Life Blogging

Well, my horse bone is not connected to my writing bone. And the horse bone has been getting the attention of late. Wait. That didn’t sound right.

But thanks to Boots and Aaron – and Big Jim – the firewood collection is looking hopeful once again. Thanks, fellas.

There’s no sign of things letting up, either. I’m taking today to dry out and gear up for the horse extravaganza that will be unleashed on Saturday. Yep, yours truly will be donning his horse-driving best to pull the great ninny-clan known as “tourists” around in Stowe.

“Hi, I’m Moike and I’ll be your driver.” Off we go….

But this time I feel ready for the mental game of it all. It has next to nothing to do with the horses or the scenery. Nope. It’s all about who can pull the other’s leg better. Yeah, you know, I’ll make up stories about the celebrities and the greatness of all of Vermont and you make up stories about just how important you and your job are “back home.”

Sure, just leave a tip. God Bless America, indeed.

Since Saturday is Valentine’s Day, I’m sure I’ll be getting a few marriage proposal rides. When I first told my wife, Stacy, that I had a marriage proposal ride, she thought someone had asked me to marry them, opining: “How much over 70 was she?” Yeah, the wife knows I’m a 70-and-over chick magnet. Hey, some people have it, some don’t.

But being the third party to a marriage proposal is excruciating. The guy is being a total dork (and, yes, every proposal ride I’ve given was orchestrated by the guy). He fumbles about, checking and re-checking where he’s hidden the ring box. He chatters on and on nervously. He’s obviously put himself in that guy-realm of human consciousness that says: I. Am. Making. History.

Whatever.

Sorry, but only a dork would worry about whether or not his marriage proposal was about to be accepted. Good grief.

The woman in these ride/stories, however, has been rather unflappable. Aware, of course, that her boyfriend is acting like a complete ass, she seemingly throttles herself down to allow the dork off-gassing to occur between her husband-to-be and those who are forced to encounter him at this moment. Yeah, you know, people like horse-sleigh drivers in Stowe-fucking-Vermont. Yes, me. Get over it.

It’s like watching a really, really bad local production of a romance play. But from the front row. And with a fucking part in it! Oh shit, is anyone watching?

But I digress. What I really wanted to tell you was that I’ve got horse work to do. I will be making people feel a certain closeness to horses next week (read: pay for it, baby), but taking a “day off” for a far more real job (read: less lucrative) on Monday, pulling firewood for a certain fellow blogger and Coetzee fan who shall remain nameless. But you can read all his good rants here: Integral Psychosis.