Dan got a wild hair on our recent visit to Bodega Bay. He decided that the whole family would ride horses over the mountains for an “Eagle’s Eye Adventure.” Being from the city, and never having experienced horses in general, it was kind of cute, that he thought at age 41 he could jump on a horse and ride away into the sunset; like he was the star in a cowboy movie. Dan is a huge fan of Westerns. The kids and Dan were gone for hours on an Oyster hunting adventure. It was really nice. I loved my solitude, and was happy to have the campsite to myself. Without consulting me, while I was innocently plein air painting on the ocean shore, Dan purchased reservations for four at a place called Chanslor Ranch. I'm not sure how they even came upon the ranch, but if I know my ten-year old daughter, she was the instigator. It was Tuesday afternoon and the horse riding reservations were made for Thursday so I wasn’t too concerned. Dan had found the original prize he was after, the oysters. Our camping neighbor was jealous, he had gone searching the day before to no avail. Apparently they are hard to get and sell out fast. I was easily distracted by the deliciousness. Dan started washing a dozen and a half giant oysters for the barbecue along with a dozen Kumamoto oysters for raw snacking, while the big daddies cooked on the fire. Dan lives for camping. His whole aura just lights up. His daily drudgery and work stress dissipated into distant, fuzzy memories. He gets high on campfire. Every time we go on vacation I have to pinch myself because my grouchy, old man husband is replaced by a fun, happy, “let’s do it!” guy who actually spends money like we have it. We don’t, but it’s fun to pretend we do sometimes. How much was the horse reservation? Too much. I had a cousin who would have let him ride for free, but whatever, my daughter was on cloud nine. “When are we going on the horse ride? Can we do more than an hour?” These questions and more annoying never ending ones would follow. The over excitement and buggy behavior needed to stop. It was more than a bit irritating. Aunt Jackie had to shut her down. No talking about the horse ride until the day of, and even then, there was an agitation limit line. Dan had never been a horse in his life. I had been on horses a few times, and they can sense a rookie and immediately take advantage of the inexperienced rider. My Aunt Tami thought it was hilarious to direct me to jump bareback onto her horse when I was about my daughter’s age, 10-years old. Her horse walked up to a fence and scraped me off her back like I was a rash to be itched. “Jump back on, you have to show her you’re not scared.” I did and the horse proceeded to walk over to a tree and do the same thing. Scrape, scratch, me on the ground. No, thank you. You are so welcome, Aunt Tami, I’m happy to be your comedy relief. After that fun time I rode with friends, on the backs of their horses. They did the work while I just enjoyed the view of the backseat voyeur. It was great, we were little. I don’t think the horses minded the load too much. My friends were horse chicks, and they were the coolest people that ever existed. I was in awe of their connection with their animals, but I stuck to big dogs. I am a great dog trainer. I warned Dan that riding horses hurts your butt, or it hurt my lack of butt when I was younger. Having a giant padded rear is definitely a benefit to the rider, but probably not to the horse. Em had been led a few times by our cousin on her ranch and hilltop in Penn Valley and also liked to jump on her pony and force him to walk, though he was pretty stubborn. Em had no fear and was pretty good at being bossy. I trained her with my dog to grapple and exude dominance. Smart animals are challenging, especially when they are ginormous. The day of the ride Emerald was being a pain. I can’t remember what rude thing her tween mouth dared to spit, but I was past my limit with her hormonal BS. “I’m over it, enjoy your ride without me.” I would save the family some money with my hissy fit. “I don’t really want to go either.” Damn. My tantrum is rubbing off on James. If James backs out, the “Father of the Year” award will go to someone else. Dan forced Em to apologize so I convinced James to join the horse riding adventure. “I’ve ridden a horse before.” But have you ridden a horse before with your whole family, for your dad’s first time? I didn’t think so. Begrudgingly, he joined the caravan. Scared wasn’t the right word; wary would be more appropriate to how I was feeling. It had been at least 30 years since I had ridden. What if the horse was a jerk, like my aunt’s horse? When we pulled up I realized I had forgotten my phone. No pictures would be taken of the mounted and fabulous Pearsons riding off into the sunset. It figured. I had charged my phone the previous night just for that image, which was no easy feat when camping. Emerald went in with Dan, picked out an optional helmet (I was rather impressed with her, I didn’t even have to nudge). We signed the waivers and were on our way. “Don’t run near the horses,” so she skipped and jumped instead while she personally introduced herself to all the horses that were saddled and ready for us. I could tell she was especially fond of an almost white one that looked a little young. He was hands taller than the rest--see I know horse people talk. The adorable older Dutch lady pointed to a flea-bitten gray. For non horse people, that’s the white one with tiny grey spots. She said, “Emerald will ride Casino,” in her Scandinavian accent. “Yay!” Em was beyond excited. It looked spunky for my taste. She pointed to a giant dunn mule. “Dan will ride Maddie.” What the stuff? Dan’s first horse ride and he’s stuck on a mule? I guess I’m a horse snob, but it seemed not fair but funny at the same time. I was so glad it wasn’t me. Dan seemed ok with it, and she was a beautiful, light fuzzy brown with giant ears. But she was a mule. “I’m on the big ass,” Dan giggled under his breath to me. I have such limited experience, but I suggested he request another animal if he wasn’t satisfied. He said he was fine, and would be more than happy to ride his giant, pretty ass. I realized he just liked saying ass. The dutch woman proceeded to give James and me matching reds, that were young and nice looking. They were tethered further away so we couldn’t easily inspect them, which was probably for the best. They looked like the typical horse in a horse movie. Big, reddish, brown, and calm; good. I was still wary. What if I sucked? Cowboy, the horse I was destined to ride would know instantly I was not experienced. I would be exposed to my family and cow people strangers. Why did I agree to this madness? “We love Little Red,” said multiple pretty young lady ranch hands when James mounted him. He did seem sweet, and tired, and totally lovable. I wanted Little Red. It was finally my turn, I was the last to saddle up, and a little girl about 9 years old in a helmet on an odd colored Tobero, brown and white, came right up to me--too close for my comfort. “I get to ride Cowboy soon, I’m so excited, he’s a great horse.” What did that mean? She was obviously a better rider than me, showing off for Dan, manhandling her horse, Coco, with ease. The little girl, named Addy, whipped and squeezed and demonstrated how to be a boss. Did the fact that she had to graduate to Cowboy mean that he was more of a challenge? I played the part of someone who knew what they were doing. Everyone was fooled. “You look great up there,” said a beautiful, young cattle woman. She was chatting with Dan, who had difficulty at first steering his steed. She said she could tell I had ridden before. Not really, but I was a great actress. I hoped the horse would fall for it. “Hold your reins like this, and squeeze your legs to go.” No problem. I got him to move to where I wanted. Good horse, Cowboy! I was grateful, he was doing what I wanted him to, but I think the animals were so used to the single file line riding up and around the mountain top, that they just followed the leader. They all wanted to be the leader. Emerald was frustrated, Casino started whacking out a bit, doing what he wanted, not getting in line. I think he just realized how little my daughter was. I caught a glimpse of Em’s face, it was red, and one of the pretty girls had mounted a female Chestnut, and gave her some vocal instructions. They were just out of my earshot. Em squeezed him and yanked his reins a certain way and suddenly Casino was under her control. I wish I knew that secret. It was too late, we were walking. Sarah, the pretty, young, blond ranch hand was our leader and James was next in line. Dan on Maddie, the mule, was behind James, and I was next, right before Emerald. Em was followed by an Indian woman who was not in our party, named Rupa. Addy, the little cowgirl, was holding the line. Right off the bat Dan’s mule started straying. She went off the trail to do her own thing, and enjoy some grass in peace, away from our party. I happily passed him, and moved up the line. Cowboy still had no idea how bad of a rider I was. Maddie was stubborn… as a mule. “You have to show her who’s boss right away, or she’ll be very hard to work with,” Sarah advised Dan as we kept walking past him up the hill. Dan didn’t want to get passed and left behind and he was able to whip Maddie back into line right behind me, before Em was able to pass him. I was rather impressed with Dan’s manly horse/ass riding maneuvers. He had watched a lot of cowboy based television programs and that seemed to be paying off. Again, I was so grateful I didn’t get assigned to Maddie. I could tell she was a difficult one. Dan was able to break the mule. Nice work I thought, but didn't tell him until later. I was concentrating too hard on pretending to know what I was doing. We were supposed to have a bit of a gap between the horses, but the horses didn’t like that. They liked to be closer, and were competitive toward the lead. Rupa was having some serious problems in the back, but I couldn’t see what was going on. I was afraid to turn around and lose my balance. My actual mental frame was: better her than me. We all had to wait for a bit for Rupa to get settled and Sarah was letting her horse, eat some side grass. She said it probably wasn’t a good idea, because then the horses will continually just eat the grass and not do what you tell them to do if you are too lenient. I let Cowboy have a few mouth-fulls just to be fair. Bad idea. Somewhere between letting Cowboy eat a bit while we were climbing the mountain and James and Sarah having regular young cute people conversation my horse started getting antsy and tried to pass sweet Little Red. Sarah explained her mare was in heat, and Cowboy had a crush on her. Great. Little Red and Cowboy pushed each other to make space. I was able to pull Cowboy back, but he wasn’t happy with me anymore. I think he finally figured out I was a fake. Sarah was laughing with James. She described an incident when a group of youngsters thought it was funny to turn backwards in their saddles. Cowboy decided the grass looked greener off the path. Stupid Dan and Maddie passed me while I hurried to get Cowboy back into line. Emerald flew by all 3 of us up the hill in full canter mode. WTF? She ended up pulling Casino back right next to Sarah while they waited at the top for the rest of the group. The little girl in the back of the line started chatting about how we were all going to trot at the top. I didn’t want to trot. Trotting slams your vagina bone into the saddle in unexpected bursts. That I did remember from childhood. Cowboy was slowing down and I didn’t want to get passed, especially by Rupa; I could hear the 9-year old constantly school her. I squeezed just a bit and Cowboy got angry, tossing his head and snorting and then started trotting. It was fast and he didn’t want to stop when I pulled the reigns. I guess I was cantering. I only know this because the impressed Addy said, “You’ve got him in full canter, great work!” Canter is worse than trot. It’s faster, I think. Cowboy didn’t want to stop, even when I pulled the reins. Everyone one on the trail was so impressed with my riding, except for me. We started a trend, and Emerald began trotting, or cantering, and then Dan tried it and even James on little Red. How fun! NOT. My vagina bone still hurts, though my whole family lied and said their taints weren’t pained. I have a bony butt, so they must have fat ones. I was able to control Cowboy once he got nearer to the others, and I was grateful when the methodical rhythmic steps returned to my agitated boss horse. I had to pull rank on him, like I do with my stubborn dog, Nika. I growled, really low and mean. It seems to work with animals that are not my 10 year old daughter. Emerald and Sarah pointed out the glorious view to the right. We finally caught up with them. They had been waiting on the hill together for a while, like old riding buddies. Our party was at the crest of the largest hill overlooking Bodega Bay. We could see multiple beaches and far away action of minuscule human activity in every direction. “It’s really beautiful,” Dan oohed softly. He was enjoying himself, so much. I guess that was the point of this family excursion. It was quite a breathtaking sight. I wish I could have savored the experience more, but I was still concentrating on my horse, who was catching a bit of an attitude. I rewarded his bad behavior by giving him more grass. I know, I’m lame, but at least I wasn’t trotting anymore. He had to slow down to eat it, right? Emerald and Sarah decided they’d canter or trot the entire top of the hill which made it hard to keep up without looking like a moron. We managed. At least Rupa was struggling more than I was. I could hear Addy giving her instructions almost the entire time. I was kind of eavesdropping in case I needed to know something. Dan told me later he watched the little girl yank the reins from Rupa to scold the horse. I was so glad that didn't happen to me. Just out of reach, I hoped to remain hidden in my facade of self discipline. When we got to another crest there was a hush and all the horses stopped. Sarah pointed out a two day old llama and it’s mother to our left, directly above us. It was a fluffy adorable puff of cuteness. The mom was a dark brown/black and the dad was a creamy reddish caramel color. The baby was a very light cream. They were perfect. I was really mad at myself for not bringing my camera at that moment. The baby llama was so close to us. Even James mentioned he should have brought his phone. The rest of the ride went without much controversy. The horses didn’t really like going downhill, it was obvious, and it was a pretty steep incline. I was glad I wasn’t fat, I’d feel guilty putting so much extra weight on the horses skinny little legs. It seemed like Dan’s mule took the downhill much better than the others. I was right behind him, and I wouldn’t let Cowboy pass, no matter how he tried. I was finally getting it, near the end of the ride. The little girl, gearing to show off took off for the front of the line while Sarah was waiting to close the gate. Since the ride was over, Sarah was kind about it, though I could tell it wasn’t protocol. Addy had to be in front, just like the alpha horses, and it was annoying and cute at the same time. Kids. Emerald was so extremely thrilled, she really had a great ride. I can see her on horses in the future, and I’m positive she’ll be a horse chick for life. But I’m not buying her one. She can volunteer to pick up poop and muck stalls for neighbors with horses. That’s how you start, and the ranch hand ladies confirmed that they started out the same way. Dan pulled back into the stall beaming and said “I’m on a big ass!” loud and proud. “No”, an older lady wrangler explained, “It’s a mule, not an ass. An ass is a donkey.” Dan was wrong about the ass, but he was right about the ride. It was a pretty special memory that the whole family enjoyed. When we drove off into the sunset he laughed that he still hadn’t ridden a horse. The View from the top of the hill Maddie, Dan's favorite mule (both images taken from the internet)
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The last morning of a magnificent week camping at the coast, where I fell back in love with my family I just wanted to say goodbye to ocean. I grabbed my yoga mat and headed toward the waves before anyone else was moving. It was almost 8 in the morning. The sky was clear, and the mist had risen, hugging the further hills in the distance, but not the shore. I have a standard beginner’s routine, that I have been doing for quite some time. It suits me, and is not too challenging. I grabbed the simple moves from a Yoga magazine that someone had dumped at my mom’s house. Hoping the stretching and 30 second-ish holds were doing something for me, I plugged away, concentrating on deep even breathing. At least it’s a meditative quiet. The simplicity of the morning at the beach in front of the crashing waves is excellent therapy. There were only two other people on the shore and they were far away from me, walking toward the main part of the beach hand in hand. They looked like old people. They were cute, but I was concentrating on my balance. I was slightly to the north of the campsites where we were staying in Bodega Bay. I was also directly on the wet part of the beach, where the waves were slowly receding toward low tide. I always start out in the standing positions, then work my way down to the ground for the sitting and lying moves. It doesn’t take more than 30 minutes usually for the whole routine, which is probably doing the minimal health benefit, but it’s more for meditation than exercise anyway. I like the peace and solitude. It takes a few moments to clear my mind. In order to properly “Greet the Sun,” I spun East away from the ocean, and stretched up and over with my eyes closed. I do this three times every time. The “Warrior” one and two turned my head up and down the shore, which is how I spotted the old couple. I decided to flip toward the ocean for my “Tree” poses just to balance out and change the scenery. I saw a black thing come out of the water, and go back in. I see seals all the time when we go to the coast so I didn’t get too excited. I’m not knocking a good seal sighting. They’re cute too. One after the other the dorsal fins starting coming out of the water. I could see them so clearly, and they were really close. Some were in front of the bird poop rock I like to paint. I got nervous and had a bad idea that I would be the one who witnessed the massive whale suicide where they all beached themselves, but I put that thought out of my head. They were traveling. They were a giant family (like mine); and I was so lucky to be in that place at that time. I have been on a few cruises. On our cruise to Alaska, Dan and I were very lucky to see many different types of whale pods and dolphins. I’ve seen dolphins twice in the wild while on cruises to Mexico, and I recognized the way they moved immediately. These looked like giant dolphins, but they were black. I think they were Orcas. These were not the playful dolphins I remembered doing tricks in the big boat wake on the way to Mexico, jumping in and out of the water. These appeared more serious. They just moved at a steady pace, and continuously popped their fins out just out of the water to show off, or breathe. Whatever they were doing, it was beautiful. There were a lot of whales. I held the yoga move, for a full minute for each leg and then some, with a giant, happy grin on my face. I saw one man sitting near his campsite. I couldn’t tell if he was seeing what I was seeing. The couple was so far away, I hoped they were able to catch a glimpse of the whales migrating north. I estimated 40-80 whales. I didn’t count them, I just enjoyed the experience and stared into the deep water until no more miracles popped up for me. The strange thing was right before the first whale crested behind the wave I had made a prayer. I gave myself to the Great Spirit, and I said I would follow where I was led. I’m kind of at a career fork in the road, but It looks like I’m headed North. I’m happy with that, because it might be a bit cooler there. I am feeling pretty good about the move. I was a little wary, because change is hard. If the whales can do it, so can I. I was doing my yoga routine right about in the crease of the page above. And that's Poop Rock in the water. Only a few Orcas swam in front of it. The rest swam behind Poop Rock. Why is it named Poop Rock? Seagulls. The elderly couple walked down the shore in the image below. That's the Southern view. I'll do the whale painting later. I made these paintings on the beach a couple days before with a watercolor set my gorgeous and thoughtful stepson gave me for my birthday. He also gifted me the little book they're sketched in, and the paint brush.
A good friend called me and asked if I had any time to help with a small job. I had a few days to spare so I drove to her place, though it was quite a drive, they had an extra bedroom and I was planning to stay a few nights. It was a beautiful property, near the ocean, and I figured I would pretend I was on vacation; because my kid and husband stayed home. It was just me, and the job was cutting flowers.
Dick, not his real name, was the farmer, and he was a woodsman, and totally into reggae. It was a continual reggae fest for days on end, and I was quiet about my aversion to continual, nonstop reggae while working, but then regretted when I said something because my trim partner, a very large, buff construction worker named Brett, switched the program to sports. I have always had a thing for construction workers, it’s my favorite man fantasy. It began when I moved to Sacramento and was self employed with a home office that faced the street. Road improvement work began at the same time. There was a very good looking, young man that hand dug a giant hole in the street right next to my front yard all day long. I was supposed to be plotting topography, drawing plot plans and designing septic systems, but I was mesmerized by all that dirty digging. When my boyfriend/now husband came home from work he had the nerve to ask me what I had done all day. My desk was clean. I asked him what he would be doing if there was a Victoria’s Secret Fashion show next to his window. Dan is rad, though, and started wearing his hard hat and fluorescent vest home on occasion, “Excuse me, ma’am we have to check on some of your household appliances.” Enough about reality, shortly after, when I was about to get married, my friend, Gayla, arranged a construction worker stripper and his hot black, forgot what his theme was, friend to visit my bridal shower party. The strippers were late and there were at least 20 wild and crazy 25-35 year old women losing their minds and consuming too much alcohol. Mandy hosted the party and we were in her back room. Giant concrete curved steps went up to the kitchen. Luckily the back room was padded with carpet because Jessica took a header off the top of the stairs from the kitchen and dropped and rolled like a professional firefighter. I wish firefighter was the other strippers theme, but oh well, it wasn’t. Jessica was okay, and it was a hilarious sight, and a perfect introduction for the boys entrance. Because they were late, probably getting naked for more crazy ladies on the way, I don’t remember much because alcohol has a tendency to steal my memories. In this case it is probably for the best. I do remember the construction worker swooping up my little cousin and placing her on his bicep while he dry slam-humped Jessica’s dancing butt a few times--hard. Her butt stuck out like a chicken. After he moved on to dry hump more ladies Jessica continued the strange butt bump move, she thought he was still there. That was my most vivid memory of that night. The nearly naked men did their performance well, they were professionals, but the smell of baby oil and whipped cream will forever be “no, no’s” especially in unison. I thought they left. Little did I know they were being hand bathed in the bathroom first, probably to remove the curdled milk smell by a few single girls who may have even followed them out to the car. Is oral considered a good tip? Back to the job at the ocean, with a giant, hot, blond, 28-year old, construction worker cutting flowers in a reggae or sports filled shed. “Woah.” The men had never seen a professional flower cutting travel kit. I had converted a briefcase into a stylish satchel, hot gluing a Burberry type fabric to the outside and filling it with my necessities. The most important piece was the mobile clip light that attached to my chair with a bendable snake I pulled around my shoulders. I also had a giant bag of disposable gloves, two new pairs of sharp Fiskars, a hand painted fancy wooden tray, rubbing alcohol, a myriad of containers (also covered with the Burberry fabric for fashion purposes), and a butt load of snacks. I came prepared. Brett and I were finally alone after Dick decided to beat it because reggae was no longer playing and he had farming to do. “You know Brett is a porno name?” “Yes, I’m aware of that.” “Got any good porno stories?” If you have never trimmed before, small talk is useless. People are brought together in a situation similar to a Freudian couch, where souls are revealed, laughter is the only remedy and friendships are made or broken in a matter of days. I had already shared that I was in the middle of writing a sexy story. I couldn’t figure out the difference between smut, erotica or romance, I guess I should have read one or two before attempting to write one. Brett was impressed with my story, because my heroine was bonking a fisherman named Manuel on his houseboat, and he was from the Azorean islands. “Dick actually has a fisherman uncle named Manuel, who lives here, on a houseboat and he’s from the Azores.” How’s that for research? I’m that good. “Please tell me he’s hot.” Brett said he’s not, but how can I let the sexiness of a character I made up be determined by a giant hetero man? Manuel is young, gorgeous, dark and sexy with a Portuguese lisp, not some dumpy uncle of a friend; thank you very much, Mr. Porno name. Brett’s porno story is so PG-13, because he wouldn’t give me good nasty details; he being a gentleman. He was also bright red and a little embarrassed, but it didn’t stop him from sharing: Brett, my handsome, tall, buff hero, was a jack hammer operator. He had an NFL football player build, very strong, and compact on the top, like a big rig. He was about 6’3” with an all American swagger, light skin, sandy blond hair, and small, bright blue eyes. He was also 25-years old and single. Brett grew up in the Mendocino area and there was always road work to be done, he had worked his way up through the ranks and he was very strong. Brett actually enjoyed manhandling the jackhammer. The smashing machinery was great therapy for a young man. Women always hooted and hollered at him, Brett was their eye candy. He was a bit shy, and it was funny how the ladies reacted to a man smashing through concrete. Brett rarely looked up when the ladies yelled, he was quite used to it. A dark haired business woman in her early 30’s pulled up to Brett and stopped her car. He was in the middle of the street, and she waited until he acknowledged her. He looked up. She was gorgeous. She had wavy, brown hair, and was wearing dark sunglasses. The woman was tan and fit, she could have been a stripper in her day. She hung her business card out the window of her luxurious, black Mercedes Benz. He nails were perfectly manicured and she smelled like she had just left a spa. Brett was dirty, hot, and sweaty. He took the card and stuck it in his pocket. She smiled and drove on. Brett couldn’t stop thinking about the card in his pocket. He was wondering if he imagined it, being out in the hot sun too long, but he could feel it poking him. He knew it was real, and the rest of the work day dragged on. When the workday finally ended Brett rushed home and showered before he pulled the card out and examined it. It was a lawyer’s card, but what he noticed first was the name of the hotel with a room number hand written on the back. Why not? Nervous Brett knocked on the door, and the stunning lawyer opened the door in a silky robe and black lingerie. It was still daylight. They didn’t need to speak. She slowly undressed him and they banged for hours. She was dirty and he was willing. He did whatever she asked him to do. Brett left her passed out on the bed. Brett could have charged good money for those services, but he enjoyed it too much to think deeply on it. I was so ecstatic for such a great clipping fantasy, and thankful for Brett’s titillating company. He was happy to share his glorious tale. The next season Brett was gone, and I was sad to lose a construction working centerfold. A really cool Cajun chef named Dave, took his place so the dramatic adventure continued down an altered but just as interesting path. We swapped cooking stories, and shared some funny adventures. I’ll save them for later because I’m still vicariously enjoying the construction worker reverie. Professor Snape was a Good Chicken. She was a Hen with a Great Disposition and Stunning Beauty6/8/2017 Three years ago we purchased a batch of 5 chickens. They were adorable Ameraucana chicks and I let Emerald name them. That was a terrible idea. No matter how much you love a chicken there is no guarantee that it will survive. Harry, Hermione, Ron Weasley, and Dumbledore were all gone by the next season. It was a crappy batch, I guess. They didn’t even make it to laying age. Professor Snape was the only survivor.
The next year we purchased another batch and 2 out of the 5 survived the year. We had a good hearty trio for another season and finally enough eggs for our family to justify all the chicken burials/dinners depending on how they died which was usually a broken neck from falling, sickness or being egg bound. Em refused to name the second round. She would not visit, and complained when I asked her to feed them. She withheld her love. Em was too heartbroken when Hogwarts was decimated one character at a time. When I would report that one went down, she shrugged. No chicken news was good news. Last year was a decent chicken year, I didn’t have to buy eggs, but I didn’t have enough to give away. I actually love giving away and sharing the organic eggs, and these were really cool because each lady laid a different color. One laid pink, one laid blue and the last one laid green. Our modern birds looked like adorable cartoon characters, especially when they ran, but they were not meant for thriving for the long term. They supplied us with eggs around the clock and that taxed their fragile systems. We wormed them, let them free roam, fed, adored and cherished them. We kept them warm and sheltered in the winter and watered, cool and shaded in the summer. Still no luck, they dropped very easily. One by one, our urban chicken experient proved slightly flawed. One flock, a hearty, great bunch the year before we picked up Harry Potter and his consorts was ambushed by dogs when we were on vacation. I had one chicken out of the bunch I was really attached to. She was a Delaware my husband traded with the neighbor in exchange for building a chicken shelter. She was the boss for a few years, and a lovely kind hen. Emerald called her White Snow. When we were leaving for Kauai I was worried about her, she looked a bit ill, and was a couple of years old. They don’t seem to make it passed the 3 year mark. She was gone by the time we came back (dogs broke in and got her), but maybe it was for the best. I had a bad feeling before leaving and made sure to hug her and tell her I loved and appreciated all her hard work. Our most recent hens we named 1-5 but then when only 2 were left they became “Brown” and “White”. We also still had Professor Snape, the only survivor of the previous gaggle. Em tried not to get attached, but I’m afraid it’s hard not to, especially when Snape liked hugs. Snape was gorgeous and so friendly. Snape was my girl. Professor Snape became egg bound a few days ago. I followed the protocol, I gave her a warm bath, I massaged her belly and gave her a private room filled with fresh hay. I think she may have been forgoing water and food, I planned on dropping some electrolyte filled water down her throat this morning, but she didn’t make it past 10AM. Em will be sad for a minute. She come to expect these fragile chickens to part quickly. We’re not eating Professor Snape, I’m ready to bury her next to her sisters, and the many chickens that went before. I am not absolutely certain she was egg bound, it could have been a number of things. Just in case it was some rare chicken disease it’s better to be safe and buy my organic chicken from Costco. Dan and I ran into some friends of a friend at the pool and I asked them if they still had their chickens (we had a great chicken chat a year or two ago at a party, when we were both just starting out). They obviously can relate to our experience, because they said they learned not to get attached to the birds. They also noted the skimpy nature of the hens upon eating them. We had noticed the same thing when we ate ours. What are they feeding these giant breasted birds in the grocery store? I really wanted to keep Snape’s feathers, as she was quite the beauty, with a head akin to a beautiful golden hawk. That might be a little weird. I also have no plan of what I would actually do with feathers. I don’t have the time to make a hat or a belt. I guess she’s doing me a favor because we’re moving soon. Our one lonely chicken, White, will be going to a new home soon. I hope she finds better luck and maybe even love. I also hope she assimilates quickly and doesn’t get her chicken butt handed to her by the other hens. They don’t call ghetto crazies chickenheads for no reason. To Professor Snape, may you rest in peace, and thank you for the eggs and the hugs. You were the only chicken I ever gave an abdominal massage and bath, and you may be the last. Hopefully I’ll be ready for more hens by next season when I’m up on the hill. This farming thing is making me hard. Dan may be the most unromantic man on the planet. He proposed while I was washing the dishes wearing just a giant T-shirt in the morning, still tasting my morning breath with messy, just woke up hair. He got on his knees and hugged the back of my legs while I continued scrubbing. “Marry me.” “Shut the F up,” I may be the most unromantic woman on the planet. I was uncomfortable with his face so near my bum, like I said, no pants or anything besides the T-shirt. Dan and I had already been living together for 5 years, and it had been a bumpy ride. We remained loyal to one another, and we were great friends. We also did “it” all the time, which helps a relationship stay solid, and keeps the psyches intertwined. We may not have been romantic, but we were both monogamous semi-happy pervs. “Where’s the ring?” I didn’t really care about a ring, a symbolic gesture, even made out of a twist tie would have sufficed. “Uh...” yeah, that’s what I thought. I didn’t really take his weird proposal seriously until we had a discussion later. “Do you really want to get married?” He did. I wasn’t totally against it, though it seemed unnecessary. I was spiritual, not religious. I didn’t believe the Great Spirit required a piece of paper from the government or from a self-appointed holy representative to make our relationship legitimate. I was completely satisfied with the security of our union, our depth of compatibility, and our healthy partnership. James was a little guy, then. He had started school early, in preschool, and it would help with paperwork and healthcare and other not fun legal logistics if we had the same last name. I was ready to face a fear, and bound myself for life to the stable family that I had longed for my entire life. I wasn’t just marrying Dan, but joining a ready made family. I had a predisposed belief that marriages were doomed to fail because I watched my parents horrid excuse for a marriage disintegrate. As they neglected me and one another for their own pursuits of happiness or misery depending on the parent, I was left to fend for myself. They divorced when I was 15 years old and it was a relief. I was so happy the fighting and drama would end, it didn’t. I knew they’d be better off apart, though they do still love one another in their own weird way (my dad moved next door. It’s been 28 years, seriously). My mom had a bit of a nervous breakdown and I took care of her for a few months before realizing I was enabling her to stay in a depressed and broken state. I moved out at age 15 into a trailer on my Uncle Mark’s property. I pretty much ran away. I moved to Southern California when I turned 16 with my 21 year old boyfriend and managed to graduate high school with a 3.8 grade point average. I moved back to the hills after about 6 months because Van Nuys wasn’t my cup of tea, though Venice Beach, Griffith Park and the Self Realization Meditation center made it not so nasty. My mom pulled herself together, became employed and turned her bipolar emotional hurricane inward. She became addicted to buying random things. There isn’t ten square feet of space in her entire 5000 square foot home that isn’t filled with a knick knack or some never used brand new boxed item. I watch “Hoarders” to learn how to speak with her without getting into a fight. I should have become a psychiatrist. Most every one of my aunts and uncles divorced. Even my own grandmother, my father’s mother, divorced my grandfather in rural Iowa back in the day when people stayed in unhappy marriages. I didn’t have a good example of what love was supposed to look like or what love even was. The relatives that stayed together were even worse than the ones that divorced. They were milking mental illness or harboring pedophiles. I worked as a photographer while putting myself through college, and I loved shooting weddings. I kept in touch with most of my clients over the years and now half of them have divorced. Fifty percent of the marriages I photographed ended within ten years. It actually made me so unhappy I wasn’t able to magically fix them by capturing their love on film. After leaving a shattered 6-year attempt at a relationship that felt and looked just like my parent’s explosive union, Dan and I decided to escalate our friendship to something more. At first I didn’t really like him in a dating kind of way, but I already loved and respected him as a person for years. He convinced me to let him try and I actually fell in real love for the first time. Real love entails compromise, time, space, respect and honor. It’s very hard to create real love. Because of financial and prior obligatory arrangements we were forced to move in together much too soon. It didn’t help the relationship but we worked through it. Dan allowed me to heal and work on myself, so that I could love him from a healthy mind and body. I experienced too many traumatic experiences within a short time to be anything but loaded with unhealthy mental baggage. Right before Dan and I started hanging out I had just lost a best friend. He was one of the true loves of my life, and he succumbed to his depression and went out in a blaze of glory but not really, a violent gunshot through his skull, just missing mine by a few inches. When Paul died I was just starting to deal with the betrayal and emotional injury of my prior 6-year live in relationship. Paul was my shoulder, as I had been dumped for 18 year old girls, and meth. Another friend from high school also dumped me, a girl I lived with right after high school that I truly loved and believed she would be a friend for life. She told me I was too much drama. She was right, I had been cast away, like trash, by my ex, right before my other friend died in my arms. I lost 3 people I thought I would spend the rest of my life with, in the span of a few months. I couldn’t pinpoint what I was doing wrong, but in retrospect maybe I was choosing a path I already knew; depression, addiction, pain and suffering. There was also an alcohol drenched rape by a very popular drummer my freshman year in high school. I have 90+ mutual friends with my rapist on Facebook (see my art piece titled “You are Friends with a Rapist” for more details and my best poetry to date). If you are reading this and we went to high school together you probably are friends with my rapist. I had only disclosed the rape to a few very close friends, and most of them were there that night. Part of healing is being open and honest. I am just beginning to understand that it wasn’t my fault, no matter how drunk I was. I was passed out. I despised this friend of my best friend's boyfriend. I had even successfully fought him off of me when I was sober in an earlier attack at my house. This time I wasn't prepared to fight. I trusted everyone at the place I was staying, so I didn't even think twice before getting annihilated. Mass consumption of alcohol isn't a good idea, especially when some one brings a rapist to a party. Through generous helpings of LSD I tried to veil the pain within, but only truth can heal a body and mind. Better late than never. Dan gave me time and space and everything I needed to be myself and to heal myself. He took care of the financial security of our family by working hard every day and giving James and me a place to call home. I was able to pursue my dreams of creating art, and teaching art, though it’s not the most financially stable business in a small town, especially when you add family obligations. Dan was loyal to me, made me laugh all the time, and cherished our love and friendship. He gave me the one thing I always wanted, which was stability, a home, and a happy family. I didn’t need a white picket fence, the ghetto would do. We turned our backyard into our own little farm. I trusted Dan so I decided if he wanted to get married I would suck it up and just do it. What could go wrong? From my prior experience the question actually should be what couldn’t go wrong? Right away my mother started fighting me. I wanted a night wedding. “No, that bad luck, Ann.” I wanted candles. “No, you can’t have fire, too danger.” She has a heavy Thai accent, I like to imitate it to amuse my friends. I wanted to do a ceremony at the river under a full moon. “No, lake better.” Every single thing I mentioned was shot down immediately. I didn’t want to get married anymore. I finally spoke up. “It’s not your wedding, it’s my wedding!” My mother screamed at me on the phone. “I never got a wedding in Thailand with your dad!” I was going to give up, I told Dan it wasn’t worth it. Dan is a smart guy, with a persistent nature. “Just do it your way, don’t worry about your mom.” I sent out 50 wedding rehearsal invitations for a full moon ceremony under the full moon at the river. Only about 30 people showed up. They thought it was a rehearsal. I had my friend, Gayla, ordained and got cabins and rooms in Nevada City, at the Trolley Junction. It was perfect. Dan teased me, when I was planning,“Where’s the goat head?” I made the whole thing up, not realizing that some of the ceremony was actually established old traditional lore of my Scandinavian ancestors. There must have been some cell memory that was firing deep within. It worked, I loved my wedding, except for the fact they tapped the keg too early. That’s another entirely not so cool story. Once married, I did feel different. I couldn’t easily run away. I started running away at age 3 or 4. I would pack a clean sock full of Flintstone vitamins and figured I could live off one a day. I usually took about 18. I didn’t know what I planned to do after they were all gone. All I knew was that I was leaving. I would kick out the screen on the window and easily climb down the air conditioning unit once outside. I did it all the time. One of my aunts always teased me, “Remember when you were running away? You were so little.” I don’t remember when I wasn’t running away. Even when I was in my six year pre-Dan relationship we moved all the time, I can’t really remember why. My ex and I moved 10 times in 6 years. It taught me not get attached to “stuff.” I just randomly tossed things in boxes and threw away anything that didn’t survive the ride. Once Dan and I lived in the same place for 5 years straight I felt like I had won the lottery. Even though we were living in a crappy house that had been trashed by his family for decades before we were even born, we had a house that we could repair together. I was a total fixer up, I knew how the house felt. Dan thinks he scored, but I knew the truth. He’s such an old fashioned man, I tease him all the time. He should have been born in 1802 and been a farmer in the dust bowl. Dan and I basically eloped with about 30 witnesses. I just gave my camera to an artistic friend and he shot our photographs. Another awesome chef friend cooked and made scrumptious food for just the cost. Other friends did my make up and hair, chipped in, bought and arranged the flowers including my bouquet. Dan and I purchased the license, a crap ton of beer, the food and some cabins. People will brag about how much they spent on their weddings, I brag about how inexpensive my wedding was. It’s just a party. It’s funny how we’re taught the opposite of that our whole lives as women. Weddings are shoved down our throats since birth, it's supposed to be a fantasy and crucial to our well being. I have a rebellious soul and didn't swallow the consumerism. The relationship is more important. Better to spend the money on bills or a vacation. That is true romance. Once Dan and I were married, we did get rings. They were simple, white gold bands. It was still a secret to my family, but we were wearing them. Out at dinner with my mom about a month later, Dan accidentally slipped and called me his wife. My mother’s eagle eye had already caught the rings and she asked me directly if we already got married. She was in the midst of planning a $10,000 Thai wedding extravaganza with Thai monks imported from San Francisco. There were not enough at our Sacramento Buddhist Watt, only 5 lived there. We needed nine monks to be extra lucky. I told her honestly that we had gone to the river and Gayla married us. She scoffed, said it wasn’t real, because she didn’t do it, so her wedding planning continued. It was nice to see her so happy. I thought it would be interesting for my relatives on my father’s side to see a traditional Thai wedding but that was before I knew what it actually entailed. I should have done a little research first because if you think Catholicism is a serious religion, times that by three. I refer to the Thai wedding as the 8-hour torture session. I held my tongue and smiled and waved like the best puppet daughter in the universe. I deserve an academy award for that performance. I bowed, and kneeled so many times and for so long my legs were numb. My maid of honor’s ankles actually bled from the kneeling. Extra blood more blessing? Dan’s best man almost passed out and did throw up from the heat. The long and laborious ceremonial duties continued from dawn to dusk and smart people were already partying. The Iowans were pleased. There was enough Thai food for a couple hundred people which was about how many guests there were. My mom was in charge of the guest list. I feel like an asshole because she forgot to invite some of my favorite cousins in Iowa, yet there were a ton of people Dan and I had never met. We did get personally blessed by all the monks we could round up and individually by every guest who wanted to bless us in addition to dancing performances specially designed for our day. The magic must have worked. We’re still together, and we’re relatively happy after almost 18 years. We’re still in the same house, and the love actually grew stronger and better. Sometimes I think it was the torture fest that really sealed the deal, but other times I think Dan and I are just awesome. Wedding Under the Full Moon Thai Torture Fest
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July 2023
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