GETTIN' DOWN AND DIRTY

I don't mind dirt.


I try to keep my fingernails clean, I vacuum, I dust things when it becomes too obvious. I wash my hair a lot, and I take a bath almost every night (not for cleanliness so much as relaxation).

But I also live in southern Arizona, where dust is simply a significant part of the environment and our culture - sparkling clean cowboy boots that would be fine in New York City look silly down here. Same with real pick-ups and blue-jeans.

(Although I still can't get over paying money for jeans that LOOK worn and have holes. I could have made millions if I'd saved all of mine and kept them to sell on ebay)

And I must admit, I simply love dirt from horses.

I love the way horses smell, I love grooming them, I even love cleaning up AFTER them. It's the exact same infatuation ten-year-old girls go through - I just never outgrew it... as well as some other pre-adolescent traits, my family would add.

But I have a unique specimen in my Najale.

He is a cuddler.

Which is real cute with puppies and kittens, but is somewhat ridiculous for a 16.1 horse who weighs almost 1,000 lbs.

The weather has been good enough the last few days that I've gotten back with some 'serious' training (serious horse training, by my definition, means you actually put a halter on and use a lead rope and ask the horse to do something... almost anything).

And Najale has been remarkedly good, responsing correctly to voice commands, lunging nicely and paying attention to me.

Er... maybe that 'paying attention' should be translated into the lanuage of Najalese, where it means "every-time-I-do-something-correctly-for-Mom, I get to come over and nuzzle-slobber-rub-my-big-stinky-face-all-over-her-shoulder-and-face."

Proof?

I took a shower after working with Najale for almost an hour - scrubbed pretty hard - and STILL got the white bath-towel I used to dry off looking like THIS.

36" INSEAM

I must admit to being vertically challenged.

When I was four, I towered over my niece, who was a year older than me. I thought it had something to do with her being a blonde.

At age eight, I was as tall as my mother. I thought it had something to do with wearing high heels all the time (I'm not saying any of these thoughts were in any way logical).

At age twelve, I was the same height as my brother, who was five years old than me. I thought it had something to do with his long-term relationship with various chemicals.

By fourteen, I was taller than any boy in middle school. I thought it was simply because boys were so stupid.

In college, I worked at a roller-skate rink, which added four inches to my height, and learned not to be ashamed of it. (NOTE: that was also the year Randy Newman wrote the song "Short People").

Okay, Hope, is this leading to anything, like, SIGNIFICANT?!

Well, I am glad you asked that question. Because the answer is (drum roll, please) the JCPenney Spring Catalog.

Yes.

On the very first page, wide-leg jeans CA 844-5170, Misses Long, has a THIRTY-FIVE INSEAM!!

Around the world, women who are taller than 5'7", use coupon code CASVE10 before March 8th.

And no, I am not getting paid for this free advertising. Although, JCPenney, if you would like to send some bucks my way, I would not turn it away.

BLOOD OATHS

I am 53. I was lucky enough to live through the 60's and 70's period of feminism where we could go bra-less (this is before I had children and could get away with that), wear pants (which were not allowed in my school system until I was in high school) (and then jeans weren't allowed until I was a senior and then even the teachers joined us in a strike to wear jeans) (but then again jeans were not allowed at the third... wait a minute, fourth college I went to) (man, I guess I need to do a blog just about wearing blue jeans, right?)...

Where was I?

Oh, yeah, feminism.

But to me, one of the BEST things about being a liberated woman in the 60's was NOT SHAVING MY LEGS.

I realized at a very, very young age that once you began shaving your legs, you were screwed for life and had to keep it up.

And since I was a sort of medium brunette, in Southern California, and running around in shorts constantly, I definitely could get away with it. Light fuzz stood up to anything other than close inspection, and believe me, there wasn't anyone close enough to inspect anything until college.

I gave in eventually to this archaic American custom - actually, I think only after I joined the Church and began wearing skirts and dresses on a regular basis - and began to purchase razors and lotion and disposables (which, if you can believe it, were first patented in 1901 - so why the hell did they take so long to get made for women at an affordable price?).

However, regardless of the (let's see, 53, minus 14, plus six years liberated, carry the one) 33 years of habitual if not reliably shaving from at least the knees down, I have never learned two important lessons; namely

1. DO NOT SKIMP ON THE MOISTURIZER/LOTION and

2. DO NOT RUSH

So, needless to mention, I have slipped a lot of blood. I have scars, to this day, of slicing off skin instead of hair.


Please, somebody, buy me a good, reliable electric razor for Christmas.