He’s the hardest worker I’ve ever seen. He is up before the sun is and doesn’t rest until everyone else is safe in their beds. On hot days, he will jump into a tank for a dip.
His name is Spud and he is a ranch dog.
He helps round up cattle on foot. Spud runs from the front of the herd to the back, barking and biting at the cows to get them to move faster. He knows how cows act when you are behind them or if you stand in front of them. He has taken down coyotes, rabbits and anything else that moves that comes too close to the house. He greets people by dancing around them before collapsing on his back for a belly run in the sun.
With all the running he does, he still weighs almost a hundred pounds. His back is so wide you could balance a tray full of drinks on him.
Lately, he is becoming too old, tired and big to do the long cattle drives. A younger dog named Hank will soon step into Spud’s spot of lead ranch dog and Spud will retire in the shop. It’s bittersweet to take a different dog on a cattle drive and coax Spud into staying in the shop. He had already tried to jump on the truck twice to come along.
This weekend, Spud hung around my feet as I doctored a cow that had been mauled by coyotes. The rest of the family had gone to round up calves to be branded. Spud tried to follow them and I yelled after him. He came back reluctantly and was on pins and needles until the rest of the crew came back.
After about 20 minutes of passing back and forth through different corals, a small herd of cows came over a hill with my mother-in-law and husband behind them. Spud’s tail began wagging like he was just presented a big pile of deer guts, his favorite treat. He danced around me until the cows passed us and went into the corral. My husband and mother-in-law took off over the hill on their four-wheelers and Spud ran after them at full speed. I yelled for Spud but he never looked back. He was on a mission to help. His tail zigzagged between the tall weeds and brush.
A few minutes later, he came back down the hill at a much slower pace. He collapsed at my feet and I told him to stay. He repeated his gallop up the hill two more times. Every time he came back slower and panting heavier. He tried so hard but never did catch up with the rest of the crew and the cow herd.
During the weekend branding, Spud lay in the middle of the corral, fast asleep. After a pair of calf testicles were tossed his way, he would open one eye and gobble them up. He never moved, only to get under a truck when it started to rain.
It made me realize how much the ranch is a part of Spud and how much Spud is a part of the ranch. He is stubborn and wants to help even when his body is telling him to just stay in the sun with his belly pointed up for any passerby to scratch. I don’t think he will ever stop helping, it’s in his blood to help out. Spud could never get enough love and praise for the work he does. He is the definition of ‘man’s best friend.’
Sunday, May 3, 2009
A really gross, but funny story
Let me set the scene for you. It’s Saturday morning, 40 degrees and cloudy. I’m wearing my torn coveralls, boots and I hadn’t combed my hair since the night before. I was grumpy, cold and tired. We were branding and castrating 125 ornery calves.
“Hey Sarah,” called my sister-in-law, “come see this, but plug your nose.” Being the curious person I am, I wandered over to where she was sitting on top of a calf.
As I got closer I noticed a baseball size growth on the side of the calf’s mouth. “What the hell is that?!??!” I said.
My father-in-law held the calf down and cut open the growth, the calf bawling and kicking. He proceeded to squeeze the growth until a nasty looking pus/blood mixture came oozing out. My mother-in-law screamed, “hey, does that smell?”
I was thinking, why on God’s green earth would anyone smell this oozy crap coming out this nasty growth? Who cares what it smells like, no one is going to put their nose close enough to that nastiness to smell it.
But sure enough, my father-in-law leaned over from his stance over the calf and smelled it. “Nope, it don’t smell, we’re good.”
I later learned that if it ‘smelled’ it would mean the calf would receive heavy medication. Still, I ain’t smellin’ no calf pus.
I stood there about 5 feet away from this disgusting scene as my father-in-law squeezed the living crap out of this growth. All of a sudden, pus shot out of it like a cannon on the Fourth of July. The pus flew clear across the coral, about 10 feet, and a big wad of it hit me straight in the forehead.
My knees went weak as I wiped that crap off faster than you can say the word pus.
Later, my father-in-law told me I should have wiped it off my forehead and licked it to see if it was the pus or just a raindrop. I about puked.
I looked across the coral and a stream of white pus could be seen on top of wet cow turds and mud. My husband pointed to the stream of pus and said, “let’s not wrestle right there.”
I laughed and five minutes later I was sitting in it holding another calf down.
Later, I remembered my sister-in-laws warning. Next time, I’ll bring a shield.
“Hey Sarah,” called my sister-in-law, “come see this, but plug your nose.” Being the curious person I am, I wandered over to where she was sitting on top of a calf.
As I got closer I noticed a baseball size growth on the side of the calf’s mouth. “What the hell is that?!??!” I said.
My father-in-law held the calf down and cut open the growth, the calf bawling and kicking. He proceeded to squeeze the growth until a nasty looking pus/blood mixture came oozing out. My mother-in-law screamed, “hey, does that smell?”
I was thinking, why on God’s green earth would anyone smell this oozy crap coming out this nasty growth? Who cares what it smells like, no one is going to put their nose close enough to that nastiness to smell it.
But sure enough, my father-in-law leaned over from his stance over the calf and smelled it. “Nope, it don’t smell, we’re good.”
I later learned that if it ‘smelled’ it would mean the calf would receive heavy medication. Still, I ain’t smellin’ no calf pus.
I stood there about 5 feet away from this disgusting scene as my father-in-law squeezed the living crap out of this growth. All of a sudden, pus shot out of it like a cannon on the Fourth of July. The pus flew clear across the coral, about 10 feet, and a big wad of it hit me straight in the forehead.
My knees went weak as I wiped that crap off faster than you can say the word pus.
Later, my father-in-law told me I should have wiped it off my forehead and licked it to see if it was the pus or just a raindrop. I about puked.
I looked across the coral and a stream of white pus could be seen on top of wet cow turds and mud. My husband pointed to the stream of pus and said, “let’s not wrestle right there.”
I laughed and five minutes later I was sitting in it holding another calf down.
Later, I remembered my sister-in-laws warning. Next time, I’ll bring a shield.
Housecleaning
Housecleaning is a thorn in my side. It pesters me in the early mornings when I wake up and trip over laundry and trash that needs to be taken outside. It also greets me when I get home from work at night. It’s like man’s best friend, or not.
I am by no means a slob, just ask my husband. In fact, he thinks I am obsessive when it comes to being clean. I give him dirty looks when he has more than one pile of ‘to dos’ on his desk. I run around the house like a mad woman when I clean, wiping every surface and vacuuming every corner. I can’t stand clutter and I can’t stand mess.
So, once again, I am linking to an old Dave Barry column about housecleaning. (By damn, I think I relate my life to Dave Barry columns…..good grief. Can you say ‘obsessed reader?’ Haha.) I love his practical homemaker tip of putting baking soda in the refrigerator. Check it out.
The column reminds me of when my husband I were first married (don’t I sound old now?). I mean, like the first month he and I were married when we were still learning all the quarks about each other. I put baking soda in the microwave one morning after we made the easy-cheesy microwave bacon. My husband pulled the tiny bowl out of the nuker and looked at me with a severely puzzled look. “How long should I set this for??”
I about fell off my chair laughing.
“No honey, it’s just to absorb the smell.”
“Oh.” And with an even bigger puzzled look he put it back in the nuker and closed the door.
Another thing we learned fast about each other was who puts the laundry in the washer and who folds it. Our first load of laundry consisted of the following:
My husband so lovingly tossed the whole basket of laundry in the washer and turned hot water on. I flipped out. The jeans were with the kitchen towels and they were with my nice dress clothes and his dirty work clothes were right next to my undies. No!!!!! I quickly explained the color coded system I grew up with. Darks, lights, towels, jeans. Darks, lights, towels, jeans. I feverishly pulled all the laundry out of the washer and selected a few pairs of jeans to start.
Long story short, I start the laundry and he finishes by folding it. Teamwork everyone, it’s a wonderful thing.
After being married almost a year (whoo hoo!) I thought I had learned all my husband’s quarks. Nope. I don’t think I will ever stop learning about the way he does things or the way he doesn’t do certain things (like the way he can walk by the trash bag sitting by the door). It’s all just a fun part of marriage!
I am by no means a slob, just ask my husband. In fact, he thinks I am obsessive when it comes to being clean. I give him dirty looks when he has more than one pile of ‘to dos’ on his desk. I run around the house like a mad woman when I clean, wiping every surface and vacuuming every corner. I can’t stand clutter and I can’t stand mess.
So, once again, I am linking to an old Dave Barry column about housecleaning. (By damn, I think I relate my life to Dave Barry columns…..good grief. Can you say ‘obsessed reader?’ Haha.) I love his practical homemaker tip of putting baking soda in the refrigerator. Check it out.
The column reminds me of when my husband I were first married (don’t I sound old now?). I mean, like the first month he and I were married when we were still learning all the quarks about each other. I put baking soda in the microwave one morning after we made the easy-cheesy microwave bacon. My husband pulled the tiny bowl out of the nuker and looked at me with a severely puzzled look. “How long should I set this for??”
I about fell off my chair laughing.
“No honey, it’s just to absorb the smell.”
“Oh.” And with an even bigger puzzled look he put it back in the nuker and closed the door.
Another thing we learned fast about each other was who puts the laundry in the washer and who folds it. Our first load of laundry consisted of the following:
My husband so lovingly tossed the whole basket of laundry in the washer and turned hot water on. I flipped out. The jeans were with the kitchen towels and they were with my nice dress clothes and his dirty work clothes were right next to my undies. No!!!!! I quickly explained the color coded system I grew up with. Darks, lights, towels, jeans. Darks, lights, towels, jeans. I feverishly pulled all the laundry out of the washer and selected a few pairs of jeans to start.
Long story short, I start the laundry and he finishes by folding it. Teamwork everyone, it’s a wonderful thing.
After being married almost a year (whoo hoo!) I thought I had learned all my husband’s quarks. Nope. I don’t think I will ever stop learning about the way he does things or the way he doesn’t do certain things (like the way he can walk by the trash bag sitting by the door). It’s all just a fun part of marriage!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Final project...whoo hoo!
Movie review: Beer for my Horses
If you think “Beer for my Horses” is a movie just for rednecks who like watching cowboys sling guns at the OK Corral, think again (and if you don’t know what the OK Corral was, just stop listening now). “Beer for my Horses” is an action-comedy that has something for everyone. This movie comes alive with a cast of country music stars and a comedian who sings about “Titties and Beer.”
Country music sensation Toby Keith stars alongside stand-up comedian Rodney Carrington, both of whom wrote the screenplay for the movie. Rocker Ted Nugent also stars in this made for CMT (that’s Country Music Television for any of you city slickers) and DVD release in 2008.
The director of “Beer for my Horses,” Michael Salomon, has a long record with CMT. He has directed numerous music videos, including ones for rock band Metallica.
“Beer for my Horses” characters Rack Racklin (Keith), Lonnie Luther Feldman (Carrington), and Skunk (Nugent) play small town deputies who run into big time trouble when a drug cartel abducts Racklin’s girlfriend. On their way to Mexico, the trio runs into a traveling circus that is led by none other than Willie Nelson, who coincidently sang a duet with Keith called ‘Beer for the Horses’ in 2002. David Allan Coe, who sang the songs ‘If that ain’t country, I’ll kiss your ass’ and ‘Take this job and shove it,’ stars as a gypsy in the traveling convoy.
The convoy teaches the deputies about danger and how it is just an illusion. But when danger becomes a reality, it must be met with an illusion. This lesson comes in handy when the deputy trio is up against the drug cartel.
“Beer for my Horses” is a combination of edge of your seat anticipation, unpredictable characters, redneck pick ups with 45 inch tires (those are really big tires, again for you city slickers), a hooker (or a good Christian woman) named Harveyetta, and a rendition of ‘Shout’ in an interstate rest stop that will have you roaring in laughter.
The movie also debuts some of Keith’s latest music, which mirrors his music from the 1990s, pure country and twang. Carrington’s buttery smooth voice is also showcased during his duet with a group of thugs and his famous comedic songs that play throughout the movie.
The odd duck in the cast, Ted Nugent, shows off his machine gun shooting, archery shooting and rock slinging skills as he takes down one law breaking person after another. Although his presence in the movie is silent (literally, he doesn’t say a word until the very end), his role is unmistakably brilliant.
Since most of the cast specializes in music or comedic stand up, the actors deliver convincing performances. Carrington’s facial expressions, which are funny even on a bad day, are even more hilarious as he tries to learn Spanish and dance and sing with thugs. On the other hand, this is Keith’s fourth made for CMT movie. In 2006, he starred in the drama “Broken Bridges.”
“Beer for my Horses” is a sure fire comedy that plays into the average hard-working individuals psyche. So pay attention all you city slickers, you may be entertained by this action-comedy movie that you thought only rednecks like me would enjoy. As we would say in the country, “this movie is just neater than a skeeter’s peeter on a hot summer’s day.”
Sunday, April 26, 2009
For better or worse
After two months, and two temporary jobs, my husband has had it with unemployment. I currently work three jobs to make up the slack plus go to school full time. However, it is another full-time job in itself to keep my husband’s spirits up.
Every morning the following routine happens:
6:30 a.m.: I wake up and get ready for job #1. By 8:15 a.m., my husband rolls out of bed.
Husband: Are you goin’ to work?
Me: Yep. What are you gonna to do today?
Husband: Nothin’.
Me: Ok, I’ll make you a list. It’ll be fun! There is so much to do around here (here being our tiny house/apartment/living quarters)!
Husband:
Me: Ok, do this, this, this, run here and get that, call him, pay the bills, talk to the landlord about the leaky toilet/faucet/shower/washer/kitchen sink. Feed the cat, there’s leftovers in the fridge for lunch.
Husband:
Me (teasing): Don’t smile or anything.
Husband: I wasn’t planning on it.
Get my point?
Weekends are my only salvation from the ho-hum routine that consumes me Monday-Friday. Saturdays and Sundays are the only days I really have time to go out and do anything fun with my husband. By having time I mean making time. I do homework until late at night into early parts of the morning so I have that time during the weekends to spend with him. I know he hates that I am busy and he is not.
I have done my best to keep his spirits high during the past couple of months. We can only hope together that a job will be just around the corner that will work out for him. For better or worse, I took him to be my husband 7 months ago. However, this is not ‘worse.’ Our lives could be much worse than what they are right now.
Every morning the following routine happens:
6:30 a.m.: I wake up and get ready for job #1. By 8:15 a.m., my husband rolls out of bed.
Husband: Are you goin’ to work?
Me: Yep. What are you gonna to do today?
Husband: Nothin’.
Me: Ok, I’ll make you a list. It’ll be fun! There is so much to do around here (here being our tiny house/apartment/living quarters)!
Husband:
Me: Ok, do this, this, this, run here and get that, call him, pay the bills, talk to the landlord about the leaky toilet/faucet/shower/washer/kitchen sink. Feed the cat, there’s leftovers in the fridge for lunch.
Husband:
Me (teasing): Don’t smile or anything.
Husband: I wasn’t planning on it.
Get my point?
Weekends are my only salvation from the ho-hum routine that consumes me Monday-Friday. Saturdays and Sundays are the only days I really have time to go out and do anything fun with my husband. By having time I mean making time. I do homework until late at night into early parts of the morning so I have that time during the weekends to spend with him. I know he hates that I am busy and he is not.
I have done my best to keep his spirits high during the past couple of months. We can only hope together that a job will be just around the corner that will work out for him. For better or worse, I took him to be my husband 7 months ago. However, this is not ‘worse.’ Our lives could be much worse than what they are right now.
Go Miss Cali!
I’m sure you have all heard about the Miss California and Perez Hilton matchup. Miss California was asked a question regarding same sex marriage by Perez Hilton during the final 5 of the Miss USA competition. Miss Cali responded with her opinion because that is what Perez asked of her. Perez was offended by her opinion and went on to call Miss Cali a “stupid bitch” the next day.
All I have to say is this: Thank God there are still people out there like Miss Cali who aren’t afraid to express their opinion. She wasn’t worried about being politically correct. She shouldn’t have been – Perez asked for her opinion and she gave it to him.
Minorities have been fighting for so long to have a say in society. Now those minorities are stepping all over the majority. The minorities now are offended if part of the majority does not believe the same thing they do. Well guess what everyone, we don’t all have to agree on the same thing. We can have our individual thoughts and opinions and still get along! We are entitled to that. No one says we all have to think the exact same thing in the exact same way. Having our own opinions is what makes America so great. We are able to share our opinions with each other and learn from one another.
That’s not to say that no one should get offended. If someone gets offended it’s just because he or she believes strongly about a certain subject. However, calling someone a “stupid bitch” is childish and uncalled for. Instead, Perez should have just shared what he thinks instead of resorting to elementary name calling.
I think Miss Cali is taking the heat from Perez in stride. I commend her for speaking her mind.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Wedding photo norms
(Column 3 final draft)
Wedding photo norms: porn star stepmoms, drunken grandparents and pregnant brides
If you ask a wedding photographer to define the phrase ‘dysfunctional family’ I think you would get something like this: “well first, each set of parents has to be divorced. The mother will be remarried and the father will be dating a 20-something-year-old with a fake tan and other unmentionable fake parts. The mother of the groom does not get along with the father of the groom anymore - the last time they were together she sucker punched him in the beer belly. There has to be at least five children out of wedlock between the bride and groom. The bride is currently six months pregnant with her ex-boyfriend’s third child. That is the definition of ‘dysfunctional family.’”
Dysfunctional families were the norm at the photography studio I worked at for two years. Every week I would consult with that weekend’s bride about the family situation in order to get a count on the number of family photos we would have to live through. After the consultation, I would spend a couple tedious hours creating the checklist before I would need hard liquor.
After working there, I learned to value my functional family. Sure we have a couple crazies here and there, but we hide them under the rug. However, some families don’t know how to hide their dysfunction.
My TMI (Too Much Information) bride told me her stepmom was a porn star and her 13-year-old sister was pregnant. The NEI (Not Enough Information) bride forgot to tell me her dad’s new wife had four children, none of which got along with each other so they all had to be photographed with the family separately.
Thanks to dysfunctional families, many couples were forced into bigger wedding packages. If there was one divorce it added at least 15 photos. Combine biological Mom and Dad, then biological Mom and stepdad, then biological Dad and Dad’s girlfriend, and then some without Dad’s girlfriend because she’s just a tramp and no one likes her so we are just including her to be nice but we really aren’t going to buy those photos. If there were any children from the bride and groom that added at least more 10 photos. My favorite bride and groom had two children, each from other relationships, one child together and another one on the way (six weeks away from giving birth).
The day of the wedding was different. I absolutely loved the weddings where the wedding party, including the dysfunctional parents and grandparents, would get completely schnockered before photos. This was my boss’ worst nightmare but I loved it. Being tipsy made everyone so much easier to work with. Granted, I had to physically help the ladies and gentlemen up to the alter, but after that they didn’t go anywhere. They already had a dumb smile on their face from the alcohol, so I didn’t have to make lame jokes about the groomsmen to get anyone to smile.
So if you’re planning a wedding remember this - while you’re running around to the florist, DJ and caterer, make sure you stop by and tell the wedding photographer how dysfunctional your family is. The photographer will act as though a stepmom who is a porn star and fighting parents are everyday news. Well, let’s face it; dysfunctional families are everyday news in the wedding photography business.
Wedding photo norms: porn star stepmoms, drunken grandparents and pregnant brides
If you ask a wedding photographer to define the phrase ‘dysfunctional family’ I think you would get something like this: “well first, each set of parents has to be divorced. The mother will be remarried and the father will be dating a 20-something-year-old with a fake tan and other unmentionable fake parts. The mother of the groom does not get along with the father of the groom anymore - the last time they were together she sucker punched him in the beer belly. There has to be at least five children out of wedlock between the bride and groom. The bride is currently six months pregnant with her ex-boyfriend’s third child. That is the definition of ‘dysfunctional family.’”
Dysfunctional families were the norm at the photography studio I worked at for two years. Every week I would consult with that weekend’s bride about the family situation in order to get a count on the number of family photos we would have to live through. After the consultation, I would spend a couple tedious hours creating the checklist before I would need hard liquor.
After working there, I learned to value my functional family. Sure we have a couple crazies here and there, but we hide them under the rug. However, some families don’t know how to hide their dysfunction.
My TMI (Too Much Information) bride told me her stepmom was a porn star and her 13-year-old sister was pregnant. The NEI (Not Enough Information) bride forgot to tell me her dad’s new wife had four children, none of which got along with each other so they all had to be photographed with the family separately.
Thanks to dysfunctional families, many couples were forced into bigger wedding packages. If there was one divorce it added at least 15 photos. Combine biological Mom and Dad, then biological Mom and stepdad, then biological Dad and Dad’s girlfriend, and then some without Dad’s girlfriend because she’s just a tramp and no one likes her so we are just including her to be nice but we really aren’t going to buy those photos. If there were any children from the bride and groom that added at least more 10 photos. My favorite bride and groom had two children, each from other relationships, one child together and another one on the way (six weeks away from giving birth).
The day of the wedding was different. I absolutely loved the weddings where the wedding party, including the dysfunctional parents and grandparents, would get completely schnockered before photos. This was my boss’ worst nightmare but I loved it. Being tipsy made everyone so much easier to work with. Granted, I had to physically help the ladies and gentlemen up to the alter, but after that they didn’t go anywhere. They already had a dumb smile on their face from the alcohol, so I didn’t have to make lame jokes about the groomsmen to get anyone to smile.
So if you’re planning a wedding remember this - while you’re running around to the florist, DJ and caterer, make sure you stop by and tell the wedding photographer how dysfunctional your family is. The photographer will act as though a stepmom who is a porn star and fighting parents are everyday news. Well, let’s face it; dysfunctional families are everyday news in the wedding photography business.
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