Surprise!

While I'm gone, Ya'll will be getting a treat. The inestimable Ambulance Driver himself has agreed to grace my little blog with his genius.

So keep checking back, folks. You'll be getting one canned post from me, and one fresh one from AD.

Have I mentioned lately how fantastic, smart, witty, handsome, funny, fabulous and super I think he is? No? Well, I do.

Packing

I'll be off and gone starting Tuesday, Farmmom and I got gifted with an amazing present... a four day trip to Hawaii. So she and I will be enjoying the fun and sun and sand and omg water.

We fly out Wednesday, but are heading up and staying with a friend Tuesday night to avoid having to get up at three in the morning to make sure that we've got everything we need and make it to the airport on time.

So, I'm packing. The fun part of this comes in when you realize that all of my summer clothes are packed away. I haven't seen my shorts in about a year anyway...

So I'm having to dig through stuff and find everything except tank tops, because I have a ton of those because I love them.

While I'm gone, I probably won't be blogging much. I mean really, would you?

I'm going to try to have a couple of posts scheduled to go up while I'm gone, but I'm not making any promises.

I'm goin on vacation baybee!

FINALLY!

Chapter Eight is available!

That's right, for the low low price of one dollar in that tip jar there on the right you can get the next chapter of Jane.

And I'm so sorry that it took so long to get my act together on this one guys. I'm going to try to get my buffer built back up over the next week or so and get back to putting up a chapter a week. For now, enjoy Chapter Eight!

Remember, the first four chapters are available FREE right over there on the sidebar.

I Figured It Out

Finally, while watching the dogs wander and stare mournfully at me in the tub, I figured out what their problem is.

They're not fascinated. They're worried.

It's so obvious to me now that the dogs are terrified that I'll slip under the water and drown and thus be unable to feed them and pet them and tug on their ears.

I realized this when FarmDog would go from staring mournfully at me to diligently investigating every corner of the bathroom, obviously looking for something edible in case of my demise.

Also, it says something about me (probably something very sad) that I got the most amusement I've gotten in a long while out of watching her when she got a little fluttery bit of toilet paper stuck to her inquisitive nose.

It stuck to her wet nose, she sneezed, it stayed stuck, she shook her head, it stayed stuck, she crossed her eyes at it (I am not kidding) it stayed stuck.

Finally she resorted to snapping at it. Yes. Picture it. It's stuck to her nose and she's snapping at it. Lunging forward trying to catch it unawares.

I almost did slip under the water and drown laughing, watching this. Fortunately Fuzzy Pup wandered in at this point and she wiped it on him like a true sibling does with anything that comes from one's nose.

Then she looked at me like I was a horrible person because I was still chortling and snorting and holding my sides and went to lay just outside the bathroom door, while Fuzzy Pup took up the vigil to make sure that I didn't do something stupid and kill myself in the tub and cut off their supply of treats.

Randomness

Why is it, when you're running a bath, you can stand in the bathroom for thirty minutes doing this and that in pre-bathing preparations and at the end of it, three inches of water are in the bottom of the tub, but step out of the bathroom for 2.5 seconds and suddenly the tub is three drops away from overflowing?

While I'm on the subject what is it about a bath rather than a shower that fascinates animals so? I can shower all day and the dogs care less. Run a bath, and since I'm not pitching their furry butts into it, they're absolutely fascinated and want to stand at the edge of the tub and stare like I'm pulling doggy treats from thin air.

Also... chapter eight is in the works people. As soon as I satisfy my inner diva with a long languid bath and humming sappy country songs to myself while I shave my legs, I'll get back to work on those pesky last few pages and get it up. Tonight, it will be up tonight. Tomorrow at the latest. Unless something horrific happens.

I'm putting up a sign that says "Writing, if there's not blood when you disturb me, there will be."

Which won't do me any good if I can't quit getting fascinated by weird crap on the web.

On Cowboys

Whenever I read that someone said something about how there are no more cowboys, it really pisses me off.

It's like me saying there are no more trains.

"But FarmGirl," I hear you say, "The bygone days of riding the range all week and carousing in the saloon all weekend are gone."

True. So is the steam engine, but saying there are no more cowboys because the days of bringing the stock in in a blizzard on horseback are over is like saying there are no more trains because the coal shovelers are out of work.

Cowboys live. They walk amongst us (ok maybe not you) every day. And I'm not talking about the buffed, polished, and shined rodeo boys you see on TV either, although they have their own place in the Cowboy Lexicon.

I'm talking about real cowboys. Stay up all night to nurse a sick calf, cry when his horse gets snake bit, hat wearing, spur jangling cowboys. Men who go out there every day and do a tough damn job for very little thanks or pay.

Men who are, in large part, responsible for your steak making it all the way to your plate.

They're still riding horses, checking fences, sweating and freezing and praying to get their herd through the winter. Sometimes they use the truck or an ATV instead of their trusty old pony, but when it counts, they'll fall back on that four legged partner because two brains are often better than one.

Sometimes they wear ballcaps instead of cowboy hats, but god help you if you touch either one without permission.

They still strap on guns when they leave the house, and usually carry a rifle, in case they run across a coyote. The gun may be a semi-auto and the rifle probably isn't the stereotypical .30-30, but they've got em.

Their jeans are perpetually faded, stained, torn, and frayed at the hem, except for one or two pairs that only get worn for special occasions, like dates or weddings.

They use computers to track their breeding herd and they check the market report on their cell phones, but they're still cowboys.

A cowboy isn't in the costume, and it isn't in the past. What makes a cowboy comes from an abiding love of the land, their critters, and their families. They're often wild, and sometimes they do dumb things, but they're not stupid, and they're a lot of fun.

They're never too tired to help out a neighbor, or a friend.

Cowboys live amongst us today and while they may look different, at the core, they're just the same as those men who rode the lonesome prairie a hundred years ago. They still retain a bit of the romance that their fore bearers are painted with, it's just usually covered in a layer of grime, and you have to look a little deeper.

And anyone who can't see, and respect, the code that those men live by, I feel sorry for. My life is richer for knowing them, their examples have made me a better person.

The world would be a sadder place without them.

Big Burly Guys Don't Need Guns

This morning I was pointed to a blog post here that made me do what I don't usually do... jump into an apparently ongoing argument.

Go read the post, then read the comment that I left, which at the time of this posting is awaiting moderation, and tell me, am I wrong to be a bit offended at his assumption that everyone is, or has handy, a large muscular manly man well versed in martial arts and what have you? That my safety is somehow less important than his? Because that's how it came across to me...

Here's my comment, and I did try to be polite:

Sir, as one of those “Radical pro-gun” people, who may be labeled a troll after this comment, I have to ask you a few questions-

How is it a sign of personal weakness that I assess the world in a realistic way? I’m 5′7 and 100lbs or so… no matter what martial arts or self defense classes I take, there is going to be someone out there who can overpower me with sheer muscle.

Does the fact that I consider the subject of my personal safety and carry a gun not because I expect someone to jump me, but because I know, in the realities of our times, that when seconds count, the police are only minutes away make me somehow weak or unfit?

Personally I think that the conscious and deliberate decision to use all tools available to you to protect yourself and your loved ones is a good thing.

I’ve made a choice, a personal decision, that my safety and well being is more important to me than the safety and well being of a person who means me harm.

Is there something wrong with that, in your mind?

I take personal responsibility for my own safety, and that is why I carry a gun. If that makes me weak in your mind, so be it, but I hope you’ll think about what I’ve said before you jump to conclusions about me.