cowboy – she said

Down on the Farm, Family, Just Funny, Money Pit

PipeBusters (season finale) on The Reality Channel

Posted on June 24, 2016September 18, 2016 by stephanie2morrow

pipe busters leak After the drama of yesterday’s flat hair we wonder how much more Stephanie and the cowboy can take? HOW. MUCH. MORE? They have now entered their 50th hour without working indoor plumbing. FIFTY HOURS. That’s roughly 3,000 minutes suffering in the desert of their shared abode.

As the day begins, Stephanie washes her hair in the sink with a pitcher of tepid water. Ironically, what seems tepid for brushing one’s teeth translates to glacier water on the scalp, giving new meaning to the term “Brain Freeze” (cue Foreigner’s “Cold As Ice”). However, the cold water washing allows for adequate blow drying and ample hair volume, narrowly averting what could have been a tragic second Bad Hair Day.

COMMERCIAL BREAK

Meanwhile, back at the chemical plant, the cowboy takes off an hour early to go to the chiropractor for his aching back. If a supervisor calls him in for overtime this week, he will have to work the first hour at his regular hourly pay. Regular pay. But it’s a risk he has to take.

The sound of his groaning and back popping at the chiropractor’s leaves us wondering: Will the cowboy be able to bend his body into the needed position for fixing the pipes? For that matter, will he even be able to take off his steel-toed boots to put on his “crawl under the house” boots without help?

Simultaneously, Stephanie makes a crucial stop at Plumb-o-Rama. Will they have the needed parts in stock? that's what she said Will she be able to discern PVC from galvanized iron? Can she manage the right length and thickness?

(That’s what she said.)

Finally, both of them home with proper parts and proper boots, it’s back into the creepy crawl space for the cowboy. Only this time, he accesses it from the vent at the front of the house – which, although nearer the leak, is a MUCH smaller, much shallower vent than before – causing the cowboy crucial claustrophobic hesitation.

Will he be able to muster the courage to crawl?

Hesitantly, he enters the darkness headfirst, knowing the tight turnaround may totally prevent re-exit through the same vent. Once under, he calls for Stephanie. He needs her to go outside to the shut off valve and make the counter-clockwise turn to discern the exact location of the leak.

Stephanie rushes to her closet to search for the right pair of “going out to the meter” shoes and makes the 130-ft trek out to the yard. She twists the valve on. (cue “Twist & Shout”) No sooner does she turn the water on than the cowboy yells for her to turn it back off!

Frustration and confusion! Not only does he want her to turn it back off, he also wants her to wait. WAIT? Outside? She doesn’t have on “waiting” shoes, she has on “going to the meter shoes”.

What to do? What. To. Do???

Stephanie feels her upper lip beginning to glisten. Tiny drops of moisture forming on her skin. This could only mean one thing: SWEAT. The cowboy better hurry before she starts to melt. Lucky for Stephanie, the “Going to the Meter” shoes also double as appropriate front porch swing shoes, so she decides to take refuge on the swing and wait out this plumbing plight.

Back under the house, the cowboy-turned-plumber is commenting – loudly – on how tight winnie the pooh stuck the vent was to crawl into, and Stephanie may have to help him get back out. She tells him not to worry. She is certain if his middle is too round to fit, and he has to remain wedged there for several days in a great tightness, she will be certain to visit every day and feed him honey until Christopher Robin can help with the rescue effort.

The idea of being wedged in the vent was not at all humorous to the cowboy. NOT. AT. ALL. And he stated, in no uncertain terms, if he were to be “caught in a tight spot”, Stephanie had better do everything in her power, including greasing him like a pig, hooking him to a winch, (not to be confused with ‘wench’, which he might enjoy too much), and calling the National Guard and Bob’s Tow Truck to unwedge him.

Stephanie gets distracted by the word ‘wedge’ and daydreams about new shoes until the cowboy proclaims …

Stay tuned for the Season Finale of PipeBusters after this word from our sponsor.

The cowboy proclaims, ‘TURN THE WATER ON!’

Stephanie hurdles the shrubbery and dashes the 40 meters to the meter. Which, in reality, and this is a reality show, means she stepped in between the boxwoods and meandered back to the meter in a record 92 seconds.

RAYS OF LIGHT FROM HEAVEN She turns the meter on, and behold there is water, and it is good. (cue “Hallelujah Chorus”)

The cowboy begins the army crawl back to the vent. He tosses the tools out first. Contracting himself into the fetal position, he emerges from under the house. Face down, he pushes painfully through the small hole, centimeter by centimeter until he lets out a cry for fresh air. His shoulder is next, followed by the other, then the rest sliding out easily, but bringing uneasy repressed birth memories.

The job has been completed. After a mere 62 hours, and without the silliness of a professional plumber, the leak has been defeated. For now. At least the one under the house. The dripping shower is a different story

(cue “Shower the People You Love” by James Taylor).

Yes, the leaky shower faucet is a very different story. A lengthy story. A story appropriate for the next season of PipeBusters on the Reality Channel.

Thanks for joining us.

Down on the Farm, Just Funny, Uncategorized

Ice Skating with the Devil

Posted on February 10, 2016February 10, 2016 by stephanie2morrow

Back in January, the cowboy made room in our 24×28 garage for me to park the car. We’ve lived in this house 16 years and this is a first. I mean, I never minded NOT parking in the garage, but when the temperature outside rivals the interior of the deep freeze, or I’ve got a trunk full of groceries to haul inside, it sure is lovely. Point being, now that I can park my car in the garage, I have no need to be outdoors. Not even a desire really. In the winter it’s too cold or too windy or too gray. In the summer it’s all buggy and weedy and there’s the ever-present “odeur de equine” that blows northwest from the barn. I’m just an indoorsy girl at heart. Give me a bookstore or a museum and I’m happy as a nerd.

My husband, on the other hand, spends every waking not-at-work minute outside. He comes in the house after dark to eat and sleep. If he’s not working with his horses, he is cutting down trees, or disking up fields, or hauling hay, or chopping firewood, or, well, you name it.

So, he comes in from the mailbox the other day, the latest edition of “Saddle Boy” magazine in hand, proclaiming, “I have found the destination for our next vacation!”

I glance at him skeptically over the top rim of my 2.25 reading glasses. One, because we rarely go on vacation, and two, because we never agree on anything, much less recreation pursuits.

“No, I’m serious,” he assures me.

I’m in a good mood, so I bite.

He proceeds to describe a “vacation” that has all the appeal of Yemen and ranks right above Chinese Water Torture on the fun-o-meter: a working dude ranch. I’ve seen “City Slickers”, thank you very much, and there ends the extent of my interest in Big Sky Country and, for that matter, the late Jack Palance’s acting career.

Once again I glance at him over the top rim of my glasses. This time with less skepticism and more sarcasm, “You’re a funny, funny little man.”

He gives me a sales pitch with all the perks: You get to work with horses, cut down trees, disk up fields, haul hay, chop firewood, and, if you’re lucky enough to have double-X chromosomes, you also get to help fix the chow! And, let us not forget – YOU get to pay THEM for the experience!

The cowboy cannot seem to grasp the concept that THIS IS NOT A VACATION. Not for a sane person. But to him it sounds like heaven. To me it sounds distinctly like something I plan to do… right after I go ice-skating with Satan.

Family, Just Funny, Quirks and Other Weirdness

traditionally untraditional part two. OR why Kevin wasn’t allowed to eat the rum cake.

Posted on November 28, 2015November 22, 2016 by stephanie2morrow

The most bizarre of the untraditional has to be the characters around our table and the conversation that ensued. Did we share all the things for which we are thankful? No. Did we discuss politics- Hillary, the Donald, immigration, or the economy? Thank heavens, no. Was there mention of deflated footballs, California wildfires or Syrian refugees? A discussion of the year’s best books or most disappointing movies? No. No. No. No. No.

Instead, Kevin nearly stabbed the cowboy in the face (accidentally?) with a steak knife, while Mom displayed a burn on her hand from a glue-gun mishap.

The 10-person, full-table Thanksgiving dinner discussion
went something like this:

“Three things you should never grab with your bare hands:a pan right out of the oven, a sharp knife, and a hot glue gun.”

“AND OH, THE ARK OF THE COVENANT!” the cowboy instantly interjected.

Kacey and I reenact the face-melting scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.

“Yeah, that would be a bad way to die.”

“True. Speaking of bad ways to die: would you rather get chomped in half by a

shark or swallowed whole by a whale?”

“Shark…no, wait…whale.”

“Seriously?!?!”

“Yeah…I’m afraid that the lower half of me would be bitten off by a shark,
and the upper half would still be alert and know what was happening.”

“True, but if you were swallowed whole by a whale,
you might get in there and find out you aren’t alone.”

Kevin waved, pretending to be inside a whale, and said, “Hi Elvis!”

“Speaking of dead, how many squirrels have you killed at the bookstore this year, Dad?”

“342 of those glorified rats, all with a single shot 22!”

Wow. These potatoes are so creamy.

Of course none of those squirrels were shot when Nana was around!”

“Of course not! Nana would set them free, then cut down an oak tree so they can find food without endangering themselves.”

(Nana asks if anyone wants rum cake. We are all stuffed from pork tenderloin and potatoes, so the answer is a unanimous “no“).

The conversation continues with my sweet 90-year-old grandmother: “I used to catch mice and put them in the garbage disposal.”

I’m sorry…WHAT???????

She repeats with her delicate soprano voice, “I used to catch mice and put them in the garbage disposal.”

Shock and Awe. Oh, and Disgust.

Kacey turns three shades of green (chartreuse, pistachio and olive drab, to be exact) and begins to look like she is going to lose her just-eaten holiday meal.

Nana asks if anyone wants rum cake. It has been approximately 6 minutes since the last time she asked. The answer is a resounding, and again unanimous, “NO!”

Since Kacey is now feeling pukey, she shared the memories of a “Fear Factor” competition from her college days at Lipscomb when she finished drinking a pureed hamburger, peanut butter and DIRT milkshake and was the only remaining female competitor.

(Yes, yes. A proud moment INDEED in her $80,000 college career.)

Kacey tells her end of the table (mostly men): “After that I quit. The final contest involved eating bull balls.”

The mostly female end of the table didn’t quite hear her, so she repeated louder, “After that I quit. The final contest involved eating bull testicles.”

The cowboy then wanted to know why she felt comfortable using the term “balls” with him, but chose to say “testicles” to the matriarchs.

These potatoes are so creamy.

“I used to eat brains and eggs. I liked brains and eggs.”

“Gross. I can’t imagine eating brains, though I do like me some eggs.”

“Hyena eggs?”

“WHAT?”

“You said ‘hyena eggs’.”

“No I didn’t. I said ‘I do like me some eggs’.”

“Oh. Nevermind.”

“Speaking of balls, when is Nana going to pass on her Christmas ornaments to the girls?”

“HEY! Some of those decorations are MINE!” Kevin objected.

“Yes,” Kacey said, “But the Frosty Friends are all mine.”

“Fine. But I get all the Star Wars ornaments!”

Yes, because nothing says “Happy Birthday, Jesus

” quite like a Sith lord.

“Speaking of frosty, anybody want rum cake?”

“NO!!!”

“Well, what does everybody want for Christmas?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t even started thinking about Christmas yet,” says my mother.

“How can you not be thinking about Christmas when the entire house is decorated for it already!?!?”

“I had to start decorating early, we’re having a party here next weekend. I can’t relax till it’s done!”

“Speaking of relaxing, did I tell you I had a facial last Monday? It lasted for a full 90 minutes.”

“I got a pedicure for Christmas one year. It lasted for a full 9 months.”

“Nine months? The pedicure lasted for 9 months?”

“No, the polish on my toenails lasted for 9 months.”

Dad interjected, “Apparently they painted her toes with automotive enamel.”

“Really, ya’ll, does anybody want rum cake?”

We finally acquiesced and imbibed in a rum cake so strong it was illegal for Kevin to eat. Then we cleared the table, put away the wheat stalks and turkey rings and helped Nana redecorate the dining room with a trio of glittered Christmas trees.

Birth Stories, Hippy-Dippy Stuff

How low can you go?

Posted on September 30, 2015October 1, 2015 by stephanie2morrow

FOREWARD

When my son talks about Ultimate Frisbee Tournaments, my brain hears: “So this player ran down the field and dove and caught it and then he threw it and then another player ran down the field and dove and caught it and then we scored and then the same player ran down the field again and then yada yada…”

When my husband regales me with horse stuff, I TRY to listen, but I hear this: “A horse ran to the field and I ran after it and made it run circles until it got tired and then I went to the barn to get the other horses and they ran to the field, so I ran after them and made them run circles until they got tired…lather, rinse, repeat.”

So when I share a birth story, I’m very aware that to some of you it sounds like: “She had a contraction, so we walked and then she had more contractions and dilated to 4 and then she had more contractions, so we walked some more and then she dilated to 5, ad infinitum.”

But I’ve got a birth story to share, and I promise it won’t sound anything like that.

INTRODUCTION
Birth Mama was only worried about two things:

Transporting the 40 miles to the hospital in the dead of winter, and
Staying calm, relaxed and peaceful. (She had been very stressed and anxious the last time, and did NOT want a repeat.)

CHAPTER ONE
The Call came just after midnight. Contractions 10-12 minutes apart, she is ready for me. I threw on clothes and hit the road, stopping only to fill my empty gas tank. Six blocks from their house, her husband calls (NEVER a good sign), “Steph, we are at 4 minutes apart, we need you now.”

Seconds later, I let myself in the side door. Hubby starts loading things into my van. I find her laboring in bed, eyes closed, internally focused. I remind myself: she wants calm, relaxed, peaceful. I rub her gently across the back, listen to her moan, and discern that contractions are MUCH closer together and we are not going to have a long, slow labor at home.

Holding her hair back and doing my best Julie Andrews’ impersonation (who once said about herself, “Sometimes I’m so sweet, even I can’t stand it.”) I whisper, “You’re doing so great we need to go on and transfer.” Inside my head, Gilbert Gottfried is shrieking, “OH MY GOODNESS, THIS IS TOO FREAKIN’ FAST!!!”

The next contraction finds us squatting in the driveway. Her mom asks, “Are we going to make it to the hospital??” Calmly I smile and hear Julie Andrews say, “Most certainly we are going to make it!” (Internally, Gilbert panics, “probably not until AFTER the baby comes out, but we’ll definitely make it!”)

Now the 40-minute drive…and though I could drive crazy fast and get us there in 30, there is a laboring woman on her knees in the place of my center console, so safety has to take precedence.

Through all of this, I am pretending to be cool as a cucumber. Driving 80 mph, talking over my shoulder in my best Mary Poppins voice, “You are doing such a great job! Practically perfect in every way. Take a deep breath through your nose and blow it slowly out your mouth. Goooooood.”

With every mile, contractions are growing more intense, and suddenly she responds to one of them with a screeching dolphin-call. I speak in a soft, low tone, and quite possibly with a British accent, “Remember what we talked about. Keep your throat relaxed. Bring your voice down low. Moan it out. Remember: LOW.“

From the floor behind me I sense the beginning of the next contraction…her throat tightening, her shoulders rising, her voice starting to squeak with the pain…and the next moment I will forever remember as one of my Favorite Things (“Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and labor contractions…”) She brings her dolphin screech down to a deep Darth Vader growl, and for the next 45 seconds I hear, “low low low low low low low low low low low low…” as she literally chants the word “low” through the entire contraction!

Now I become a living GPS, with a slow, lilting voice.

“Only 10 more minutes and we’ll be there.”

“Three more contractions and we’ll be at the door.”

“Just a spoonful of sugar and the baby will be out.”

Maneuvering the parking lot like Speed Racer, swerving around parked cars and cigarette-smoking nurses, I zip to the front door, jump out and grab a wheelchair. After some chair-not-working-and-what-do-we-do-about-the-bags confusion, the four of us glide through the deserted hospital corridor, up the elevator and into Labor and Delivery.

It is 2:02 a.m.

“We’re here to birth a baby,” my Julie Andrews voice tells the desk nurse. And even though we are pre-registered, the nurse asks for insurance cards and social security numbers and due date and Groupon Coupons, and a request for laboring mama to get on the scales.

Clearly, they are not understanding, so Gilbert makes an appearance outside of my brain, “Ladies! THIRD baby here! Doesn’t matter what she weighs as she will weigh 14 pounds less in a very few minutes! We need a room STAT!” (I try to speak their language, you know).

Finally sensing the urgency, one of them calls, “Room 4!” and in we go. Birthing mama stands up out of the wheelchair and grabs the bed as I instinctively take my place behind her. A splash hits my shins and runs into my shoes. “My water broke! My water just broke!” Why, yes, yes it did.

She lays down as we get her lower half undressed, feet still dangling off the bed. Dr. M. commands, “Let’s get you all the way up in the bed.” Before hubby and I can even get the head of the bed raised, one nurse is trying to get her shirt off, because apparently it’s critical that she wear pale blue cotton to push out a human. Another nurse is trying to velcro straps around her belly. Seriously?

I politely ask them to “get real”, just as she is hit with one MASSIVE contraction – her feet and head on the bed, the rest of her body imitating the St. Louis arch. gilbert She looks wide-eyed at me and declares,“I’m on my back! I’m on my back! I don’t want to be on my back!” I understand completely, and assure her as SOON as this contraction is over, we’ll get into a better position. Before I finish my sentence, Dr. M. announces, “We’re crowning and…yes……..THERE she is!”

And Gilbert Gottfried screams, “WHAT THE…???”

Down on the Farm, Just Funny, Minimalism

Holy Cow, Batman

Posted on September 5, 2015September 17, 2015 by stephanie2morrow

The cow. Got out.

Repeat after me: Green Acres is NOT the place to be. Farm living is NOT the life for me.

My husband, the cowboy, was out of town. WAY out of town, buying a registered quarter horse, because… you know… we didn’t have one yet.

I was hosting something we called “Friday Night Hangout”, where a bunch of high school kids would come over to the house on Friday Nights to – you guessed it – hang out.

And since the cow (affectionately known as “Patty”) was a relatively new phenomenon at Reynolds Ranch, the kiddos wanted to go out and see her.

And, apparently, pet her.

The problem: She is a COW. She does not wish to be petted. She wants to be left alone. The kids approached her. She backed away. They moved closer. She ran in circles. They continued to advance. She disengaged her hindquarters (which, in the animal world, has something to do with submission. In marriage, however, it has an entirely different meaning…but that’s another blog altogether.)

Patty tried to dissuade them from petting her. She spoke to them in Bovinese:
“Children, lovely children… I do not wish to be touched.
I do not wish for you to come closer. I prefer that you not force me to…”

Then she squealed some sad-sounding cow scream, bolted to the north, and jumped a 4-foot chain link fence, yes she did.

Kevin immediately ran into the house to inform me of the Cattle Coup, and I instantly did what city people do in a farm emergency: I made some phone calls. After many calls to multiple sources all giving me the same ludicrous advice (“just go find her and herd her home”), I did the other thing city people do in an emergency: drive. I put on my 2 1/2″ black wedge sandals, and took the car up the road, all the while muttering to myself as to why I wasn’t living somewhere – anywhere – that didn’t offer a view of manure-freckled hay fields.

I found Patty a few tenths of a mile west in a neighbor’s side yard. I parked the car, got out and walked toward her, wondering exactly how one persuades a cow to go home. She just stood there. So I waved my arms (hoping to scare her back the direction of the house). She waved back. I stared at her. She stared at me.

We stood there
Just staring,
We stood there
We two.
And I said,
“Oh, I wish
I knew how
to speak Moo.”

And since Dr. Seuss rhymes seemed ineffective as a herding tool, I went back to the house to herd the kids up to the cow. Kevin drove up in a second car.

I was now finally able to reach the cowboy by phone. Though he was 320 miles from our house, I felt it imperative that he know what was going on.
“COW JUST GOT OUT!” I yelled.
“How are the trout???” he queried.
“THE COW HAS GOTTEN OUT!” I yelled again.
“The power has gone out?” he asked, confused.
“NO NO…YOUR STUPID STUPID COW HAS JUMPED THE FENCE AND RUN OFF!!!!”
I declared in no uncertain terms.

“Then go find her and herd her back home,” he responded calmly.

Ohhhhh . . . this ticked me off.

“Well, honey,” he asked sweetly, “What do you want me to do?”

What do I want you to do? WHAT DO I WANT YOU TO DO???

WELL, FIRST OF ALL, I WANT YOU TO PANIC WITH ME, DOGGONE IT, BECAUSE FREAKING OUT MAKES THINGS SO MUCH MORE MANAGEABLE. AND SECONDLY, I WANT YOU TO GIVE ME THE STINKIN’ CODE TO THE COW SIGNAL YOU HIDE OUT THERE IN THE BARN SO I CAN SUMMON SUPERHERO ‘SADDLE BOY’ TO COME RESCUE ME! THAT’S WHAT I WANT YOU TO DO!!!

So, basically, I hung up on him, somewhat angry and incredibly frustrated that this Big Dumb Future Shish-ka-Bob was going to make a beeline for the interstate and cause a 7 car pileup resulting in death, dismemberment and a really big e’splosion, and I would be responsible.

I went back up the road and found Kevin driving his car through somebody’s backyard and a conga-line of kids dancing in circles and flailing their arms. Patty darted left, then darted right, and eluded them. We lost her again, and since it was nearing dark, it was becoming virtually impossible to locate a black cow in the country.

Thankfully, a couple of cowboy superheroes-in-training had been viewing our slapstick routine, and came out to join in the chase about the time Patty reappeared on a side road. After another half hour and a 9-person team of rodeo clowns, we managed to herd her into somebody else’s field, via somebody else’s gate, where she joined a herd of somebody else’s cattle.

Our Friday Night High School Hangouts included a lot of weirdness: playing “Murder”; having finger-dart wars; heckling bad movies; playing Hide & Seek at night, and glow-in-the-dark ultimate Frisbee. This, however, was a whole new experience. Just as I wondered what they would tell their parents, Erin answered the question for me: “This was the MOST FUN Friday Night Hangout . . . EVER!!!”

For those of you who are concerned about the cow, the answer is “no”, Patty never made her way onto our dinner table…

but have you seen my new black leather boots?

Just Funny, Quirks and Other Weirdness

Keep Calm and Be on Time

Posted on August 25, 2015September 17, 2015 by stephanie2morrow

I like to be on time. Early even. I never hit the snooze alarm. I rarely engage in activities outside the “Getting Ready to Go” framework. I have Time Allotment down to a science. I pride myself on being punctual.

I’d love to pride myself on being a size 8, but punctuality is what I’ve got.

Most of the time.

Occasionally though, Murphy’s Law comes into play. Two weeks ago was one such morning:

7:15 – Pick up buzzing phone. Turn off alarm. Lament the decision to play Jelly Splash last night until 2 a.m. Check weather app. Blink slowly while checking the temperature and doze back off.

7:16 – Awake seconds later to phone colliding with bridge of nose.

7:17 – Stumble to bathroom. Start water in tub. Make good use of wait time by brushing teeth. Can’t find toothbrush even though it was here last night.

7:20 – Three-minute search reveals toothbrush just below Middle C. Apparently the toddler used it to clean piano keys last night.

7:21 – Degermify toothbrush in kitchen sink in case she scrubbed more than ivory.

7:22 – Panic and run to turn off bath water just before surface tension hits critical mass and overflows.

7:23 – Drain 4 inches of water. Get into tub.

7:23:15 – Get out of tub, drip water across floor, get washcloth.

7:30 – Wash hair. Lather, rinse, repeat. Reach for conditioner. Also missing. Ugh. Mentally accuse toddler only to discover later the cowboy took my coconut conditioner out to the barn to make the mustang’s manes shiny.

7:35 – Dry off and apply homemade essential oil deodorant. Feel proud I made an aluminum-free deodorant that actually de-odors. Feel stupid I forgot to shave my under pits. (Note to self: No demonstrative praying or cab hailing today.)

7:37 – Pick out clothes. Black pants, aqua top. Attempt to zip pants. Can’t. Lie down on bed, suck in, try zipping again, albeit unsuccessfully.

7:42 – Have a good “I hate my body” cry. While eating a doughnut.

7:45 – Look for abstract maxi skirt to go with aqua top. Instead, find a second pair of black pants and rejoice that the pants I just failed to zip are ones I bought for when I eventually lose the 15 pounds I just gained for the umpteenth time.

7:48 – Apply make-up. Moisturizer. Foundation. Mascara.

7:53 – Sneeze and get mascara schmutz on aqua top.

9faf274d409742d75d1d991f0c0b1d47 7:57 – Finish make-up. Change dirty top to coral one. Throw aqua one on floor. Think coral is too orangey and looks too Halloweenie with black pants. Change to aqua striped top. Throw coral one on the floor. Stripes make me feel fat today. Who am I kidding? Stripes make me feel fatt-er today. Change to gray top. Throw stripey one on floor. Gray top requires a bra change. Throw first bra on floor. Top off with silver earrings and necklace.

8:06 – Go downstairs and turn on Keurig. Hear rodent. See rodent. Shudder.

8:08 – Bait and set mouse trap.

8:11 – Realize the need to leave in three minutes to make it on time. Detangle unconditioned hair and blow dry.

Hipster-llama-l 8:15 – Curse humidity, blow dry some more, contemplate chopping hair off.

8:18 – Blow-dried hair looks like an angry llama today. Tame the brunette beast with a straightener and spray. Heavily.

8:23 – Rush around collecting shoes, purse, glasses, car keys…that are still in the pocket of jeans I wore yesterday under the pile of today’s runway wardrobe malfunctions. Forego coffee as there is no time now.

8:26 – Rethink jewelry. Can hear Daughter-Face saying, “Matchy-matchy makes you look old, Mom.” Throw silver jewelry on floor and replace with turquoise beads.

8:28 – Start van and squeeze garage door opener. Remote battery dead. Seriously. Sigh in frustration. Jump out and punch opener on the wall before carbon monoxide levels become toxic, back van out of garage, go back and punch button to close door, play Chinese Jump Rope with the invisible motion sensor. Drive.

8:29 – Set cruise at 7 miles over speed limit. Dig through purse for lipstick.

8:30 – Voice text a reminder to self: Pick up another Bare Minerals Berry Remix Lip Gloss ASAP. First lipstick I’ve liked in years, so it’s a given they will discontinue it.

MjAxMi00MmI0ZmEyYzAzYjRkNTFk 8:36 – Calculate lateness. While doing mental math, space out and miss parkway entrance. Forced now to take longer route through town.

8:38 – Check face in rear-view mirror. Must be a full moon as the lone chin hair has grown in. Dig through purse for tweezers.

8:40 – Attempt to pluck chin hair without looking. Really wish two guys in car next to me had also not been looking.

8:45 – Feeling anxious. Hate being late so so much. 15 minutes over already. Stop at stop sign. Almost there.

8:46 – Wait for stop sign to turn green.

8:47 – Oh. My. Word. Stop SIGNS don’t change color, idiot. Proceed through intersection.

tumblr_inline_nn5tfnePx61qfb043_500 8:49 – Pull into parking lot. Ridiculously late. I blame the toddler. And the cowboy. And the mouse. And the humidity. And the sneeze. And the full moon.

And possibly Obama.

Down on the Farm, Just Funny

may the horse be with you…’cause the cat sure ain’t

Posted on May 28, 2015September 24, 2015 by stephanie2morrow

My husband is fuming about our cat. Smoke-billowing-from-his-ears angry. Curiosity better move over, ‘cause the cowboy is first in line. When he went out to feed the cows and horses, the cat dared not to give him the time of day. puppy kitty

Brushed him off, you might say. (Never mind she is a CAT. Snubbing is her native language.) Probably doesn’t help kitty’s personality that we named her Puppy. Sarcasm and contrariness seem to run in the family and clearly the cat is not immune.

The cowboy believes all living beings can be trained like horses and should be submissive when called upon to do so (including me . . . but that’s a WHOLE ‘nuther blog!).Hubby is what equine savvy people call a “horse whisperer”. He first began this undertaking when his patience level defined him as more of a “horse yeller”, (not to be confused with “Old Yeller” who had to be put down), mustang but in the past few years he has become fairly reputable and talented with the whole “breaking wild mustangs” thing. (Ironically, I always wanted a mustang too – just one from 1967 in Candy Apple Red. Sigh . . . )

Anyway, I digress. Because the cowboy can adeptly take an unbroken mustang and have him following, loading, eating out of his hand, and disengaging his hindquarters (yeah, that’s a thing), sometimes in a matter of minutes, he believes he should be able to do this with all living creatures.

Our cat disagrees.I’m eager to see who wins this battle.