As is always the case when I forget I have a blog, I’ve been getting emails from concerned blamers who have gotten it into their heads that the reason I’m not posting regularly is that I have been out sick with cancer again. I am sincerely moved by your interest in my tumors, but the truth behind my absenteeism is nothing nearly so dramatic as impending doom. I have merely been farting around in the boondocks with my horse Stanley.
Regular readers will recall that last fall, after a 30-year hiatus from equestrianity, I acquired a giant 7-year-old quarter horse gelding named Stanley. Since then I have been more or less transfixed by Stanley’s magnificence. He is hot stuff. Stingray alludes to him as my “boyfriend.” I would rather hang around watching Stanley eat hay than do anything else.
Just call me Ahlivah.
In fact, the excellence of Stanley, and by extension the excellence of the bucolic life in general, is so riveting that when I am Stanleying I find it almost impossible to even remember that there is a patriarchy to blame. Thinking up sarcastic things to say about human rights crises pales in comparison to shoveling manure. To discussing the sugar content of forage with the barn manager. To whittlin’.
These simple pursuits have worked wonders on my post-chemo physique, I might add. For the first time since my 247 cancer surgeries, assorted radioactions, and poisonings, I have biceps. Their names are Thelma and Louise. They will fuck you up.
I fully expect that once I sufficiently re-acclimate to the rustic schedge I will be able to resume my duties as That Internet Feminist With the Delightful Demeanor full-time. Meanwhile, it’s not like I’m not making subconscious notes, you know, while I’m hoisting hay bales. For instance, it won’t surprise you to learn that, although the horse world is populated so overwhelmingly by women you’d think it was a separatist cult, it remains patriarchal to the core. A shocking exposé is in the offing!
In the interim, perhaps you might content yourselves with this photo of one of eight Gulf Coast toads I found living under a water bucket in the barn this morning. My toad-wrangling chops are not what they once were, or the photo would have contained all eight specimens. You know how it is; when you remove a water bucket from a settlement of toads secreted thereunder, their interest in being photographed — which interest was scant at best — instantly evaporates, and they biff off in all directions, hopping mad.
By the way, Green Acres has often been hailed as a mid-century masterpiece of broadcast existentialism. Fuck that. I could never understand why Lisa didn’t just blow off that dweeb Oliver and get back to her penthouse. And what about that Post cereal ad at the end of the YouTube video? Skin crawls.