A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!

If ever you are so lucky as to find yourself in Tehachapi and on your way to Casa de Glib, you will be advised to look for this big, plastic clydesdale statue as a landmark of where to turn off the main road:Yes, it's quite impressive and tempting to the child in us all that wants to climb things because, well, it's a big plastic horse and who wouldn't want to climb a big, plastic horse? Can you see where this is going?

It just so happens that my cousin, A, was visiting last night and we decided the Tuesday after Christmas would be a fine time to visit Tehachapi's finest saloon: The Red Caboose. You may remember the Cabooty, as it is affectionately known, from a previous blog involving mojitos, a camel and bad sangria. Whenever A and I get together something that will eventually prevent me from becoming a judge is bound to happen.

A and I went to dinner then met up with my friend D and we all played pool and drank beer until they kicked us out of the Cobooty a little after midnight. As we were driving home, A spotted that big, plastic horse and felt a sudden urge to mount it. This is a common family trait and thankfully I had the foresight to suggest we drive home and get the camera before attempting such a feat. Of course, first I drunk dialed Q because I knew he had nothing better to do at 1 am than listen to two inebriated women plot the mounting of a plastic statue in the rain. We actually drove home (2.5 miles), got the camera, and drove back to the work of art. In the rain. After midnight.

So we got back to the intersection, parked and ran across the street. A flood light was on and pointing at the horse but we went through the fence anyhow, later noting we were lucky it wasn't electric, and came upon the great synthetic beast.

Problem was that it was gargantuan. A attempted to climb up on it a few times but couldn't reach that high and the horse was slippery because it was wet. Here's A looking diabolical in her Red Caboose t-shirt and plotting how to get on the horse:Somehow we came up with the bright idea that I should get on my hands and knees in the mud and she should use me as a stool. It was only after I got a bootprint on my back that I remembered the clodhopper, hard-soled boots she was wearing:Yeah, that wasn't too pleasant. And, after a couple of attempts we were both in the mud laughing because she kept falling.

Of course, quitting is not an option for us so we persisted and, after she basically climbed me to get onto the horse, success was achieved:It's a good thing we only see eachother about once a year.

On mountain rescues, beer and the media

The Outdoorspro, a highly trained Oregon ski patroller, has been doing some excellent coverage on the three missing mountaineers at Mt. hood this past week and it, of course, reminded me of the time my own brother required rescue from a mountain while snowboarding.

I was sitting home in Oak View about six years ago when one of my brother's buddies showed up at my door looking quite concerned. He didn't have my phone number but knew where I lived and didn't know how to get ahold of anyone on behalf of my brother. You see, my brother had gone snowboarding with some of his buddies. One of said buddies tweaked his leg or something early in the day and decided to go down the mountain and wait for my brother and his other friend at a bar. Well, said bar-going buddy soon found himself quite drunk and went to the truck to pass out. He awoke hours later to find my brother and his friend had not yet returned and it was after dark. So he went to the bar to find them. Of course, these guys didn't have cell phones so said injured friend, upon not finding the boys at the bar, decided to sit and drink some more while waiting for them, thinking they must be elsewhere. A few drinks later he found some clarity and realized that they should've met up by then, or at least put their gear in the truck, and decided to alert authorities to the fact that the two guys were missing.

So this drunk friend tells the police he's had about nine beers while waiting for his friends who never returned from the mountain. The police write it down as the two snowboarders each had nine beers then went boarding.

In the meantime, my brother and his friend, new to the ski area, were caught in a white out at the top of a run. They met another guy who held a season pass and told them to follow him because he knew the area - right down the back of the mountain into no man's land in a white out. The three of them were lost and disoriented and it got dark so they built a snowcave under a tree, smoked some of the good stuff, and shivered the night away as they were dressed only for a day's outing. A big storm hit that night so it was pretty fun for them. The following morning they found a clearing in the woods and stayed in the open hoping someone would spot them. Eventually a rescue helicopter came and they were picked up.

Of course, this all made the local news and I have a strange last name so many people questioned me about my drunk snowboarding brother. In fact, here's the only snippet I could find about the incident on Google today:

Three Drunk Snowboards Lost at Mountain High
Three drunk snowboarders. Three drunk snowboarders. See how they flounder. See how they flounder. They all went riding at Mountain High, after 9 beers they took off to fly, out of bounds they did nearly die. Three drunk snowboarders. Roy Paul Brown, 38; John Catlan, 31; and Glib Gal's Brother, 30, were found 12 hours after they went snowboarding in an out-of-bounds area at Mountain High West.

Yeah, looks like libel to me too. If only my brother and his friends had a reputation to damage...

This is an example of how the media can distort things and make a sensationalized story out of a reasonable mishap, kind of like the Bill O'Reilly clip you can find at Outdoorspro.

As for my brother, it was later discovered that the boys had not had any beers prior to snowboarding and that the resort had failed to maintain its fencing in the area they went out of bounds at and the guy with the season pass was, in fact, stupid.

It's that time again...

...Yes, it's time to have my annual shot of Jager and solicit my faithful readers and the public at large to donate to the great cause that is the Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship. Yes, the only scholarship that rewards the lowest ranking person in a respective graduating class with cold, hard cash. I told you I was glib...

Hard to believe it's been four years since my good friend Sarah passed away. Also difficult to fathom how one good person leaving your life for good can still make you think about stuff four years later.

Don't worry, the scholarship is completely legitimate and you will get an official tax write-off for donating any amount above $25. This is the website for the VCCF. To donate, mail a check, payable to the "Sarah Moody Scholarship Fund" or "VCCF" (be sure to note that it's for the Sarah Moody Fund) to the address below:

Sarah Moody Memorial Scholarship
Ventura County Community Foundation
1317 Del Norte Road, Suite 150
Camarillo, CA 93010

I know, I know...Everyone's asking for money this time of year. So if you don't want to give to this worthy cause, pick another one that is dear to your heart or just do something nice (as much as it hurts, this includes you, MB). Oh, and order a shot of Jager or whatever your poison is and raise a toast to good friends, fond memories, and low GPAs.

Yet another reason to hole up and become the next Unabomber

Things not to do on a first date:

1. Bring flowers. It's presumptuous and premature and we really just want to decide whether we like you before we have a reminder sitting around on our dining room table. Unless you're a horticulturist or expert botanist. But if it has a pricetag on it, do not bring it.
2. Pat her on the ass. Really, this is inappropriate unless she is wearing a football jersey.
3. Tell her you're a genius. If you have to tell someone, you might be a bit shy of the necessary intelligence quotient.
4. Discuss her breasts as you stare at them. Not cool, dude, not cool. Unless she's a Hooters girl and you are visiting her at work. Then, by all means, have at it.
5. Elaborate on your connections to the Sicilian mafia in the greater Tehachapi area, or any other area for that matter. Girls really aren't into mobs and mafias.
6. Tell her how good you are in bed. If you have to tell someone, you probably aren't.
7. Begin any conversation with a sentece that contains the words "conspiracy theory". It just does not bode well and makes you seem a bit whacky rather than the pseudo-intellectual you're shooting for.
8. Perhaps most importantly, do not, under any circumstances, extoll the merits of your foreskin. We don't want to hear anything about your penis while we're trying to eat a baked potato. Really.

You may be surprised to learn that I came up with all those tips after spending just one hour with a man in Tehachapi Wednesday night.

I know what you're thinking, after last week's foray into the engineering world I would have the good sense to cancel a pending date with yet another local, and engineer to boot. Then again, if you've been reading this blog very long you know I must secretly like to suffer.

TJ is a local I'd met in town on several occassions. He had given me his number a few times, then conveniently started loitering in the vicinity of my office around lunchtime. He seemed a bit quirky but harmless so when he invited me to dinner I had no valid reason for refusing and fell back on my old rule of always giving someone a chance. I also thought I made it abundantly clear that it was just a friends thing. This is a problem we women have - we assume men get the subtle hints when really, we need to just tell them the human race would become extinct if they were the last man on earth and the fate of the world depended on our fornicating with them.

So, against my better judgment (Let's face it, if I had good judgment there wouldn't be a blog...), I accepted TJ's dinner invite on the condition that it be on a weeknight and casual. I was thinking tacos and a beer. I'm still not sure what he was thinking.

I was already regretting my decision to accept the invite when TJ showed up at my office after work with flowers and announced we'd be going to a local steakhouse (one of our allegedly finer dining establishments). I should have just said no at that point but I didn't.

We then walked to the restaurant, a few blocks from my office, and during the walk he attempted to hold my hand (another no-no when someone is not feeling your vibe). I declined that offer firmly only to be met with a pat on the arse just as we entered the restaurant. Yes, the guy actually patted me on the butt. I didn't believe it had happened because, really, who pats anyone on the butt anymore? When I realized what had happened I advised that if his hand strayed again I would clock him. Again, I should have just stopped things there and left, but there was a steak dinner involved and my refrigerator is on the fritz. I know, it seems shallow but somehow I figured there was justice in it.

He immediately ordered an expensive bottle of wine - to the tune of $70. Let me just tell you that in Tehachapi you can drink for three weeks on $70 so it was a bold move on his part. He then began discussing his mob connections, Sicilians, the fact that he can have medical marijuana, a conspiracy theory or two involving the local city council, and various other obscure stream-of-consciousness topics. I could barely keep up with the nonsense and, for the first time in my life, seriously contemplated walking out on a date. I even asked if he was on something and his conversation was rather confrontational and just plain nutty.

Then, just as I was starting to eat, he began discussing my breasts. Yes, right there at the table, with no prompting, he inquired about their cup size then elaborated on his love of breasts and went on to his own sexual prowess. I was a bit dumbfounded and nearly choked on my filet.

As usual, it gets better. Before I could interject, he explained that he was "as god made him". I didn't ask for any elaboration but he felt compelled to tell me he was uncut, and I don't mean in the censorship way. What possesses a man to describe his foreskin to a woman attempting to eat a baked potato is beyond me. It's not that I'm against foreskin, I just don't want to hear about it over our first meal together.

That was it for me. I called an end to things and told him I was about to walk out of the restaurant. He then had the gall to ask if I planned to help with the bill. I let him know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I had no intention of paying for a meal I didn't ask for with a man I could barely tolerate. I made it quite clear his behavior was unacceptable.

Fortunately, in this instance, I had the good sense never to give him my real phone number. Of course, I went in to my office today to find a phone message from him saying what a wonderful time he had and asking when we could do it again.

No, I haven't called him back but I may call the pirouetting, sad sapling engineer as he's starting to look pretty good...

An engineer, a sapling and the Macarena ballet-style

So I did it. I went out with <the engineer who was lurking on my MySpace page.

Really, you should feel special because I did it for the good of the blog. You know what my last date with an engineer was like. And no one could forget the original Catholic engineer. This time, though, I think I've outdone myself and that this guy was the final nail in the coffin for all engineers.

On to our story...The date was actually a double blind date with CW (the engineer), his co-worker M who I was originally to be set up with, and V, a woman from my writer's group. We were all to meet up last Tuesday night for sushi.

So after our writer's meeting, V and I headed over to the sushi bar. It was a bit awkward and, yep, you guessed it, CW, being an engineer, is not much of a conversationalist. I got the distinct feeling he had not been out in the company of a woman in a while. He spent a while discussing his job, then his recumbant bicycle, then his job, then just smiling kind of strangely across the table. There were some awkward silences (I know, it's hard to imagine that around me...), and in the end we all parted ways amicably with a standard "we'll talk again".

Flash forward a couple of days to when I opened my MySpace page to find the following e-mail from CW:

I thought you'd be interested to see what an oak sapling looks like after it has been grazed. I put a picture in my myspace profile of an oak sapling in my yard that has been severely grazed/ravaged. This happened to my tree twice in the last 2 years, both times late in the summer. It was pretty upsetting for me and I didn't buy this tree or expect to get any income from it. Both times I was surprised how severly the tree was damaged. Several branches were shortened by 2 or 3 feet and the remaining branches were also chewed on. I think my tree was set back by at least a year. I plan to enclose my tree in chicken wire before next spring. I hope this doesn't happen to your trees!

CW

Here's the picture of his sapling he put on his page just for me:That was it. No "Nice meeting you", or "I had a great time", or "Let's do it again". Not for an engineer, nope. Just an e-mail about his faltering sapling that had been overgrazed. Not sure if it was a metaphor for something else...

Note to gentlemen: If you find a girl's MySpace page and decide to lurk there until you find someone who knows her, then you are fortunate enough to get a date with her wherein she tolerates your social dysfunction, do not, under any circumstances, send her an e-mail with a picture of your dead tree.

But wait, it gets better. After our double blind date I sent a message to M letting him know I thought we had more in common and that I had no interest in CW. This led to M and I talking on the phone and eventually hanging out. M and CW's Christmas party was this past weekend and last night M showed me this video taken of none other than CW dancing the Macarena at the party. Being the evil person that I am, I decided it was so special and such a good sample of the over-40 single engineer in action that I just had to share it with you:

Apparantly CW, in addition to being a sapling connoisseur, is an accomplished former ballerina. Seriously, he used to be a ballet dancer. Note the pirouet at the beginning - a nice touch by a man dancing alone at a holiday party. No, he was not drunk. I'll give him credit for having fun and cutting loose, though.

Yes, it is hard to believe this one hasn't been caught yet.