Yesterday, I was invited to a lunch function through my job for those who have been involved with some sort of fitness program/activity.  I was invited because of the half-marathon.  One of my coworkers was invited because of her diligence in a diabetes prevention program.  So, anyways, big focus on health stuff.  The purpose of the function was that my job was being presented a check from Subway and Subway was catering this event.  So... Health.  Subway.  And the only options were turkey and ham.  (How do you know someone's a vegetarian?  Give them ten minutes and they'll tell you.)  I walked out.  It was my silent "meat is murder" protest.  I left my picket sign at home.

On my way to getting something edible for lunch, I stopped off (stupidly) at the post office to get holiday stamps.  I almost cried.  The guy gave me a choice between Mother Mary holding the Blessed Baby Jesus or the Three Wise Men traipsing through the desert.  I said, oh, no.  You're going to have to find something that isn't religious.  I get it:  Christians took ownership of this previously pagan celebration of the Winter Solstice* and they've done well with it (when did St. Nicholas come in, again?).  But it's my right to have secular holiday stamps, dammit.  He found me some with ornaments.

Last night, I visited the Kid.  It was raining and dark and BO claimed to have just ridden.  I could hear Skinny Guy munching away and Archie was staring expectantly at me.  Fortunately, I had my most recent batch of "horse treats" to sway him with.  I'm closer to a recipe, even though Skinny Guy still rejected them.  Archie scarfed them, even if they were baked too long and were brick hard.  So, anyways, BO said Arch was a royal shit while she was riding and was galloping back and forth between the pastures.  "Have you ever seen your horse gallop?"  Fucking kidding me?  I've ridden that gallop!  In Augusta, he was stuck in a small pasture by himself, but occasionally on days that I was feeding, I would turn him out in the huge front pasture.  I'll have to upload some of the videos I took of that.  The summer he was diagnosed with Anhydrosis, the only time he really got to run was a day when it was raining and I wasn't as worried about him dying.  I remember crying.

When I got home, I found the eaten boot.  I didn't cry, but the list of things that I need from SmartPak is getting exceedingly long.  Fortunately, when the fuck am I going to show again?  Tall boots can wait.  (I just had a brief period of lusting after the luxury of custom dead cow boots, but my cheap synthetic field boots will work just fine.)

Husband got home at about 8 pm, so I sat wrapping presents while kittens reeked havoc upon the household.  Okay, I was drinking the last of the rum, too.

The black blob is Savannah.

Living.

Yeah, I do take up twelve of the fifteen cubbies.