"Lost" Wallet

Today did not start out too badly. Katia came to clean. I love Katia. Without her my house would not function. However, the boys have not started school yet, unlike the rest of the state. (I know, everyone else starts after Labor Day, but here in Colorado August seems like a good idea.) I dragged everyone, dog included, to Panera's for breakfast so we would be out from underfoot and Katia would have a sporting chance against our house's mess.

Later in the morning Laurence, my husband, took Stephen to the orthodontist. I left for my horseback riding lesson and Harrison promised to stay out of Katia's way. I had some stuff I should have done before leaving (laundry, see previous post), but I figured I had plenty of time later that afternoon.

I headed out to the barn and on the way realized that I had only eaten half a bagel with cream cheese and the skinny half at that. And I had forgotten the banana sitting on the counter that I meant to eat at the barn. And lunch would be very late, because my lesson started at noon. Luckily, there is a McDonald's between the house and the barn.

Now I faced a dilemma. Do I stop at McDonald's and get some fries (very bad for my cholesterol, but great from the calories to burn perspective) or just bag it and continue on my way and hope we finish the lesson before I hit rock bottom blood sugar wise? Since I can't stand feeling weak and hungry (and I love McDonald's fries, and, really, this is actually a valid excuse, really) I went for the McDonald's. I parked the car and went into the restaurant.

Fueled up I headed for the barn. Right before I get there, Tracy, (who would also be riding) called and wanted to know if I had passed McDonald's yet because she needed a diet Coke. (Her issue today was not calories, she had a sandwich, but caffeine.) Since I was listening to the "Stuff You Missed in History" podcast and they were discussing famous battle horses (Traveller, Robert E Lee's horse, was originally named Jeff Davis) I told her I'd just go to the one a few blocks up and bring a soda back. No problem, I'm thought, because I was actually a little early.

I got to the barn and had to listen to the end of the podcast because they had just gotten to Caligula's horse, Incittatus, and, really, who could have left before hearing all about that?

I went in the barn and the first thing I'm told was that Raymond, my chestnut (red to you non-horsey people, sorrel to you Western riders), had thrown a front shoe. I could ride Patrick, Norman or Max, all school horses. Now Patrick has short leds and a bumpy ride so he was out. Norman has the biggest jump I've ever seen and requires spurs, a crop and legs of steel to move out of a trot. I don't mind the hard work, but his jump scares me, so I passed on him. This left Max. Lovable, bay colored, warhorse-looking Max. Easy choice.

I saddled Max and then it occurred to me that a perfectly good farrier was shoeing a horse right there on the premises! I went and found Rebecca, my trainer, to check out farrier etiquette (can I ask another farrier to fix my horse's shoe or do I have to call my own?) I got the go ahead, asked the farrier how much to fix a shoe, got my checkbook from the car and then had to stand holding my horse while he had nails pounded into his foot. By then the lesson had started, I had one saddled horse and one being fixed. I debated putting Max back and saddling Ray but figured it would take too long. Ray got fixed and put back in his stall (to his relief) and Max got led to the arena where Desiree and Tracy were already working.

I got on and immediately realized I perhaps should have opted for sluggish, dependable Raymond. The lightest touch and away we went. I thought I sat quietly while I rode, but apparently not. Suffice it to say that for the first half of the lesson we looked drunk while we careened back and forth as I kept overcorrecting with my legs, and lurching forward and back as I kept overcorrecting with my hands and seat. The second half of the lesson consisted of my digging my fingers into his mane every time we approached a jump and saying to myself, "Do not move, do not move, do not move." By the end I was drenched in sweat and thoroughly nerve wracked. Max seemed to have just warmed up.

By the time Max was back in his stall happily munching hay it was after two o'clock. Great, it was late, but I still had plenty of time to go to the grocery store, get home and work on my ToDo List. Except, when I got to the store, which, by the way is almost all the way home, I could not find my wallet. By then it was after three. At least I couldn't find the wallet before I went shopping.

First stop, McDonald's. They didn't have it, which I already knew because I distinctly remembered carrying it back into the car after buying my fries, but how pissed would I have been if I had gone all the way to the barn and then had found it at McDonald's? I got back in the car and after leaving the parking lot I realized I really should have scraped some change together and gotten a soda because I was really thirsty and running on fumes. I didn't have the energy for frustrated rage and had to settle for starving martyr to my stupidity.

I finally made it to the barn and went into the tack room. After moving aside some saddle pads and other debris I found my wallet which I distinctly remember not taking into the barn. Figuring I was already there I went looking for Emily, my favorite horsey teenager, to see if she would ride Raymond since he missed his lesson. Immediately she wanted to know if I was the one who had messed up Max's bridle and left a note signed, Thanks, Max. Of course it was me, I had to switch out the bits earlier because the one the good riders use is large and heavy and gives me the heebie jeebies. My hands are just not good enough to use it without banging his mouth. Then I could not figure out how to put it back onto the bridle correctly. Tracy, at the time, had helpfully pointed out I should have taken a picture of it before dismantling it. Thanks. Anyway, Emily promised to ride Raymond later.

Headed back, now in heavier, going home traffic. Cursed the grocery store as I drove past and eventually reached home, more than two hours after I finished my lesson and too aggravated to deal with anything.

We'll be going out to eat tonight and then I'll watch TV and then I'll go to bed and tomorrow will be better.

Laundry

Today I went downstairs to do a load of whites because Stephen, our fourteen year old, needs white t-shirts for soccer practice. Imagine my surprise to see mounds of laundry to do. It's not like I didn't do laundry last week, I did. I just didn't finish the laundry. And that leads to the question, how could I forget to finish doing laundry? I have no idea. It happens sometimes, usually without warning.

Not to be too psychoanalytical about it, but I believe it occurs because not so deep-down I hate doing laundry. The only thing I like about laundry is when it is finished and my laundry room is nice and tidy. Of course, this feeling is usually marred by the missed pair of underwear or socks that remain at the bottom of the laundry chute.

I know people who don't mind or even enjoy doing the washing. (My mother springs to mind here. Hard to believe because she is so normal otherwise.) I don't get it. I can't figure out which part they might actually like or why.

It can't possibly be the sorting part. Talk about stressful. I know to have a dark pile and a white pile. Easy enough with one pile full of anything white and one pile of anything black or really dark. The reds are obvious and easy. (And for you novices, yes, reds really do run and turn things pink. I have the underwear to prove it.) But wait, what about orange?

Then I get to the lights. What qualifies? Is the olive green shirt that has faded a bit a dark or a light? What about the really bright blue shorts? They are made from that nylony material so I could wash them with the lights or the darks with no harm. And the white bra, I want to put it in with the whites so it stays nice and bright, but I suspect the hot water and the bleach do a number on its elasticity. Then there are the jeans. Denim is hard on anything, do they deserve their own load? Is it okay to put the old tan towels in with the white ones occasionally so they can have a good bleaching? And God forbid anything reversible finds its way down the chute. Which side am I supposed to base my sorting decision on? The dark blue side, or the plaid side which contains no less than four colors (including red) on a white background?

Drying should be easier, but has its own issues. Towels and jeans can't be dried with anything other than themselves because they stay damp while everything else is dry. Then that white bra again, because maybe it's the heat of the dryer causing the problem. Should I put it on the drying rack? If I decide to do that how do I remember to pull it out when moving the laundry from washer to dryer? Sheets, due to their twisting and trapping of small items in their corners, must be done alone, although they can be washed with other things. And, of course, there is the perennial missing sock problem. Not to mention the fact that jeans get smaller in the waist the more often you dry them (ask anyone.)

Which all leads to sorting, which I do not actually dislike. I can sort clothes while watching TV or talking to someone. I can even assign it to the kids. This, however, assumes I have enough laundry baskets. It's not like I don't have laundry baskets, I believe I possess at least eight. They just seem to float away and fill themselves up with stuff.

The drawback of having enough baskets is that I like to divide the laundry up in them. The more categories, the better. On a good day Harrison's socks can have their very own basket. This leads to a log jam of partially full to full baskets at the bottom of the stairs waiting to go to the second floor to be put away. And there they sit. And sit. And sit.

You would think that having to move or step over baskets containing their clothing in order to go up the stairs would signal to certain people living in the house that perhaps they might pick one up and take it with them. Alas, you would think wrong. At least they have learned to come when they hear me winding up for a good scream.

The final step of laundry requires putting the stupid things away. The boys have reached that critical stage of development which allows them to do this. My husband, Laurence, however, lags in this skill. I once decided to not put his clothes away. They could, I thought to myself, sit in the laundry basket until they rotted. He did not appear to notice. This went on for weeks. I would fill his basket and he would root through it to find clothes to wear. Slowly his side of the closet emptied. Finally, I caved. I know, for women everywhere I should have been stronger, but I just could not stand it a moment longer. We have reached a compromise, though. I put away anything that needs hanging up and he leaves everything else in the laundry basket.

My only hope for the future is disposable clothing. Wear it once and then recycle it. I can't wait.