Pfffth......

Written in the car waiting for 5 gallons of gas......

Thirty miles outside of town, late for the nephew's 17th birthday celebration, Sunday afternoon. The car sputters to a halt. Oh. My. Goddess. I haven't run out of gas since I was a freshman in college. Boy is it embarrassing.

If I had been driving, I would've noticed the gauge, but Excy is so tall, and the way the wheel is angled and the handicap knob is located, he seldom sees the dashboard on that side. I opted to be the passenger and to forgo my purse today. Thus, no cell. No phone numbers. Excy calls Triple A on his cell. I had told everybody we'd be late anyway from a prior engagement, so I opt not to call 411 and pay extra for looking up a cell number. But mostly I opted not to be the butt of jokes at my expense. I felt foolish enough.

My, we've certainly relied on Triple A this month, after years and years of membership and no activity. Let's hope they do better than 2 hours this time (see 'Indian Market' post). So far it's not impressive. The service they called for us is all the way downtown, and we are in the countryside 30 miles from the small town of Paron. He has no idea where we are but the main streets are easily recognizable. This is why we need On-Star, I sigh. We wile away the time catching up in conversation, playing 'hangman' (dork alert!), giggling over stupid drawings we make of each other....finally I begin writing my thoughts...

At least it's cool and windy, unlike the 100 degree weather we had outside of Abilene, TX the other week.

"I haven't run out of gas since college!" I complain. "Well, you have now," Excy points out.

Thank heavens I peed before we set out. But I'm really starting to regret that cup of coffee we stopped for at Coffee Beanery. With only a fourth of a kidney, I know most of the public stops in LR, and map my errands accordingly. There are no remote possibilities around here. And tall grass that promises lots and lots of chiggers and ticks.

By this time, four people had stopped by the road in TX to see if we had help coming or to offer water. No one here, yet. So much for Southern hospitality. Oh - finally. A hunter in a gimme cap. God bless, sir. A mom and her daughter. And -- yeah -- finally -- an hour and a half later, the deliverer of 5 gallons.

I wish I didn't feel so dumb, I explain. It happens more than you know, he replies. It happens to everyone.

'bye Patrick--I (heart) you

It's sad to learn of the death of a public figure. One who made an impression on you, but you can't pay your condolences to the family. It's weird to grieve this kind of death anyway, like you share him or her with the world and everybody has their sliver of impressions, and you aren't sure why it matters as much as it does, but the world seems a little bleaker than before.

Patrick S. was a movie star I admired for his talent, his range, his looks, obviously, and his grace -- off screen and on. To play tough guys and drag queens takes guts. To look cancer in the face and square off in real life takes courage. To play that particular drama out in public with pundits and paparazzo weighing in is almost unimaginable stress. He handled it with grace under pressure.

Dirty Dancing came out when I was newly divorced and convinced I'd be alone a long, long time. Feeling lost and wounded and loveless, I went alone into a dark movie theater and quickly grew absorbed in the drama of a misunderstood young man with a talent for dance and a life ahead of him that wasn't what he dreamed and longed for, and an impressionable teen whose sheltered life blasted apart during one summer of love and dance, revealing a life larger and more authentic than she realized. When the lights came up that afternoon I felt oddly stronger and more hopeful. It took a sweet and soapy little drama, but it helped jerk me back to the realization that life held endless possibility and you are the master of your destiny by the simple act of how you choose to act or react to events that unfold before you.

A Rant for Today (much needed and seldom voiced)

When I read or hear someone saying how having cancer is "a blessing" because of all they learned and how the experience has taught them how to reorder their priorities blahblahblah, I want to puke.

Cancer is so not a blessing.

In any way, shape, or form.

It's a big, fat, wet, pain in the ass.

Usually those characters had cancer, have lived through it, and have come out from walking though fire through a dark tunnel to the other side.

I speak only for myself, of course, but as one who has lived with VHL/cancer/chronic illness that has me slightly disabled for longer than I have lived as an able-bodied person, one who will always have cancer and will most likely die from it's complications, well, maybe I would feel more grateful if I had it and had lived through it and was over it, but that is not the case. So I don't feel all that magnanimous. And I say the hell with all that.

What I do find to be a blessing that I give thanks for every day are an absolutely incredible partner, and family and friends who are so supportive that even when they don't suspect it, they can make me feel my life is pretty damn wonderful.

One day I will blog about the VHL and surgeries and daily living with being disabled in an able-bodied world. But not today.

Today's a rant day.

...a friend in need.....

My dad just told me not to contradict a friend who said something I knew was wrong that I called her on. (One of the most galling know-it-alls I know, god love her). He told me #1: it wouldn't make a difference, and #2: she was a 'good friend' to me so I shouldn't correct her. He's probably right about #1 -- but #2? Seriously? I've managed to defy the cancer gods and reach the age of 51 but I shouldn't voice my opinion and point out fallacies because "she's a good friend?" That's all kinds of wrong.
Jeesus.....I guess that's why I started this blog. Bummer.

Indian Market

For some reason I have been unable to get to Indian Market in Santa Fe, NM, for the 18 years Excy and I have been together. So this August, when it looked like we would finally get the chance to go, we jumped at the opportunity. Before we could head to SFe, however, we had to take the big a-- horse trailer and drive to Austin to deliver a family heirloom to his eldest son, and go meet our new grand daughter. That was a pleasure.

Back on the road, we broke down 30 miles outside of Abilene. Gadzooks -- sounds just like a CW song. It felt worse. Sitting in a HOT truck for 2 hrs waiting for a tow, I had ample time to wonder just why every time we take a vacation (in itself rare, what with all the medical appts and issues we must meet, as well as all the animals we care for) we have such exceptionally bad luck.

The week before we leave on any vacation we have ever managed to take is always fraught with last minute emergencies and car mishaps, often to the point we consider not going, and the finale entails hurting myself, like breaking a toe or foot. Oh the joy. Feels like the Universe conspires to keep us from having any fun when a hospital visit isn't tacked onto the beginning or the end of a trip.

Having just pumped close to $2000 into a truck that only has 68,000 miles on it, we were understandably nonplussed to find we had a $460 problem, and that and the unexpected overnight stay flattened our Indian Market budget considerably.

But we got there. And it was amazing. We spent three hours looking around and only saw a fourth of it. We bought a seed pot (with a turtle design on it, which is perfect because I seem to accumulate turtle, lizard and frog fetishes) from an up- and coming potter from a prominent family of potters. More exciting for Excy, though, was running into Wes Studi.

I know 90% of you are now wondering who Wes Studi is. The 'bad' Indian in The Last of the Mohicans. The lead in Geronimo. Leaphorn in all the Tony Hillerman mysteries on PBS. Studi is Excy's favorite movie star, bar none. For a few years he has tried to contact him to be a celebrity spokesperson for the mustang sanctuary we run (see blog 'Introduction'). When I turned around in line for fry bread and saw Studi standing behind us I couldn't believe it. Excy gave him his card, apologized for being intrusive, and told him about the Sanctuary, and Studi was kind enough not to throw the card over his shoulder after Excy walked away. (I looked). Now if he'd just call..........Wes, are you out there? Your #1 fan is waiting.....

House guests

Now don't get me wrong. I don't hate house guests. It's just that I have a low tolerance for guests that come often enough that when I mention the visit, family and friends don't say, "What? Again?!" (Meaning, every five to six months). The ones who insist they'll be "no trouble" and then proceed to run you ragged as they protest they're "on vacation" when it is lightly suggested they might be capable of making their own coffee/sandwich/etc., or carry their dishes to the sink. (And no, we aren't talking about children here). What does that make me? Chief cook, maid, and bottle washer?

Recently we had the near-perfect house guest. I was so flattered. L. stayed only three nights. She insisted on paying for my gas for driving her back and forth to the airport and into town. She paid for our lunch and one dinner. She assisted willingly with chores around the house as we got ready for a dinner party to celebrate her visit with family and friends. She didn't monopolize the TV or CD. She made her own breakfasts each morning. She brought a thoughtful hostess gift (hey -- it definitely helps). She could entertain herself when required. She took naps. And when she left she took her dirty towels to the washing machine.

She'd have a perfect score if she had stripped the linens off the bed or had told me we needed more eggs and sour cream to replace what she used before I made my weekly grocery trip and then discovered we were out. (Living in the country means one can't just run down the road for resupply). Knowing L. though, she would've gladly done these things, too.

Contrast L. to another visitor I have in mind. One who unfortunately visits a little too often and brings a friend so upbeat I call her Eye-ore (no, not to her face). This woman made the immensely generous offer some years ago to help us out with the house and spread, having no dependents, after promising profusely that no, she didn't want to live with us, and no, she would not to be a bother. We had a few Come-to-Jesus discussions where she assured us she would never be intrusive and I made it clear nothing was worth feeling I had just signed a bargain with my soul that took away our privacy or our freedom. Complicating this equation are the numerous surgeries, recoveries, and periods and stresses of living with a chronic illness that rob me of the lifestyle and energy a "normal" person of middle age has.

Alas. It seems all due promises were forgotten about as soon as they were made. And we have found that illness and recovery are not valid excuses when this woman and her posse of choice want to visit.

A few suggestions to erstwhile house guests out there:

When visiting, when your hostess is in the middle of a complicated project, don't keep interrupting every 15 minutes with entreaties for home-made muffins (particularly just after eating breakfast), and most particularly after they have promised said-muffins once they finished whatever project they are engrossed with. And, once the muffins are made and you awake from your nap, don't sulk and turn up your nose at them and say that you "never eat between meals." It's just rude. And guess what else? It's odd.

When your hostess is napping don't go through her entire pantry and cabinets and make a list of everything you want to eat and present it to her. It's just odd.

Don't insist they turn off the classical music playing softly in the background because you play classical music and "it makes you think of work." It's just what, -- odd? Righto.

Don't insist on coming to visit the day after your host and hostess return from major surgery across the country and then complain when they don't entertain you. Certainly do not do this twice.

Don't badger them into driving three hours away to shop at a store because you know you'll get a discount there, and then once at the house complain that "the service is lousy" when your exhausted and hurting hostess collapses into bed, leaving you to heat up your own dinner or fix your own cocktail.

Don't ignore the food your hostess has stocked up on in anticipation of your arrival and insist on ordering "off the menu," declaring the need for a separate dish and then sit there to be waited on hand and foot......

Don't monopolize the sole TV and spread crumbs all over the couch and leave dirty dishes on the table.

In fact, don't come. Give your hostess some breathing space between visits -- ensuring that the smiles you see upon arrival will be genuine.

Introductions

We live on a small mountain just outside of Little Rock. It was established by local Italians, and 'Little Italy' is just down the road. Wye is well known for it's annual daffodil festival each spring, where a 7-acre field of daffodils is open to visitors for photo ops. Our neighbors are keeping tradition by growing grapes and making wine and jams. (We are lucky beneficiaries of this).

In 2007 we decided to start a wild mustang sanctuary. It's called Wing Spur Wild Horses, Inc. Around 37,000 wild horses and burros are on Bureau of Land Management (BLM) territories throughout ten western states. Their population exceeds land capacity by over 10,000 head. The BLM has a wild horse adoption program that places mustangs on reserves. Excy, my husband, adopted two mustangs in Colorado, and two years later a contact from BLM asked if we could rescue more that were then slated to a killer-buyer. We only have 38 open acres across the road, so we fenced it, put in a pond, and drove to Illinois to adopt two families that are now banded together as one herd. Three babies have been born over the years. The 'wild ones' are curious and a few will come up to visitors to check them out, but are skittish enough that a sharp noise or sudden movement can send them thundering across the hills, which is a beautiful sight to see. We prefer to keep them wild and not tamed -- to just let them 'be.' Watching them running is to witness a vestige of the true American West in action.

The Sanctuary is also home to a family of beaver who have built an awesome lodge on the bank of the pond, geese, heron, and all the attendant wildlife that call this part of the country 'home.' Once or twice a year we hold a picnic to help raise costs for covering feed and vet bills for the horses.