It Can't Be Done

Today is not a good day. If I had a bad habit other than Dr Pepper, I'd be indulging it right now. I've tried to sit down and take a moment, but somehow it's just not suppressing the urge to choke the next stupid person I come across. Every single project I have in the works (the top two being my book and our equine spa) is being delayed by someone else who hasn't done their job. And might I add, just for fun, someone that I paid to do a job. I freely admit that I am an impatient person. If I want something done, I want it done yesterday. But if you advertise yourself as a professional, then I expect a certain level of, I don't know, urgency when it comes to completing a project. You all certainly develop a sense of urgency when you are waiting for your money.
My special cross to bear seems to be dealing with photographers. One photographer, ONE has managed to take quality pictures and deliver what I wanted in a timely fashion out of all the ones I've ever dealt with. And he lives three hours away. He took our wedding pictures, which cost an arm and a leg, but I got the photos I wanted of that day, and seeing as how I don't have a video of it (a whole other story,) my pictures are what I have to remember my wedding. It's been downhill from there.
I've been through several "professionals" since then who can't seem to get an order right to save their lives. One man put half of the pictures he agreed to on a CD and then put the wrong child's name on it. NOT the way to build your business. He also ordered the wrong pictures in the wrong sizes every time I placed an order with him.
Then there was the lady who never seemed to be ready at my appointment time. Look, when you show up with not one but TWO eighteen month old children who are dressed AND happy at the time your appointment is supposed to begin, you should darn well be ready to take their pictures. Putting a freshly ironed smocked dress on a toddler inevitably produces the urge to wallow on the floor like a pig. And as anyone with a toddler knows, you have a very small window of time where they are cooperative and happy. You have to get your pictures quick or be really good at Photoshop.
My proofs always looked terrible. I'm sorry, but there's only so many times you can blame the lab who printed the proofs for the fact that the pictures are too dark. I paid for a package deal with my baby and never got what was promised in the package. Just for fun, the same person has reordered a portrait because she ordered the wrong pose the first time and STILL didn't order what I asked for on the paper I asked for. It's maddening.
And one more thing...don't tell me something can't be done because YOU don't know how to do it. It's a big world out there, and there are still people left in it who are willing to take on a project and work at it until they get it right. "It can't be done" is a load of crap. It's a good thing that our founding fathers didn't have that attitude. Otherwise we'd all still be loyal subjects of the Queen.
Whew! That felt good. Maybe I'm slightly less frustrated than before. Maybe. Lord, put your arm around my shoulders and your hand over my mouth.

What Goes Around Comes Around

I am a big believer in karma. Invariably people get what's coming to them, some of them just have to wait a little longer than others. I also believe that no good deed goes unpunished! While we were at the Mega Race, my husband and I were busy working the Lifewave booth when a lady we didn't know walked up. Kirk was busy, so I said, "How are you?" "Not good, not good at all," she said tearfully. "Do you have some jumper cables?"
I absolutely did, and the reason I did is because last year before Christmas my baby and I were stuck in Tupelo when my car wouldn't start. Not one single person offered assistance to a woman with a baby in a car with the hood raised. Disgusting. Anyway, while I was waiting on my hero, AKA Superhusband, I mentioned on Facebook that all I wanted for Christmas was a set of jumper cables. So naturally, included among my gifts from my dad that year was a roadside assistance kit, complete with a shiny new set of cables. It's ridden around in my car unopened, simply because when you have something like that, you never need it. Leave that sucker at home and I can guarantee you will be sitting on the side of the road.
So I loaned the lady my set of cables, my car, and my husband, because I figured that kind of stuff comes back around. I had no idea what I was getting us into.
As they pull around the building, in a slightly panicky voice this lady mentions that her (small) children are at the hotel and she now has no way to go get them. She explained that the whole mess started when she lost her keys. Apparently forgetting that she was in the murder capital of the southeastern US, this woman walked by herself at least a mile to the Chevrolet dealership. I really wanted to say something to her about her poor decision making, but then I thought, well, if it meant getting back to my kids, I'd have walked past the devil himself. So I couldn't really fault her for that one. But lady, really, next time ask somebody for a ride! Sheesh!
Have I mentioned how hard it is to type with a short person sitting in your lap playing with the mole on your neck? And pushing buttons at random. Oh, and turning your computer off from time to time. Adds a whole new degree of difficulty to my writing career! If only I didn't need to sleep and I could write while my kids were in bed... Anyway, back to my story.
Desperate lady makes it to the Chevy dealership where they sell her a new key for her truck for $60. Because they refuse to give her a ride back to the Fairgrounds (and shame on you guys for that) she walks back. She follows their instructions to put the new key in the ignition without turning the truck on and leave it for an hour. After an hour, her new key is programmed and her battery is dead. So that's when she found me.
In the meantime, someone finds her keys and takes them to the announcer's stand. Excited to have them back, now all she needs is a jump, right? Wrong! After unsuccessfully attempting to jump start her truck with two different vehicles and calling in our buddy who knows about cars, my husband was about at his wits' end. The helpful Chevrolet dealership told her that all they could do for her was call a tow truck. Then our buddy had a thought. "Which key are you using to crank the truck?" "My old one, since we found it." "Try the new one!" You know what happened next. The truck cranked right up and the day was saved!
She was incredibly grateful, and I just have to believe that things like that come back around. I sometimes think about how much fun it would be to have millions of dollars to give away. How cool would it be to change someone's life by paying off their house or bankrolling their dream business? I can't think of anything better. But since I don't have that option at the moment, I have to settle for helping people when the opportunity presents itself. We helped someone, I learned something about cars, and I was once again proud of Superhusband. Maybe it wasn't such a bad week, after all.   

I'm Back!

Holy cow! What a week! I'm pretty sure that I met myself in the highway several times over the last few days. Kirk and I went to work an event in Jackson, which is three hours away, that started in the middle of the week. That's not such a big deal for professional horse trainers and people who don't have kids, or even people with kids who aren't in school yet, but for us it's huge. Leaving my kids at home now (so that they don't miss school) means coordinating a small army of babysitters, in addition to dealing with the fact that I miss them like crazy. Oh, and there's the small matter of paying someone to stay with our kids night and day and take them to school. And pick them up. And do homework, feed them, bathe them, and all that other stuff their dad and I normally take care of. The sitters are always ready to go home when we get back!
The event that we went to is generally the biggest barrel race in our area each year. As luck would have it, nothing went my way this time. One of the horses I pre-entered got hurt, forcing me to scratch her. Then it was either donate the $200 entry fee I'd already paid or take my colt that I knew wasn't ready to go to such a large event. I ended up taking the colt, and now definitely wish I hadn't!
My husband left home Wednesday afternoon, and I stayed home one more night to drive the kids to school on Thursday. I dropped them out and headed for Jackson, watching the clock very carefully so as not to miss my run. Missing my run is one of my worst fears at big shows. I'm not really sure why; it's never happened before, but when I stopped in Starkville and found myself locked in a bathroom stall, it didn't take but a second for me to decide that door was going down. Fortunately, I didn't have to destroy the stall door in order to get out, or slide under the door (eeewwww...) but I would have, in a second. I have been trapped in a bathroom one other time in my life, on my wedding day, and trust me, that door didn't stand a chance.
Anyway, I finally made it to Jackson, unloaded my truck, walked inside to check the draw...and got a phone call from a number I didn't recognize. Naturally, because I was three hours from home, it was my daughter's teacher letting me know that she was sick and I needed to come pick her up from school. Somewhere in my subconscious I knew this was going to happen. Planning for all the "what ifs" was my greatest source of anxiety in planning this trip. Maybe it was self-fulfilling prophecy. I don't know. Fortunately, my college age sitter was out of class and could go get her. On a positive note, we already had a new bottle of amoxicillin powder sitting on our kitchen shelf just waiting to be mixed up. Hey, being a vet's kid has to have some advantages. My daughter kept asking her sitter if she had to take "horse medicine" again, so I'd love to know what she told her teacher when she went back to school yesterday.
After I finally got the kids squared away, it was time for me to do what I'd gone there for in the first place: run barrels! My first run was on the more "reliable" of my two young horses. He doesn't have a tremendous amount of "try" about him, but he always turns three barrels and rarely hits one. After listening to me complain (again) about how lazy he was, my husband (who doesn't make barrel runs but has watched a million of them) suggested that perhaps I should get up off my arse and lean forward, his theory being that the horse wasn't running because I wasn't asking him to. Good idea, right? Sure! So on my first run, I leaned forward, sent him in there, and overran the first barrel by a mile! As I was getting it back together leaving the second barrel, I leaned forward, asked him to run...and hung my belt over my saddle horn. I didn't sit down for the third barrel or on the way out, because I couldn't! As I was coming to the gate, I was thinking, "Please, Lord, let this horse stop! I run him without a curb chain and I can't sit down to ask him to stop!" Fortunately, he stopped before he hit the closed gate, even without my help. Not the way I wanted to start things off!
My second run of the weekend was on my young horse who definitely was not ready for an event like this. He is little, quick and catty, and as my husband likes to put it, "If you stub your toe, you will be walking out." He wasn't really sure about this whole program, so he zigged and zagged and finally found his way to the first barrel, but by then he had shaken up his jockey. I pulled a little too hard on the left rein, and being the obedient boy that he is, he turned in front of the second barrel. Just to annoy me, once I turned him around, he went back through and made two awesome turns, as if to say, "See, I can do this if she'll get the heck out of my way!"
The second day of the event wasn't much better! I had a better first barrel on my big horse, then hit the third barrel, which kept me out of the finals. My little horse was totally full of himself after being shut up in a stall all weekend, and decided that just to keep it interesting he would turn in front of the first barrel this time. (I freely admit that he had help from his jockey in making that decision.)
So needless to say, I didn't have the weekend I was hoping for! It's so frustrating when you look forward to something all year, really work at it, and then it blows up in your face. My husband and I were sitting around, discussing what a horrible week it had been and what we could do to fix it, and then it happened. Just like it always does. God brought me back to reality. My friend who has cancer called and let me know that according to her doctor her time is getting short. Really short. And just like that none of the barrel racing stuff really mattered.
I had a rotten week, one that I'd like to forget about. But at least I've got the promise of another one. I always seem to be gently (or not so gently) reminded that I have so much to be thankful for. My husband and my kids are healthy. I'm healthy. I am blessed to be an American. And I still get to participate in a sport that I love. Time to pick myself up, dust myself off, and start over. Again. I got some good advice from a friend this weekend: 'Sometimes stuff just has to work because you decide that you're going to make it work." Duly noted.    

Equine-itis

This week is a "short" week for us, which as all of my horsey friends know, means that we just drug in from one event on Sunday and now we are unpacking, repacking and heading to another one on Wednesday. Those of you who know me know that I have three children, two of which are already in school. (Yes, I'd love to home school them, but I'm not sure my nerves can take it.) Since this trip begins on Wednesday instead of Friday, I also get to manage a small army of babysitters in order to ensure that my little cherubs don't miss any school. They are hitching a ride with a friend after school on Friday. Lots of moving parts! I have to keep myself from thinking about all the stuff that might happen. Otherwise, I'll call the whole thing off. Just for fun, and as if I need any more stress this weekend, my young horse is getting pressed into service since the one I entered on had to be scratched. Her issues have issues, and the phrase "too much sugar for a dime" keeps coming to mind when I think about how much time, effort, and money it takes to keep her going. Time for her to find a new career, which means I get to run Slim at his first big show. Ever. With music and lights and noise, oh my! I guess he might as well start at the top. Our goal for the weekend is two runs consisting of three turns with a barrel in the middle. Making the short round would be a total bonus. Fingers crossed!
I hope my friends don't mind being called "horsey." I take it as a compliment. I simply use the term to distinguish those of my friends who have the disease from those who don't. "Equine-itis" affects some of us from an early age; others catch it later in life. But it is most definitely an illness. Those of us who have it will spend any amount of money and risk life and limb to care for, exercise, groom, show, and otherwise pamper the horses in our lives. When we think, it's what we think about. When we dream, it's what we dream about. When we set goals, they almost always involve a horse.
If we currently have a competition horse, we constantly think about ways to make him better. This is where the money thing comes in. Maybe he would work better in this bridle. Maybe I wouldn't lose a stirrup so often if I switched to that kind. You know, that saddle would really fit better if I had a different blanket under it. The velcro really is almost worn out on those boots. I've just got to have some new ones, and if I buy another color for the front, well, that means a new set for the back, too. We all know that they have to match. Oh, and spa treatments! They'll tighten up his legs and reduce inflammation and make him feel so much better. I just know that will make him run harder! A horse person can rationalize ANY purchase, for any amount of money. It's a gift. If we are between horses and looking for a ride, we spend hours online watching videos and drooling, wondering if $25,000 really means $25,000, or if there is some wiggle room on that price. I wonder if they would offer a cash discount? Probably. I bet if I pulled that $20,000 in cash out from under my mattress, they'd take that. Oh, wait! There I go dreaming again.
Anyway, for the meager return on my investment and hours of fun with my family, I am willing to do mountains of laundry and pack up this circus again. My Suburban looks like a clown car, anyway. If the shoe fits, cram that sucker on and dance in it!

She's "Funny"

I'm blogging from the road again today, on my trusty iPad. This post will no doubt be filled with typos and misspelled words, as my spellcheck deserts me every time I type on this thing. Remember, you were warned. I am overjoyed that my baby and I survived her first night sleeping away from home without me. My kids stayed at their grandparents' house last night while my husband and I worked at a horse show. My little one and I are pretty tight, what with that whole "only source of food" for awhile there thing we had going on when she was a baby. I like her and she likes me, a  LOT. That makes me really happy, but also makes it difficult to spend time away from her. She's on her way back now, and I'm ready to kiss those chubby little cheeks and smell her sweet baby smell. Not to be confused with her "I just pooped" smell. I could go the rest of my life without experiencing that smell again and die a happy woman.
Speaking of poop, one of the most common subjects in our home since we became parents, who decided that it was "different when it's your child?" I remember being grossed out at the sight of a cousin's child's dirty diaper. She smiled and said, "Oh, it's different when it's your baby." Um, not so much for me! Poop is poop, and vomit is vomit, whether it came out of your child or someone else's. It's disgusting, any way you slice it. I've looked at my beautiful newborns at least a hundred times and wondered how something so awful could come out of something so precious. Sorry, yet-to-be parents. True story.
So back to the whole Southern women and kids thing... I thought of something my mother used to say that struck me as really odd now that I am a parent. When describing a mutual friend she often said, "And you know she's real funny about who she lets keep her kids." The way she said it always made that sound like a bad thing. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't that part of your job as a mother? Shouldn't we all be "funny" about who we let look after our children? I think that if parents were more selective about who they left their kids with, there would be fewer tragedies in this world. Abusive alcoholic boyfriend, anyone? Sounds like fantastic babysitter material to me!
I've lost count of the number of times the parent of a young teenage daughter have said to me, "Now so-and-so babysits! Call her this summer, she needs to earn some extra money." Nothing personal, folks, but if you expect me to leave my kids alone with your daughter, she need to be old enough to drive. And make wise decisions, and have eyes in the back of her head, and be able to cook - oh wait, that's me! Anyway, you're asking me to trust your kid with three of the most precious people in the world to me. Three precious people that I gave up my figure, my sanity, and countless hours of sound sleep for. That's a lot of responsibility. I don't take it lightly, and she shouldn't either. So please don't be offended if I don't call. It's nothing personal. I guess I'm just "funny" about who I let keep my kids.

Bless Your Heart

Why don't we just say what we mean and mean what we say? Because that would be far too simple and make all of our lives less complicated. Growing up in the South, you learn the importance of outward appearances very early. You also learn how to fake it, and I'm not talking about anything remotely related to the bedroom here, girls. You may be dying on the inside, but the first time you meet that low down cheating ass POS that you used to date's girlfriend, you are going to be dressed to the nines, have your hair done, your makeup on, stand up just a bit straighter, and smile that pageant smile. She'll share some insignificant detail, you'll smile at him, and say, "How nice." Here's a well-known Southern secret. "How nice" is code for screw you. But we'd never be so rude as to say such a thing.
Southern ladies bless a lot of hearts. This one is tricky. It can be sincere, especially when it comes from a little old church lady. When she blesses your heart, it means that she's sorry to hear that your mother's in the hospital. When a member of the younger generation uses it, it can mean something totally different. For example: "John was in a car wreck today." "Oh really? Well bless his heart!" What she really wanted to say was, "Well, if he hadn't been headed to the other side of town to see that tramp he left my best friend and her kids for, maybe that wouldn't have happened." But she didn't. She just said, "Bless his heart!" Then she and her friend shared that Southern look that says it all. Southern ladies are talented. We can speak volumes with just our eyebrows. They teach us that in Kindergarten.
Girls raised in the South are taught that you take care of your own family first, but whenever the opportunity presents itself to take care of someone else's family, you better do that, too. We lead the way in hurricane donations, clothing drives, and food pantries. I've lost count of the number of times in my life I've said to someone, "And if we can do ANYTHING for you, just let us know." So let's be honest about something here. At least some of those times, I was really thinking, "But please don't ask! I'm busier than a one-legged man in a butt kicking contest just trying to keep my own kids dressed and fed. At the end of the day, I collapse into my bed, then lie awake thinking about all of the stuff I didn't get done today but should have. I really do feel badly for you, but if this request involves something other than a meat and cheese tray or a small donation, please keep it to yourself!" But we'd never say that, would we ladies? Nope! We'd smile, stay up half the night whipping up that casserole she loves so much, hire a babysitter, and deliver a full three course meal (ready to serve, of course) precisely at supper time the next night. Oh, and threaten to kill anyone in our family who had the nerve to complain that they were being neglected because we were busy taking care of someone else's family. It's just the way we do things down here.
It's kind of the unwritten rule of the Southern family: as long as you are content to eat "it" politely with a knife and fork, everything's a-okay. When you start trying to kick over the traces, you will find yourself politely tossed out on your arse. It's so much nicer when everyone just agrees with one another and pretends to get along. That Scarlett O'Hara thing,where she smiles and acts sickeningly polite to the women she despises was taken straight from a Southern lady's handbook.
It really is all about appearances, and I'll probably get thrown out of the DAR or something for this one, but I'm about to debunk another great Southern myth. The great big dresses, complete with petticoats, that you see in every Civil War movie? Total BS. I've lived here all my life. You're telling me that these girls lived in houses with no air conditioning during a Mississippi summer and wore those getups? No wonder they got the "vapors" and passed out. They were HOT. But again, let's pretend that life in the South is graceful and beautiful. Not 103 degrees in the shade and full of mosquitoes. That sounds much less romantic.
Yes, Southern ladies are a different breed. Little girls learn early that they should smile when they want to cry and stuff it when they want to complain. One should look and act like a lady at all times, but be ready to work like a man should the need arise. We are strong, we are proud, and we are tough. We are also resourceful, devious, and conniving. Don't mess with a Southern woman's husband or her children. Or the heart getting blessed might just be your own.

The Relay

If a little competition is good for the soul, the souls of my children should be exceptionally well off by now. They fight over everything, from who brushes their teeth first to who gets in the bathtub first. Apparently bathtub seating position is vital, as the one who sits closest to the faucet wins. I'm not really sure what the rules are, or what the advantage is, but I do know how you win. That must be worth something.
Last night, my children were blindsided by the cruel blow of an empty toothpaste tube when they got upstairs. Squeeze it from the top means nothing to these people. Their dad asked one of them to come downstairs and get a new tube. After much bumping, banging, and jostling for position, (think Randy and Ralphie in "A Christmas Story") they made it downstairs. The child who arrived first was smiling, the loser I mean the child who finished second (switching to sarcastic font: because we're all winners) was crying. The instant that tube of toothpaste touched my child's hand the whining started.
Child 1: I'm carrying it upstairs.
Child 2: (Wailing) NO FAIR! I NEVER GET TO DO ANYTHING!
Child 1: Okay, well, then you're going to carry it halfway up and then give it to me!
Me: (Silently) What is this? The freaking Olympic torch relay? It's a tube of toothpaste! Can this get any more ridiculous?
Child 2: No, I'm not giving it to you! I'm carrying it all the way up the stairs. Dad said!
Dad: (Channeling his fantastic, always patient mother) Wait, wait. I'll fix this. You come get a roll of toilet paper and you can carry that upstairs.
Problem solved. Perhaps there is something wrong with me, because my first impulse was to look at the wailing child and say, "Get over it. You can do it next time." But no, Superman finds a way to save the day. And that's why they love him! Okay, fine. It's why I love him, too. He's a fixer. I am more of a "suck it up, Buttercup" kind of girl. I suppose we compliment each other.