If you have no idea what the above title means, start here.

Cotton
Last Modified 2/24/11

I hate group trail rides.

To be honest, I really feel like It’s almost not worth getting up on the horse at all, if it means I have to ride in a big group.

For someone who is as obsessed with horses as I am, that’s saying something.

It seems like every time I’ve gone on a large group trail ride, there has been some kind of minor disaster. Someone gets bucked off. A horse bolts. A deer pops out of the brush and causes a chain-reaction spooking, ending in someone getting thrown.

Even when everything goes perfectly the horses tend feed off each other’s excitement and work themselves up into a lathered frenzy. It takes forever for them to settle down… and then once you start heading back towards the barn they all get worked up again.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t enjoy spending two or three hours on top of a jigging, sweating, snorting mess of a horse.

I’m not against trail riding in general, just mass group rides. I don’t mind riding out into the country with a friend or two. The horses are usually better behaved for it, and it’s always nice to have some conversation if it’s going to be a long ride.

Nevertheless, when Bunnygal offered me a chance to go on a mountain trail ride, even though I knew it was going to be a large group, I threw myself into the passenger seat of her truck before she could rethink her offer.

The road up to the starting point was an impressively steep mountain switchback, and I had to admire Bunnygal’s ability with her trailer as she nonchalantly whizzed around the corners, singing along with the radio.

I kept myself occupied by studying the minute details on the truck dashboard. Maybe if I examined it really closely, I could keep myself from slamming my foot down on my imaginary brakes and panicking at how close the trailer wheels were coming to the drop-off that made up the side of the road.

For the record, Bunnygal is a very safe driver. The problem is that I grew up in Orange County and I live at sea level. Our idea of a steep cliff is the inch-high ledge between the boardwalk and the sand. I mean, you have to be careful . You could stub your toe, or something.

After about fifteen minutes of studying the dashboard in all its glory, I noticed we were pulling off onto a tiny dirt Forestry road.

“Ummm… Bunnygal? How are you going to turn the trailer around?”

“There’s a big turn around up ahead at the meadow…” She trailed off as we rounded a corner and came upon a large, locked gate.”

CLOSED DUE TO SNOW

It was almost humorous, with the 65 degree May weather and not a snowdrift in sight. The two of us sat there staring at it silently, the tendrils of smoke from Bunnygal’s cigarette curling around us.

“Do we head back?” I glanced in the rearview mirror at the microscopic dirt trail, incredibly thankful that it wasn’t me behind the wheel.

“No. They probably just forgot to take it down.”

And with that, Bunnygal shifted her truck into gear and drove around the gate, trailer tilting drunkenly at its sudden off-road venture.

About 100 yards down the narrow road, we began to see small patches of snow.

Several hundred yards past that, we saw a couple of decent-sized snowdrifts.

By the time we reached the trailhead, even Bunnygal was beginning to question whether we should have turned back.

When we finally pulled into the large, circular clearing, I was amazed to see the area dotted with other truck/trailer rigs.

Apparently we weren’t the only ones who took the closed gate as a suggestion.

Bunnygal and I unloaded the horses and saddled up with the dozen or so other riders. I stared longingly after Twistin, sighing as someone else led her away to borrow her for the day. Twistin may have been an pissy-faced, sour, kick-other-horses-for-no-reason alphabitch out in the pasture, but under saddle she was a dream to ride – soft, responsive, athletic, and level-headed.

I turned back to my horse for the day: Cotton.

Short and powerfully wide, Cotton cocked her hip in a deceptively lazy manner, her neck lowered sleepily.

I was not deceived.

I’d only ridden her once before. I had the time of my life, but I knew she wasn’t an easy ride. Now I was supposed to hop up on her and head off into the mountain wilderness on a group trail ride?

Gulp.

I threw the saddle up on her back and slipped on her bridle, trying to seem nonchalant. Ho-hum. Ho-hum. Don’t mind me— I’m just about to die, that’s all.

The second I swung up onto her back I felt her come alive. Body tense – nearly vibrating. Eager. Alert. Unbelievably, nearly freakishly responsive.

Double gulp.

I lowered my reins , resting my hand on her neck, and did my best to think lazy thoughts.

“Ready?” Bunnygal was riding Willie, a silvery red roan whose solid frame and kind eye made it easy to forget just how young he actually was. He probably had no more than a dozen real rides on him at that point. If it were me and I were riding him, I would just be easing into the idea of breaking into a trot in a nice, safe arena…. An arena filled with pillows and fluffy cotton.

But this was Bunnygal – why bother just riding in circles around an arena when she could just do her training out in the rugged, remote wilderness?

To be honest, I’m still not sure whether she’s my hero or whether she should be institutionalized.

The trail ride started out like every other group trail ride. The horses were skittery and jiggy. I tried to bring Cotton down to a slow, stately, middle-of-the-group walk.

Cotton was not very thrilled with my idea, and fought me.

I tried to correct her, and I felt her tense up underneath me. Left? Right? Spin? Gallop and slidestop?

I loved riding Bunnygal’s cutting horses, but sometimes I kind of missed the old point-and-go half-dead horses from my old Wrangler job.

The more I tried to communicate my wishes to Cotton, the more I could feel her starting to work herself up into a lathery mess. It’s not that she was disobedient – it’s that she was trying so hard to figure everything out that the two of us fed into each other’s anxiety.

So I did what an old cowboy told me to do – I dropped my reins on her neck, sat deep and loose in my saddle, and let her figure it out on her own.

I still remember the day I learned that trick – I was out on a trail ride with an old cowboy friend of mine, trying to figure out the buttons on my five-year old off-the-track thoroughbred. The more I tried to convince him to calm down, the more he spun out of control. I could feel the nervousness eating a hole in my stomach as he danced lightly, snorting and sweaty, pencil-thin neck slammed high in the air. Nothing I was trying was bringing his head down. In fact, it seemed like it was doing exactly the opposite. I was just contemplating getting off and leading when:

“Drop yer reins.”

“WHAT?!” I twisted in my saddle to gawk at Thom, causing Jubilee to skitter sideways, lunging in place in a cross between a jig and a stationary canter.

“Drop them. Didn’t you ask me out there to help you? Well, do it. Drop your reins.”

“But he’ll bolt if I do!”

“No he won’t.

“HE WILL!”

“He won’t.” He said it so matter-of-factly… but……

“But what if he does? I can’t sit it. If I—“

“DROP YOUR REINS, GIRL,” Thom said in disgust, rolling his eyes at me. Obediently, I let some slack into my reins – and Jubilee immediately revved up even worse with his sideways jigging, muscles coiling up. I squeaked, and reached forward to haul him back when,,,

“GET YOUR HANDS OFF THE REINS. I SWEAR…. JUST HOLD ONTO THE HORN.”

I mumbled something under my breath, and did just that.

“Now sit back in your saddle. You ain’t no jockey. Where do you think you’re headed, all hunched over like that?”

Thom’s drawl was straight out of the movies. On anyone else it might have sounded fake – almost forced. But Thom was over 80 years old. He had come by his drawl and his blunt sarcasm honestly.

Leaning back, I gripped the saddle horn nervously.

“Your horse has sense – he ain’t going to run off and leave my horse. If he did, he’d be out of the herd. When he gets like that and you’re in a group, just drop the reins and sit for a bit. It’s you that’s making him nervous. You’re pulling on his face, and making him tense. See?”

True to Thom’s word, Jubilee was already beginning to settle down. His snorts were coming less often, and instead of jigging sideways, we were at least jigging forward in a straight line.

Within a few hundred yards, we weren’t jigging at all.

By the time we crested the hill, Jubilee was imitating Thom’s gelding Wildfire – level neck, steady, deep steps and a quiet, alert eye.

I never forgot the lesson. How could it? It scared the crap out of me to learn it. There’s nothing like fear to cement something in your brain.

So, when Cotton began to rev herself up, I followed Thom’s advice and just laid the reins down on her neck.

Within a few steps, I felt her level out beneath me. She had a quick, springy walk that was surprisingly quick. Once we only had a horse or two in front of us, she relaxed, looking around curiously.

We began to enjoy ourselves. The patches of snow were dotting the trail everywhere, but it was a beautiful morning, probably close to 70 degrees. It was surreal. Silent. Incredible.

We rounded the corner and came upon a shallow uphill slope, the path completely covered in snow until it rounded the bend.

We stopped.

“Hey guys, what do you think… should we?”

“Well, I guess…”

Finally, someone shrugged. “Well, maybe there’s too much snow, but I guess there’s only one way to find out.

Dodging The Bullet

Last Modified 3/23/11

I’ve never been good at “meeting the parents”.

There’s something about my inherent inability to make polite small talk combined with stress that brings out the worst in me.

I stutter.

I stammer.

I ramble breathlessly on about subjects and stories that bore even me.

When I try to project an innocent “girl-next-door” vibe, I come across as someone who is hopelessly “blonde”– to the point where I’m sure they’re wondering if I should be walking around outside without a helmet on.

When I try to come across as poised… I sound shallow and somewhat stuck-up.

I know what you all are thinking. You’re thinking, “Just be yourself!”

Yeah.

Right.

Uh-huh.

The problem with just “being myself!” is… well… I’m *ME*. Becky. I can’t seem to keep from embarrassing myself under normal circumstances, much less highly stressed-ones.

Being me is a dangerous thing,

The first idiot thing out of my mouth happened over breakfast.

Faced with a daunting, somewhat judgmental silence I decided that the best thing I could do was tell

Exercising with the DM
Last Modified 5/4/11

….That’s it. That’s all there is, just a title. Why did I hoard that draft for almost 8 straight years? Why did none of you stage an intervention?

Mexican Families and Their Names
Last Modified 5/19/11

Edit: I changed the names in this one, to respect my family’s privacy. Also, I still haven’t introduced The Bean to my family.in Mexico, barring the ones who have come and visited me. I think I’m going to go there anyways, because I don’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for the war to stop and never visit half of my family, every again.

One of these days, when Mexico stops stacking up the bodies like a depressing, small-scale version of Rwanda, I’m going to take the Bean to meet my family.

This sounds like it will be fun, and it will be. For me.

For the Bean?

It will probably be confusing. Unbelievably confusing.

“Bean! Come meet my uncle Jose Luis.”

“Hi, Jose Luis, nice to meet you.”

“Meet his son… Jose Luis.”

“Jose Luis, Jose Luis’ son, nice to meet you.”

“And meet Jose Luis’ son, also Jose Luis, known as Jose Luisito.”

“Hi, Jose Luisito, son of Jose Luis, son of Jose Luis.”

The problem with keeping the members of my family straight is that we all have the same names.

In fact, while I respect the anonymity of my kids (hey, I blog, but they may want to be anonymous one day), I feel perfectly safe

For the sake of the white folks (and to show the ridiculousness a little better) I am going to substitute the white people names to make it easier to follow.

My grandparents were Lisa and Johnny.

They gave birth to five kids.

Their firstborn daughter’s name?

Lisa.

Their firstborn son’s name?

Johnny.

When Lisa got married, she married a man named Michael.

Lisa and Michael had two kids.

Their names? Yup, you guessed it: Lisa and Michael.

When Lisa #3 got married, she married a man named Aaron.

They have two children, also a boy and a girl.

I bet you five bucks you can’t guess their names. Yup. Lisa and Michael.

You’d think that it would get confusing, what with four generations worth of Michaels, and Lisas, and Johnnies, and even Beckies. Yeah, that’s right – there’s a whole herd of us down there.

But it’s not confusing, provided you just keep everyone’s nicknames straight. See, that’s the problem with introducing people down there. “Hi, this is Ignacio, but he’s actually just called Chencho, but honestly, we have something like three Chenchos, so it’s just best if you call him Nacho, except that when he was young he was chubby so we called him Gordo, but we also called his dad Gordo, so he was Gordito, so now he’s just known as Ito. It’s probably best if you just remember him as either Nacho or Ito, so you don’t get confused.

And this is his wife….

No Title
Last Modified 6/29/11

“Put the money in your sock!” my mother hissed.

I wiggled my shoe off, wadding the stack of 20s down into my sock. Two hundred bucks was a lot of money, and it made my foot feel weird.

Dirty Minds
Last Modified 8/18/11

Dear everyone who keeps finding my blog by googling the search term “Three Dollar Hooker”.

Wow. I bet you all were a little disappointed, huh?

There you were, innocently searching the internet to satisfy your need for some discount lovin’, and instead you found this: a post from a fat, married woman.