Another one of my hair brained ideas...

Sometimes it's just better to laugh at yourself. I gave myself an opportunity to do just that this weekend. It's laugh or cry... so I choose to laugh.

I feel the need to give you some background before I tell you the funny stuff. When I was young my hair was blond, the older I got the darker it became. So when I was about twenty I started to dye it a lighter blond color.

I continued dying my hair until I got pregnant with my son. My hair grew fast while I was pregnant so it didn't take long for the dyed part to grow out. I was left with my mousy brown color and I didn't really like it at all but I was too busy with a new baby and I didn't have time to deal with hair color.

When my son was four months old we moved into the country, with well water, iron laden well water. My hair started to have a weird metallic reddish orangish color to it. I hated it even more, so I tried a little lighter shade of dye on it. That was a bad idea, it turned more orange tinged. I used special shampoos but they didn't completely remove the color produced by the iron. I gave up and resigned myself to being mousy brown, reddish orangish for as long as I lived here.

Then a few months ago we had a water filter system installed. Hallelujah! My sinks, tubs and toilets where no longer stained an icky rust color. My hair also improved, but it still wasn't what I really wanted.

I wanted highlights.

I wanted shiny pretty hair.

So Friday night I picked up a do it yourself highlight kit from the store.

It looked so simple on that box, it said to mix, apply and wait.

Easy smeazy... I could do that. Plus I am so frugal (cheap) I would be saving so much money by doing it myself.

As I began applying I had a bad feeling. This wasn't so easy to apply. It wasn't going on as smoothly as I thought.

Oh it's ok I told myself. It will be fine.

I set the timer and waited, my husband and child looked at me uneasily.

When the time was right I rinsed it out. I looked in the mirror. Hmmmm maybe when I dry it it will look ok.

As I dried my hair, it became very clear that I did not have even highlights.

I did not achieve the desired effect.

I was not going for the cheetah or leopard splotchy look that I now had.

Ok.. panic was setting in... crap I can't go out like this. Maybe it's not THAT bad.

I call for hubby to take a look.

I can tell by the look on his face that it's WORSE than I thought.

"Ummm it's not really even" he stammered.

Oh great, just great.

"Why don't you call the salon and have them fix it" he suggests.

"I don't want to spend that much money on my stupid hair!" I protest.. dang it, why am I so cheap??

"I'll pay for it" He insists.

Oh Crap, it's worse than I thought.. he now wants it fixed so bad that he is going to pay for it.

"I'm too embarrassed to go in there!" I cry... but I know I have too. It's that or wear a hat until it grows out.

I called the salon "So is there anyone available to fix a home highlight job gone terribly wrong?"

I must have sounded really desperate and sad or they must have wanted a good laugh at my expense because they squeezed me in even though they were booked.

I was lucky enough to get someone who loves to do highlights and she fixed it.

I'm still getting used to it, the highlights are a little lighter than I had wanted but that's my own dang fault. The hair dresser now has a client for life.

Here is the result, the color is actually a little different than the pictures but I'm not going to take anymore pictures of myself today!

Speaking of horses... Part two

So back to my dilemma.

I am a planner.

There I said it, I admit it. I am not a spontaneous purchase kind of gal. I have to research things. I have to spend hours, weeks, ok sometimes years of research before I buy a big purchase. I take owning another living thing very seriously.

I am also very frugal.
I know, don't I sound like a fun person to be around?

I shop all the clearance racks. I can't stand feeling like I paid to much for something.

So I have agonized for years over purchasing a horse of my own again.

At first my excuse was that I lived in town and I didn't want to board a horse in a stall.

What kind of life is that for a large animal day after day?

Then when I moved to the country and had room for a horse my excuse was that I have a tiny baby to take care of. I couldn't spend enough time with a horse.

I'm not naive, horses can be very expensive. I have researched how much hay one would need in a year. How much veterinarians cost and the cost of a farrier.

I realize how much time they take, they need brushed, ridden and their stalls cleaned every day.

So after all of that thinking I have calculated that I can afford a horse. That I am home often enough to pay it the attention it deserves. So what is holding me back?

I'm not sure, and that is my dilemma.

What makes me so hesitant? Is it that I have a hard time with commitment?

My husband thinks that I should start out small and buy Bug a pony.

The only problem.... what exactly does that do for me and my desire to ride a horse?

I've also been saving for an awesome new lens for my camera. A horse would really set back my photography fund.

I find myself checking Craigslist several times a day for that perfect horse. I think I'm a woman obsessed.

Speaking of horses... Part One

I mentioned in last weeks post that I am thinking of taking up horse back riding again. Well I never really gave it up altogether, however not having a horse of my own makes it harder to do on a regular basis.

Someone in my family has always owned a horse, well at least as long as I can remember.

Here is a picture of my dads horse, Babe. I think she was a draft, quarter cross. She was terribly bumpy to ride.

When I was a little girl all of the pictures I drew where of horses, and trophies and ribbons.

My stepfather owned cutting horses. Here he is on his horse Fritzy.

When he died, I inherited Fritzy. Her registered name was Ritzy Fritzy Kate. I could go into the field and just jump on her back. She would just stand there, she was like a baby sitter.

Once I was riding her bareback up a hill, it was steep and I slid right off the back of her. She stopped and stared at me with a "What are you doing down there?" look. She just waited until I got up and jumped back on her.

I took her to a couple Western pleasure shows and did ok for a novice. I think I got two thirds and a fourth place. Don't laugh at my dorky attire... ok go ahead I did when I looked at it.

When I moved in with my dad at fourteen my mom sold her. I had moved on to other non-horse teenage girl things and she didn't get the attention she needed. Mom and I have always regretted doing that.

My love of horses never ended, my mom still had horses and I would go to her house to ride. Here I am on Dawn, she was a Tennessee walking horse.

Then my mom moved across the state, an eight hour drive away. I only get over there once a year, if that much. So riding with her has not been an option.

After she moved I was newly married and busy with my new life, I always told my husband I wanted a horse, but I wanted a baby more. So once I became pregnant, horses left my mind.

When my son was four months old we moved from town into the country and onto five acres.

I soon met my neighbor up the hill who has five horses and has called me several times to ride.

Here are some pictures from the last time I was at my moms house. I'm riding Junior, he is a very large Tennessee Walking horse.

Bug was very excited to get on him, but once he was up there he was very nervous.

I tried to take a ride down the road, but my darn dachshund kept following me. He was not silent about it either. He barked the whole time!

Isn't that an impressive horse? He is huge, but very sweet.

Here is my moms pride and joy Ben. He is also a Walker.

Here is Skeeter, the old hag. I remember when she was born, about twenty five years ago. She is very cranky.

Here is Pumpernickel the spotted mule. I can't leave her out, she is Bugs favorite.

We have had more horses over the years than I can count.

Tune in next time while I detail my delima.. I know your waiting with baited breath!

The end of a hobby

My husband and I had one hobby we shared. I'm more of a nature girl, you know horse back riding, nature photography, and hiking. He is more of a motor head, race cars, four wheelers and such. Our second date was riding four wheelers at the sand dunes on the coast.


We sold that four wheeler to buy our first house eleven years ago.

Three years ago when he suggested we buy two more I was ok with it. I wanted to find a common interest that we would both be into and I always loved going fast.
I got a nice white and purple Suzuki, it was mine, all mine and I loved it.

I loved going fast and jumping. I could keep up with the boys.

Now, I understood how dangerous it could be.

But I chose to take a calculated risk. I figured I was cautious and therefore I would be safe.
My boy loved riding too, he wanted his own someday. I was ok with that too, this was a family affair, we would all be into this sport.

Then this last July a very dear friend of mine. Someone who was just like me, kept up with the boys, but cautious and good at riding. She nearly lost her life when she crashed. She had more surgeries than I can count, and I'll never forget the look on her husbands face when he told us.
"I looked at my three month old baby and thought, no he can't be without his mom"

I thought about my own boy and then about my "calculated"risk.

I couldn't get on that four wheeler again. I couldn't risk it, I didn't want my son to grow up risking it either.


So this month we sold our quads and their trailer. I'm on to other hobbies, maybe I'll take up horseback riding again, or maybe I'll just stick to photography.

A babe in the woods

About a year and a half ago my mom wrote a paper for a college course she was taking. The subject was the experience of my birth. At the time she wrote it, I didn't want to read it. It was too personal for me, it brought up emotions I didn't want to deal with at the time.
This past month I finally asked my mom if I could read it. I am so glad that I did, it is a beautiful story.
To set the scene, it was the seventies. My parents and older brother lived in the woods, in a primitive shelter. There was no running water or electricity.
So here is the beginning of my story... Thanks mom for letting me share it.

The hot sun and heat of this summer remind me of the year my daughter was born, thirty two years ago. I have often thought there may be an invisible map which leads each of us through a series of defining experiences. In retrospect, few would plan a life centered on the primitive conditions in which I lived that long, hot summer.
August in the western United States is a time of dryness, the blackberries are ripening and the hot afternoons are still, even the birds are quiet. The last weeks of my pregnancy were spent in days of collecting water in white plastic buckets, which I covered with cloth, protecting my precious water from dust and bugs. I walked dusty paths worn along the forested hillside to gather firewood. Later in the day I would walk still further down the hill to pick blackberries, a small treasure of sweetness and sugar in an otherwise unvaried diet of rice, potatoes and venison. My four year old son usually ran ahead on the path excited about the prospect of playing in small stream at the bottom of the hill. In a backpack I carried some yarn for crocheting, a few worn books for my son, and a bar of Ivory soap which I used to wash ourselves in the stream. I felt large and ungainly in those last weeks, burdened by the heat and the pants I wore which fell uncomfortably below my stomach. There was a dog named Belle, a small Redbone hound that snuffled in the brush and leaves while her long ears fell along her nose.
Two days before the birth I felt lethargic and quit walking the long arduous trip down the hill, and stayed close to the rough structure we called home. The round fir poles and hands split cedar shakes, which protected us from wind and rain, was open to a vista of trees and the morning sun. That was my summer home, high on a hill where my child would be born under a ceiling of sky.
I obsessively poured bleach on the wooden plank that was my kitchen counter, a futile attempt at protecting me from the unknown of a birth in primitive surroundings. I had the pathetically simple preparation of clean sheets in the rugged atmosphere we lived. During the hot afternoon, I read the story my son loved, about a dog named Spike that was sprayed by a skunk and later washed in tomato juice to clean him. We often enjoyed a blackberry milkshake, goat milk, blackberries and sugar. That small luxury tasted as sweet as ice cream to us.
I had few close friends at the time and although they were supportive of me they were concerned about my choices. “You could die up there,” one friend commented. While I knew this was true and in fact quietly thought of the dangers, my days flowed one into another so easily, I simply lived day to day in an ancient rhythm. Two days before the actual birth a friend Carol arrived with her daughter. I felt a need to have another woman near me; maybe I felt her presence would help me, even though she knew less than I about childbirth in such primitive circumstances. “God you are huge, are you scared?” I do not recall my exact reply; however I am certain I answered with bravado. I was young and relied on youth and naiveté at the time. “Where exactly are you going to deliver?” she asked, as she looked dubiously at my surroundings. “Ah…well, right here,” I replied, pointing to a bed made of wooden planks which had been built some four feet off the ground. Our conversation about the birth ended there. She would not wound me with comments that could cause either of us more worry.
The night I was awakened with the contractions foretelling childbirth and I woke Carol and Ron the baby’s father. “I think I am in labor, probably be awhile.” However the labor intensified quickly and it was soon hard to discern the end of one contraction and the beginning of another. Nine months of walking up and down the forested hills seemed to have prepared my body for a quick, hard labor. Ron did what people have done for centuries, building a fire against the morning’s chill and setting a large pan of water to boil on an open fire. I recall looking at the night sky with the dog Belle lying near the fire, the night stars fading into a morning sky. There was not a clock available to know the exact time of birth but judging from the time of year and the light, my little girl was born about five in the morning. We had spoken little but laughed at my statement in the middle of labor, “I can't do this”
In the following days as summer slowly slid into autumn I walked that hill again and again, with two children. My tiny daughter in a pack, held close to my heart. She seemed terribly vulnerable in that large rough world. Much of the day was spent in cleaning clothes, diapers and in the constant ritual of feeding my son and daughter. We spent one more winter in that ripple of time; it is a blur in my memory. The strenuous work of caring for two children and keeping us warm and dry required my constant vigilance.
As my son grew older I recognized his need for interaction beyond that small world. We moved the next summer to a tiny community near the coast. One of the last one room schools in the state, and I would be closer to a store. How very civilized that seemed at the time.
In the years to follow as my children grew, we moved again to a rural town with even more accessibility to jobs, stores and a whole new world of possibilities. I spoke very little about that time. Most people looked at me with either confusion or consternation if I did mention it. However one friend many years later, having spent time in the Peace Corps, in the mountains of Thailand accepted that time as reasonable. She seemed to understand the simplicity of the experience and acknowledged the universality of it.
Today as a grandmother I can accept that time as an amazing time of quiet grace it was physically demanding. The relentless focus of simple duties, cooking, cleaning formed a structure which held us in place. I found a strength there that has stayed with me for many years, and I believe I could survive under any circumstance.



Thanks Mom...