By the time you read this, I will (hopefully) have an adult beverage in one hand and the other hand firmly holding the little pull-down stick on a penny slot machine.

So let's talk about what happens if my penny magically reproduces into a hundred bajillion more pennies.  You know, and I can buy whatever the fuck I want.

1)  A facility.
Well, no reason to work anymore.  So I'm gonna quit, the husband is going to quit, and I'm going to convince him that we need to move to about an hour out of the city that we just left.  Because it's horse country and I can do all the tadpole cross-country courses and fox-hunt.  You know, downtown.


2)  A rig.
Because being transportation-less blows.  My barn in Augusta had a four horse that was magical and beautiful, but let's add some living quarters.  Let's couple that with a dually.  Let's learn to drive a gooseneck.  Or a semi.

Just opulent enough to be borderline pretentious.

3)  A trainer.
Anyone that would tolerate panic attacks over cross rails and have some damn good accreditations.

4)  More ponies.
I hope my game wouldn't change.  I hope that I would have a roving door of emaciated rescues who I picked up off the feedlot because someone with a better eye than me thought they had potential.  And then I rehab them and send them off to be little girls' magical first loves.

And a mule.  I want a mule.

From HorseNation.com.

And a mustang.  Straight out of the BLM corral.  With a neck tattoo.

This is #2496, a 3 y/o mare currently located in Oregon.

And more OTTBs.  Because race ponies are the best.

5)  Custom everything.
You know.  Shit that fits.

(Meanwhile, Archie thinks to himself, What is this shit?  Aren't I retired?*) *He's not.

In which I turn $18 and a million hours of my life that I'll never get back into a saddle pad and half-pad cover.

The smallest sewing machine that could. Sewing on the finishing ribbon, because progressive photos would make too much sense. (The inclusion of my husband's feet and socks are free of charge.  You're welcome.)

Purchased:  ribbon, black fleece, teal-ish chevron fabric, white thread and quilting fluff stuff.

Not made for my dressage saddle, it was just super handy.  And dirty.

Fun things:  

So what do you do when your shoeless pony can't be ridden?

*slight exaggeration. 

The other day, last week, some point this month: I didn't have a book to read during lunch. As should be no surprise, I am a voracious reader and leave lunchtime socialization to those better equipped. So, yeah, no book is a big deal.

I found out that C's mom is/was an equestrian.  I ooh'ed and aww'ed over this fact and then promptly realized that the progeny of equestrians who turn out to be equestrians might not realize how good they've got it.

This isn't a bitch-fest.  So I'm not going to mention how my folks stopped being involved with my equestrian pursuits (including shows) once I got my driver's license.  I won't mention how my father has met only once the horse I've owned for eight years.  My mother?  Twice.  But she is one of the few that has actually mounted said ponykins.


I will say that my parents paid for lessons for nearly a decade.  I can't begrudge them that because it absolutely set the foundation for my future bay thoroughbred gelding obsession and ability to sit a dirty mount.  And fox hunting.

So this made me think of the others who help us when our biological family isn't horsie-inclined (does this coincide with my in-laws visiting tomorrow?  yes.).  You know what, this probably also coincides with the loss of my boss, who most recently said, "Oh, you're getting up at 5:30 in the morning in order to treat the abscess your horse has, clean up, change clothes, and make it on time to work?  You know you can come in late if you need to."  Okay, maybe fewer words.

So, who helps you?

I've come to rely a lot on my BM to cut the shit.  We talk horses and problems and we make jokes.

L and I talk horses every. single. day.

D will listen to horse problems.  I'm 99% sure that if I became destitute from vet bills, he would help.  And he occasionally remembers to ask how my ride was.  Oh!  And 1) he helped muck stalls for like three years and 2) I can occasionally sucker him into taking photos.

I still reach out to OR and The Eventer to ask questions and seek advice.  Vice versa.

And C, because she wore breeches to a grocery store.

And, finally, I surround myself in horsie blogs.  It really helps to read the issues and joys that other people have.  To just know that other people like me are out there and I can reach an electronic finger out.

IWe had a giant, mind-blowing shift at work recently. So everyone is walking on eggshells, yours truly included. My job is suddenly weird and uncomfortable and everyone is crawling around in a cloud of misery. 

The HS got another photographer.  In the weird way that I am super-possessive of all things that make me happy (Archie, the husband, my free time), I've taken it just the slightest bit personally.  I keep telling myself that it's for the benefit of the animals.  Make them the most appealing, get them homes, lower the euthanasia rate.  It's all about them and it can't be about me.  And I, by myself, just can't capture them all.  This is personal growth, right?  Accepting help?

Evidently, this guy drank something toxic when he was a wee pup and that's why he's now cross-eyed.  Who knows.

I love overexposure. I accept that.

I took this one yesterday in my back yard.  I probably cannot, for the life of me, repeat that lens flare. Ps.  Yes, I have resting bitch face. Pps.  Yes, I need models.

To crossrails, that is.

Temporary new barn mate (OMFG.. let's call her C) (this is the chick I picked up at the grocery store) (I need a flow chart for my nicknamed friends) and I made rough plans to be at the barn at about the same time last night.  I went at my normal time and immediately cursed any feels I had of the lonesomes.  Because there were people and horses everywhere.

The owner of the saddlebred and the palomino had her barefoot trimmer there.  Chick drives down from Atlanta every five weeks to trim those eight hoofers.

BM was giving a lesson while her kid was tacking up another horse.  The mares were having a shitfit because one mare was being ridden and, OMG, geldings.

Okay, so maybe not a lot of a excitement.  Just a lot more than I'm used to.

There's a horse in the lane to Archie's pasture, so BM's kid held that horse while I pulled him through.  Later, the SB/palo owner had a helper and just herded the lane horse away, snapping lead ropes at it.  I'm having a hard time deciding if this was acceptable.  Would I punch the throat of someone snapping lead ropes at Archie?  Absolutely.  Did this pony need better manners?  Maybe.  Was it their place to teach those manners?  No.

I hosed Archie off to cool him out some and parked him in front of a fan while I set up our baby crossrail.  Our warm-up and work was uneventful, so I popped him over the crossrail a couple times in both directions at the trot.  I figured that was good enough for our first jump in like... two months.  And back to the trails to cool out!

Same river, different angle.

C made it there right as I was untacking.  :)

When I first started taking lessons, I rode with a crazy lady who had lied her way into a training position.  I was cantering fences and didn't know what my diagonals were.

After some drama, that lady fled to Canada (so the rumor goes) and another lady, who I think I've called the "classic master", took over.  This lady knew her shit, but was seriously old school.

The structure of lessons remained the same:  an hour of flat work, a break to water the horses, and roughly 45 minutes of jumping, followed by a trail ride.

Trail rides have been a part of my riding since I could tack up a horse.  It's like a mental thing, now.  I need silence and woods and a loose rein.  I need the seemingly lack of structure to rebalance myself mentally.

When I first started working with Archie, before I bought him, we stayed in the ring.  I'd spent the year-ish prior galloping a quarterhorse in the woods.  I wasn't afraid of riding out there, but I was afraid of him.  I'd taken him around the pond a few times, had a few hard spooks, and built up enough ball-busting fear to be petrified.  Put me on a lesson pony and toss me in with a group of teenagers (they still bounce) and I was fine participating in races between the rows of trees.  Ask me to take Archie back there alone or with another horse and I would turn around almost immediately.

This pond and those woods, actually. Always wear a helmet.

Eventually, though, I started making myself go, albeit sporadically and rarely.  It was ingrained in me:  trails need to be ridden.  Horses need a break from the ring.  Humans need a break, too.  I found that Archie wasn't the most solid trail horse.  I'll never forget walking down a steep incline and him pausing to scratch his nose.

When we moved to the crazy barn in Savannah, there weren't really any trails.  If you've been with me since the beginning of this blog, you probably remember.  It was a big.fucking.deal for me to walk him on the dirt road behind the pastures.  I carried my fear with me on every ride.

By the marsh.

At the end of this dirt road is the Vernon River.

Fast-forward to a year ago and the new barn.  This whole experience has been a breath of fresh air.  From the very first ride, I made it a priority to trail ride as much as possible.  Every ride, weather and bugs permitting.  I set the tone for our new lives here and it wasn't going to be a culture of fear.

So Saturday, we set off and explored more and just spent some time walking in the woods.  We had to have one conversation about walking by the ditch we normally use to go home.

I tried to take him to a new place and he tried to convince me that we were going to die.

But, after making him walk until I decided to turn around (rather than one of his signature spins), I ceded.  Way too many damn bugs because the water was right there.

So then we went the other way!