How he makes me feel.

Plan B

I thought I had it all planned out.  And if I didn't have a written plan, I certainly had a screen play that ran through my mind with occasional updates and changes.

I was going to be gay, you see.  Handsome and gay.  I was going to keep working in the gaming industry making more money than I knew how to throw away.  I would spend Saturday nights in bars with other handsome gays and doing the pretty things that gay guys do.  I would live in a cute home in Midtown and have some of my closest, but superficial, friends help me to decorate it so that it was gorgeous.

And I would have the time of my life.

I traded it all.

I spent the morning cleaning horse poop out of a barn and riding in the back of a pick up truck.

I couldn't be happier.

Just One Dish

MyFella's family hosts two separate family reunions a.k.a. potluck lunches a year, one around Christmas time, and the other in early Summer. 

You see, for a couple of years now, MyFella has asked me to attend the meals with him. He said he wanted me to go.  The first go around, I recall being slighly uneasy about it - not that I didn't know enough people there to be comfortable, just that, well, it's not my family.  And it's a family reunion. And exactly why would anyone think I would be going?

But since a good half of the people there I know, and half of them I probably eat with at least once a month anyway, it just sort of didn't matter.  And besides, there was always good food there.

I have finally figured out which two of his aunt's make the great fried okra dish.  His mother usually makes a very good cornbread dressing. And there's always a great assortment of dishes from which to choose.

Which brings me to MyFella.

Last night he said, very clearly, "I'm only taking one dish tomorrow."  Just one.  I heard him.

We had already planned the one - a chicken spaghetti dish that most Southerners will recognize as being a version of Rotel tomatoes and Velveeta.  That's the one.  Super good.  We had already decided that MyFella would boil a chicken and debone it, as we've learned the hard way that a chicken dish is so much better when you take this extra step.  We had already decided that it would be ok to use the penne pasta on-hand and not spaghetti noodles.  The chicken was put in the crockpot before we went to bed - a healthy batch of chopped onion thrown in for flavor.  I awoke to a house that was smelling quite nice with the chicken that was slow cooked on low all night.

So since all was just as we had planned, how was it we walked out of the door with chicken spaghetti, a buttery peppered corn dish, a dessert made with graham cracker crusts and lemon pudding, and an igloo container full of unsweet tea?

Try as I might to recount what we took, I just keep coming up with a whole lot more than "just one dish."

Hauling Hay

Hauling Hay

It seems appropriate to tell you about the experience of hauling hay, since it is the foundation of my 2 year long campaign to own my own horse.

As you know, his family’s rule was “If you own a horse, then you help to haul hay.” Hauling hay was an annual event, kind of late in the summer, when the hay was gathered (bought with sweat) and moved by flatbed trailer to their home and barn. Enough would be gathered to see them through the coming year.

Up until recently, it involved going to a cousin's farm land and assisting him in baling his hay to sell. In exchange, the family got all they needed for their horses.

When the date was set, everyone with a horse was told, and they showed up prepared to watch as an older relative drives a tractor with big rakes that fluffed already cut grass (that's really all hay is, certain strains of grass allowed to grow long). Then another relative drives another tractor that has a hay baler attached to it. This ancient device is fascinating to me. It works entirely on simple mechanics driven by a shaft attached to the tractor. It sucks hay up, pushes and packs it into a rectangle, wraps baling twine around it, then spits it out the other end. It has a rhythmic sound, keeping a beat and going smooth and strong. If the timing gets off, any one within ear shot can tell in a second.

And then comes a truck pulling a flat bed trailer with a bunch of relatives walking along behind the truck, grabbing the hay bales and tossing them onto the flatbed, on which other relatives are standing and stacking the hay bales. Done this way, it takes a whole bunch of relatives, but is much more economical than buying it. Hence the "all relatives that own a horse" rule.

I've partaken in this ritual twice. Once I lucked out and got to drive the truck. I was given the choice of tasks by MyFella’s brother, and not owning a horse, I didn't see the need to do manual labor. The second time, we were called on short notice and the "all" part didn't show up. I ended up teaching a 10 year old girl how to drive her father’s truck and I was one walking behind the truck, picking up hay bales and tossing them on the flatbed. I don't think I was as upset as MyFella feared I was, but I was extremely annoyed at the absence of the "all." But I believe I was fed a steak dinner that night at a restaurant that sits overlooking the Tennessee River with plate glass windows. It's a beautiful sight, and nothing makes me happy like a good meal.

I should admit that I feared grabbing a hay bale with a snake wrapped up in it. I’m not sure if his brother had warned me of such a thing to be safe, or just to scare the city boy. Either way, my eyes scanned each bale before grabbing it.

Add in Southern humidity, 100 degree heat, long sleeved clothes to keep from scratching yourselves with the hay and being eaten up by chiggers, and you’ve got the experience where the closest thing to relief comes in the form of an ice chest that some relative remembered to stock before the task begins. That, my friends, is “hauling hay.”
*Early on in our relationship, long before I had been to his home or ridden on a horse, MyFella cancelled (last minute) a weekend date with me to haul hay. I was none too happy about it, and called the one person in the world I knew who had a horse, and told her I needed her to talk me down. I explained the whole situation, and she said, "Hay is expensive. Let this one go." So I did.

American Mustang

The American Mustang

MyFella and his Dad own about 4 horses, and one of them is an American Mustang, adopted through the Bureau of Land Management’s Mustang adoption program.

It seems keenly patriotic to me to have one of these horses. Theirs, named after a sweet syrup, sired the horse that I normally ride. The stallion is large and impressive. The female I learn to ride on is slightly smaller in frame than her sire. But an impressive size to me.

His family has had a rule about owning horses: if you own one, then you are obligated to assist in "hauling hay" for the yearly purchase of hay. Up until recently, it involved going to a cousin's acreage, and assisting him in baling his hay to sell to the public. In exchange, the family got all they needed for their horses.

I write this to the point that I have argued, having hauled hay twice without owning a horse, that I was entitled to own a horse. And the one I want to own, hypothetically, is a Mustang received through the adoption program. I know, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking of Spock's statement to Stonn, "Having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. It is not logical, but it is often true." And yet, I want an American Mustang. And more properly, I want one adopted through the program, so I know I'm doing my part to save the American breed. (Never mind they are wild, you have to break them, work with them daily, feed them, and all that other stuff.)

My arguments have been met with slight amusement by MyFella, who knows I do not live with him, and hence the task of breaking it will fall on . . . not me. And at some point we will have to pay cash money to a local trainer to break the horse for riding. So much like a child who wants a new puppy, I've been constantly told no. And honestly, probably rightfully so.

But recently, he sent me a link to an adoption date in the Fall in a state and town very near our homes. He said we can drive over on Friday and look at the horses, and if we see one we want, we can go back on Saturday with a horse trailer and bid on it in the adoption auction. Maybe we would win, maybe we wouldn't. But we have to plan in advance by submitting an application for approval, and by having a training pen that meets their specifications. He said this weekend he is going to start work on repairing their pen.

I love that man. Not because he's willing to indulge me in this, but it's a nice perk. I love him. Period.

Some day soon, I may be a horse owner. I just heard all the sequins fall off my favorite Drag gown in protest.

Power of Attorney

I've been telling MyFella that I wanted his p.o.a. I am mostly kidding, we just are not yet in that stage of a relationship. We don't live together and haven't mingled finances. We're really just boyfriends.

The joke first came up after I went to a funeral and saw the "beautiful flowers" that his cousin made . . . . everywhere . . . like a w-m silk flower explosion in the country cemetery. After that, I told him matter of factly that I had to have power of attorney over his after-death business because, quite frankly, I just couldn't allow that crap anywhere near his funeral.

I've reiterated it jokingly several times, especially if we're in any way reminded of w-m silk flowers, purple silk flowers, or the one time we were driving through the country and wound up near another cemetery that clearly had been visited upon by the w-m silk flower fairy in all her purple majesty. Ugh!

Today I experienced just another reason to demand multiple levels of p.o.a. Let me first admit that I don't have a huge family. Never did. Nuclear family of four plus a dog, so with an in-law and nephews it's still just 7 people. I love extended family and know we can call upon them, but they're someone you have to go see, or someone who makes plans to come see you. They're not just there, down the street, around the corner, in restauants when you go out, etc.

Which is very different from the way he grew up. He is one of 8 siblings. His father is one of six siblings, most of whom still live within a 30 minute distance. So when his father went in this morning to have a stint surgery to eliminate blockage, an entire family showed up. All over in one corner of the waiting room.

I had taken the day off to surprise MyFella and offer support to distract Jamie in case he got upset at the hospital. Hospitals sometimes bother him, and I have the PTO time, and the hospital is only 80 miles away, all interstate. I barely got my Diet Coke finished before I pulled up. And walked into that nonsense of retirees and off spring alike all huddled up.

I've decided that, for the old people, it was probably due to being a retiree. They've got nothing better to do, this is an event and they can justify it in their minds by "being there" for the wife. Yeah, right. Even though the surgery is as common place as a a pedicure these days, I get that the man is in his 70's and every surgery has it's risks. But come on, nobody needs that many kin for support. I can even understand all the off spring (siblings such as MyFella). It is, after all, their dad. But the sheer volume of people I found absolutely ridiculous. If you need a table of 12 at Chilli's for lunch, and 5 or 6 people stayed behind at the hospital, then that's too many people.

But anyway, right off the bat, I told MyFella that I would be getting the "in the hospital" power of attorney in addition to the "you're dead" power of attorney, because, quite frankly, I'm shoo'ing them all on home. They're not all sitting up there and annoying me if I'm already worrying about him.

Second, I have found that MyFella's dislike for one uncle/aunt have rubbed off on me and I dislike them. Her in her Pentecostal bun and his "poor me walking cane" I just don't care to put up with 'em. I have no idea who managed to hide their cell phone number and call this aunt well over two dozen times, but I could kick them in their shins. And since this old uncle is a confirmed adulterer, having ruined his first marriage for an affair with a girl half his age, I thought his joke "It's my girlfriend calling" to be really tasteless. I think the adultery is at the heart of MyFella's dislike for him. He's told me clearly that the first wife is his aunt, not this lady, and the young lady with whom he had the affair was someone MyFella knew socially and is closer to our age. But not my family and not my problem.

But it is further reason for me to tell MyFella that, when we advance our relationship, he'd just be ready to sign the papers. Because in a hospital environment, I will shoosh them up and send them all out the door. All those extra ones anyway. Ugh.

Now, on a funny note, and just my luck to miss the good part, MyFella and that same uncle (just one of several there today), got into it. They get into it all the time. Lots of little one-liner snippets back and forth at each other. MyFella threatens to have the water meter pulled, the uncle threatens to call the city council about something, blah blah blah blah blah. (MyFella thinks the uncle got away without some building permits by using MyFella's name, at least in conversation and references to 'his nephew' so city related stuff really gets his nerve.) Then the uncle switched to suggesting that meter readers ride bikes instead of drive trucks. That's how it was when I walked out to take a call, much to my relief.

Upon my return, the entire patio was vacated, MyFella was steaming mad, two of MyFella's brothers were laughing in the hallway, and apparently the old uncle had thrown down the "I fought in a war" card which caused MyFella to call him a "wore out." I think what MyFella really wanted to call him was an old adulterer, but as much as he dislikes the current wife, she had not done anything overtly ugly to him so he could not throw it out with her sitting right there. The comment, laughed the younger generation, caused the old uncle to have a flare up of Post Traumatic Stress and went running to the other waiting room to tell all the older relatives how mean MyFella is to him.

And somehow I missed all that while on the cell phone.

I've got to get those power of attorney papers written up.