Archive for the ‘desperate’ Category


Last week Darling and I drove down to Burns, Oregon, where I picked up my new Mustang Makeover competition horse.  It was lovely.  The sky was blue.  There was no mud.  Sure, it was a bit chilly, but it was better than the mud that oozes through the holes in a farm diva’s boots back home.

While there we took a drive with a friend up to the Steens Mountains where we were blessed to come upon a large herd of horses.  Wild horses.  No fences…just thousands and thousands of acres.   It was a desperate horsewife’s dream, to be surrounded by mustangs so close you could nearly touch them.  And yes, I do mean we were that close!  And yes, I do mean wild!  But we were quiet, not disruptive, and while the older stallions watched with suspicion from the top of the ridge, the younger horses stuck to their guns and continued to graze peacefully while we lustfully filled our cameras with images of this oh-so-amazing experience.

Back home, however, the skies are nothing like they were in Burns.  They are gray and dripping and dreary and threatening to snow on us.  They have created mud that sucks even my beloved muck boots from my feet when I go outside to work the horses.

Yesterday I was working with the new boy, Steve Holt!, and once finished I found I’d gained 20 lbs from the mud that was now caked on my jeans and sweatshirt.  I got the brainy idea that I should grab Darling’s little camera and video myself.  But when I played it back,  I looked stupid.  Not the normal embarrassing stupid that I normally look like…I haven’t got an issue with that…I was just totally dorky!  I couldn’t figure out how to delete the video, though, and wouldn’t you know that Darling found it?  And she’s threatening me with it!

“I’m  going to call it, The Stupid Things My Mother Does,” she said with an evil grin as she ran off with my embarrassing moments.   Some gratitude from the kid who gave me stretch marks, or who’s most embarrassing video of her I deleted for all eternity.  Now I’m wishing I’d kept it so that I had something to blackmail her with!


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(photo by Darling, editing by me) 

Sandy’s weakest area is still his self confidence.  I spent Saturday going in and out with treats; hands full of grain to offer in an attempt to get him to enjoy my presence.  It appeared to be working, but Sunday he was back to snort and spook the moment he saw me walk around the corner.  With church and dinner at my grandmother’s, there really wasn’t time to spend with him, and what little time I did have is precisely when God deemed it appropriate to open up the heavens with a down pour of biblical proportions.  Not just rain, but wet, sloppy snow was thrown into the mix.  Cold and wet and The Desperate Horsewife do not mix well, as you may have gathered.

This past week we put the round pen up in the field, about 50′ from the paddock.  The ground is still too wet and slick for it to be of any real use in terms of working a horse, but it made for a good first outing away from the paddock.  Sandy, however, is not a mud wallower such as Jet.  No, he plants those mustang feet of his and refuses to tread across what may just suck him down into the very bowels of hell.  I can’t say I blame him, being barefoot in the mud isn’t my idea of how to spend an afternoon, either, but I’ll be danged if I’m going to share my muck boots with him.  It took a great deal of convincing, and eventually a rope around his middle and run through his halter, to convince him that following me was the easiest solution.


Sandy models his ‘belly rope’. 

Along with our short walks back and forth, Sandy has learned to wear a saddle.  He doesn’t want me reaching underneath him, so I tied a little bailing twine onto the cinch and then manage to move him so that the string is on my side of his body, and then I pick it up and tighten the saddle onto his back.  He’s not bothered in the least by this.  He’s worn a bridle, complete with a bit in his mouth.  He looks right handsome, don’t you think?

Handsome fellow in his new ‘clothes’. 

If only we had a few nice days of weather, all in a row like little ducks, the ground may dry out enough to actually be of use.  Then again, with all the rain perhaps it’s God’s way of keeping me moving at a pace that is more comfortable for Sandy.  I’d be tempted, no doubt, to push him further, faster, if I had a few hours of warm sunshine and dry footing out there.   Sandy is undoubtedly thankful for the poor weather conditions!

All saddled up and wanting to go nowhere! 

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Two stallions feeling frisky 


“Daddy…??? Do you remember when you said…”

A week ago Darling and climbed out of our less than comfy hotel beds and were greeted with the Burns weather we remembered from our last visit; wind, rain and hail. Felt like home.

This was the morning of the big event; the Kigers were being adopted out. The first two days were for viewing and chatting and socializing…and viewing some more. Since Darling and I didn’t get there until Friday, we didn’t do as much viewing as most of the folks. But it didn’t matter because we weren’t adopting. No, we weren’t. My barn was full enough and Darling hadn’t committed to selling Quiet Storm. Which meant no more horses.

“Daddy…remember when you said if I sold Quiet Storm, I could get a Kiger???”

“Daddy…I didn’t see a Kiger I wanted, but there are other pretty horses here and they’re taller than Quiet Storm….”

Have I ever told you how tightly that little girl has City Boy wrapped around the pinky finger? Not that I haven’t been known to use that to my benefit from time to time. I am, after all, a Desperate Horsewife. However, this time I’d said no. And I’d meant it. I didn’t search out a horse trailer and had driven City Boy’s car.

“You can’t put a horse in my car,” City Boy told her. City Boy hadn’t heard those words I’d heard when I’d claimed earlier in the week that without a truck and trailer, I wouldn’t be bringing home a horse. Those words that went like, “Any fool knows you can hire a truck and trailer.”

Darling seemed to know that and asked if she found a ride, could she get one? City Boy, the softie, said yes. And Darling set out to find the perfect horse and a ride home for it. I was sure she wouldn’t, but she did manage to work her magic on Steve, our friend who lives 50 miles south of us. Not a problem, he said, he’d be happy to help fill my barn. Thanks, Steve, remind me to scratch you from the Christmas card list.

This pretty color is called grulla 

In order to bid on a Kiger, you had to pre-register. We hadn’t, so that was out. Not that we’d found anything outside of cute little babies or handsome older stallions that we liked in the Kiger crowd. But down in the pens full of mares, the only horses that seemed to catch Darling’s eye were between 4 and 5, a bit older than I wanted her working with. Two or three, I told her, but she saw nothing. She was feeling pretty down, which is when Steve stepped in to rescue her once again.

Kiger fillies 

“Y’know, there are a few mares that were passed on during the first round of bidding earlier.”

“We’ve not got a number, Steve, we didn’t register,” I was feeling pretty confident at this point.

“No problem, no problem. Just use mine!” He handed Darling the yellow bidding card, much to her delight, and she trotted merrily up to the bleachers just in time for round two, where all the horses who’d been passed on the first time were re-0ffered to folks who’d missed out on their favorites earlier.

Darling’s new filly still hasn’t got a name.

I’m thinking, “Mammas in the Poor House Now.” 

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 Striking bay and white pinto gelding.


How desperate can a Horsewife get?  To what lengths will she go to negotiate the deal? 

An email came through yesterday…with pictures.  Pictures of horses.  Not just any old horses, but the horses that will be here for the adoption event next weekend.  And here I sit, just as desperate as ever, drooling all over City Boy’s keyboard in anticipation. 

City Boy has said, firmly, no.  No more horses.  Wild horses, that is.  He’s made up his mind that I don’t need any more wild ones.  But are there any others?  Not for this Desperate Horsewife.  If it’s not wild, it’s not a horse.  It’s just an equine.  A domestic.  And what’s my motto?  Friends don’t let friends ride domestic.  Ride wild.  Ride real.  Get the picture?   

I crave wild horses like some people lust after their Peppermint Raspberry Java Chip Frappuccino or a Hot Tall Skinny Upside Down with Whip Cream from Starbucks.  They’re my morning fixation.  My afternoon hang-up.  My just before bed weakness.  When I’m not outside playing with them, I’m inside reworking the photos of them.  It’s an addiction; an addiction for which there is no twelve step program.  Not that I want one.  I’m happy with my habit and have no intention of breaking it.   

Just when I think I may have my passions under control, they send me the email complete with links to photos of the horses…and I find myself twitching and trembling once again in desperation.  

(Sorry about the wet keyboard, City Boy!)


This picture I took while in Burns last month.  The horse looking at the camera will be coming up to Monroe. 


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My first full month of blogging is over (okay, just a little more than a full month), and I’m wondering…what post have you enjoyed the most?

That’s me…alluring cleavage and all! (Okay…maybe not…)
If I go from the responses to threads, I’d have to say that the Valentine’s Day post concerning owl poop (or barf, as we later found out) was a popular thread. I certainly got raked over the coals for the whole City Boy Cheating thread. You didn’t seem to have a problem sharing your clothing malfunctions the other day when I asked for embarrassing moments!

Of course, I’ve already shared that the searches which find this blog appear to be after bottoms…big ones, at that; and I’m certain they’re quite disappointed to find I was merely referencing my poorly manufactured teddy bear.

The oddest search that has shown up was ‘she lay decomposing in the creek’… YUK! I’m not sure which page would have popped up in correspondence to that, as I don’t recall allowing anything to decompose in my highly monitored watershed of a creek that flows through here. That would just be creepy, anyway. Blecky.

So… have you got a favorite entry here? I’d love to hear what it may be.

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Or…Another Lesson in How to Get What you Want
With What You’ve Already Got

City Boy is a little nervous. He’s just finished several 12 hour night shifts at the Evil Empire. Like a dutiful and loving wife, I’ve made sure the bed has been warm and inviting when he returns home at 7 am, greeting him with a kiss (or two or three) before he drifts into a peaceful and contented slumber. Since this was his last shift before switching back to day time living, he’s decided to sleep just a few hours. And of course, still being dutiful and attentive, and wishing my man not to become a grumpy gus after such a little amount of sleep, I’m giving him little love pats and being all affectionate when he gets up.

And this is why he’s nervous and calls Darling into the room, meaning I have to keep my hands to myself. But I’m getting ahead of myself a bit here. Let’s back up a week or two…or even a year or so.

As previously confessed when I spoke of being a Desperate Horsewife, I’ve become somewhat of an expert in getting what I want around here. For instance, I wanted sheep, so took City Boy to see a truck for sale, and there just happened to be sheep for sale as well. He thought a couple wouldn’t be bad to mow the field with, and so I came home with sheep and a truck. A year later City Boy was scratching his head, wondering how we ended up with 12 sheep in the field. Well, that’s simple, they multiplied, just like we did City Boy! We began as two, but we’re now four. Sheep have twins, so of course there are more of them… Somehow the numbers weren’t adding up, but he was familiar with multiplication technique (which I was promising to offer up a free sample of) so he let it go.

Darling and I wanted a horse, he thought that would be fine, but said we (meaning me) should cut back to two sheep before adding another grazer to the field. So I divided by two and had six sheep, did a little math tutoring and once again explained the whole thing to him, and once again all was well.

When I brought home Tait, the always in trouble aussie pup, I figured I may have run out of math facts. Multiplication wasn’t working so well on this one. And about that new Sunny horse…well, City Boy was becoming suspicious by the time he found her in the corral. He was beginning to notice a pattern. Hmmm…what pattern, City Boy? It’s time for your tutoring session….

Now here he is, with little sleep and very tired, and I’ve decided I want to go out tonight. He’s nervous as all get out as he’s suddenly realized just what’s been going on these past few mornings. He says we can only go to a movie if it’s well lit, to which Darling says, “Why would you want to go to a well lit theater to watch a movie?” And City Boy replies, “Because your mom probably wants to make out or something.” Which brings peels of laughter from both children. “I don’t think you have to worry about that one, Dad,” says Darling.

Which brings us to this morning, when City Boy asks me, “So, is there a third horse out there this morning?” Now, why on earth would he ask me something like that?

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How to Use What You’ve Got To Get What You Want

I was born with it, really. That thing known to the horsey community as Horse Fever. It’s not something that can be shed, like the flu or a cold. There is no 12 step program (not that we want one!) It’s more like a disease that eats away at your very soul…
Like many others who deal with this delightful disease, I managed to find myself in a position of bargaining with my parents in order to get what I wanted; a four legged equine. I mention four legs only because up until the time I was eight, they thought I could be appeased with the type of pony that had a cotton stuffed head and stick body. But that was just not going to do any more. And so I developed a plan…

I was in third grade at the time, and I spent my days as a member of Horse Crazy Day Dreaming Girls Annonymous. Unfortunately, we weren’t so annonymous what with those little doodles on our papers of ponies instead of math problems. But then, that was all part of the plan. Fearful that their daughter would actually fail the third grade, my parents made me a deal. Pass, and we get you a horse of your own. A real, live, four legged, no cotton for brains horse! I spit in my hand and offered a handshake. They looked at me like I was from another planet and declined, saying their word was good enough. Okay, I’ll take it!

And then I passed the third grade. And then I got my pony.
His name was Prince, and he was anything but. He took advantage of me every chance he got. One thing that my parents hadn’t promised me was a saddle, so I learned really quick that a sweaty butt on a horse was actually a good thing as it worked like glue to keep you seated when your pony decided to make an unexpected left turn when you’d just asked him to go right. Or a hasty halt when you’d asked him to jump the ditch (trust me, one non-sweaty butt ride into a ditch full of water, and you make sure your butt’s sweaty next time!)

But as nasty as that little Prince was, he taught me to ride. And instead of growing out of HCDDGA, I become the president of our local chapter.

Enter City Boy. Not a cowboy. I’ve never figured out why or how I ended up with City Boy. He just sort of appeared out of nowhere. Well, not no where. He was my mother’s best friend’s youngest cousin. He came up on vacation one fall and just never went away. He learned to ride a horse so we could go riding together. He mucked out my stall while I was in school. He drove a cool truck. Oh, yeah…that was it…he drove a cool truck! A truck that could hitch up to a horse trailer…I remember it all so clearly now.

City Boy and I, shortly after becoming engaged.

I’m sure it was the truck that snagged me…

And we got married. And we had a cool truck and soon, a red horse trailer that matched the truck. And then City Boy said, “But you’ll outgrow it by the time you’re 25.” And I said, “Um…who told you that, City Boy?” And now my memory has grown a bit hazy again, but I don’t think it was the most pleasant conversation we ever had.

When I was 25, I gave birth to a son, and my horsey life was severely crippled. Not that I resented it. Not much, anyway. Geek Boy was marvelous, he really was. But he soon began to grow older, and he went to school, and while I was alone the old fever began to creep back into my body. I began to travel south to visit my dear friend, Linda, where I once again climbed into a saddle and started riding. Oh, it felt so good! Yes, there was a twinge of acheyness to begin with, but my muscle memory was excellent, and it wasn’t more than a couple days before I was back in the swing of things.

The adorable little Geek Boy and me (far thinner than today!)

I started daydreaming about buying a new horse. There was a lovely, coppery colored mare there for training; they’d had me riding her and keeping her legged up. She was nice, and I wanted her. I went and rode three or four times a week for about two weeks, and then something strange happened. I was sore while I rode. My breasts hurt while trotting. Now, this may be normal for some women, but it had never happened to me! And then…well…I was late. And pregnant! Again…

Okay, so the emphasis on the again part, when it was only my second child, may seem like overkill. But we’d tried for over a year with no luck at a second pregnancy, so I’d given up. My head and heart had switched gears. If I can’t have a baby, I ought to have a horse. And, as experience had taught me, you can sell a horse when you get tired of it. Not so a child. But there it was…no denying it. I was having another baby, and another horse was slipping from my fingers. I think City Boy had something to do with it…

So there I was, raising two children with nearly an 8 year split. Geek Boy wasn’t terribly interested in horses, and Darling was still a toddler. I’d been horseless for far too long. City Boy had been happy for far too long. Far, far too long. But then something amazing happened. Darling saw a horsey. Darling liked the horsey. Darling’s daddy was wrapped tightly around Darling’s little finger…

Darling riding the neighbor’s horse, Boon. What daddy could resist?

And on an occasion such as this, all Desperate Horsewives find themselves re-developing the plan. Because the man in their life is no longer wrapped around their little finger, but the finger of their little girl, we find ourselves involving those little darlings in our schemes. And we’re successful, too, because no matter if he’s a City Boy or Cowboy, he just can’t stand to see his little girl cry.
And that, my dear friends, is what happens when you’re a clever and Desperate Horsewife!

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