Are those your zebra in the parking lot?

Left for Mount Pleasant, Texas to pick up one baby camel and possibly one baby zebra on Tuesday night. No, not for me, for my parent's ranch. Imagine spending four days in a van with your mom and some baby animals. If that isn't a test of love, I don't know what is.

The drive there took about 25 hours, non-stop. We tried to detour through Roswell, New Mexico, thinking it'd be a fun place to stop and take a picture or two in front of a flying saucer or something. Guess what? Roswell, the mecca for intergalactic activity, didn't have anything noticable from the main road that would indicate alien presence. It was gravely disappointing.

Got to the exotic animal ranch in Texas on Thursday for our pick up. My mom wanted the baby camel and a baby zebra. The ranch had four baby zebras. Turns out you can buy a baby zebra in Texas for about $5000 each. Sounds like a lot. Unless you're from California, where they sell for $10,000 each. Entrepreneur that I am, I bought the three remaining baby zebra to bring back to California and double my money by the end of the year. So now I'm a zebra trader/truffle farmer/lawyer. Why Survivor hasn't picked me yet is beyond me.

So we stuffed the camel and four baby zebra into the back of the cargo van (sounds crowded, but there was actually room to spare) and we were off. This is what the back of the van looked like: And the camel fit right in:Texas is a huge state and by the time we got to Tucumcari, New Mexico it was 2:30 am and we were both nodding off so we stopped at a motel. We fed the kids (all on bottles) and figured they'd be down for the night in the back of the van.

At 3:00 am, right after our heads had hit the pillows, the motel phone rang. I picked up and heard a timid voice on the other end say, "Sorry to bother you ma'am, but are those your zebra in the parking lot?"

Turns out one of the zebra was a bit skittish and decided escape was in order. First she tried to get out the front window with a head butt:She apparantly realized the back window was easier and actually broke the window and jumped out the back of the van to find herself in a parking lot in Tucumcari, New Mexico - frightening for any species. By some strange twist of fate, two cowboys with an empty horse trailer just happened to be cruising that particular parking lot in the middle of that particular morning and were more excited than the zebra to help wrangle it back in. Seemed a bit suspcious to me but my mind wasn't in CSI mode at that point.

Of course, we couldn't go back in the hotel room and leave the critters in the van with an escape route so we covered the broken window and hit the road again. It was a long drive home, especially when the animals started getting carsick in Arizona. Carsick in the form of the runs and bad gas. Trust me, no amount of cedar chips in the world can cover the smell of zebra diarrhea.

We eventually made it home, and the crazed zebra has shown no signs of distress but I think that'll be the first one we sell...

Mommas, don't let your babies grow up to be...

Here's a sentence I never thought I'd utter:

"I worked the ticket booth at the local rodeo this weekend."

Yep, a couple of the girls from the old softball team are fully ensconced in the world of small town rodeo and, seeing as how I'm single and work for myself, figured I would have nothing better to do with my Saturday afternoon than sit in a booth selling tickets to Wrangler-clad persons in large hats. So I rode my little Chinese scooter down to the rodeo grounds, was teased about bull riding or something, and spent a few hours taking hard earned dollars from folks who wanted to pay to watch people wrestle animals.

Now, I had never been to a rodeo before but I had ridden a mechanical bull or two after a few shots of whatever the guy with the booze bandolier was toting at the time. A mechanical bull surrounded by padding is one thing, a bull that's been hauled to some po-dunk town to have a man strapped to him for 8 seconds and then be taunted by a clown while two-legged Coors Light soaked creatures cheering him on to maul the poor bastard is another.

I was secretly rooting for the animals and, much to my enjoyment, the beasts beat the men almost every time. In fact, I am told it was a lesser rodeo and that the cowboys weren't of the highest caliber because the prize purse was too low or some other excuse like that. Regardless, I watched and was amused at how many people actually came out to this sort of event.

I would've taken pictures of the bull riding but I had my digital camera and, I kid you not, the cowboys couldn't maintain for more than a second out of the gate. So all I got were a couple of shots of the only ladies' event: barrel racing. That's where a woman on a big horse sprints out of a gate and around three barrels then back across a finish line. It lasts about 17 - 19 seconds and a lot of dust is kicked up while the women hold on for dear life. Yep, another sport that makes complete sense. Anyhow, I think this was the winner on her way back to the finish:No, it doesn't look comfortable to me either.

The other big thing at the rodeo was the crowning of the illustrious "Rodeo Queen". Only problem was that this year there was only one contestant. No one even cheered as she was crowned. Maybe I'll enter next year. It appears all you have to do is wear a silly costume with glitter and ride around an arena with a flag then spend all year telling people you are the Tehachapi Rodeo Queen so you get invited to things like grand openings and Kiwanis events.

Finally, as the daughter of ranchers I was reminded how truly strange some women can be with their horses. I'll be the first to admit a nice ride can be quite pleasurable with the right saddle and gait, but I'm referring to the horsewomen who take it a step further...You know the ones I'm talking about - the ones that seem to be having affairs with their horses. They start to look all horsey and equine, even carry the feint scent of a stall around with them, and have this bizarre sexuality connected only to a gelded quarterhorse. Yeah, those girls. Rodeos are full of them. And men in Wranglers. Wrangler butts do nothing for me. And those stupid belt buckles drive me nuts. Add to that the inexplicable use of plaid on everything and it's just plain bad.

Enough on that, here's a picture of my favorite barrel racer - I think she did the whole thing with her eyes shut! (Click to enlarge)I'm off to Texas to pick up a white camel with my mom this week. If that doesn't provide some blog fodder I'm giving up.

I see another bad date...

Okay, I've been meaning to cover this one for a couple of weeks.

Remember when I mentioned I may have a new boyfriend? Yeah, well, a mention here is the equivalent of a hex on any potential suitor and so it was with the well-digger.

Remember him from my trifecta dating spree a while back? In case you don't, here's a quote about him:

I wasn't going to go out with him again as the first two dates were fun but he is very shy and I had decided he might not be able to handle a gal like me without serious therapy down the road.

Unfortunately, I did not listen to my gut, which was telling me he was a bit boring for my tastes. After all, I'm 33 and he was cute and nice and why couldn't I just settle for someone stable for once?

So I tried. And tried. And tried. For a couple of months I listened to him talk about Texas and the Army way too much. I went golfing in 102 degree heat. I saw Superman Returns. I cooked him dinner. He cooked me dinner. Normal date stuff, going through the motions, waiting for the big spark to happen. Alas, not even a flicker and my ardor was fading.

Then we had one of those dates. You know the dates where you're already on the fence about someone and then they go and do everything that could possibly annoy you all within the same hour? It's not that each individual thing they do would normally annoy you, it's just that it annoys you more because you know you'd rather be home washing your cat than feigning interest on another so-so date. So it was with the well-digger.

He called me on a Friday afternoon to invite me to dinner in his town. I accepted and drove to his place around 7:00. We had some casual conversation, played with his dogs, and had a beer while hanging out before heading to dinner. Don't worry, it gets better...

At the restaurant he ordered a margarita and I followed suit, except I asked for a top shelf margarita. Once the waiter left my date chided me for ordering a top shelf margarita, stating I wouldn't know the difference between regular and top shelf. I explained that I'm a puker and rottgut tequila does not help the situation and offered to pay for it myself. He continued to ask about the state of my "top shelf" margarita throughout dinner. That was annoyance factor #1.

The next annoyance factor came into play during dinner when our conversation somehow turned to the topic of Haley Joel Osment, that the kid who saw dead people in some movie, recently got in a car wreck in a 1995 Saturn. Teh well-digger was extremely critical and juvenile about the fact that a rich 18 year old movie actor drove an old Saturn. I don't know about the kid, the accident, or why anyone would care what an 18 year old he didn't know drove. But my date dwelled on this topic for ages and was quite upset about the situation. I just listened in disbelief happy that I hadn't paid for satellite tv if this was what it was reporting as news.

After dead people and dead conversation, the bill came. He let it sit there looking from it to me and back. Finally, he picked it up and asked me for $20. You read that right.

Notwithstanding the fact that he invited me to dinner and I drove 30 minutes to get to where dinner was, I knew my margarita didn't cost that much and all I'd eaten was an appetizer flauta, for a total of about $14. I asked if he was serious and he said yes so I gave him a $20 bill and seethed quietly. I'm good at seething.

Oh, but it gets better. Rather than pocket my $20, he put the $20 bill on the pay tray along with his credit card and asked the waitress to put the difference on his card. I know people do this when out to lunch in groups, or they are short on cash, but this was a date!

Still, it gets better.

Because he hadn't dated much I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured maybe he didn't know that when you invite someone to dinner, unless otherwise stated, the invitor pays for dinner. Especially when they drive 1/2 an hour to see you. It's not about the money, it's about courtesy. I decided to tell him "the rules" politely after we left the restaurant. He suggested we grab a beer at the local bar and I figured that would be a great venue for a polite summary of the rules of dating.

So we get to the bar and order two beers and he says, "Why don't you get this round since I got the first round at my house."

That's right folks, he was counting the beer I had at his house as credit toward a round at the bar. And he was, again, serious.

I don't know about you, but I have an extra refrigerator dedicated to beer and wine just for when my friends come over to hang out. I don't consider them having a beer as part of some great scorekeeping scheme, I just consider it hospitality and common courtesy. I also buy rounds for people with no expectation of reciprocation. So to have a date keep tabs on things really irks me.

Oh, no, it's not over. The date was, but the saga isn't.

After the beer I said I had to get home. Of course, as I drove home and replayed the date in my mind I grew more and more irritated with myself for attempting to date someone I knew was not my type and vowed to dump him at the next reasonable opportunity. I tried to fathom how he'd lived 29 years as an attractive male and not known better. I couldn't find and answer.

That was on a Friday night.

He called twice on Saturday and, thanks to the miracle of caller ID, I didn't pick up.

Then he called Sunday and I did the same thing.

Then he called Monday and left a message saying he was going to be passing through my town around lunch and for me to call if I wanted to go to lunch with him. I didn't call back.

Around 12:30 on Monday I heard the growl of a diesel engine on the street. Seeing as how there is only one house on my street I knew it was coming for me. I peeked out and sure enough it was a well-drilling rig. Note to readers: If someone doesn't return six of your phone calls in three days, do not just show up at their house.

Let me preface this next part by saying that I absolutely hate it when people drop by my house unannounced. It is presumptuous and since the advent of telephones there is no excuse for not calling to confirm a visit is acceptable. I had told the well-digger that it is one of my pet peeves so he knew better.

Alas, I couldn't pretend I wasn't home so I answered the door. He was all smiles and wanting a Gatorade and some lunch. I gave him a Gatorade (keeping score, of course) and promptly gave him the old "you're a nice guy but we just don't have any chemistry" speech which is almost as good as the "it isn't you, it's me" speech, both of which usually mean one of three things: 1. You're boring, 2. You're bad in bed, or 3. I've met someone else who I like better but thanks for being a placeholder.

Fever pitch

Ah, small town softball.

A couple of months ago I joined the local women's slowpitch softball league to meet friends and have some fun. I meant to blog about the drama that is women's adult sports back then but you know how lazy I've gotten in my retirement.

Anyhow, back when I joined I signed up on the free agent list at the rec center. A nice lady, S, called me and invited me to be on her team. I went to one or two practices wherein S, who takes her softball quite seriously, had us doing yoga and hitting flat soccer balls off of toilet plungers and doing strange drills and stuff. Having never played softball before I figured this might be the norm and just went along with it.

At the second practice the issue of ordering jerseys came up. Somehow it had been decided that our colors would be hot pink and green and we would have sleeves on our shirts so S wouldn't have to shave her armpits. These things are a concern up here in the mountains. And I'm no artiste but I have seen a color wheel and know that something is not right with hot pink and olive green together. Still, I was the new girl and didn't want to cause a ruckus so I kept my mouth shut. Thankfully, the other players did not and the captain was overruled on team colors but stood her ground on pit hair.

That practice ended with a few folks feeling disgruntled so the captain called a meeting at the local Mexican restaurant to improve team morale. This was right after my Vegas trip and I had won some money so I ordered a round for the girls and toasted our new team.

No sooner had I put my glass down than one of the other girls proclaimed there would be an insurrection and that S could either stay on the team as just a player or split off and form her own new team because she was too bossy and hairy. Other reasons cited for the coup were that there were too many players on the team, one girl felt threatened that other, better players from the dreaded town of Mojave (aka 'Hell on Earth') would take her position, another had issues with doing yoga before practice, and the whole body hair issue was revisited.

I watched in awe that people took their slow pitch so seriously and noted that if my life ever reached the point that I felt threatened by someone over a slow pitch position I should immediately check myself in to the local mental health facility. The meeting ended with a team split and me undecided as to which team to play with. On the one hand, S was nice but a bit demanding and serious about things, particularly religion and homeschooling. On the other hand I didn't like the way the insurgents had handled the split (it was like junior high school and S left in tears) but they were a drinking team with better colors and a few clean-shaven players I liked. So I let my alcoholic tendencies decide and went with the heathen traitors.

Now it's midseason and we have a great team. When we lose, we go down in flames and the mercy rule is used more innings than not (that's when the team at bat scores 7 runs in one inning - they just call the inning whether there are three outs or not). When we win, we're ecstatic but sportsmanlike. We bring coolers full of libations and every Wednesday a group of us head to karaoke after the game and imbibe and sing country songs and just have fun. We even have nice shirts with nicknames on the back. Here's what mine usually looks like:Here's what it looked like last night:Don't ask...Just know that we all had Tweedle names and there was a lot of cheesy tweedle humor going on.

Monday night we were short players and everyone was having to play positions they weren't used to. I play anything but pitcher and really don't care where they put me as long as I can make snide remarks. Other folks are a bit more insecure and even though no one on the team is from Mojave, somehow feel threatened if they are placed somewhere they don't want to be. One such person is C. Now C is the one person on the team I try to avoid contact with. She has a flare for drama and crude comments. Those would be comments even I find inappropriate so it's bad. She never shuts up. And she talks a lot trash. The uneducated kind. She is always injured in some grave manner that looks like she's auditioning for the role of softball victim on Grey's Anatomy. She definitely always needs to be the center of attention. Oh, and she's in her 40's so it's even more pathetic.

So Monday night C was in the outfield and I guess the first baseman told her to move over a bit. For some reason C, who has never had a problem telling me where to move when I'm in the outfield, proceeded to start yelling and throwing the F-bomb at the first baseman. This riled up our first baseman, who has some gumption of her own, and a verbal catfight ensued. Mind you, this is in the middle of an inning and the game is going on. I was over at third base so I didn't really catch all the action, but I did see C throw her glove down, scream something, and walk off the field and right out of the ballpark. In the middle of the game. When we were already short players. This resulted in us having to take an automatic out the next time she was up to bat (which was no different than her batting seeing as how she usually gets out anyhow), and having to move the second baseman into the outfield to cover centerfield. Still, we lost miserably but had fun in the process as usual.

Last night was our first post-C desertion game. We had 10 players and a few coolers of booze and C didn't show and hadn't spoken to anyone since Monday. So there we were, playing the game, when C shows up mid-game. I didn't see it but I guess the first baseman told her that she was welcome to stay and sit on the bench but that she wasn't going to pull players seeing as how C abandoned the team the previous week. Seemed fair enough to me. You walk out during a game, you sit out a game. No big deal. Well, C didn't like the deal and left the dugout claiming she'd find a new team.

You would think she'd have left the ballpark but she hung around, rooting for the other team and undoubtedly talking trash about each of our tweedleteammates.

After the game, fellow teammate T and I were walking to our cars and C's husband accosts us to start a tirade against the whole team for not having called C to apologize. He was pretty upset and felt that everyone should have called to beg C to stay and come to the game. I told him that if anything C should be apologizing to the team for her immature behavior seeing as how the other 9 players hadn't done anything to her but she'd left us short handed. He was not seeing the logic there and was upset that C was benched for acting like a three year old. T and I escaped the tirade as C's husband shifted his ire toward the first baseman who was also attempting to get to her car. He yelled at her and actually called her a whore. No, I'm not sure what that has to do with softball either.

Alas all the tweedle losers made it to karaoke and lifted our spirits with margaritas and bad renditions of Gretchen Wilson songs.

The point of this story? None. I just needed to blog and this is what has become of my life. Oh, I do have a new beau and I need to blog about him but I'm on the fence about it so you'll just have to wait until the relationship implodes so I can blog about it.

July 4 Recap

Two tanks of gas to get to northern California: $88.00
Munchies for road trip: $14.76
Bubba Keg: $14.99
Event fees: $79.00
Watching your friend lay naked on a bed of ice while drinking beer from another man's butt crack: Priceless.

Two weeks late but still worth telling.

Headed up to El Dorado National Forest with MM for the holiday weekend. He arrived with a road trip gift for me:It looks harmless enough but in reality I believe it is the liver's equivalent of a weapon of mass destruction.

The Bubba Keg, found in your local Target store, holds 52 ounces of your favorite beverage (that's more than four bottles of beer for those of you unable to convert liquid without a Pee Chee folder), is insulated, and has been known to cause irratic behavior, stumbling, slurring, vomiting, public urination, random make-out sessions, spontaneous nudity, butt chugs, and bad karaoke. A special thanks to MM for thinking of me.

After a long drive up highway 99, we eventually arrived at our destination, Stumpy Meadows Lake, and saw this picturesque view that made the drive worth while:Upon arrival MM and I set up my tent and the mosquito-free lounge. MM opted not to set up his tent, rather to hit the beer truck with his Bubba Keg. That was his first mistake of the weekend. Note to beer-guzzling campers: set up your tent and air mattress BEFORE imbibing.

I had a beer, socialized a bit, and we were off on a trail that took us around the lake, complete with a swim-out-to-it boat full of beer and some naked guy who didn't want to get his shoes wet. Note to naked guy: You only have to remove your shoes to keep them from getting wet, other articles of clothing can stay on. Anyhow, the swim was almost as refreshing as the beer and I learned it is difficult to swim or tread water while drinking beer. I don't remember seeing MM after the run but do know he was sighted at the beer truck with his Bubba Keg on more than one occassion. I, of course, also hit the beer truck with my own Bubba Keg on several occassions throughout the first day and night which led to one of the side effects of a Bubba Keg: the random make-out.

I somehow wrangled a fellow drunken reveler into the cab of the beer truck and found myself playing tonsil hockey with him. Unfortunately, we just weren't in synch and I can't stand a bad kiss so I put a stop to things rather quickly, stating something to the effect of, "We don't kiss well." or "It just isn't working." My victim then stated something to the effect of, "Oh, but I get better." or "It'll get better." To which I replied, "No, it won't", and stumbled back to my tent. In my experience folks who aren't doing well with their tongues don't do well with other things.

So there I was, passed out in my tent, in the wee hours of the morning when I hear someone unzipping it. I flash my light at the person and see MM, covered in leaves and dirt, crawling in exclaiming that he had been sleeping outside in the dirt and didn't know how he'd gotten there. I had two words for him: Bubba Keg. Of course, that reminded him that he had misplaced his treasured vessel.

Now, anyone who has been to a hash event knows that one of the worst things you can do at such an event is lose your drinking vessel. Depending on who finds it, and where, you will have to take great measures to get it back, and when you get it back you will certainly want to disinfect it as there will inevitably have been various body parts placed in it for photo opportunities.

So after the next day's run MM was called up in front of the group (about 100 of us). Normally, people are called up for doing something wrong, or right, and given a "down down". A down down is a cup of beer that you must drinking while others sing to you. At bigger events, like a campout, people will have to sit bare-arsed on a block of ice while doing their respective down downs. Seeing as how there were about 100 people at the event, there were about six or seven blocks of ice conveniently placed on a picnic table for the ceremony. After several people were on the ice for various offenses such as sex on trail, losing the canoe, using mortal names and the like, they got everyone off the ice and made a bed of ice. Then they called MM up and brought out his Bubba Keg. They had him strip down and lay naked on the bed of ice while chastising him for LEAVING HIS BUBBA KEG IN AN OUTHOUSE - the worst offense possible. As if that weren't enough, the largest, hairiest man present then straddled MM, squatted, dropped his pants, and had another person pour beer from the Bubba Keg, down his butt crack, onto MM's face. This is called a butt chug. No, I did not have my camera but the image is forever etched in the darkest recesses of my mind.

Now, I've seen some things in my time, but this was the most disgusting, can't-stop-watching, oh-god-are-they-really-going-to-do-that, oh-god-they-just-did-it moment I've seen since that donkey show that sealed my virginity for an extra couple of years back in my Navy days.

Yet, even after this terrible ritual, MM managed to lose his Bubba Keg less than four hours later. Of course, that could have been a result of his having slept outside in the bushes somewhere again that very night. Some folks just never learn.

We eventually found our way back home. The drive back is always so much longer than the drive there. MM was still too drunk or hungover to drive so he crashed on the sofa. This is what was left of MM after a weekend with a Bubba Keg and unrestricted access to the beer truck: