I'm getting up at gawdawful in the morning to go watch the nephews whilst Mamaw, Farmmom, Farmbrother, and his wife go to the big city to hit Walmart the second it opens, and cash in on the Black Friday sales.

I'd rather have the four year old and the toddler. If I wanted to see Black Friday at Walmart I'd watch Jerry Springer, it's safer.

Vacation? What Vacation?

I arrived at the Old Homestead to a lovely and relaxing Sunday afternoon, chilled with the FarmParents for a while, and went with Farmmom to ensure that moving the water tank where the horses are didn't cause what we here in Blowdirt County, Colorado like to call a "flash flood," before reminding myself that I get to ride the world's most neurotic horse this week. But first I have to call the Courthouse Coc... I mean our fine upstanding County Commissioners... and ensure that I won't be stepping on any toes by hauling him in and using the County Fairgrounds.

I wouldn't worry about it, really, since I can close the gate to the corral for a little while and have an enclosed space, but the fairgrounds has one overwhelming bonus... the track.

Yep, our tiny little town has it's very own race track, used for... well... nothing, anymore. They used to hold wild horse races on it but then some tree hugging fur-is-murder pansies had to spoil the fun for the rest of us.

I know what you're thinking, you're thinking "Farmgirl, you're not usually so mean!" It's true, I'm not. But, in this case, I feel it's justified, because around the same time the wild horse races went out, so did a good 90% of the fair attendance, and thus the revenues generated by it. It's all been downhill from there. Now we have butt-ugly scrap iron statues on Main Street, the local kook is debating one of the pastors in the Letters to the Editor section in the news paper and signing them "The Reverend Priestess," and you can't find a decent party to save your life. What really tweaked me off about the wild horse races though was the whole attitude that people had towards them:

"People could get hurt!"

... Kind of the point, I thought. Darwinism in action! Kinda like Nascar.

Well, I'm probably going to re-instate the tradition all by my lonesome, with Red. I plan to run that little sucker till he can't run anymore. See if he tries any crap then. Not to mention the old tried and true fact that if he's busy running forward, he can't get much vertical. I really have no desire to be all bruised up... and I don't have as much time as I would like to work him into behaving gently, for the sale, so, we'll take the faster (but less long-term) method of running off all the excess energy so that he might actually listen.

I'm not going to try to pass him off as broke, I just want him to not act like a completely neurotic little skeez in the sale ring.

And yes, I am building up my expectations of his performance already. I do expect him to be the worst horse I've ever ridden, that will take all of my skill and some velcro on my ass to stay on.

Ya know why?

Because that way, he won't surprise me unpleasantly. Unpleasant surprises with horses tend to be painful and I plan to be able to pig out this Thanksgiving.

What an embarrassment if I was too sore to lift my shovel..... er..... fork..... at the dinner table!

Not to mention my family would have enough leftovers to feed a small third world country if I didn't eat my fair share, which according to Farmmom is approximately equal to three times my body weight. (This instead of having enough leftovers to feed a platoon of Marines, which is the usual amount. When the FarmFamily does a holiday meal, we do it right!)

No one is really sure about that measurement, they haven't figured out how to tie me up well enough to keep me away from the food long enough to weigh it.

Although it is kind of priceless when the pizza delivery guy tries to flirt and ask me if I'm having company when I order a medium pizza and a double order of breadsticks, and I tell him no, but the smell of dinner in the oven was driving me nuts and I needed a snack.

(On re-reading this, I had a thought: Perhaps I should wait an hour after watching Jeff Dunham before writing a blog... like eating and swimming, except with snark instead of cramps...)