Monthly Archives: February 2010

Bobby Sox’s Little Siesta

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Many years ago I was a Wrangler up on a timeshare.

It was a very hot summer day and I was in charge of the arena rides for the children who were too young to go out on the trail rides. For this particular ranch you had to be at least 12 years old to go on one of the guided trail rides up in the mountains.

Those that were too young often signed up for the arena rides.None of the wranglers wanted to get stuck with the arena rides.

The trail rides consisted of picking your way across whatever trail you felt like blazing, listening to the sound of the wind in the trees, crossing streams and flowery meadows, enjoying the flickering shade of the Ponderosa pines.

The arena rides, on the other hand, were a complete misery. No matter how long you dawdled in the shaded saddling area while loading up about 4-5 hyperactive children onto the ranch’s oldest horses, eventually you had to grab the lead horse by the halter and drag it out into the baking sun.

It was pretty much that appealing.

There really wasn’t that much difference between an arena ride and a pony ride, except for the size of the horse and the size of the riding area. Before leading the children out into the arena the wrangler was supposed to explain the basics of horseback riding (pull left, pull right, pull back, no kicking, no screaming).

It didn’t really matter, though.

The horses knew their jobs better than any of us did, and I’m pretty sure they hated it just as much. Parrot, Limpy, Pointer, Moe, Raymond, Rock, Drifter, Tarzan… the twenty-odd horses that were part of the string may have had individual personalities but the second they stepped foot onto that baking sand they parked their nose behind another horse’s butt and turned off their brains. Regardless of what the children did they would maintain their slow, steady pace. The only time the kids got the chance to be anything more than a complete passenger was near the gate. By the corner of the gate there was a large tree, and this tree had graciously stretched a single branch over into the arena.

It wasn’t much shade, but it was all we had. The horses and I would crowd around it, sweating and grumpy, all vying for our turn in that magical, narrow strip of shade.

“Kick the horse and pull his nose around,” I would say listlessly, annoyed that I had to actually open my mouth and say words. Talking made it hotter.

Little Timmy would earnestly begin flapping his pathetically scrawny legs against the side of the horse.

The horse, of course, would ignore him.

“Kick harder,” I’d say. “Pretend he’s your little brother or something.”

“But I don’t have a little brother!” Little Timmy would say, giggling. Of course, being a child it was impossible for him to talk and pull on the reins at the same time, so the horse continued edging closer to me and MY SHADE.

“Then pretend he’s someone you don’t like. I don’t care who. Just make him move.”

Little Timmy would obediently begin tapping his legs against the horse. Again, he’d be completely ignored. When you weigh forty-five pounds and you’re already doing the splits, your horse-kicking abilities are kind of useless.

“Go away,” I’d say moodily to the horse, who by this time was crowding me in my precious shade, heating up my personal bubble with his sticky, hot breath.

The horse would move off. When you’re 170 pounds and have firmly established your superiority in the past, you don’t really need horse-kicking abilities.

I’d reclaim my spot in silence, sweat collecting and dripping down the front of bra, doing my best to discretely peel my hot, polyester granny-panties away from my bum and let in some air.

Little Susie’s horse would round the corner, picking up its pace as it saw me, and the process would begin again.

Arena rides were just shy of AN HOUR LONG. I’d like to slap the person who came up with that time frame.

One of the horses that we had that first summer was a cute little chestnut named Bobby Sox. Deep coppery red, 14.3 hh with a pleasant expression topped by pony-sized ears, a big blaze and four white socks, he was remarkably attractive for a string horse. I never got the chance to know him all that well, mostly because I never tried. It may be juvenile of me, but I resented him for trying to take kill me the first time I really interacted with him. After injuring himself on the trailer, Bobby Sox had been in “isolation” in a private stall for the first few weeks he’d been with us. We’d cleaned and fed him but hadn’t messed around with him until his knee had finished healing. As the season was about to kick off, I decided to hop up on him and see what kind of horse was hiding behind that fancy packaging. Into his stall I went with a halter. Three seconds later I was lunging over the top of the fence, only a few feet in front of angry, violent, charging horse.

The second I was out of his pen, his murderous expression instantly rearranged back into his normally friendly facade and he wandered back to the front of his stall.

I put my hand on the gate, warily opening it. Bobby Sox flicked a glance at me, then looked away in disinterest.

My hand holding the halter came into view as I slipped inside, and Bobby Sox immediately pinned his ears and began to rush me. This time I was ready for him and I swung the halter over my head with a violent shout, giving him a good one as the heavy halter whacked him across the face. He snorted and spun, and I followed it up by chasing him around the stall a couple of times, making certain he really understood where I was coming from. It may not have been the most trainer-approved method of getting things done, but it worked for me. I slipped on his halter and brought him out to the tie rail, and then radioed my boss. The string horses we were supposed to get where SUPPOSEDLY kid-safe and people friendly. Bobby Sox had proven to be anything but that. We called up the people we were leasing him from and got the low-down.

To make a long story short, it turns out that Bobby Sox was actually VERY kid-safe and VERY people friendly. He was just low man on the totem pole in the herd and had also never been in a stall before. Having the freedom to eat his hay whenever he wanted and however he wanted wasn’t a luxury he was ready to give up, so when I came in with a halter he did his darndest to keep that from happening. Once we turned him back out with he herd he immediately settled right in, and soon became a staff favorite.

Except for me. After watching him try to turn me into minced-Becky I never really trusted him.

Still, I knew that he was a perfect babysitter for the arena rides, so I usually ended up requesting him whenever it was my turn to run the arena. On the day in question I had used him 3 times in a row. This meant that except for a 20 minute water break in between rides, Bobby Sox had been plodding in a near-comatose state around the arena for almost 3 hours.

I was drifting off in a day dream (probably thinking about ice cream, or cold Dr. Peppers, or swimming in a cold pool) when I heard a sudden scream from one of the kids. Usually the screams were preceded by the sound of horse hooves— if one of the horses did end up spooking at something, it would usually try to take advantage of the confusion by trotting back to the gate and MY shade, which would inevitably prompt screaming from whatever kid was bouncing around on top. This time, however, I hadn’t heard a sound. It took a second for me to see what was going on, but finally I zeroed in. Bobby Sox’s knees were trembling, and he was slowly sinking down to roll in the sand. This wasn’t the first time one of the horses tried to roll with a kid on them. Every once in a long while one of the horses would surprise us by doing this.

“KICK FREE OF YOUR STIRRUPS AND JUMP OFF!” I ran towards the two of them, visions of squished kid and lawsuits dancing before my eyes.

Naturally, the kid did not kick free, but clung to the saddle horn frozen in horror.

Bobby Sox dropped to the ground with a grunt, thankfully pausing before he flopped over. I reached them in time, grabbing the kid by the back of his shirt and hauling him up off the horse.

Bobby Sox groaned long and deep.

The other kids in the arena ride began to clamor in high pitched, shrill voices. “What’s wrong with that horse? What’s wrong with him?! Is he sick? Is he dying? What’s wrong with him? I want down! Get me down! Is he dying?”

And then Bobby Sox did something I really didn’t expect.

Instead of rolling completely over and thrashing/scratching himself in the arena sand, he groaned even deeper, lay his head flat against the sand, and closed his eyes.

I stared at him in disbelief. Was he asleep?

“Is he dead? HE’S DEAD! WHAT’S WRONG WITH HIM?!”

I walked carefully over to Bobby Sox. Most horses who don’t know you will jump up if you approach them while they’re laying down.

Bobby Sox was not most horses. Not only did he not jump up, he didn’t even bother to open his eyes.

“He’s just sleeping guys. He’s fine. Don’t worry. Watch, I’ll wake him up!” I said in a falsely cheerful voice. I kicked a little sand onto his red belly, expecting an explosion.

Nothing.

I kicked a little more sand onto his belly, watching his closed eyelids.

Still nothing. His breathing was deep and even.

“Is he sick? Why isn’t he waking up?! I want down!”

Annoyed, I reached down and grabbed his reins, tugging slightly.

He stayed motionless, but I swear I saw him close his eyes even tighter.

“HEY!” I said loudly, popping him in the mouth with the reins. I mean, after all— I couldn’t have him learning that it was okay to just roll over on kids whenever he felt like it.

Nothing.

“I SAID HEY!” I popped him again, kicking sand on his belly at the same time.

Bobby Sox opened his eyes briefly, glanced at me furtively, then slammed them shut again.

Annoyed that I had to do this in front of the kids, I gave him a little kick in the belly. He grunted and raised his head, gave me a very nasty look, and then lowered it back to the sand.

“Don’t kick him! Why are you kicking him?!?! He’s sick! Leave him alone!” Shrill voices became even shriller. I didn’t even bother explaining it to them. Don’t mind me, kiddies. I’m just your neighborhood horse abuser.

Enough was enough. “GET UP!!!” I hollered, slamming my foot into his belly. With a sullen grunt, Bobby Sox slowly clambered to his feet, shaking off the sand sticking to his wet hide. He shot me a grumpy look, looking for all the world like a teenager being forced to wake up early on a Saturday.

Ignoring the angry, anguished cries of the other riders I turned to the distraught kid by my side, and smiled widely, trying to seem comforting and cheerful. “Upsy-daisy! Time to get back on!” Time to get back on your lazy, stubborn horse. Yaaay!

Stupid Bobby Sox. I never used him again in one of my arena rides. Trying to explain to a dozen concerned parents why you were kicking/abusing injured animals was not something I wanted to do more than once. Seriously, though— what a weird, quirky little horse. I wonder what he’s up to today.

Adventures in Nakedness

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I have a job.

I have a job, and I’ve joined a gym.

I have a job, and I’ve joined a gym, I’ve started working out, and now I can never go back.

Why?

I can’t go back because I’m scared that I’m going to run into the lady that I bumped into butt-naked.

She wasn’t butt-naked— that might have made it okay.

Oh, no.

She was fully clothed, wearing a prim little turtleneck and a classy pair of pants and expensive-looking heels that probably cost more than I make in a week.

*I*, however, was not wearing a stitch, and I think the sight of my flabby bits swinging wildly about in the gym bathroom breeze has traumatized us both.

For those of you who don’t know, there is a place in California known as Newport Beach. Newport Beach is the one place that I know of that is JUST as bad as they show it in the movies. The men and women stroll around in disgustingly expensive clothes, complimenting each other on their recently botoxed faces and daydreaming about buying another new little BMW. After all, their BMW sedan is for the weekdays. They need a sexy little BMW roadster for the weekends… something that matches their eyes… Oooh! Is that a wrinkle? OMG. It is. Quick! Call up the dermatologist for an emergency facial!

The other day, while turning into the parking lot of my work, I made a mental note of the line of cars in front of and behind me (including mine.) It went like this:


Oh, you think I’m overexaggerating, don’t you? Well, how about this: I went to a bridal show in Newport Beach last weekend. They were giving away door prizes.

Do you know what one of the criteria for winning a door prize was?

You had to be carrying a Louis Vuitton purse (Not one of those cheesy knockoffs, sneered the man with the microphone) and within this Louis Vuitton purse you had to have your pink cell phone.

The reason they asked for a pink cell phone was because when they called out for someone in the audience who was carrying a Louis Vuitton purse, five heavily makeup-ed women all squealed in excitement and lifted their well-manicured hands. They all had makeup bags, and they all had cell phones.

Thankfully for my sanity, only one of them had a pink cell phone. I was getting ready to hock a loogie in the aisle, just to help balance things out. After all, Louis Vuitton purses + Big shiny glob of spit = Normalcy. I’m sure I read that somewhere.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. The gym.

So, anyways, I have a new job. I’m actually pretty happy with my new job, as far as jobs go. I’ll tell everyone all about it at a later date, because I want to talk about me and my naked, jiggly bits.

Less than a mile from this job is a 24 Hour Fitness. Now that we are no longer living hand-to-mouth, I immediately went over there and signed up for a trial membership.

Unfortunately, this gym is located in an area called Fashion Island.

It kind of sucks that the gym that’s closest to me is located there. When the gym guy took me on a tour there was not one single chubby person in the entire facilities. The people wh0 work out there are so in shape they do exercises to modify their exercises in order to make them burn more. I walked right by a skinny little blonde doing squats and lunges WHILE ON THE STAIRMASTER. YOU HEARD ME. SHE WAS ON THE STAIRMASTER, AND IT WASN’T HARD ENOUGH FOR HER, SO SHE WAS DOING SQUATS, LUNGES, AND KNEE BENDS WHILE CLIMBING THE STAIRS.

Once I got over my frustration and embarrassment at being the fattest person in a 10 mile radius, I realized I could wake up early and do the 6am workout class and still have time to get to work. It sounded fantastic.

So I did it. Day One was great. I hadn’t worked out in ages, and it felt fantastic to feel my muscles stretch.

Day Two was a physically harder because of all my sore muscles, but I felt like I was getting a rhythm down. I showered and went to work, feeling all smug. I worked out. TWO DAYS IN A ROW. I should be on the front of a fitness magazine!

Day Three, thankfully, was an easy class— yoga.

Now, yoga isn’t easy for most people, because they can actually do some of the poses. I, otherwise known as The-Least-Flexible-Woman-on-Earth, can’t even come close. So I don’t even really try. I mean, if I can’t touch my toes under normal circumstances, why should I bother struggling to wrap my leg twice around my head while feeling my inner chakra sink down to the ground, or whatever nonsense it is that they talk about?

Eh.

I just go along with the motions, and do my best to try and touch my toes now and again, and otherwise ruin the whole idea of Yoga. But it’s fun, and I figured that if I finished the class I could feel REALLY smug about myself for having worked out 3 days in a row.

Then, somewhere in the middle of “Downward Dog” (also known as “My Big Fat Butt is Pointing in the Air and I Am Staring Through My Bent Knees”) I felt it happen.

IT.

You know. It.

Taking Carrie to the Prom.

Rebooting the Old Ovarian System.

Yeah, THAT.

Sometimes Aunt Flo comes quietly and surprises you.

Sometimes she doesn’t.

Sometimes she bursts out of her little Uterus closet like she’s trying to impress you.

TA-DA!!!!! I’M HEEERE! HI! HIHIHIHI! LOOK WHAT I CAN DO! I CAN MAKE YOU LOOK LIKE YOU JUST SLAUGHTERED A RABBIT IN THE TOILET BOWL!

This was not one of Aunt Flo’s more bashful entrances.

Mortified, I did the best I could to get through the end of class, then dashed off to the locker room.

That’s when I realized I had forgotten my towel.

Oh, yes, Wonder Woman. I did.

Frustrated beyond belief, but unable to face the thought of an eight hour day without showering, I did what everyone self-respecting woman does.

I decided to figure it out when I got out of the shower. (This should prove, beyond all doubt, that I am the world’s best/worst procrastinator.)

Unfortunately, showers don’t last forever. I finally decided that what I could do was wait for the locker room to be somewhat empty, grab my clothes and dash into an empty bathroom stall and dry off with my sweatshirt. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it was better than none.

And it would have worked, too, if I hadn’t rounded the corner too fast and slammed straight into Mrs. Classy Newport Woman.

I swear, if I deliberately threw everything that I had been carrying in my arms it couldn’t have gone any further. I didn’t just drop everything I was carrying. Nope. When I slammed into Mrs. Classy and almost knocked her off her feet, everything exploded out of my arms like it was mimicking an atomic reaction.

“Oh, I’m so sorr– OH!” Good breeding failed Mrs. Classy as she took stock of my very, very naked state. After all, naked people are supposed to stay in the Naked People section of the locker room. They’re not supposed to be crashing into people in the Fully Clothed section of the bathroom.

Naturally, in order to try to cover up the fact that I was completely naked, and on my period, and about 412 pounds fatter than this woman had ever been in her entire life, and also naked (did I mention I was naked?) I began to talk. I couldn’t seem to make myself shut up.

“Oh, hi! Hi, there. Oops! Sorry about that! Haha. And here, I am naked. Not wearing anything. Figures. Haha! I wouldn’t have bumped into you, except that I’m not wearing any clothes. Ha. Haha.” As I was rambling, I was desperately trying to gather up the 857 items that had exploded out of my arms. To her credit, Mrs. Classy was also helping me collect shoes, and bras, and tampons, and other embarassing items (probably in an attempt to avoid looking at my flapping boobies.)

“It’s Murphy’s law, you know. Haha. If you’re nude you have to bump into someone. Ha. I mean, I’m not wearing anything except for my birthday suit. Haha.”

I swear, in the course of that longest 15 seconds of my life, I said every single synonym for NAKED I possibly could. I mean, COME ON. Did I really have to say it that many times? I’m pretty sure she noticed that I was COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY NAKED.

The worst part was trying to figure out how to pick up the things on the floor. Do I bend forward and employ the Downward Dog technique? Do I squat? Which would be considered less vulgar? It kind of sucks that they don’t write Dear Abby columns to help out people like me. I mean, who cares which fork goes where? I have REAL ISSUES!

At any rate, I finally made it into the bathroom. I sat there for almost ten minutes, crouched on a toilet, miserably drying off and waiting for my blush to fade.

So you can see why I can’t go back, right?