Thursday, March 29, 2007

My Hero's Have Always been Cowgirls.






Spent a refreshing two days in Pahrump Nevada. We were there for the first Dressage Exhibition ever in the Pahrump valley. CP was drafted to be the scribe. You see her with the German Dressage judge scoring and writing down comments about each entrant's performance. My sister hosted the event at her place, Carousel Farms. Most of the contestants were youths under the age of 16. There were, however, about 10 older women exhibitors. Of course there were no men. The men were all working 3 jobs to pay for all this expensive horse stuff. I was in charge of coffee and donuts, and also waste management. Just like at church.

I did sit with the judge and scribe for a few minutes. One contestant, an older woman about 40 came up to meet the judges and present her horse. I think I had her number when she was about halfway across the arena. She told the judge that "this was her horse's second show and at the last show he came in first". To which I blurted out "Well, I guess the only place left for him to go is down". The German judge cracked up. This judge trained in Spain, and she told me that "bragging on oneself is not done in Europe".

CP was commenting on the participant's attire. I found out that this was included in the judging. I thought I stumbled into "What Not To Wear". In Dressage the horse is suppose to carry out the commands of the rider as they communicate by only the tactile stimulation of the rider through the legs. Sort of like a husband. Like a husband the horse instinctively knows when he has screwed up.

It was a fun event, especially for the children. Maybe at the next one I can advance to clown.

Thursday, March 15, 2007

Time to work on my tan!

Somehow I survived another brutal N.C. winter. I do believe we never received that magic one inch of fluff that actually counts as a snowfall. I think I can safely take the hunter orange down vest, fur bomber hat and scraper out of the car.

The position seen above immediately puts me to sleep. Like in the dentist's office when they crank me back and put that warm light on my face. I'm also totally relaxed because I have Bo guarding me while I sleep. One never knows when one of those pesky Mexican landscapers will feel the urge to spread more mulch around my condo.

I love the south and contrary to popular belief we don't talk like Hillary Clinton thinks we do. When I heard her talking southern on the radio I thought it was a parody. It sounded like Scarlet O'Hara with a deviated septum. Southerners may talk slow, but they sure can spot a phony.