Monday, November 30, 2009

injaynesworld "We Don't Do Guilt Trips..."

The surest way to get me to not do something is to guilt-trip me about doing it. 

Being a recovering Catholic, I’m pretty sensitive to guilt.  After all, I was barely five years old when I learned that I was a sinner and personally responsible for the death of Jesus and I have to say, that’s a helluva thing to lay on a kid. 

Of course, like any other recovery program, you never actually recover.   The sight of a nun, even Sally Field playing one on TV, can still set me off in a raging case of hives, but I have gotten better at handling guilt-trippers. (Not to be confused with the Beatles’ “Day-Trippers,” and if you don’t remember the Beatles, you need to leave now.)

Where was I…?   Oh , right.  Guilt-trippers.   Whereas in the past they could actually succeed in making me feel guilty some of the time, now I just get pissed off because I realize what a sad-assed attempt at manipulation guilt really is, and it makes me want to get as far away from the perpetrator of said guilt as possible. 

This post actually relates to another I wrote some time back called “The Power of No” and will probably make more sense to you if you click on the link, go read “The Power of No” and then come back.  Go ahead.  I’ll wait.  I have to pee anyway…

Back?... Good.   See, here’s my point.  At this time of year -- especially at this time of year -- when the pressure to please is as pervasive as the pressure to spend, it would seem like a good time to reclaim our right and our power to say no if we want to without feeling all responsible for how shitty someone else chooses to feel about it. 

At my age, I know I’ve earned that right, but you don’t have to be an old fart to claim it for yourself.  

Happy Guilt-Free Holidays.

If you don’t leave a comment, you will be personally responsible for ruining my day… Just messin’ with ya.  ;)

Sunday, November 29, 2009

injaynesworld a short, but sweet "Sunday Recap..."

Not that there wasn't just a bunch of stuff to write about.  Blonds took center stage, first with White House party crasher/wanna-be reality star, Michaele Salahi & hubby, and then not-to-be-outdone, Elin Woods, wife of Tiger, who wailed on his ass for cheating on her.

And giving brunettes a bad  name, Sarah Palin, the quintessential quitter, did it again, this time dropping out of a 5K "turkey trot" race on Thanksgiving Day because "she wanted to avoid the crowds waiting for her at the end."  Oh, yeah... because here's a woman who definitely goes out of her way to avoid attention.

But here's my personal favorite:  

Dubbed "Geezer Bandit" for his robbery of several banks in the San Diego area, if anyone deserves his own reality show, it's this guy... I see a book and movie deal, too.  In fact, I may just give him this week's "Golden Balls" award.  

Holiday happenings and my real job make this a shorter than usual "Recap," but I'm not going to feel guilty about it and tomorrow you'll find out why.

If you leave a comment the calories you consumed this week won't count.

Friday, November 27, 2009

injaynesworld "Jayne Is Nowhere To Be Found..."

That's because today I'm over here...WOW Women On Writing  doing a guest post and sharing some of my thoughts on writing.

Drop on by.   I'd love to see a friendly face.

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

injaynesworld "Friends Don't Take No For An Answer..."

The holidays are upon us again along with the need, desire and, all-too-often, obligation to purchase gifts.  For many of us, funds are limited and the pressure to spend despite that fact can feel like a pile of bricks sitting on your chest.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love Christmas.  I always buy an 8-ft tree and every year for the last 15 or so I’ve had a big tree-trimming party to kick off the season.  I have hundreds of decorations that I’ve collected over the years.   As I carefully unwrap each ornament to hang on the tree it’s like greeting an old friend, and I’m sure I break every fire code in the county with the number of lights I put on, but I do love a big, bright tree.   By the end of the evening, our wine-and-food saturated group can be proud of their handiwork and, as the tallest person in the room gets to put the star on the very top, the round of rowdy applause can probably be heard throughout our little valley. 

This year I realized that I would not be able to afford my party, nor the 8-foot tree.  I sent out an e-mail to all my friends, explaining that the Grinch had put the kibosh on any notion of our traditional gathering.    It was hard to do and embarrassing to have to admit to everyone how tapped out I was.   However, it would seem that my friends had other ideas and I was soon to find out that e-mails had flown around the group like Santa’s sleigh.   All arrangements for the party were being taken care of, the food, the wine, even the purchase of the tree.   The date was decided and I was informed that I’d better be dressed for it because the party was on and they were showing up.

It’s often said that there are some things money can’t buy.   The gift of true friendship is one of them.    I am overwhelmed by their love and generosity.  

And this year, the Grinch can just kiss my ass…   

If you leave a comment you will make my season bright. 

Thank you.   Now head on over to "Unmitigated, Life Without Filters,"  where I’ve been interviewed today by Mary Wyatt, and learn more about me than you ever wanted to know.

Sunday, November 22, 2009

injaynesworld it's time for another "Sunday Recap..."

Citing a price dispute, Costco announced that they would no longer be carrying Coke...   But fear not, Costco will continue to carry an abundant supply of crack, heroin and weed.

Kellogg Co. says there will be a nationwide shortage of its popular Eggo frozen waffles until next summer because of interruptions in production at two of the four plants where they're made, sending Glenn Beck into an meltdown of rage and tears, "Is there no end to Obama's evil?"

Martha Stewart slapped down Racheal Ray this week, saying the ever-bubbly Ray "could not hold a candle to her in the kitchen."   Ray very smartly responded, "She's right.  I'd rather eat Martha's food..."  because you don't mess with a bitch who can make a lethal weapon out of a tampon.

Big news of the week was Oprah's announcement of her 18-month good-bye tour, creating a major run on Prozac.  "Say it isn't so!"  her fans cried.   Good news.  It actually isn't.  Oprah, that smartest of all smart cookies, when faced with declining ratings, consistent  Emmy losses to Ellen, and an announcement from her syndicators that they would be cutting the money they now pay her, did what any media kazillionaire would do.  She bought herself a  network.  That's right, the Oprah Winfrey Network or OWN, as in "I own freakin' everything,"  will be up and running right around the time her current contract is up.  Take that, Ellen...

Saving the best for last, this week our "Golden Balls Award" goes to 10-year-old Will  Phillips from that bastion of liberal thought (not) Washington County, Arkansas, for refusing to say the Pledge of Allegiance until there is marriage equality for all in this country. Clearly, not your average 10-year-old, Will skipped a grade this year, going directly from third to fifth.   The video speaks for itself.  Let me just say that with kids like Will around, I feel much more hopeful that one day we just might have "justice for all."

If you leave a comment a red state will turn blue.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

injaynesworld we are "Cruisin' With The Top Down..."

My first car was a 1967 powder blue Triumph Spitfire with a white convertible top.  It cost all of $2500 new.  I bought it when I graduated from high school.   I put $500 down and paid about $72 each month.   Gas was about a quarter a gallon and the thing ran on air.   It was fun, fast, sexy, definitely cool and I felt like major hot stuff zooming around town at the wheel.   

Especially after I’d spent my high school years driving this, a reasonable portrayal of my mom’s 1958 Rambler Ambassador station wagon.  

It was humiliating.  You could polish that puppy till it blinded you.   It was still the definition of “uncool.” 

So cruising the A & W drive-in in my spiffy, new, dude-magnet with the music blasting was definitely sah-weeeeet.   It was my first experience with a stick-shift and I took to it like a seasoned NASCAR superstar.  Oh, yeah.  Pop that clutch and I was gone.  Eat my dust  people… Fortunately, this was before the days when cops had radar. 

I’d just turned 18, the luggage birthday, and my life as an adult (legally anyway, I’ve never truly copped to it) was just beginning.  No longer could anyone not carrying a badge tell me what to do.  Not that my mom had ever done much of that.  Or that I ever listened when she tried.   In fact, if my mother taught me anything about respecting authority it was… yeah… can’t think of a damn thing.  

The time was the late 60’s-early 70s.  The place, San Francisco.  The birth control pill had just been invented and “sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll” were the order of the day.   I named my Spitfire “Spit.”  I was stoned a lot of the time back in those days and needed a name that was easy to remember, especially since I often misplaced the actual car. 

I lived in what was then the Starbucks-free village of Mill Valley in Marin County.  Saturdays, Spit would often take me and a friend up to the top of Mount Tamalpais where we’d park, then drop acid and hike all the way down the Dixie Canyon Trail to Bolinas beach.  Depending on how ripped we were, it would take between one and three hours.  Once there, we’d make our way to the one and only bar where we’d drink beer all afternoon, then hitchhike back up to the top of Mount Tam, pick up Spit and cruise on home to an evening of Sara Lee chocolate cake and the Moody Blues.   This was still an innocent time when you could do such things without fear of your body being found half-cannibalized years later in the basement of some loon.. 

Monday through Friday, Spit would speed me across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco’s Tenderloin District, a hub of junkies and hookers, where I worked in a non-descript building that housed a recording studio and mingled daily with musicians from the Jefferson Airplane, Creedence Clearwater, CSN&Y, and my personal favorite, Santana.   Nights were spent at hidden away little blues clubs in North Beach where Spit never once failed to find me a parking spot despite the heavy odds against us.   Weekends would find us at the Fillmore rockin’ to the likes of Janis Joplin and Jimi Hendrix, admission $3 plus you got a really cool poster.   Somehow, Spit always managed to get me safely home, although many times I had no personal recall of the journey.  I look back on those days now and marvel that I’m still alive. 

Spit carried me for the last time in 1972.  Her final months were a series of breakdowns and malfunctions that caused Triple A to banish us for all time.  I ended up selling her to my mechanic for $50.  He promised she would go live on a nice farm in the country and spend her remaining days roaming and playing with all the family dogs whose children had been assured of the same thing. 

To this day I still have dreams of Spit -- that magically there she is, all polished and new -- and together once again, we cruise the drive-ins of our youth, sucking back on a joint and listening to the tunes of The Grateful Dead.   Good times…

If you leave a comment chocolate will fall like rain.

Monday, November 16, 2009

injaynesworld we chat with Ann Imig of ann's rants...

Ann started her blog, ann's rants,  in October 2008 as a way to distract her ovaries from demanding that she once again conceive something.  Now, having recently celebrated her one-year bloggerversary, she has attracted 243 loyal followers and succeeded in keeping her womb fetus-free.  Today we welcome her to injaynesworld for a brief chat...

IJW:  Good morning, Ann.   May I offer you a latte?   A Chai tea maybe?  It does seem a little early for wine, but what the hell.  I won’t tell if you won’t. 

Ann:  I do love chai tea, and now wonder how it would taste with a splash of Meyer’s spiced rum…

IJW:  I was excited to get your name for this interview because you have quite a collection of tiny heads who follow you, and I’m proud to be among them, and because you really are a damn good writer.   So let the games begin, shall we?  

Ann:  Yes, but first thank you and second, you are a damn good writer. Proceed.

  1. When did you first begin writing and what inspired you to do so? I chronicled most of my childhood and young adulthood in journals. Sadly, I cannot locate the journal that spanned age 9 through 17. When I do, I have big plans to share it with the blogosphere ala Cringe

  1. The blogging world seems saturated with “mommybloggers,”  and after a while many of them sound pretty much the same.   How have you managed to differentiate yourself from the pack as you have? Everyone blogs for different reasons. Blogs can be an easy, convenient way to update loved ones about your family, share photos and recipes, show your boobs etc… I began blogging with the specific intent of organizing my writing practice and in hopes of finding a wider audience than my two friends who used to read my rants via email, and my Mom who still actually reads my blog. Intermitantly.  My two friends? They still love me, but a year later they have better things to do with their very busy lives.

  1. Can you talk a little about your writing process?   For example, how much editing do you do from first draft to published post? How I wish I could say I ramble off a post in fifteen minutes without much thought. Sadly, I’m a perfectionist. Not the kind that produces typo-free posts, but the kind that has to stop myself from analyzing and editing ad nauseum. In theory, every time I have an idea, I stick it in a word document. Then days or months later, I go back and use all or part or none of it in a post. In practice, I tell myself I don’t have to put the idea in a word doc—that I’ll remember it, at which point the idea disappears forever into the nether region of my brain that responds “Vinnie Barbarino!” when asked what day it is.

  1. You recently celebrated your first blogging anniversary and wrote an excellent piece about what other bloggers can expect at that milestone.   What were your goals for your blog when you first started? My first goal was to showcase my boobs, but then I realized I no longer had any. My second goal was to write a humor blog—to make every post funny so people knew what they were getting when they came to annsrants. I made a conscious decision to keep my personal struggles personal, unless I used them in a humorous context (which often happens)

  1. I notice you don’t have any ads on your blog.   Any comment? I am an anti-ad activist. (Kidding, I was actually in TV ad sales for 4 years) I think I’m on the waiting list for BlogHer ads, but I’m honestly not sure. I’m not focused on the business of blogging, and how to make money on my blog. My goal is to focus on writing. Many people do both successfully. If I start focusing on making money, I will obsess even more about how many people are reading, and how many are clicking and how depressing it is to get a check for 31 cents.

  1. I’m a new blogger, having just started in August of this year.   What advice would you give newbies, like myself, for growing an audience? Unless your blog is hugely popular, blogging involves reciprocity. To get an audience you have to read and comment on a lot of blogs, so they will read and comment on yours. My advice is to keep searching until you find blogs you love, to make this reading/commenting process feel more like you’re building a relationship, and less like you are on a never-ending cold calling bender in hell “Hi there! Nice Header! Dude, I have those EXACT same TWEEZERS! Loveyoumeanit”

  1. You’ve written some charming interviews with yourself as a teenager.  If you could interview 80-year-old Ann, what would you like to say to her? I am praying she does all the talking and hoping to God that she has some wisdom to share with me, but what I’m hearing 80-year-old Ann say to 35-year-old Ann  is “SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

IJW:  Thanks for stopping by, Ann.  

Ann:  Thank you, Jayne. And I love the funky way you spell Jane. Or your Mom spelled Jayne. Now I really sound like a cold-caller, Jayne. Sorry, Jayne. Super fun. Thanks!

Sunday, November 15, 2009

injaynesworld it's time once again for that silliness known as the "Sunday Recap"

Big news this week.  They found water on the moon.  Inhabitants vow to fight new Donald Trump golf resort.
Balloon boy’s dad pleads guilty to pimping his kid for a TV deal.   TLC promoting new fall series, “Balloon Boy’s Dad – The Incarceration Years.”
Let’s hear it for Portland, Oregon, where the nation’s first marijuana coffee house, appropriately called The Cannabis Café, has opened for business.  Housed in a building that was formerly the sight of “Rumpspankers”, and adult erotic club, the café also sells food and coffee, and provides musical entertainment -- all the things anyone could want when righteously ripped.  An official medical marijuana card is required for admittance and so far Oregon has 21,000 registered stoners.  Look out Starbucks.  
This one courtesy of the DailyKos website:   “Florida police say a man arrested for repeatedly calling 911 looking for sex claimed it was the only number he could dial after running out of cell phone minutes,”  proving once again that testosterone really is the stupid drug. 
Sarah Palin’s “The Official Book of Whine” hits bookstores this week.   According the la Palin, she gave Katie Couric an interview out of pity because she heard that Couric had low self-esteem.   The book is sure to be hit among fantasy enthusiasts and others prone to delusions.  May I suggest a book-signing at The Cannabis Café.
This just in from CNN:  Levi Johnston, perennial burr in Sarah Palin’s butt and soon-to-be Playgirl model, received an award last night for his full-frontal contribution to pop culture.  Escorted by a large bodyguard named Tank, Johnstone took the stage at Manhattan nightclub, “The Box" to accept his trophy, an 11-inch custom-crafted sexual device.

CNN: When you were growing up did you think you think to yourself, “I want to be a sex symbol?”
LJ: No. I was a kid from a small town, just doing my own thing, thought I’d follow the family trade... and sell drugs?  How's that working out for the Johnstone clan?    

Personal note:  This is the crap CNN now deems worthy of coverage and then wonders why it's dropped to last place in the news channel ratings.   Just sayin'...

And finally…

Happy Birthday Charles Manson who turned 75 this week.   New followers declare he’s a nice guy with a good sense of humor.   No, really.   I didn’t make that up. 

While Demi Moore announced that she did not like being referred to as a “cougar” and preferred the term “puma.”    Yeah, whatever…

If you leave a comment cows will really give beer…

Thursday, November 12, 2009

injayesworld there's a reason "I Don't Have Kids..."

Today I’m having a mommyblogger moment.  But, Jayne, you have no children because you were such a rotten kid yourself that you always feared you’d have kids who’d torment you as you tormented your own mother who you are still convinced died young just to get away from you may she rest in peace…(exhales)  

Yes, that’s true, but today I think I can relate… a little.  Yesterday, I bought my 2 ½ year old, Dixie, a dog chew.   Throughout the day, the six-month-old cat, Mason, has continued to take it away from her, sending her into my office whining with outrage on average of about every 10 minutes and causing me to have to get up, retrieve said dog chew and give it back to her until, finally, I just took the damn thing away and now both my “kids” hate me.  Sound familiar?

How do you women do it?   Day after day, demand after demand… No wonder so many of you have “vodka” in the title of your blogs.   And how retchedly pathetic am I that I can’t even handle the sibling rivalry between a Chihuahua and a kitten?   Can you even imagine me with a kid?   

I think much of my inadequacy in this area stems from the fact that I was an only child.   I never longed for a baby sister or brother.   All-about-me-all-the-time was just fine.   Share?   Compromise?   Are you kidding?   My friends had younger siblings and they ended up having to take care of them.   Me, I didn’t even play with dolls unless they had boobs and wore tiny, plastic high heels. 

I did have an older step-sister for a while.   I used to glue her perfumes to the top of her dresser with clear nail polish.   As I grew into a lovely teenager, I was unbelievably horrid to my then struggling, single mother.  If I could go back in time and smother me in my sleep, I would.   She used to say, “Someday I hope you have a child and I hope she’s just like you.”   That was more than enough to scare the crap out of me, especially after she died and I became convinced that if I did give birth, she’d come back as my kid and make good on her threat.   Oh, yeah.   That possibility had “Rosemary’s Baby” written all over it. 

So nope… No kids for Jayne.  

Now, as an adult, while I don’t regret my decision to not have children, I do wish I’d had some siblings.   Not the loser kind who can’t keep a job and are constantly mooching off you, but the loving, supportive kind that you can talk to about anything and who always have your back and you theirs.   Someone you share a history with who knows you better than anyone and loves you anyway.    Oh, and a Democrat.   That’s not even negotiable.  

I envision large family celebrations where everyone is sober and no one is fighting.   Okay, maybe there’s one annoying drunk, but no one really likes him/her and anyway, he/she is an in-law.  Their kids would all love me because I would be the one to spoil them rotten, keep all their secrets and take them to inappropriate movies.  I’d be the fun aunt that got to leave when they started fighting and screaming or throwing up after all the candy I’d given them.   I’d get all the perks and have none of the responsibilities.  Now that is a scenario I could live with.   

I’ve just given Mason some catnip, the equivalent of cat crack, so he’ll leave Dixie’s chew alone and I can finally have some peace.   Oh, yeah, mommies out there, I can definitely relate… and I can feel your heartfelt sympathy.  

In you leave a comment there will instantly be world peace.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

injaynesworld I'm really "A Kidnapped Heiress..."

I know I’ve been kind of MIA lately.  I’ve been working.  You know, that thing you have to do for money that interrupts your life.  Not that I’m ungrateful.  I know what the unemployment figures are.  I know there are whole families living in boxes under freeway overpasses.  I know I’m damn lucky to have a gig.  Especially one that allows me to work at home, where personal hygiene is not an issue. 

Interspersed with writing assignments, I summarize depositions.  Any lawyers out there?   I’m your gal.

It is the life of a freelancer  though.  So when there’s work, I’ve got to grab it, because there are a lot of weeks when I’ve got nothing, nada, zip.  Which brings me to the highly effective poverty and stress diet: 

7:30 a.m. - Giant cup of just plain coffee with ½ & ½.

10:30 – 11-ish:   Big bowl of granola with ½ banana or other fruit.

2:00-ish:   Two scrambled eggs.  They’re free.  We have chickens. 

7-8:00-ish:   Large glass of cheap red wine.   Steamed broccoli.   Grilled  protein of some kind (thank you George Foreman).   For dessert, three squares of a dark chocolate (72%) candy bar.

Cheap and nutritious.  The up side to this diet is that I’m back wearing clothes I haven’t fit into in four years and I’m nothing if not vain, so don’t feel sorry for me and start some kind of canned food drive.  I really don’t need anyone’s surplus Spaghetti-O’s. 

I’m pretty sedentary so I don’t burn a lot of calories and I’ve never been much of a foodie anyway.  While I love eating out -- ordering from a menu, being served, no dishes to do -- the whole daily maintenance thing of having to buy, prepare, consume and clean-up food I’ve always found to be a colossal pain in the ass.  I’ve often wished for just a pill that would turn into a meal in my stomach.  Presto.  No fuss.  No muss. 

Where was I?  Oh, yeah.  Work.  I never really thought much about retiring, which is good, because it ain’t gonna happen.   There are so many people out there who did plan on retiring and feel all ripped off and angry now.  Low expectations are definitely the way to go. 

Like so many others, I do dream of winning the lottery.  I won $425 off a ticket this summer.  That was cool.   Call me shallow, but I’d like to experience extravagant wealth before I die.   I have a theory that I was actually born to an uber rich family and one day my nanny had me out in the park all snug in my pram.  She had one thing to do.  One lousy thing.  Watch me!   But no.   The irresponsible whore was also meeting her boyfriend and while he was grabbing her ass right there next to me in all my innocence, a woman who would ever more make me call her “Mother” snatched me away to a life of barely middle class.  Yes.  I honestly do believe that.  “Mother” would always say to me, “You’ve got champagne taste and a beer bottle pocketbook.”  Well, yeah, bitch!

My other possible ticket out of doodyville would be to marry a rich guy.  Of course, at 60, that boat’s kinda sailed.  But here are my requirements if any of you know anyone you could fix me up with who fits the bill:  Fabulously wealthy, extraordinarily generous, impotent, a heart condition, and no heirs.   I’ve checked E-Harmony.  He’s not there.  Not on either. looked promising, if I could only pass for 18.  

Oh, come on.   Don’t judge me.    If he’s really nice, I’ll forego the heart condition.

I wonder if it’s too late to put my face on a milk carton. 

If you leave a comment, Tinkerbelle will live.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

injaynesworld we share "Our Passion For Horses"

I’ve had a love affair with horses since I was a child.  I’m told that at the age of three, my maternal grandfather, a race horse trainer, would take me to the track and put me on the lead ponies.  I have no memory of this and no photos either, which really sucks, but I believe it anyway.  Growing up, I would have killed (I know that’s a term that’s thrown around loosely, but trust me, I really would have killed) to have had a horse.  Aside from some summer riding on rental horses and hanging around the local 4H barn like an adoring groupie years before the word had even been coined, I never had the chance to indulge my passion.  

Then, at 38 years old, a fossil in terms of starting to ride, I met a bunch of people who had horses and I began to sink every spare penny I could get a hold of into riding lessons.  I had no idea at all of what English riding was, but was sent to a trainer who said to me, “Do you want to chase cows?”   Well, no…  “Then you’ll ride English.”   Uh… okay.   The horse he put me on was a half-Arab, half-Morgan named Pawnee.  Pawnee would pin his ears and try to chase me out of the stall when I’d go to get him and then try to step on my foot when I’d saddle him.   Being used to being treated like crap by the male gender I, of course, was crazy about him.   We were soon galloping wildly out of control all over Griffith Park in Burbank and I was having the time of my life.  

After a while, trail riding wasn’t enough though.   I spent countless hours at the local equestrian center watching horse shows, specifically the jumpers, and I knew that’s what I had to do.  Let me reiterate verbatim, 38 is a fossil in terms of starting to ride, and now I was going get on the back of a 1200-pound horse and jump over a fence.   I should probably mention that I was never athletic.  Nope, no athletic ability whatsoever.   Didn’t even walk if I didn’t absolutely have to.   While that should have deterred me, or at least given me pause, mature decision-making has never been my strong suit. 

Enter a new trainer and a new horse, Argon, a big German warmblood.   Argon was a rock star of a horse.  He was everything I’d been looking for in a man, but couldn’t find.  Tall, drop-dead gorgeous, and gelded.    Best of all, he loved me, too.   And he was for sale!    This was in 1989 and the owner was asking $15,000, a fortune then.   I was a freelance TV-writer at the time, meaning I was often “between jobs,” but since fiscal responsibility had never darkened my doorstep before, why should it now?    I borrowed $5,000 off a credit card for a down payment and promised her $1,000 a month till he was paid off, fully willing to sell my body on a street corner if that’s what it took.   That horse was the most patient, kind, generous creature ever.  He’d take me galloping on the trail one day and into the show ring the next where he’d pack my sorry ass over every fence without complaint.    Here is a photo of us.   Isn’t he gorgeous?   I, on the other hand, look like I’m having a bowel movement.  

If you’ve ever seen the movie I wrote for Animal Planet called “Big Spender,” the scenes where Big Spender is given peppermint candy are based on Argie’s voracious appetite for the treat.  Just the sound of me unwrapping the cellophane would start him nickering and begging.  He never had to beg for long.   I would have given him a kidney.  Argon was the love of my life and our partnership lasted for seven years until 1996 when, at the age of 17, he let out one whinny and just dropped dead in the barn.   It was as if someone had reached inside my chest, grabbed my heart in their fist, and yanked it out.  I slept with his blanket for a month because it smelled like him.

My next steed was a retired polo horse named Bubba who’d actually been given to a friend of mine, but she didn’t ride him much so he became my horse and for the next three years we rode the trails.  Having played the treacherous sport of polo with mallets swinging around his head for eight years, nothing spooked him.  I was probably most at ease on Bubba out on the trail than with any other horse I’ve ridden and we had the best beach rides ever.   In 1999, he was getting older and stiffer and it was time to retire him.  Here we are at his retirement. 

Let me just note here that 10 years later, at the ripe old age of at least 25, Bubba is still going strong and still on the payroll.  I, however, will never be able to retire and fully expect to someday be living under an overpass. 

Anxious to get back to jumping, but also still wanting to ride on trails, I bought a Thoroughbred/Quarter Horse cross by the name of Kona.  Kona, like Argon, was another mensch of a horse.   I showed him under the name “Hello, Handsome,” because, well… obviously.   This is my absolute favorite jumping photo of us.  

He always jumped the fence, no matter how badly I got him there.  I’m sure that somewhere from the great beyond, Argie was telling him, “Yeah, I know.  She rides like crap, but take care of her anyway,” and take care of me Kona always did.  In 2005, he incurred some kind of freak spinal cord injury.  We never did figure out what happened, but after two weeks and thousands of dollars trying to save him, I had to put him down and, once again, my heart was broken. 

Which brings me to now.   Horses are expensive and while I would sell my soul to have another, apparently the soul market isn’t what it used to be.  When I approached the devil with my offer, he replied, “Yeah, yeah, you and everyone else.  Take a number.” 

So here I sit, horseless.   Riding and hanging out at the barn and at shows with my friends was such a huge part of my life for so long and I miss it deeply.  I still have friends who let me ride their horses from time to time, and I’m grateful, but it’s not like that special bond you have with your own.  Nonetheless, it’s a beautiful day today and I’m going to go over to the barn and watch some of my friends ride.   And, by the way, say what you will about the softness of a baby’s butt – there’s nothing softer than a horse’s nose.  This is me and Argon after winning our first blue ribbon. 

I ask you, if that's not love, what is?

Sunday, November 1, 2009

injaynesworld we bring you the "November 1st Sunday Recap"

Rush Limbaugh has been tapped as a judge in the next Miss America pageant.   Oh please God, let Perez Hilton, famous for bitch-slapping former Miss California and homophobe, Carrie Prejean, be on the panel, too.  Now that would be must-see TV. 

Levi Johnstone announced on the Today Show that his nude spread for Playgirl would be tasteful.   I don’t think you can use the words “spread” and “Playgirl” in the same sentence and have us think of anything tasteful.  But I still gotta love this guy for continuing to be a major burr on Sarah’s Palin’s butt.  This week, he revealed in his characteristic “I’m-dumb-as-stick-but-pretty-to-look-at” monotone that Sarah and Todd’s wedded bliss just might be bullshit like the rest of her life.  To which Sarah “I’m-dumb-as-a-stick-but-pretty-to-look-at” replied (and I’m paraphrasing here):  “That lying little mother-fucking bastard.” 

Gone are the hot breakfasts in most dorms and the pastries at Harvard’s Widener Library. Varsity athletes are no longer guaranteed free sweat suits, and just this week came the jarring news that professors will go without cookies at faculty meetings.  Apparently, the world’s richest university has seen the value of its endowment drop by almost 30% and is having to learn to live with less.   Welcome to my world.

Despite Republican opposition, big surprise, the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act was included in the defense bill this week, and I have it on good authority that the Repubs are really bummed out about it, too.  We all know how they love their hate crimes. 

The much fought over public option was included in the health care bills of both the House and the Senate this week.  Turns out the whole thing was pretty much just a pissing contest between the two parties (and whatever the hell Lieberman is).  Latest info is it will probably cover not more than 2% of the people, won’t even go into effect until 2013 and won’t be fully up and running until 2019.  Apparently, all this time that President Obama has been saying that it really shouldn’t be considered the meat-and-potatoes of the bill, he was right.  It would seem that all the time and effort spent pushing for “a win for our side,” may have taken focus away from more immediate issues such as affordable coverage and comprehensive benefits.  Let’s see.  Is there a joke in here somewhere?  Oh yeah.  It’s on us – again.

On a lighter note, Walmart has added caskets to its inventory starting at the bargain price of $895 for the “Mom Remembered” steel casket.  Add $1,000 for hand-sewn pink crepe interior.   Unfortunately, they’re only sold online.  I was so looking forward to hearing, “Attention shoppers, super sale on caskets on aisle 13 for the next 10 minutes.   Buy one, get one free.”  Because who knows when you’ll need an extra bed for guests. 

Finally, today I was awarded the “Tell It Like It Is” (aka “Cannot Keep Your Big Mouth Shut, Can You?”) award from that wild gal, Lee, at Headaches, Hotflashes & Hormones.   Isn’t it cool?   It’s so me.   I love it.  

Tradition calls for the passing on of such an award and I know of no person more worthy of acknowledgment for her big mouth and rockin’ attitude than my BFF, Kristi Stevens, at Stepford Stories.   So go give her some love.  

As always, if I've missed any of your faves from last week, by all means do share... 

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