When Good Women Get Pissy (Again)

You know how you spend your whole adult life trying to be cool-headed and thoughtful and role-model-y for your kids? You might be all angelfishy in the tanky-poo, but then something royally hinky happens to screw up your day, like your lawyer forgets you exist and your case languishes in some dusty file room, and you feel landlocked cuz you wanna swim with the sharks, or better still, be the shark. Uh-oh.

Yeah, suddenly you're transformed. You spit the serenity prayer. You burst your spongy stress ball. You gnash on cheery rainbows. You roll up your sleeves and dare your foe to "Bring it." You huff and puff and lather yourself into a white-hot frenzy that can only be cured by excoriating your victim with a serrated-edged tongue, after which you must shove your overheated body into the freezer. Naked.

Family Safety Hint: During this time? Do not approach your supreme leader. She must cool down, and you cannot facilitate this process with tepid apologies. Plus, she wants to revel in her righteous indignation because it's liberating and empowering and all kinds of orgasmic to be the firing squad for a change. But because she's not normally a sprayer of evil, she is out of practice and you will likely get some on you. Run.

Losing it is not a moment that the kind-hearted, compassionate woman is going to feel proud about afterward. But she will damn-well feel sensational after clearing her head of the nice-girl clutter, the pretentious civility, and the ridiculosity of trying to look at asshattery from someone else's viewpoint. Allow her space. And ice cream. Amen.

You probably didn't know that storming and stomping around is healthy, but the pissy woman gets all aerobic in the venting process. Plus, she will get a blog post out of it. And if a man is involved, he may get take-it-out-on-you sex. Not making promises, but there's anecdotal evidence that it's happened at least once in recorded history. Google.

Since I live alone, there are no witnesses to any gratifying tirades. So if nobody within 10,000 square feet hears me bitch, did it really happen? Crap.

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In Dallas this week workin' for the man, and life has me by the cojones (yes, I have some). Hope you enjoyed this very popular post from the past. 
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Unbridled and Sorta Tacky

I rode a horse today. Not your average horse, mind you, but a white and silver-mottled Percheron—a 2,400-pound draft horse, similar to a Clydesdale. It was like riding a rhino when he's a little sleepy; and I don't mind sayin', having that much power between your thighs is pretty incredible. I mean, not that I'm not used to that sort of thing already. Cuz, naturally, I am.

Now, I know what you're thinking. I look like a little princess up there on my magic unicorn—sorta—straight out of Disney. When in fact, the tall woman with her hand on the big horsey's halter is Donna, owner of Azteca Stables in Canyon Lake. Fooled ya. Hardly a "Giddyup, mighty magical steed!" moment. More like, "Mama, can we go faster?" Still . . . Note, no saddle necessary because, as I might have mentioned, that's a whole lotta horse between my thighs. Plus, I have magic all up in there. Obviously.

Interestingly, this Percheron's name is Kimmie. That alone elevates her to a superior position in the hierarchical chain of life. Natch, therefore, we shared a symbiotic connection—and a good laugh at the expense of lesser beings. (You know who you are.)

So Kimmie's the mare for the big Clyde they call Killian, shown at left with my BFF Winter. Seeing his wife with that big stallion in the palm of her hands, Winter's hubs could only bow in respect and awe. Plus Killian's got big feet, and you know what they say about that. And, well, it's true.

See Killian and Kimmie in the round pen, reducing its size to that of a play pen:



Just for comparison purposes, here's Smoky, a sweet almost-6-year-old. Now that you've seen the big guns in the same vicinity, Smoke looks rather puny, right?

Size doesn't matter to Smoky, though. His youthful ego is unbridled and primal. When the big guns came out of their stables with a certain, shall we say, swagger, little Smoky manned up and showed he wouldn't be intimidated. Here he is below, dropping the stud tack like it's hot (no argument there!), just in case Killian chances to look over while trotting circles in a round pen that hardly contains him. You go, Smoke!

Of course, when Smoky saw me snapping his picture, he got a little embarrassed and reined in the tack. Even primal displayers give pause when the threat of Internet exposure looms.

But I'm telling you, not a whole lotta difference between males of all species when it comes to claiming territory and dropping the tack—or did somebody want to argue that?
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And now here's your moment of zen with this week's creative cuss word combo, thanks to my HSM:

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Epiphanies and Equations, Or Why I Feel a Trip to the Beach Coming On

2012 has begun, and I have failed to spout forth a resolution. I am the equivalent of an algebraic equation: unresolved. In my defense, I am not a fan of math—unless it's one plus one equals an incredible afternoon of delight.

While having lunch with my BFF—the absolute smartest person I know, besides me* (obviously), I enjoyed two epiphanies. Actually, I didn't enjoy them so much as I was unhinged by them. And since BFF also serves as my personal GPS (Global Perspective Sister), her trademark poignant line of questioning assured that I would locate my epiphanies somewhere over Pollo Enchiladas and Fish Tacos. When last we found me there, I was crying into a bottle of cerveza and pondering the mating habits of sand crabs, where I left my cover-up, and why zinc oxide can't just be clear.

Okay, so . . . Epiphany One. Apparently, a person can have a few too many loose ends in her life, and the preponderance of said loose ends can make a normally together person feel all sorts of unresolved and, well, icky. Math wiz that I am, the equation looks like this: Too many loose ends = too many variables = overwhelm = risk aversion = a disturbing bout of inertia. Sure, I oversimplified, but who can function with that kind of resistance?

Epiphany Two. My discombobulation, heretofore known as Epiphany One, is a major buzz kill equivalent to, say, a borborygmic pressure cooker. Yeah. Quiz later. Anywho, no avoiding it. Before you can make a resolution you'll keep, you have to be clear on your shit. You have to know what you can and can't live without, what you have control of and what you don't, what will make you the happiest, what you're willing to walk away from, and what will take care of itself. Plus, how many carbs are in a slice of margherita pizza—or the whole thing with maybe some pineapple. Or more precisely, would I benefit from a nice getaway in the sun, sand, and surf instead of thinking so hard? These are things I must get to the bottom of.

In summary, time to shore up my loose ends so I can really enjoy my next big adventure with a clear conscience, a joyful heart, and a renewed zest for life. Who knows, 2012 could be my best, brightest, biggest year ever. Maybe it will even be Apocalyptic. Hey, I think I'm having another epiphany.
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* and HSM, but I'm not telling him that cuz, well, there are only so many kudos you can freely bestow upon a Hot Sexy Man before he reminds you about them, like when he posits how you can be Mensa material one minute and a laughable 12-year-old the next. Clearly, I'm not a 12-year-old (I know you are, but what am I?); I'm just flexible (that's what HE said!) on an intellectual level.

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