I have a list of things likely to drive me nuts. I mean more nuts than I already am. Impending menopause and that stupid hard plastic packaging manufacturers use that you CANNOT get into without the Jaws of Life and chain mail to protect you since it can tear the flesh off an alligator once you cut into it to attempt to extricate whatever it is you bought and really need to use – are in the Top 5. Pettiness and a lack of common courtesy are right up there too (which, if eradicated, would end almost every evil known to mankind ...except menopause). But Number One is being left home while your husband and son go riding in the dez.

It started innocently enough. Actually, it started on December 25, 2005. I bought my husband a brand new 2005 KX250 for Christmas. Sorta. See we had this budget and I swore to him I would not go over that budget (which was waaaaaay below the cost of a new bike). So – I used said budget for a down payment, deferred the loan for a bit and handed him the bike AND the loan papers. "Here honey, have a new bike, I'm in debt, Merry Christmas." The only thing he heard was "new bike."

And even after all my years of experience with dirt bikes, I made a small error in my cost calculations of taking a stock machine and making it into the ultimate ChrisMobile. Which is why I took out a second mortgage on the house on January 1, 2006. BUT, I digress 

When a man gets a new bike and there's three feet of snow on the ground, you have in essence, the meanest thing around next to a perimenopausal two headed badger. Actually, it's pretty heart wrenching. Watching a grown man stare out in the window in tears, holding a spoke wrench in one hand and a tire iron in the other is enough to make a woman promise her man anything. Including smiling while he goes riding without her. (This is no small sacrifice from my perspective.) But, I am a mature woman with plenty of my own 'things' to keep me busy.

So at the first teensy break in the weather that coincided with Chris' days off (but not mine), the day was set for the new bike's maiden voyage.

I do not have a job that allows me to call in 'sick.' One of my odds jobs is an official 'domestic' for some expensive horses. If no one is available to take care of the stable, I don't leave town. While Chris and Connor were driving to the desert, I was shoveling manure and ranting maturely to my own horse, Danni. Who listened contentedly as long as I shoved carrots in her fuzzy muzzle.

Me: "The bastards left without me Danni."

Danni: "Damn shame. 'Nother carrot please."

Me: "They're riding tacky dirt while I muck around in sawdust and poop."

Danni: "Got any molasses to go with that carrot? Grain maybe? "

And then they CALLED me from the desert mid-day. Connor had gone over his handlebars and pinched his unmentionables. He was laughing about it. Chris 'loved' his bike (although he needed more ... parts). The weather was gorgeous, the trails were phenomenal. I was ... mature.

Me absentmindedly shoving a banana or two in Danni's mouth: "They're having a great time Danni ... Twits!"

Danni: "Mmph ... snort."

Me holding open a bag of apples: "Wanna go for a ride Danni? We could go riding and show THEM what FUN is."

Danni: "Pull out the bridle and saddle and put on 'The Riding Coat' and yer gonna get your exercise chasing me around the pasture. Got any more apples?"

(See, I have this Australian Duster that I only put on when I'm heading out to ride. I didn't know horses were fashion conscious until I walked into the pasture wearing The Coat, and Danni tried to hide behind a telephone pole.)

I desperately needed a listening ear. Equine or not, anything that would stick around and listen to me complain ('maturely' I remind you yet again) was welcome.

I was out of apples and started on oranges. I spent the day huffing around doing my chores, Danni hot on my heels trying to root through my pockets. About the time I climbed in 'The Gator' (the official chore machine, a six-wheeled 4WD 1,200 lb. wonder that hauls and dumps poop, chops onions and grates cheese all for only $8,999) and tried popping wheelies and sliding through turns in the pasture, Danni was confused and high on carbs.

The perfect time to attempt a ride...on my horse! I didn't wear The Coat, sneaked up on Danni with a ... kumquat, yeah that's what it was ... and had her haltered, bridled and saddled before she finished chewing.

This might have been a good idea if a horse was a machine. But a horse can pick up on tension and multiply it exponentially -- turning your little bit of angst into an event worthy of the NFR in Las Vegas. Entertaining as hell for the neighbors.

Besides, ever ride a burping horse?

It was a loooooong day. By the time the boys got home, I had spent my venom and was the picture of calm and perfect domestic goddesscicity.

Me: "How was your day boys?"

Connor and Chris: "It was AWESOME!! We saw deer, and turkeys and antelope and elk and rode the 'Red Trail' from the pits (a personal favorite of mine), and shot guns at things that exploded (legal, all legal) and rode the rocks and didn't see ANYBODY out there so we had the whole place to ourselves and ...."

Me gritting my teeth: "That's soooooooo nice. Want a carrot?"

On and on it went. I heard stories all day, stories at dinner, stories a week later.

And then Chris stopped by the stable two weeks later while I was cleaning with what he considered a great idea.

Chris: "Kimmie, I just gotta go riding again. Now I KNOW you can't get this weekend off, but I can, weather looks great, Connor and I will be back by dinner ...WHOA, what's up with Danni?! She sure has put on weight! HEY – where are you going?"

I climbed into The Gator with fire in my eyes.

Me: "Nowhere dear, just stand right there for a wee second, would you mind?"

Chris: "What are you doing? Honey.... punkin .... sweetie?"

I backed up the Gator with a full load of manure and pinned him ever so lightly against a wall. I put my finger on the 'dump' button and smiled ...

Common courtesy can be thrown aside and pettiness reign supreme at any time by a menopausal women left 'Home Alone' one too many times.

Kim Orndorff
March 1, 2006