I. Can’t. Get. No…Status Traction (I Try, and I Try!)

The Rolling Stones…? Suits…? Can I be hallucinating?

And I thought this song was about designer athletic shoes….

Last Monday, I got wacked on the head. This turned out to be quite useful. Not in a concussion-y sort of way (That part sucks), but in an: “I know! Blogging with a concussion is a GREAT idea!” sort of way.

After declaring the ER doc incompetent (TWO WEEKS recovery? Is she nuts?  I’ll be fine in a couple of days), I set about dealing.  I lay there in the dark: no reading, no sound, no TV.  Nothing but me and my internal horseman’s alarm clock, which says I can recover from anything in 24 hours. 

I'll think about it tomrrow. (are we sure I'm not a drag queen?)

I’ll think about it tomorrow. (Are we sure I’m not a drag queen?)

 I do everything the doc says for the entire 24 hours.

Then I wobble out of bed, fling the curtains open, and..fall over, from the searing, blinding brightness of  a blackened, rainy sky at 6 am.  Luckily, the bed hasn’t moved. Shaun flings the curtains shut, shoves me under the covers and says, “Do NOT make me sit on you.”

I hit the snooze button on the “I’m Over It” clock. Doctors can be right? Who knew?

The reason I have a concussion isn’t all that important.  You know the drill: there was a horse nearby. The ground tilted up, ambushing me. A pipe corral panel leapt in and whacked me on the noggin.  I was not wearing a helmet, since I was not ON the horse. Strictly a ground-attacking me with a pipe sort of thing.

The good news: with friendly encouragement (you know who you are…Thank Youuuuu) and complete willingness to totally suck at blogging, here I am.  

Bonus: I get to see my brain on a concussion is pretty much the same as my brain off a concussion. (Minus the nausea.) Good to know. I’ve had some episodes of misreading stuff. Before I got bonked. 

Driving home from work, pre-concussion, I passed a dilapidated barn with a giant sign:

BRAIN SALE, Saturday 9-3. EVERYTHING MUST GO. 

Brain sale? Whoa. Creepy barn. Because I’m picturing this:

It's a brain sale!  Everything must go!

It’s a brain sale!  I could pick up a spare!

Another day, I stopped for coffee, and read bulletin board flyers while waiting in line.  This one caught my attention:

Local ATHEIST COMPETITION! Are you Atheist? Come join us in friendly competition. Many sections! All levels welcome! FREE!!

This is my non-concussed thought process:

  1. Atheists compete…?
  2. There are levels and classes of atheists?  Who knew? 
  3. What does an atheist competing look like? HOW do they compete…and why does this flyer make it sound fun and community oriented? 

Is this what an Atheist Competition looks like?

We had a time of high anxiety a few months ago.  Christmas was sick. We had to leave him at the vet for testing and observation.  Finally our vet called back: 

“I’m afraid your dog tested positive for pancakes.  We’re starting him on IV fluids right away”

I probably test positive for pancakes too...

I probably test positive for pancakes too…

Um. WHAT?!

(Christmas is fine, no need to worry.  Or send syrup.)

Then, post-concussion, I read this sentence in my blog spam:

“Remember, before going into the castle, you must knit every Zombie, or you will die.”

Uh. A video game in which you knit zombies…? Huh. Knitted zombies.  Could be cute?

Today, there was a news-ish post in my Facebook feed, with this headline: 

“Cinderella over time: tracking the glass spider through the centuries.”

Because everyone knows about Cinderella and the famous glass spider...

Because everyone knows about Cinderella, the prince, and the glass spider…

Much slower than I like to admit, I got some traction:

I’m sure by now all of you have figured out I passed a barn sale, saw a flyer for an athletic competition, our dog had pancreatitis, one tends to knife zombies in a video game, and Cinderella didn’t have spider issues. (That would be Miss Muppet.)

Forget the status, I just need traction.  I better get over to the brain sale.  

Anyone else want to come? We can listen to Bob Marley on the way over. I like a rousing human rights song about food shortage.  

Who knows all the words to Stand Up For Your Rice?

 

Hello My Name Is…

I have a pathological inability to remember people’s names the first time I hear them.

It’s like my brain has installed a panic button that overwrites the spoken name with static, while the person is still speaking.

I have zero chance of hearing the name, let alone remembering.

if you are a horse, dog, cat, goldfish, lizard, turtle or hamster, I will never forget your name. if you are a horse, not only will I know your barn name, I’ll probably know your six-foot long registered name too. I’m cursed with a strictly human name memory  malfunction. Unless you introduce yourself like this:

With the exception of this name.  I would totally remember this one.

Then, I will totally remember.

Awkward doesn’t begin to describe it when I coo over Bug the Pug – I’ve only seen photos of him on Facebook – but can’t remember my newly born niece’s name, a FAMILY member, that I’ve met, held, and delightedly played with for six hours….yesterday.

I try the memory tricks: creating an association based on fascinatingly long ear lobes or a strange rhyme. This is a particularly bad idea, as I discovered, after addressing “Ginny” as “Voddy” because she had a red nose and I remembered just enough to get in trouble: her name was something alcoholic and off beat.

Because there really are people in the world named Vodka, right?

Sundays were a relief: I figure I’m in church, so people will be forced to forgive me. Sort of goes with the territory. I can explain as we introduce ourselves: “I have trouble with names. I may need to hear yours a few times before it sticks, but I won’t forget YOU.  Welcome to our church.”

This worked pretty well. Turns out people are slightly more indulgent after a sermon on cheek turning.

Here is how that stopped working for me, and may have made the pastor request I stop greeting people. Which then may have been followed by a suggestion to hide near the back pillar. Or not come back.

In the desperate hope that writing a name down would help me remember, I volunteered to work the Label Table near the entrance. I’m feeling intoxicated by the feelings of petty bureaucratic power (I’m in charge of Magic Markers! “Hello My Name Is” tags!) when a woman I’ve never seen walks up.

Gah! Mayday, Mayday! 

The woman waves off my attempt to helpfully slap a HELLO MY NAME IS…in front of her. Mildly worried, I give my “I’m terrible with names, but I will remember your very special self.” spiel.

The woman assures me I absolutely won’t forget her name. Too distinctive. Which not only  slams my panic button, I become completely deaf and unable to hear the next few sentences out of her mouth. But I do manage to laugh appropriately when she does. I assume we laughed at how absurd it would be for me to forget her name.

Whatever it was.

Oh God. (In church. So counting this as a prayer.) Unless her name is “Bug” we have a problem. Did she have a squashed nose? I can’t remember.

No Jane, NOOooooooooo

No Jane, NOOooooooooo…

After the service, she wanders over during the coffee hour. I elbow my memory for her name. It ignores me, completely clueless, and continues contemplating how Amazing Grace would sound if sung by Elvis Presley. Oh hey, what if Metallica performed it?

Wait. is her name Grace?

I’m not going to chance it. I politely invoke my pre-emptive: “I might forget your name, but never you”.

She laughs heartily, as though I’ve just told the best joke ever. EVer. It’s the first time my pre-emptive strike hasn’t worked. Susan? Jill? Tanessha? VODKA? Oh lord, it must be Ginny. What do I DO?

She stops laughing abruptly, and stares at my face.

“But we laughed about it, remember?”, she says, quite hurt.

Of course I remember laughing. I was covering up the fact I couldn’t hear what she was saying.

“I’m so sorry”, I say, miserably, “remind me, please?”

She looks at me for a long time, certain I’m messing with her.

Finally, she turns to toss her paper cup away, and says with utter disbelief and disgust,
“Jane. My name is Jane. NOW do you remember?”

Because I’m me, I think I’m off the hook. Why on earth should I be expected to remember THAT name above all others? It’s not like she’s named Jesus or anything. Shoot, why should her name be familiar…it’s so unfair to expect…uh…um…

If only John Jacob had come in with her! I would have remembered. I swear.

Right. That’s my name too…

The other Jane is making a bee-line for the pastor.

I mentally cross off church number six.

We live near Temple Beth Ami.  I wonder how hard it would be to convert?

The Real Life Questions Jane Absolutely Positively WILL NOT ANSWER, NUH-UNH

This comes from a post-a-day prompt thoughtfully provided by WordPress.  What questions do I hope a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist NEVER asks me?

We all know Jane is never going to be interviewed by anyone other than a very obscure journal called: “Women Who Eat Too Much Sugar and The Horses Who Get Miffed By Rider Weight Gain”.

If she’s lucky.

This is what I don’t want you to know.

      1. Do you have an imaginary friend?
      2. What is on your bucket list?
      3. How many times did you lie to your mother about her Mother’s Day Card already being mailed?

Questions I wish someone would ask me:

  1. Where do you see Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys heading?
  2. Would you like the rest of this cake?
  3. How many bugs would you say were in your childhood?

What the heck.  Let’s go for it.

1. Do you have an imaginary friend?

No. I do not have an imaginary friend. But really, we should let Sir Doodelus and Lady Cramplebug weigh in on that. They have a problematic love child that is a cross between a green beetle and…something glittery…who is in a completely unsuitable relationship with a hairy bumblebee named Ferdinand. Their lives are complicated and involve way more drama than I am comfortable with.

2.  What is on your bucket list?

“Bucket List” makes people think of Zip Lines, and Jumping Out of Airplanes, and traveling to Obscure Countries without proper inoculation. I am not a “Bucket List” person.  I find movies terrifying. My brain understands my body is just sitting in a room watching light flicker, but my soul is certain I will die a horrible death when that car being riddled by bullets from a semi-automatic sails over the guard rail, bursts into flame, and plunges 1000 feet down into a gorge, end over end.

Not that I’ve thought about it.

Fine. I’ll go over the guard rail. The Bucket List:

1. Reading with Goats.

#1 on the bucket list: Reading With Goats

#1 on the bucket list: Reading With Goats

This is Jane’s speed. That pink blob is the neighbor sitting out in her field, reading with her goats. While we don’t appreciate Goat Trees, we do love to see our neighbor reading in the sun, surrounded by happy goats.  This is the back of the neighbor’s home. The properties abut. If the neighbor wasn’t some complicated distance away off another road and a couple zillion random driveways, Jane would have already knocked and asked if she could come read with their goats. And we wouldn’t be hearing from her, because she’d be locked up some where.

2. Listen at least 100 more times to David Sedaris reading his story “Jesus Shaves.”

Hahahahahahahahahahah…oh…you’re back….

3. Spend even more quality time with certain friends:

My friend, Rock.

My friend, Rock.

4. Explore my Native American Heritage.

Honeymoon 2008 072

I found this three-story, paper mache example of a Native American in Idaho. Rock was there too.

Being a Native American is hilarious.  We tilt-ily rode lime green dinosaurs, without a saddle or bridle. Who knew?

5. Keep My Horse Off Twitter

This is turning out to be surprisingly difficult.

6. Hoard, I mean “Rescue” a bunch of these guys.

Twenty eight inches at the withers. Totally would fit in the car seat.

Twenty eight inches at the withers. Totally would fit in the car seat .

And look, he clips!

So adorable.  A teeny tiny buckskin.  With manners!

So adorable. A teeny tiny buckskin. With manners!

Enough of the Bucket List.

3. How many times did you lie to your mother about her Mother’s Day Card already being mailed?

Too complicated.  I’d have to do the math. How old I was when I started mailing Mother’s Day Cards times the guilt factor (Number of times I repeated, “No really, it should be there by now!”) minus the times I didn’t even pretend I’d mailed it on time.

Waaaay too complicated.

What are the questions you ARE NOT GOING TO ANSWER?

The Unusual Fruit Tree

This is no ordinary willow tree.

We’ve ridden past this tree every single day without incident.  But I know now that was because it’s fruit take a loooong time to ripen. A year maybe.

The Goat Tree

The horrific sound of ripe fruit falling to the ground is enough to scare the boldest horse into an early grave.

The reason we have the tilty, blurry photo of the sinister tree: I was taking the picture while Hudson was in the first phase of a cow horse one-foot spin and bolt. Or, if we prefer in dressage lingo, a pirouette at the hand-gallop.

Hudson warns of tree danger

Jane. Something is Wrong with that tree. I’m SO outta here. You are taking a PICTURE?!? HANG ON.

Something WAS wrong. The tree looked like one half was attacking the other half.  There were a lot of branches bending, bobbing, whipping up, wildly thrashing…this was one heck of a freaked out tree.

I got off Hudson and we walked cautiously back. The tree stopped moving.

Uh, trees do not stop thrashing around when they hear hooves. I suddenly realized no breeze had made it thrash around in the first place. The air was utterly still.  

Cue spooky music. Forget Hudson. I was ready to jump out of my skin.

I get back on, we tiptoe past the tree, which remains perfectly still. Hudson’s ears swivel back questioningly: What the heck was that all about? 

I pat him on the shoulder: Don’t know.  You sure were good though, thanks.

I can feel his mental shrug, and we go to work in the arena.  Once he’s done for the day, and settled back into his paddock with The Worlds Largest Happy Meal, I walk back to the access road. I want to see if I was part of a mass hallucination, or the tree is perfectly ordinary.

It’s not. The willow is wildly attacking itself.  Is there a gap in the time/space continuum here? Did we fall through a worm hole?  Other than tree noises, there are no sounds.  No children are playing in the greenery.

Suddenly, a large roundish white thing falls out of the tree with a loud thud. Bizarre fruit? Branches tremble above where it landed. The tall grass rustles and I hear the unmistakable sound of tiny hooves scrambling as a small white goat launches itself back into the branches.  A second later, a gray round thing falls out, scrambles, and leaps back into the tree to continue play fighting.

An hour later, I see a herd of little goats quietly grazing in the tall grass near the tree. The willow was able to completely camouflage 15  tumbling, rambunctious goats.

A Goat Tree. I love my life.

I told Hudson goats grow on trees.  And that our Goat Tree had fruit just about ripe enough to start falling to the ground, and goats being goats, they thrash.

He gave me a dubious look.

“Could be worse?”, I say. “They could have planted llamas.”

Carrot Cake For Everyone!

Happy Birthday, Hudson!

Best. Carrot. Cake. EVer.

I want to grow frosting carrots. My kind of vegetable. You can make this carrot cake! Instructions and drool-worthy blog, here.

Hudson got a cell phone for his birthday.  After our Colic Camping episode, I wanted him to be able to get ahold of me immediately.  This is how parents end up giving iPhones to a kindergartener, isn’t it?

He hasn’t come to terms with the fact he already HAS his present.

STAFF?!?

spirit killer

 

Hudson on the road

Happy 25th birthday, Hudson.

love,

Jane