We closed the office for a week before our wedding, so we didn't want to close it another couple of weeks afterward for a honeymoon.  Instead, we planned a trip for this Fall and decided to take some "mini-moons" during the summer months.  One of those mini-moons included a train trip to Chicago.  Sounds great, right?

Two weeks (or a fortnight, as Cliff would prefer I say) ago, we made a trip to the local "farm and home" store and bought a pretty turquoise lead rope, a cute black, white, and purple blanket, and a black halter.  I don't think Cliff had ever gone to the "farm and home" store to pick out coordinating supplies before, but this time the supplies were for me, so everything had to match.  And be cute colors.


One of the things I have wanted since I moved back here last summer is a horse.  I had two when I was young, but hadn't really ridden since then (minus one attempt with my high school boyfriend which ended with both of us being bucked off in a creek full of snow and ice.)  So, Cliff has been looking for just the right horse for the past year.  

Turns out, we had one the whole time.  When Cliff was younger, he had a "blues" barn of horses:  Buddy, Coco, and Stevie named after Buddy Guy, Coco Taylor, and Stevie Ray Vaughn.  Buddy is still alive and well, but had been moved to our friend Adam's house for the past few years.  Adam decided he didn't want to feed Buddy through the winter, so it was perfect timing for him to make the move to a new home in our pasture!


Buddy is at least 20 years old and must be the most gentle horse ever.  He has such a sweet personality and soft demeanor.  I'm already in love with him.

The first night, we got him saddled up, I got up there and freaked out a little.  Buddy is all legs, so I was up much higher than I expected.  Because of his long legs, he also walks fast.  So, everything was moving much faster than I expected, too.  Cliff never let go of the lead rope that evening.  He just led us around in the pasture.

The second night, I was more comfortable.  Cliff still led us most of the time, but I did try to ride a little on my own.  However, Buddy knew I didn't know what I was doing, and although he was sweet and gentle, he didn't want to go where I wanted to go, so my independent riding didn't last long.

By the end of the week, I was riding on my own and Buddy and I are great friends.  (The sweet grain and apples I feed him after we ride probably contributed to most of that.)




Poor Cliff has gotten the short end of the stick though.  He's probably walked 15 miles with us, carried buckets of water for the first few days, and drove posts and put up fence to make a special pen for Buddy.  However, since Buddy loves to run, Cliff has gotten to ride him a bit too, since he's not afraid at all.

One of my first posts about the difference in my new rural life and my old city life introduced the concept of trivia night.  After many, many second place standings, we finally came in first last February.  I was smiling from ear to ear today when I opened an email from my Aunt Lisa announcing it is the official opening of Trivia Night Season.  For further motivation, she included a copy our fifteen minutes of fame in The Brunswicker newspaper.

I absolutely loved the first car I ever bought myself.  My black, four door, Oldsmobile Alero was my dream car.  It had everything.  So many things that you should not have on your first car because you will either have to borrow from your 401K to be able to upgrade with your next car, or you'll have to give in and take a cut in features. 

The Alero was the car I had my eye set on from day one of car shopping.  I looked and test drove and researched others, but I never strayed from my goal of getting that car.  And I wanted black with tan interior.  And I wanted a sun roof.  And I wanted a spoiler.  And I wanted the top of the line GLS model with the Sun & Sound Package, but thought I would settle for the mid-line GL version.  When I ended up being able to get the GLS with Sun & Sound, I thought I would never stop driving.

So, being so in love with my car, I took great care of it.  I cleaned, vacuumed and washed it at least once a week for the entire time I owned it.  I got the oil changed every 3,000 miles.  I did all the suggested maintenance at all the suggested times.  And, as with all my vehicles, I kept the tags current.

One year, when it came time for my tag renewal,  I went home to have the inspection completed.  Now, you know I'm from a small town, but you may not know exactly how all the small town stuff works.  Car inspections are a good example of the way things are in a town with less than 2,000 people.  Anything passes inspection.  You can tow your headlight-less, brake-less, horn-less automobile into the inspection station and they will probably pass it.  Or, you can do like my dad did for years and just call them (never even bringing your car to the actual inspection site) and they will pass it.  But, I followed the rules, and actually took my Alero into the shop for the inspection.

The inspection game was new to me, so I wasn't really sure what to expect.  My brother went with me to help out.  We went into the shop and the mechanic followed us back out to the car to actually run a few tests.  I turned on my blinkers, stepped on the brakes, honked my horn, and that was the extent of it.

The three of us went back inside to complete the paperwork so Jake and I could be on our way.  As I was giving the mechanic my paperwork, he started telling us how he had actually been struck by lightning, and survived. 

Not once, but twice.

He went on to tell us how he seemed to be just fine physically, but since the second strike, he really had trouble with mixing up letters and numbers.  Now, if I had been struck by lightning twice with a side effect of mixing up numbers and letters, I would not try to talk and tell stories while I was copying down important information like names, addresses, and vehicle identification numbers.

Luckily, when I got to the DMV in Kansasy City, the lady actually believed my story about the lightning strikes and went ahead and gave me my new tags...even though my VIN on the mechanic's paperwork was mixed up and did not match the actual VIN of my car. 

And I'm probably the only person to ever say to a DMV employee, "I know you're probably not going to believe this, but the guy that did my inspection has been struck by lightning.  Twice..."

When I was in my early 20s, my favorite errand was going to the post office.  Then ten years of living in the city got to me and I despised going to the post office to stand in long lines, pay too much, and deal with extremely rude employees.  But, now that I'm back in the country, I absolutely love it again.  Everyone is so friendly, there's rarely a line (if you can even call one person in front of you a line), and I get to visit multiple small town offices (although the government is slowly closing them all down around here--maybe more on that later.)

While I was packaging up some "thinking of you" items today to send off, I remember a time when I had a curse placed on me in Kansas City.  I found my old blog post about it and had a good laugh.  Since I had an allergic reaction to a wasp sting (which got me a bulky epi pen to carry from now on) and poison ivy all over my face and arms in the same day, I've taken to forming to the couch cushions, dosing up on steroids, and slathering on calamine lotion and just don't have the energy for an entirely new post.  So, I'm re-sharing this oldie, originally posted on June 4, 2009.



My trip to the post office today was the perfect example of the weird things that happen to me in public places.

The post office was once my favorite errand to run. But since every trip now seems to hold a price increase on stamps, longer lines, and slower employees, it is much less joyful. Luckily, I am done with work at 2:30 everyday, which happens to be an ideal time for all my USPS needs. The lunch rush is gone and the after work rush has not yet begun.

On today's postal jaunt, I needed postage for two small packages, six two-cent stamps, and a book of forever stamps. When I arrived on the scene, there was one person in line. I patiently waited while she added seventeen cents of postage to her letter. As the postal worker moved at a painfully slow speed, I noticed that a man had joined the line behind me.

I'm usually a very visually observant person, but I didn't have to see this guy to know he was there. I could smell him. As I slowly and discreetly tried to inch myself farther away from him, he crept his way closer to me. I couldn't pinpoint the smell. It wasn't the smell of frying something in grease, or sweaty body odor, or living with dirty pets. It was something I had never smelled before, but from looking at the man, I could only guess that it was just a general smell of filth.

Ordinarily, this would be a person that I would feel really sorry for and go out of my way to show some kindness to. I might make small talk and give him a big smile or an honest compliment. But this guy's stench sent any grain of altruism in my body right down the drain.

As the woman in front of me was fishing the last pennies out of her purse, The Stink tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Ma'am, do you have a lot to mail?" I answered, "Just these two packages." He retorted, "Oh...cause I just have this one thing...it would be nice if I could go ahead of you and get out of here..."

Right. You have one package and I only have two packages. So, if you're looking at the glass half empty, I have twice as much stuff to mail as you. But if you're looking at the glass half full, I only have one more package to mail than you. So sorry buddy, but you're gonna have to keep staring at my backside. I'd like to get out of here, too. In other words, I just kind of ignored his comment and didn't offer him the advanced spot in line.

As I approached the counter and paid for my postage, I could hear The Stink mumbling. I figured he was just grumbling about how "inconsiderate" I was, but as I turned to leave he yelled, "Stop!"

I stopped dead in my tracks and turned to face him, sure that he had gone postal (pun intended) and was pointing a firearm at me. He did have a weapon, but not a physical item. Instead, he had a weapon of words. He started mumbling again and then ended by clearly stating that he had put a curse on me!

I looked at the Postmaster who appeared more frightened than me. It was obvious that that wimp wasn't going to do anything about it, so I made an about face, hastily went out the door and jumped in my Jeep.

I actually forgot about the curse until I got home and noticed a pain in my right leg. Jumping to conclusions, I was sure that the curse was starting to work on me. This guy wouldn't just kill me off quickly by having a piano fall on me from a 20 story building or making my heart abruptly stop beating. He was going to make me suffer a dilatory and agonizing death.

Unless I've done something to "reverse the curse", I'll probably wake up tomorrow morning as a limp blob of body fat, unable to do anything but roll off the side of the bed, lie uncomfortably on the hardwood floor and replay the scenario over and over in my mind, wishing I had just let the man mail his package before me, while my insides slowly seep out through my pores.

I have a confession.

For those of you that are my age, you'll understand this comparison: I'm somewhat like Chandler on Friends in the episode, "The One Where Chandler Doesn't Like Dogs."  And that episode title kind of sums it up.

It's not exactly that I don't like dogs.  It's just that I don't like them in the house.  I don't like them touching or licking me.  I don't like them barking.  I don't like them slobbering or shedding.  I don't like them following me or nipping at my heels.  So basically, I love them if they're just sitting quietly, looking cute, and keeping to themselves.  And cats--well, I flat out just don't like them.  But you are truly are so shunned if you admit this--therefore, I realize that I will lose most of my readership here and probably log into facebook and instagram tomorrow to see zero friends and followers.

I learned in my teen years that my cousin Kelly was allergic to cats.  For the past eighteen years I've wished over and over that I would develop a small animal allergy, too, just so I would have a valid explanation for not oohing and aahing over everyone's house pets.  (Of course I don't really wish I had allergies, and by no means do I intend to belittle or joke about the suffering of those that do have real allergies.)

So, when Cliff came with lots of dogs, I was a little worried.  But, they all have their super beefed up dog resort outside, he does all the feeding, watering, and other caring, they never come in the house (minus that time my brother-in-law brought them in, let them sleep in the guest bed, and they they peed all over it) so it works out fine for me.  I just get to see their cute faces anytime I go outside, and I can't complain about that.

So, Cliff hunts his dogs quite a bit.  Sometimes, he'll even enter competition hunts; a few of which he has actually won.  And sometimes, these competition hunts will feature a swim race beforehand.

Cliff's current favorite hunting dog is named Smoke.  Cliff loves Smoke so much that it has become an inside joke for us.  For example, we'll have a conversation like this:
      Cliff: C'mon, I want to take my best girl for ice cream.
      Me:  Yes!  That sounds great.
      Cliff: Okay, can you get her leash?
And when we were getting ready for our wedding, we had constant jokes about him marrying Smoke instead of me.
So, when Cliff wanted to enter her into a competitive swim race a few weeks ago, I encouraged him to do so.  However, I didn't realize at the time just how serious he was about her winning.  (She won a swim race in Illinois this past winter and once he got a little taste of blue ribbon life, he was hooked.)

Two weeks before the race, Smoke started to get special food.  All protein.  Then a week and a half before the race, Cliff started working her out every night.  The first night Cliff and I walked her two miles.  After I went in, he secretly tried to run sprints with her, which I witnessed from the kitchen window.  After that, he roped my brother and his brother into helping out.  We ran her at a jogging pace about four miles that night.  We were exhausted, but Smoke wanted more.  Eventually, we had her up to six miles and she was running at a good clip.  I think she could have competed in the Iditarod and still wanted more.  The night before the race, he let her rest and prepare.

So, the big night rolled around.  We got the training team plus my mom loaded up to go and cheer.  It's a pretty neat event.

There's a large pond.
The dogs are released from that black box on the back side of the pond and swim toward the pole in the front right of the photo.  The first one to cross the water finish line gets points and the first one to get to the pole gets points.

The time came, Smoke left the start line and took off.

Then, it started to feel like we had floated at least ten miles with no end in sight.

Then, I felt a drop of rain, the sun went behind a big cloud and the wind started blowing.

At this point, Jacob and Cliff had almost emptied the cooler, Jacob was passed out with his head in the bottom of the canoe and his feet in the air, and I was getting a little nervous.

The sky opened up and it poured rain, the temperature dropped, the wind came in huge gusts, and I was no longer smiling.  I was scared to death.  We'd never floated this river,  Jacob nor Cliff can swim very well and I wasn't sure I could save both of them, and I kept having visions of our shiny, new canoe sinking to the bottom of the channel.

Then I started crying and put on my life vest.

In about ten minutes the storm was over, but I was pretty much done with the trip.  Little did I know, we had about four more hours of floating until we reached our destination.

Before we finally made it to Brunswick, Jacob had come to, eaten an entire bag of pretzels alone, tipped the canoe and taken on water doing a "beer stunt", not to mention we thought we had been sucked back in time to the 1920s (long story), and had a long discussion about whether or not we were even on the correct river.

After eight hours of solid floating, we finally saw the boat ramp.    I don't know how far we actually floated, but we're guessing it was at least fifteen miles.  Then Jacob and Cliff ridiculed me for days about saving myself by putting on a life vest and having no concern for them.  I wasn't sure I ever wanted to see Jacob or Cliff or a canoe or water again.

So, what do I do?  Two weeks later I plan a Grotewiel Cousins Float Trip for three days and fifteen people in South Missouri.  I'll never learn.