There is no getting around it: I was indoctrinated at a very young age. I was the baby, and I was the last chance mom had for early imprinting of equine addition (EIEA, pronounced EEEAAAAHHHH!!!)

Some people say that it's something you grow into or learn- that it can be cured, that it's a temptation or a lifestyle.  While my mother's imprinting certainly aided the illness, I can't help but feel that somehow, in someway, I was born this way.  
Ergo, my equine birthday tribute to my equine mother- the best kind of tribute.  

Mom, this shirt is wildly awesome, and if you still own it, you should still wear it. I think I have that hat now. Let me know when you want it back.  Little did you know then that I would steal the hat right off your head, did you?  Also, you look exactly the same. Gorgeous-like.  (also, don't be embarrassed, because I am totally about to embarrass me too, and then we're even.)
The horse that started it all. Mom won't mind that she is in this picture because a) her favorite horse is also in it and he looks so fit and muscled that it hurts and b) she is wearing that awesome fish clip that she designed, and that is totally en vogue now. 

So, these were the days that set me into motion. I went along to watch mom compete in her 25 mile endurance rides with Princey boy and played with my plastic horses all the while. the ball was rolling...

Which is why I had no qualms with being 11 and getting dressed up like this.  I loved this outfit, and was seriously eager to impress the Sanpete County 4H program.  It would be self indulgent to show you how many times that 4H outfit changed, but lets just say that mom and I had a ridiculously fun time doing it. (oh the DI sportscoats excursions and experiments with iron-on applique!)

What began as a hot mess ended with that awesome blue blazer and...oh, yeah you're not looking at me anymore? You're looking at that Shining Bay Sweetheart of Glory? me too.  Mom was so right about that horse.  She was the perfect friend for a young nutzo.

Which led to our next grandiose idea to get a thoroughbred that I could jump and do dressage with (that was kind of awesome.)

 And also included a stint on the longtime family horse in her sunset years-you were right about her too mom. What she did that year was absolutely heroic.   
And all these years later, we finally got a picture of us and our horses together. It wasn't until I was 25 and attempted this project that I realized that through all those years of my mom being at every lesson, every show, every pony club rally, every triumph and failure- I never took a picture with her. My mom turned her lifelong passion into the coolest thing a mom ever did for her daughter, and I'm finally old enough to appreciate that.  
Horses aren't just something we both love, or something for us to talk about. They, like her art, are the medium through which life is perceived and appreciated.  Talks about horses have almost always really been talks about life, triumph, failure, relationships, patience, and then once in awhile a story about how you ended up on your arse or how awesome it was when the tiniest donkey rage-attacked the worlds biggest mule.  

mom always has the guise of not taking herself too seriously while all the while you feel like you just learned something terribly important from that horse conversation. For all the horse conversations, thanks mommy, and Happy One More Year of Trail Rides.


The Evil Music Trifecta and Some Other Thoughts.

Usually, I listen to NPR on my drives around Salt Lake. If not NPR. the Ipod. But yesterday, I was in a real pickle.

You see, 90.1 (local NPR) is very informative, lots of good news and thoughts and some really terrible jazz music after 7pm.  But there is a show that comes on from 12-1 called Talk of the Nation.  If I can put my absolutely absurd idiosyncracies aside long enough, I can like Talk of the Nation.  People call in, they talk, they tell their stories.  It's great. often, their comments are triumphant or thoughtful or well composed. But, listening comes at a risk to me, because you never know when there might be one of those....awkward pauses.

Awkward Radio is a dirty word in my head.  It's the WORST CASE SCENARIO of public events to me. I can't explain why.  But when host Neal Conan says those fated words "You're on the air" and more than a fraction of a second goes by, that hum of dead radio air sends me into convulsions like microphone feedback at full blast. HE'S TALKING TO YOU.  TALK. TALK!  THE PEOPLE OF AMERICA ARE LISTENING TO YOU FAIL.

sometimes they finally come around and speak. sometimes they don't. when they do speak, they might say something good, or possibly something terrible. But by then, I've already twitched right into oncoming traffic and ended the silence myself with the sound of jutting metal and tires bouncing independently from their vehicles down 11th East and away from the wreckage. That properly summations my feelings on Awkward Radio. 

So as I was saying, yesterday I was confronted by awkward radio, and I chose to live, but to change the channel from NPR.  I didn't have my ipod, so I was stuck with whatever Utah had to offer me. 

[SCAN ONE]: Owl City.

(oh, if only your music WERE limited to children's birthday parties.)

 A horrible commercialized copy cat of Deathcab with lyrics that were SURELY written by a lifelong "professional" rabbit breeder high on cage cleaning products.  Not 1/100ths of a pause before hitting the scan button again.  When suddenly I am confronted by possibly the only band more putrid to mine ears than Owl City.

[SCAN 2] Plain White T's

Photo Caption: "Why yes, as a matter of fact, we ARE bored of our own music. Thank you for asking!"

oh, the Plain White Ts.  WHO ARE YOU, PLAIN WHITE T's??? Your music is saccharine and aimless, but just catchy and clean enough to be Utah's Darling. The musical love child of washed up rastafarianism and Donny Osmond, and therefore the most overplayed evil in the Beehive State.  For this, Plain White T's, you are banished from my traveling device.  

Surely it can't get worse than this. 


I hate you, Toby Keith.

It was around this point that I decided (and the radio agreed) that silence was best.


Feeling Fresh

Well, that didn't take long.

I've been utterly smitten with this photo that one of my parents (I'm not sure which, actually) took of the new mule at Pioneertown California. It's been my desktop for weeks now.  I love her shiny black coat, the loads of beautiful new leather on her, the hokey and fabulous background of Pioneertown.  It perfectly captured all the things I love about horses and the West.

This color scheme is one I more or less invented through the advance blogger modes- it reminds me of the picture below of the moldovan countryside, but it also reminds me of Washington DC, where neon was always adorning the gorgeous inner city teenagers- big cheap plastic neon bangles and hot pink skater shoes with skin tight jeans. I admit it, I thought they looked incredible. 

Really, all these things remind me of me. And your blog should always remind you of yourself, shouldn't it? Your cravings, your comfort colors, your favorite images and textures and shades.  It should inspire you to write more, and I think this does.  I hope you like it, and find it easy to navigate, and I hope you come back to visit a lot.

Thank you all for reading. It really means something to me.


white and nerdy

I suddenly have an insatiable desire to completely revamp this website. I love the map, but it looks dark and dingy. I love the horse, but it should be more dramatic. I love the corn dogs. that's not changing.

brace yourself for change.

Also, I miss Moldova. Because it looks like this:


Extra Extra! Read All About It! Girl Loses Mind in Cubicle!

Just now I was doing data entry on 4 bazillion records, and I got to a Mr. Snyder.  I giggled in my head, thinking "Can I get you anything Mr. Snyder? Good bye, Mr. Snyder" which of course is from Newsies, and of course isn't actually a funny scene. It's a rather sad scene.  Unless you're doing data entry, and then anything that makes you think of Newsies is going to be better than thinking about data entry, and will definitely be funny.

IsIt was about at this point in my train of thought that I snapped back to reality because I'd heard a voice- I'd heard somebody say "Mr. Snyda" with the accent. 

No, that wasn't somebody else, that was me.

I just said "Mr. Snyda" out loud in my cubicle for no apparent reason. And nobody said anything back. Awkward. Too late to cover, just have to go on like it never happened.