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Oct 14

Lady of leisure

It’s 7 AM. You know what I’m not doing right now? That’s right. I’m not feeding any horses. Not even one.

That’s because at long last I’ve hired a farm hand. My 7-year search for a person who can tell the difference between a bog spavin and a shear bolt has finally ended. Mickey moved into Bunkhouse East last weekend. And he’s feeding the horses as I write this.

The East Bunkhouse gleams in the morning sun.

The East Bunkhouse gleams in the morning sun.

Naturally I don’t know what to do with myself. Every single morning for the past 7 years I have hauled my reluctant ass out of the sack at the crack of dawn (or occasionally, if I’m honest, at 7:30 or 8), struggled into some hay-resistant clothing, bumbled out to the barnyard, and flung flakes of coastal at the herd. Then I’d shovel shit for an hour, followed by a climb up the hay stack to perform feats of strength with alfalfa. Then water bucket scrubbing, barn aisle sweeping, and “eek, a mouse” yelling (there’s always a dadgum mouse).

With this infernal morning routine so deeply ingrained, I now find myself at a loss. I’d been yearning for a reprieve from these extra-beddal sunrise chores for years, yet now that it’s finally happened, I’m in existential crisis.

“What the heck do I do with myself?” I texted my sibling, Tidy.

“Watch your iron farmer muscles atrophy,” she responded helpfully, after giving me shit about “first world problems.” Tidy is a phatphobic marathon runner with the body fat of a cheetah in winter. She suggested that I join her elite gym in Austin, so I could pay Mickey to do my exercise for me, then make a 2-hour round trip to pay a gym to replace the exercise I’m not getting anymore. Where do I sign?

For two days I sort of followed Mickey around, offering helpful advice he didn’t need (Mickey is a locally renowned horse-whisperer who has forgotten more about equines than I’ll ever know). This morning, however, I awoke to strange yet distantly familiar stirrings. Dimly aware that before having hurled myself into this pastoral abyss I’d once made something of a hobby of poetical self-expression, I suddenly remembered I had a blog. A glance out the window confirmed that my horses were contentedly chomping hay, and a glance at my hand confirmed that I had a cup of coffee. Nothing to prevent me from plopping down at the desk, blinking at the weird, bright screen, and composing some self-indulgent persiflage.

While my big guns melt into blubber.

10 comments

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  1. mousewhisperer

    Praise be to Mickey. Welcome back!

  2. meg

    Hot damn I missed this site!!!

  3. gingerest

    Woot! Welcome back, Aunt Twisty! Well, if you insist on maintaining them guns, I’m sure Micky would let you take back the shit-shoveling. For that matter, it’s only 13 months to the next election, so it’s not like there’s a shortage of shit to shovel on the interwebs.

  4. tuckova

    Molly Bloom could not say YES more enthusiastically or frequently than I just did. You cannot imagine how much I have missed you and your obstreperal lobe.

  5. wolfhound

    I’ve missed your self-indulgent persiflage so much!

  6. Belle

    Oh, to have Twisty back! The joy! The pleasure! The snorts of laughter! You could, lacking any other things to do around the ranch, pull weeds in the vineyard?

  7. Friend of Snakes

    Psst. No trans talk, k?

  8. Comradde PhysioProffe

    You could try pilates? BTW, glad you’re not dead!

  9. Val

    Whelp my offer still stands to shepherd ya through an endurance ride on Darling Pearl… One of my FB friends calculated that riding 25 mi was the equivalent of 4400 assisted squats – wowzers!!!
    No wonder my quads are screaming today – I rode 34 mi Sat, being woefully out of shape. My traps, lats, delts – hell, my entire upper back is sore. But at least Baraquinator didn’t sling me off or otherwise embarrass me…

  10. Comradde PhysioProffe

    Wow! I had no idea a horse could go 34 miles in a day! How much horse food do you have to bring along on a ride like that, and how long did it take?

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