The Pony of a Lifetime

My mom created a Flickr account, scanning countless pictures of me and my siblings growing up. I came across one picture of my sister riding Kirby.  Kirby was not a fancy show pony. She was round with a thick neck and legs we used to say “went like an eggbeater.” She was a real live Thelwell pony. What made Kirby stand out though, was her heart. For anyone who doesn’t know horses, it probably sounds crazy, but there are some who really love there job. Kirby was one of them. She carried me around for two years, including my first horse show and years later, my sister took over. There were children before us and long after us.

Millbrook's Morning Star aka Kirby

Kirby and Carly, 1997

Kirby and Me, May 1994

I loved my other ponies and horses to death, but they tested you, they spooked and shied and bolted. Kirby’s priority was the child on her back. She never faltered, never took a second look. You could almost read her mind when she was in the ring: “I got this kid, just enjoy the ride.”

Kirby passed away several years ago at the old age of 34 and though she had been out of the show ring for some time, she carried kids around until the end. Every time they tried to retire her she’d stop eating, lose weight…become depressed, because she loved what she did. Slowly over two decades, three states, and six barns, I’ve finally realized there will never be another Kirby. I know now how lucky I am to have been taught by her…to have known her.

The Dirty Thirty

I turned thirty on Tuesday. Waited to post just to see if there was anything really different — if I felt different or depressed…or whatever. I didn’t, I still don’t. I doubt I ever will.

The last decade of my life was one for the books. Time to start a new one.

The “Nice Guy”

So I met this guy…and if you were ever going to immediately classify someone it would be him: meat head, gym junkie, whatever…and I’m one of those people who has the bad habit of putting a label on someone before knowing him. Gym Guy was not your typical gym junkie and seemed really nice. Exchanged numbers and then the texting began.

What’s your natural hair color?

You have beautiful eyes.

You get the picture. I’m really not that kind of girl who soaks up compliments, but he’s trying to put the moves on, whatever. Then the doozy:

I want to paint a portrait of you.

Say WHAT? I laughed, because how could one NOT laugh? Who says that? But he does apparently since he’s also a “painter” as in watercolors and whatever other kinds of paints they use. I replied with a “Haha, let’s hold off on the portraits for now. How about coffee on Friday?” (Note: First “dates” to me should be coffee. No meal, no activity that takes longer than an hour incase you get stuck in predicaments like my last date.)

I could paint you with coffee.

Um, no. Don’t get me wrong, I like a guy to be romantic, but I hate cheesy. And the romantic stuff should wait until at least after the first kiss. “No painting,” I say because I don’t want to be mean but I want my point to get across. He drops the painting…until the next day when he begins referring to me as “Princess.”

Dude, no. No, no, no, no.

The text messages go back and forth all day with him talking about painting and pet names, me pretty much telling him I’m not the kind of girl who likes the mushy stuff. And just to make sure I wasn’t being a cynical bitch I showed the texts to my friends and co-workers. The general consensus was he’s a pansy.

I canceled our coffee scheduled for yesterday. I told him exactly why. He replies back about how I “judged” him too soon. Maybe I did, but if your text messages annoy me, I can’t imagine what a conversation would entail. One mention of painting me and I’d crack up laughing.  Calling me princess would call for lasers shooting out of my eyes at him.

What did I get out of all of this? I’m most likely not going to end up with one of those “nice guys.”