LAST WEEKEND WHEN DALE’S NEPHEW CAME HOME FROM SERVING HIS MISSION IN CHILE, we drove down to the burning lands of St. George for the welcome home and a luncheon get-together.
I was in a permanent state of euphoria due to the heat. That delicious, dry, skin scorching heat. The kind that makes a car into a moving oven, burns lawns, entices me to become lethargic and turns my skin a lovely shade of brown. Oh how I loved the heat.
The luncheon was fantastic, with hearty sandwiches, succulent salads, and Tang to drink. I was getting full just by looking at the buffet being laid out. It was about half way through the meal that we notice Dale’s younger brother and his new girlfriend in the kitchen, still hard at work on some secret concoction whilst everyone else is reclining back with full bellies and tightening waistbands. Upon further questioning (of family members of course. You never ask the person in question the actual question), we found out that the cute, darling, fantastic, friendly girlfriend was making everyone some fresh baked, homemade chocolate chip cookies.
Let me spell that out for you. C-O-O-K-I-E-S.
That took a lot out of me. I just gained ten pounds thinking about it.
We keep conversing about the confections and his brothers blossoming romance, his siblings and I. “Maybe he’s over there trying to get first dibs on the fresh loot,” one sibling jokes. “Looks pretty serious. I wonder if they need help picking out a ring?” another offers. This is when my dear, sweet Dale decides to interlude.
“I told him that if she’s cooking, she’s definitely a keeper”. Notice two things right here. One being he did not make eye contact with me when he said this. The other being there were no remarks as to my cooking skills, which was probably a good idea. I knew I probably shouldn’t be offended. I shouldn’t feel hurt that I’ve invested two years into this relationship and I’m not the one getting the matrimonial remarks. But Internet, I am not the type to keep my opinions and sassy remarks all to myself.
“Well, if that’s all I have to do is cook,” I spoke up, forcing him to catch my gaze, “I can go and help!”
Postnote: On the drive home, when I was feeling rather solemn and sorry for myself, I apologized to Dale for my lack of culinary arts, particularly in the Nestle Toll House department.
“That’s alright. . . because nobody can make a mean meatloaf like you”.
Satisfaction, guaranteed.
I WAS DRIVING MY USUAL ROUTE TONIGHT, and minding my own business – which normally includes loud music and driving just a titch too fast. The traffic was good, the music was better and my spirits were high.
It was then that I saw the roadblock.
In “Utard” county, wrecks are as often as gas stations, just less convenient. I grumble and downshift, hoping to not have to stop completely. But what’s this? Spot lights? Camera crew? Incident Management truck? And every patrol car in the county. I thought I was in for some serious carnage.
Ever noticed how everyone drives in slow motion past a wreck? You don’t want to look, you don’t care to see, but something in your inner workings glues your eyes to the crushed cars and strewed glass in hopes of seeing something worth wishing you hadn’t seen. I was in that moment. That moment was gone two seconds later as I grudgingly had to stop completely under a halo of glaring spotlights, surrounded on all sides by a swarm of bacon policeman.
“How you doin’ tonight?” The nicer of the surrounding officers asked me while simultaneously glancing through my dirty car. I was hoping he’d noticed the large stack of books, the empty candy wrappers and most importantly the unopened donuts.
Because who doesn’t like donuts?
“We’re doing a routine sobriety check. Have you had anything that could impair your ability to drive tonight? Any alcohol, drugs, paraphernalia, fried chicken or loose penguins?” He adds with laugh at his own joke and a final glance in the back seats. Dang it, so that’s what he’s after, some home fried KFC. Sadly, KFC is one of the only things I don’t share, seeing as it only lasts about .08 seconds before I snarf it down myself.
Being the witty genius that I am, the only word I could spit out was an all-too-chipper, “Nope!”. Nice one.
“Alright, as long as you don’t have any loose penguins I guess you’re free to go,” he remarked and waved me on my way. I locked eyes for one last moment with a huge German Shepard drug dog and hit the gas a little harder, before I could let slip that they need to check the officer and not the cars, if he is seeing flightless birds and all.
And those darn penguins are all on the loose. Lord help us all.
I DO THIS THING SOMETIMES – most times – where I compare everything to the year of 1985.
I don’t know why I do this.
Is there some significance to that year? Because newsflash self, I was born in 1989. Clearly four years later. But that doesn’t stop me, I compare everything to 1985, specifically bad music, famous people, things from the “Stone Age”, and everything and anything to do with the Grams.
So happy (one day late) Birthday Grams, who is Eighty now, and the proud owner of the electronic poker game I refer to as Old Game Circa 1985.
Here is Gram’s, ROCKING her party hat. More like, Machelle dropped it on her head and I took the picture faster than she could smack us.
Now just so I don’t look completely unedumucated, here’s what really did happen in the year 1985. I can’t stop saying it. 1985. 1985. 1985. Gotta say the whole thing, because ‘85 just ain’t doing it. Moving on, the facts.
The Good:
1 gallon of gas $1.09
Movie Ticket $2.75
US Postage Stamp 22 cents
Bacon per pound $1.65
The first Mobile Phone Call Is Made in the UK by Ernie Wise
The Bad:
TWA Flight 847 is hijacked by Hezbollah. on June 14th
Volcanic Eruption in Columbia kills 25,000
8.1 Richter scale earthquake strikes Mexico City. More than 9,000 people are killed,
The Unabomber kills his first victim
Boeing 747 Flight 123 crashes into Mount Osutaka, Japan
And most importantly, the Technology. I’m hoping it consists of mini megapixel games so I can prove that I was right:
# The Food and Drug Administration approves a blood test for AIDS,
The first .Com domain name, symbolics.com, is registered by the Symbolics corporation. However, .edu domains, for educational institutions, still predominate over the commercial .com ones
Microsoft Corporation releases the first version of Windows, Windows 1.0.
Compact Discs are introduced to American Consumers
British Scientists discover a whole in the earths Ozone Layer
Let me get this straight – gas and bacon were cheap, MIcrosoft debuted and oh the CDs! Most importantly, .COM WAS INVENTED. Suddenly saying “from 1985″ just got cooler.
I HAVE THE STRANGEST CONVERSATIONS SOMETIMES, where I start out talking to someone about work and end up talking about spitting llamas.
Did you know llamas spit? I don’t just mean drool like a rouge calf. I mean S-P-I-T. Hocking a loogie. Hiss, spatter, spew, and spritz. And even worse, they can aim.
It all started with the Festival of Colors, a local tradition at the Sri Sri Radha Krishna Temple of throwing colored flower everywhere to celebrate the arrival of spring. We weren’t aware that the Festival had started, but Machelle, Mom and I realized there were cars everywhere. We pulled over, found a place to park and wound our way up the hill to the Temple. The real question was, how do we get in? We thought we were going the right way, that was, until Machelle turned around and was face to face with the sweetest, biggest brown eyes you ever did see. They were rimmed with long lashes, a sweet face and a bright pink tongue, giving her the once over that is common in young creatures.
A llama, in this case, is no exception when it comes to being smarter than it appears. They are very bright animals, and are used to guard flocks of sheep against coyotes and other predators. Don’t mess with Tina. (Please someone tell me you know who Tina the llama is).
But this was no Tina, this was too sweet, too young to be able to do anything. “Awwuh, look at the little guy,” we all gushed. Our moment of maternal appreciation was cut short when we heard the stomping of hooves and a very loud snort. Mama Tina had just come roaring on up, and was demanding to know why we had kidnapped her baby. And this bugger was persistent. There was no Shoo Shooing him away. We turned to politely take our leave, and were faced with a brick wall of llamas.
HUNDREDS OF THEM.
I understand that’s an overstatement, but let me tell you, when you have a pack of thirty llamas all giving you the stink eye and making hacking noises to gather some spit . . .it sure feels like hundreds. There was simply no way past, and the then-cute baby was now the annoying little brat that wouldn’t take a hint. Anyone ever seen The Emperor’s New Groove? It was about like that. We were horrified. Frozen.
But we had to live through this. This could not be how I would die. I would not, could not allow myself to be stomped to death by some deranged, long neck goat. No. So together, we joined forces, and forced our way through the wall of fur to the other side.
The trick it seems, is to be tougher than the llama.
So next time, we were prepared. We were visiting some oddity of a farm a few towns over. They had everything from emus, to ostridges, antelope to wallabies. They also had two llamas that were standing just on the other side of a chain link fence. One llama was friendly and allowed us to feed it some grass. The other llama started that familiar stink eye look, chewed it’s cheeks for saliva production, and began to grumble.
Machelle took the assertive this time, and right as the offended llama went to aim – right when he threw his head forward, tightened his neck muscles and started to open it’s mouth to spit – Machelle did something amazing, and spit on the llama first. The llama was so offended that it huffed and walked away.
I’m telling you man, those llamas are vicious.
I’VE DECIDED. There is simply, absolutely, positively no where else in the world I’d rather be right now than on the farm in Delta.
Wearing my shiny Ariat boots.
Sitting on top of this big lug, who is named BraveHeart but should have a name change to SweetHeart. He’s a life size teddy bear of a horse, so naturally I’ve claimed him for myself. You can sit on him backwards, walk under his legs, slide off his butt, swing up holding his mane, and get a tire stuck on his leg (don’t ask. I freaked he didn’t – end of story) and he’ll just stand there and take it. Good ol’ boy.
I’d far rather be watching Dale warm up my horse for me (not that I couldn’t do it myself. . .I just like the view. Don’t tell him that). That’s Copper, he’s almost bucked me off once. Well, I say bucked, Dale says “moved out from under me”. All I know was he saw something that spooked him and next thing I know, my butt slapped the saddle and I physically felt myself hit the sand, but somehow I still had my feet in the stirrups. Odd, I tell you. He’s a cutting bred horse, they’re made to move that fast.
What’s cutting bred you say? No, not cutting bread, like sliced wheat. He’s cutting bred, in the sense that his line of ancestors specialize in “cutting” or separating a single cow from the herd and working it. Working a cow means moving them to different pens, separating the bulls from the heifers, roping and tying calves for branding, or working a cow for competitions.
Am I hurting your head? Don’t worry. I’ve spent two whole years trying to understand everything. Just know when I say “cutting bred” from now on, I am not talking about Sara Lee. Although that is delicious. And nutritious. Moving on. . .
Just so you don’t think I only like his backside. . .here is the main reason that I like to take photos of Dale while he works.
Dude is intense and so hot when he’s focusing. Where am I while I’m taking this photo? Leaning against BraveHeart, because that’s oh so helpful while getting the horses ready for show.
In my own defense, at least I was decked out in proper riding gear.
*please refer to second photo in this post, where I am wearing FLIP FLOPS and a swim suit. That’s what I call my summer riding gear. All that means is I forgot/was too hot/was too lazy to wear riding jeans and boots.
I miss Delta. Yes, I, the city girl who wears kitten heels to work and always carries at least four lip glosses in my bag, just admitted that I miss that lonesome place. Now that I’ve been there, it’s not desolate and barren, but peaceful and beautiful. An oasis in the middle of a dry desert, where all you see is field after field of green grasses and barley, pastured horses and grazing cows. I miss the skies, the empty dirt roads, the stray dogs and haggard farm cats. I miss the smell of hay, and the feel of your hands after you pet a horse.
I would even trade my clean clothes in exchange for the strain and dirt that is loading and unloading the hay, where my sole responsibility is to climb on top of the truck and kick the hay bales off. I’d help stack them, but they weigh as much as me, true story.
But for Delta, I’d do it. All of it. The dirt, grime, sweat, labor, and effort is all worth it once you get to swing a leg up onto a horse. It’s why we do it all, sow the seeds to reap the rewards.
And by golly is it rewarding.
I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M REALLY GOING TO POST THIS. It’s a forward from my mom, and usually I look at forwards, laugh and chuck them out the window in the electronic trash.
But this one, this one forward has kept me chuckling like a kid who stole out of the teachers candy jar. Every time I think of it I guffaw and bray like a donkey. Basically, it’s on my list of don’t think of this during meetings or important conversations list, right up there by not showing people my tongue trick or letting them know that I eat Kool-Aid plain.
*cricket cricket*
Okay, here it is folks. . .like I said, I’m sorry for this one.
HOW TO TELL IF YOU’RE BUTT SMELLS:
I have no words. Now please excuse me while I go laugh my butt off.
I DIDN’T KNOW WHO’S HORSE SHE WAS, but I loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her. It was dusk, and the fading rays of sunlight sparkled over her gray body and shimmered on her salt and pepper mane as she trotted around her pen and lifted her head in curiosity.
“Who’s horse is that? Because I’m going to steal it,” I asked my brother in law, Mark.
“It’s my buddy Dale’s,” he chuckled at me. Dale who? I didn’t have the slightest who that even was. All I knew was he was about to be out of a ride because I HAD TO HAVE THAT HORSE. She became my new obsession, my secret little project. I stood by her pen for hours, just watching her in all her majestic beauty and trying to coax her closer. Over the span of a few weeks, we became friends and I would whisper to her my secrets while she rested her head on my shoulder.
But the day finally came that I met Dale. I had just gotten back from a camping trip, and went straight to the riding arena to see my other equine love, JJ. Needless to say, JJ wasn’t hard to impress so I didn’t bother changing out of my wrinkled three day old shirt and dirt covered jeans, nor did I convince myself to take off my cammo hat and brush through my gnarly hair. I just wanted to ride.
Little did I know that on that very day, a rougishly hansom, six foot two tall cowboy would wind up sitting in the back of my car to talk to me and my sister. My word, he is such a hottie, I tried to brush off some of the crusted on dirt from my pants. Seriously, I can’t focus. I gotta stop looking at him in the rear view mirror, he’ll think I’m crazy. The dim in my head was getting too loud. I was no longer as interested in the conversation as I was the line of his jaw, the structure of his cheeks, the whole masculinity that surrounded him. I figured a guy that sweet and good looking would HAVE to be taken, but maybe, just maybe, if I don’t ask him where his wife is, I can pretend he doesn’t have one. Denial at it’s finest.
Finally when I was about to drive myself insane with all the fantasies of What if he isn’t married…I wonder if he’s single, and I bet he’d be a great kisser, I dived out of my car for some fresh air to clear my head. There was good old JJ leaning his head over the fence, the thoroughbred/quarter horse cross that I’d learned to ride on. I didn’t give it a second thought as I hopped from the fence onto his bare back and gently nudged him into a trot. That’s when I felt it – someone was watching me. I looked over into my car and there was Dale, eyes focused not on the horse, but on me. My cheeks betrayed me as I flushed scarlet and sat roughly back on my tailbone, all riding skills forgotten as time stood still for the few moments that we sat and observed each other.
The night just got better from there when we all went out to go eat and Sam tells me in the ladies room, “I think he likes you”.
“I think you’re crazy. He doesn’t even know me, and I’m not single.” I mumbled to her while reapplying my lipgloss.
“No Aubrey. I think he REALLY likes you.” I sat and chewed on that thought for the rest of the night.
We returned after dinner for the evening feeding, and I resumed my usual ritual of giving each horse a few loving pats and kind words. I turned my attention to the beautiful gray mare that always held me captive. “Hi girl. How are you? You’re looking stunning today,” I whispered close to her ear. She licked her lips and lowered her head further to be scratched. After a few seconds, her ears picked up and she glanced to the east, where Dale was walking towards us.
“I see you’re making friends with my mare, eh?”
Afraid that he’d be mad at me for being in the pen with his horse, I hurried to explain. “I love her. She’s gorgeous. Like a Princess horse. What’s her name?”
“Daphne”.
From that moment on, I’ve loved them both. I’m not going to marry this man for his money…I’m going to marry him for his mare! And because he truly is a hottie.
And mine.
All mine.
“YOU LOOK LIKE THAT ONE GIRL,”is a common thing that I’m told nowadays. “That one girl from that one show where her and her mom are crazy and they talk really really fast. You remember, that one.”
Well, if you’re lost, that girl is Alexis Bledel, from Gilmore Girls. She’s the only celebrity that I get told I look even remotely like, but I’ll take that as a huge compliment. I love her. She’s quirky, witty, quick and beautiful and I honestly can’t think of anyone (bar Rachel McAdams) that I’d love to be compared to.
So just for fun, I uploaded this photo of me to see which celebrities I’d look like…and what do you know – Alexis Bledel, first result. I was right about something else though, remember when I said I look like Kate Beckinsale?
I called that one.
THIS IS THE COLLECTION of recovery tools I was given on Monday.
It entails a two page long care list.
Many pill bottles.
An even bigger bottle of not-so-delicious mouthwash.
And THIS thing, which is use to clean out the holes with saltwater. I think it reminds me too much of a needle, but I’ve faithfully kept up on care, cleaning, and most important (and hardest for me) rest.
But the truth of what really makes me feel better?
You got it.
