Virtual Brush Box

Don’t worry. I won’t get on without help. However, I have to I WANT to get on. Right now, not so much.

The problem, per usual, is Rodney. I suspect I would handle this latest reversal of fortune with far more aplomb if I was not already deeply marinated in frustration. I’ve done the OTTB thing before. Previous Horse was a bigger twit than Milton will ever conceive of being. I was young & stupid, so I plowed ahead.

Back in May 2012, I said “(Another) pasture ornament might just do me in.” [Never Settle] I misspoke. The problem is not Milton’s ornament status. He is not. He will not have Rodney’s career arc. Four years from now, Milton will be a happy working pony, perhaps for me, perhaps for someone else. The problem is the blow to my judgment. What I should have said was, “Another mistake might just do me in.” It has. Being back at this place – for whatever reason – has gutted me.

Thus progress grinds to a halt.

Yes, there are many things that I could do. First, I have to want to. The past four years do not make that easy. Riding the Saddlebreds for the last two years has helped. My stunning slide from first to last this year has not.

I have wandered from the point haven’t I? Now I have a mounting block. When I figure out what I want to do with it, I’ll be ready.

(This started as a simple shopping photo to fill up a post. Then I worried that you might think I was about to lose my mind and leap on. I had no such intention. Milton is wearing boots for lunging. So I added that I wasn’t about to get on to the post. Then the screamy voices in my head started: Why not? What the hell is taking so long? Just get back on the damn horse already …

This is my answer.

It gets loud in here.)

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On the lighter side, a guest gratuitous cat picture:

For non-horse folks, that’s a box to hold grooming equipment. And kittens.

Frankly, I think it would be easier to use the truck. But I’m not the mechanic who has to get the truck started.

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End of the month State of the Blog covered mid-month, Sine Die … Or Not. Previous S of B posts listed here.

We all know Caveat Emptor. Google says lector = reader.

At the end of last week, I had a long talk with Coach about the rest of the fall show season. I gave her right of refusal, given the current scrambled state of my psyche. I offer you the same deal.

I’ve been in a mood. You may have noticed. Not likely to change soon. On the other hand, it’s not fair that you suffer through problems not of your making. Options:

1) We part company temporarily. Go enjoy other blogs. Saddle Seeks Horse just bought a new horse. Then, come back in a month or three when I am likely to be less Eeyore & more Pinkie Pie.

B) Keep reading but know that you will have to deal with a higher occurrence of neurotic meltdowns. I will attempt to be entertaining, but whining will transpire.

Coach elected to endure the drama. Apparently, the things that give me agita are also the things that make me who I am. Far too generous. Personally, I’d chose door number one if there was any possible way to manage it. (Does anyone else want to get away from themselves. Just for a break? Or is that part of what makes me who I am? But I digress.)

So, I will continue to show and continue to blog. I don’t promise to be a ray of sunshine about either one.

You have been warned.

A common alpha-numeric conversion getting less common every day.

Hint: Where are O & N the same? Answer

The attempt was fall foliage colors. Again in GIMP.

Today’s subject is not about horses. For more non-equine subjects, see my other blog, Off Topic. Rodney’s Saga returns to regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

I suspect I upset my Amtrak seatmate once upon a time.

First, a little backstory: When I was a teenager, I looked younger than my age by many years. In one instance, I was visiting a breeding farm. The barn manager explained to me about the “mommy horses” and the “daddy horses” and the “baby horses.” I thought he was simple-minded. He thought I was too young to understand reproduction.

In another instance, a stewardess stared at me with great consternation when she saw that I was flying alone. She thought I was an unaccompanied munchkin. She instructed me to wait for her when the plane landed. Sure. Fine. She came back later with a confused look and asked how old I was. I told her. She said I was free to debark on my own recognizance.

Apparently, I did not exude an air of gravitas and maturity. End backstory.

So there I was, 14 years old but looking 9 at the oldest. This train was nothing new to me. One parent in New York City and one parent in Washington DC equaled much time shuttling back and forth. Shortly before the moment in question, I had moved from living with my mother (NYC) to living with my father (DC). I was slowly adapting to the new routines. This was the first weekend I had gone back to visit my mother.

A gentleman sat down next to me on the crowded train. He asked, conversationally, about my trip.

Well, it was Sunday night. I was going home. Which meant NYC. But I just came from there. Why was I leaving? I was going to DC. Why was I doing that? I was usually coming from DC on Sunday night. Hmmm. I’m either going to DC or NYC. One of the two. Was the train traveling north or south? I gave up and asked,

“Which way is the train heading?”

He probably thought I was a run-away. He did not speak to me again.

OT 7.14.14

A straight-up indulgence. The goal is to wear them only in the show ring, take them off immediately after each class, and resell them through Commotion when I am done equitating.