Cowboy, Take Me Away

A couple weeks ago I went to my very first rodeo. Thoughts:

1. Advertising by horseback. Every half hour or so a girl on horseback would dash around the arena with a sponsor's logo on a flag. I found this amusing. I think they were the rodeo queens/royalty/whatever too, so I wondered if they felt like sellouts or if they just enjoyed the chance to ride. I know I'd like a chance to ride a horse, ad flag or no!

2. Um, I'd like to marry a cowboy. Not only because there were some good-looking ones out in the arena, but because I sat next to this ranching family, and the cowboy husband sat next to me and told me about the events going on, how they're scored, etc, which I really appreciated. Even more impressive, though, was that his four-year-old daughter began whining less than halfway through the rodeo that she wanted to go home NOW, and instead of scolding her to be quiet, he kept her on his lap, pointing at the rodeo clowns or the horses or the motorcycle show, keeping her distracted, as patient as can be. I was amazed. I'd marry a man like that in a heartbeat.

3. Someday I'd like to own a horse. Not that I've always adored horses like many girls in my generation; I only watched "My Little Pony" once or twice growing up (when the Disney channel would broadcast for free for a week or two, soliciting subscriptions—remember that?). It's never been the horses themselves that I'm interested in necessarily, it's the idea of riding. That romantic vision of man and horse moving seamlessly together across the sward to the rhythmn of hoofbeat and heartbeat. I've been horseback riding a few times and loved it, though of course I've never been much over a trot. I'm fascinated by how much there is to learn about riding, both the skills and the less tangible techniques of attuning yourself to the horse. I would love to have it said of me that I can seat a horse well. Anyway, watching the rodeo reminded me of this whole other world that I've wanted to be a part of for a long time. I was slightly embarrassed to be a pansy city slicker among people to whom horses and bulls and sheep—and riding, wrangling, and herding—were as natural as breathing.

4. Hm, manure. We were sitting right over the bullpens the whole time, so I was reminded in the midst of my fantasizing that poo still stinks. I forgot about that part. So . . . someday I'd like someone close to me to own a horse and just let me ride it all the time . . . ?

The rodeo left me with a lot to think and dream about afterward. At the same time I was laughing at myself for watching it with fascinated, anthropological/folklore/mythological-oriented eyes when maybe it was a perfectly ordinary sports event to most of the people there.

The Grudge

Scapegoat (name has been changed) and I are roommates. We're both very different people, but we became good friends under trying circumstances. When those circumstances improved, then we started bugging each other. By now we're too close to think of simply ending the friendship, so we have to push on through these spats and annoyances, bruising, breaking, sometimes making the right choice, sometimes not, but making it through and (hopefully) learning a lot along the way. It's been a pretty new situation for me, because I don't usually get so close to roommates who can rile me like she does sometimes. So instead of squeezing my eyes shut and repeating "it's only a few weeks more, only a few weeks," I need to help work things out.

The hard part is, we have completely different ideas about the best way to work things out.

Here's the latest. This weekend an event happened that we both perceived differently.

Scapegoat's POV: She was doing me a favor. I freaked out for no good reason. Then I got mad and stayed that way for a couple days.

My POV: I was doing her a favor. She blew up at me for no reason. Then she got mad and stayed that way for a couple days.

In previous spats, I've felt like I'm the one who usually gives in first and apologizes. This is because when something goes wrong, I want to talk about it, and she wants to exchange gifts and forget it ever happened. Scapegoat doesn't apologize if she can possibly help it. I've reminded myself that this is her way of doing things; I've accepted her peace offerings for her sake and tried to brush aside my dissatisfaction that words I wanted to say weren't invited, and words I wanted to hear weren't offered. I say I tried to brush it off, but I have to admit that I didn't really succeed. It still rankled, a little more each time, when I did the apologies and she did the offering and forgetting all about it.

This time I decided (and it was foolish, I know) I was going to wait it out and see if she would move first. I didn't expect an apology at first, even; just to have her come to me, ready to admit that she might actually have done something wrong and willing to talk it over. I wanted to know that she considered our relationship as more important than her pride or having her way and that she cared enough to listen.

Well, it's been kind of a long wait. Yesterday I found a note taped inside my bathroom cupboard, telling me to "have a splendid day!" I was glad to see that Scapegoat was feeling reconcilatory, and Scapegoat is free to leave nice notes for me anywhere she likes, but it wasn't the right bandage for the wound. It reminded me of a certain steak dinner a certain other roommate once made for us. I love a free meal as much as the next person, especially one so delicious, but in no way did it resolve the underlying issues in the apartment the way she seemed to think it would. "Nice try, Scapegoat," I said to myself. "Keep thinking."

We didn't really cross paths the rest of the day, but yesterday evening I overheard Scapegoat discussing the situation and her frustration with me on the phone with a friend (because, Scapegoat, a) I'm not stupid and b) you talk loud). It stung a little, even though she wasn't vicious about it or anything; she would rather discuss things with an uninvolved friend than with me. About ten minutes later she trotted over to my room on her high horse to ask me if I was still mad at her. Essentially, my answer was "yes." There were no further questions.

It was discouraging, and this morning I'm tired in a few different ways. Mostly I'm tired of holding onto this grudge. This isn't the most direct way, but maybe it doesn't matter, because it seems I'm the one who needs words.

Scapegoat, I give up. I apologize for being prideful and for dragging this out in the name of teaching you a lesson. I ignored the fact that it's not my job to teach you these things, and even if it was, holding a grudge is a pretty dumb way of doing it. I forgive you for hurting me, intentionally and otherwise; I hope you'll forgive me too. It's more important to me to be your friend than to be right.

And . . . I hope you have a splendid day.

Stay Tuned

In two months' time what nether shores will I be standing on
with purse and scrip and pen in hand? Albion, Albion!

Hi everyone. Sorry for the lackage of new entries lately. Don't despair, however: change is imminent. I'll be traveling to England in early September, armed with hopes, dreams, pen and paper (and laptop), and a new, good-quality digital camera!

More details to follow. Don't touch that dial!