Blog
October 2008
Insights on the Lease Horse
I have discovered something interesting about the horse I’m half leasing: he’s tone deaf. Which is to say, if I start singing when I’m tacking him up or while I"m cooling him out, he doesn’t seem to mind one bit.
He is one of three creatures in the world who will tolerate my singing. Obviously, I tolerate my own singing. But I am tone deaf, so what do I care if I’m out of tune? The little cat, Onyx, also tolerates my singing, but then she falls off the bookcase every couple of weeks. She’s not the brightest thing out there.
And other horses? The mares I used to walk would pin their ears at me. The Chestnut Mare would actually walk as far away from me as she could; my singing hugely offended her. In this, she was like Pookie, who will leave the room if I start singing around her. As a result, I sort of count on animals to remind me I’m singing so that I’ll quit before I make someone’s ears bleed.
But Rogue? I’m standing there singing Donald, Where’s Your Trousers? and What Do You Do With a Drunken Sailor?, and there’s Rogue, falling asleep in the crossties. Not good! There could have been kids around! There’s plenty of time for kids to learn Irish pub songs later in life; they certainly don’t need to hear the lyrics and my voice.
It’s 2 a.m.; do you know where Morpheus is?
After an unbelievably stressful week, I had a great ride Friday night and went to bed feeling, for the first time all week, nearly human. I was planning to go watch a schooling show on Saturday, and was finally able to really put the source of my stress out of mind.
Unfortunately, after a period of significant stress, the same pain issue that made life unbearable for me in the far north kicks in. And so, this morning, I woke up barely able to walk. It took several hours before I was able to drive to the store, and several hours after that before I felt human enough to be around other people. Well, besides the people I had to be around at the store, but they don’t expect me to talk or be friendly. By that point, of course, the show was over or well on the way to being over.
So no show watching for me. It’s unbelievably frustrating that what should have been a minor issue is having such severe trickle-down effects.
I am still planning to ride tomorrow, though. The worst of the pain is gone and I’m continuing with the maximum dose of Aleve in anticipation of any residual pain tomorrow morning. Assuming, of course, that I ever get to bed.
On the plus side, Halloween is coming and I live in an apartment complex that has quite a few kids. I’m not sure if they actually trick or treat (the last few neighborhoods I’ve been in weren’t big on it), but I hope they do. I actually like Halloween—it’s such a kids’ holiday. There’s the undertone of coercion, the license to run wild, and the stash of candy as a reward. Oh, there’s the ugly side of Halloween, I know, but I’m talking about the kids and the fact that this is the one holiday of the year when we drop all moral and religious strings and just say, hey, go wild. Be kids. Have fun. Have some chocolate.
Chocolate makes everything better. Hmm. I should try hot chocolate. Warm milk usually puts me right to sleep.
I am a great big blueberry
When I bought my breeches, I really only had two things in mind: they weren’t white, and they weren’t hunter puke-green.
No, they were a nice pretty navy color: conservative, but, again, neither white nor that funky khaki color. It worked for me.
You can tell I’ve lived in the north for way too long, because I obviously didn’t factor in sun fade.
My breeches are now, for lack of a better word, blueberry.
Yuck.
Actually, I’m sort of amused. This is cosmic proof that whatever higher being there is, if there is one, wants me to be a fashion nightmare. Even when I try, I can’t get it right.
(This post brought to you by the letter “I am not a programmer, and staring at code for eight hours makes my brain bleed. I start typing in italics; that’s how bad it is.)
A Plagiarist Among Us
This post has been modified because the blog that stole my content has deleted the infringing post, per WordPress, and gone private.
I stand by what I said: there is nothing flattering about someone stealing your work, and no one should be “honored” that someone “liked” their text enough to steal it.
You wouldn’t feel honored to have someone break into your house and steal your jewelry, would you? If someone stole one of your paintings, would you think they were flattering your taste in home decor? After spending hours hand-craving a wooden chest, would you calmly accept someone gouging a few new lines in it and then selling it as their own design?
I hope not. I don’t. I make my living by writing. The theft of my words is the theft of my creation, my work, and in some respects my livelihood.
In cases like this one, where not only my words but also my experiences and the insights I gained from them were stolen, it’s not “just” my work and talent that gets taken—it’s part of my identity. It’s invasive. It’s painful. The way my text was used was, frankly, offensive to me.
And, frankly, having the plagiarized text and the person who stole it mentioned on this blog was distasteful to me.
Should anyone want to see the original post, I have it in my personal archive. Contact me.
Am I the crazy stalker person?
You know those crazy stalker people who seem to have some sort of magic tracking device installed on their computer so that they can instantly show up when their pet topic is mentioned anywhere on the web, post one of their five or six standard rants, and then hang around endlessly droning on about their viewpoint?
I recently received an email that indirectly involved Crossed Sabers/Second Wind Adoption Program, and as I was writing my response, I had a sudden moment of panic that I had become one of those crazy stalker people with regards to SWAP.
I’m not, and I know I’m not (well, maybe with this post…), but it’s an important question: when do you become that crazy stalker person?
We all have our hot-button topics. Mine are IE6, 419 scams, and bling. Well, ok; those are the ones I’m conscious of. I manage to rein myself in about the bling everywhere but this blog, and if I try really hard I can keep my mouth shut about IE6, but I know very well that there are circumstances where my house could be on fire and I would sit on the couch trying to get a certain type of post in about 419 scams.
Fortunately, I live in the USA, where the dominant culture is: “I’m a freaking unique individual, and you better love me for all my individual-ness, because I’m sure not gonna change for you! And if you ask me to change, I’m gonna sue you! And then I’m gonna write a book and go on the talk show circuit! Just like everyone else!” All I have to do is admit that I’m a crazy stalker person, and you have to admire me. Or else.
Er… that was really funny while it was in my head, but it’s not so funny on screen. Pretend it was a riot, ok?
All attempts to joke about the unearned sense of entitlement running rampant in the US aside, seriously: how do you draw the line between being very passionate about a subject and becoming a crazy stalker person?
I think we need a mutual support group. An agreed-upon wake-up slap club. Some friendly reminders that, hey, being passionate is ok, but being an insufferable bore is not. And if that fails, a friendly, derail-the-crazy-train wake up slap.
Meanwhile, I need to go find something new and refreshing to post about.
Oh! I am learning how to do a running braid. Isn’t that exciting?
Not a whole post worth of exciting, but a good positive note to end on.