My niece, Hunter, went hunting with my Dad over Thanksgiving break, living up to her given name. She was excited about it, couldn't wait for her first kill, a pheasant, who gave up it's life in a small cornfield outside of my Dad's acreage so that she could have the taste of her hunt. She never ceases to amaze me, a ten year old little girl, who has an insatiable curiosity about nearly everything.

I've officially lived in Chicago for over a year now. Last year at this time I was counting down the days until I could move back home, closer to my family. I promised my Mom that I would give it a full year. I look back now, and couldn't imagine living anywhere else. 

I read this article this last week that shocked me to my core. I found it so deeply disturbing, that I decided to write about it.

Well known fact about me, I don't tighten or shut lids on anything. I have a compulsive fear that I will not be able get lids off if they are shut tight. It's a serious OCD thing. It drives people crazy.

Another fear, I have a serious frog/toad phobia. My family thinks this is funny. They use this to their advantage. For example... hey, let me put this dead toad underneath this garden shovel and then yell at my daughter for not helping her Mom weed the garden so she feels incredibly guilty and picks up said shovel only to find a warted and large toad carcass lying underneath. We'll watch her scream and cry a little, but then we'll all laugh at her expense. If you wonder where my dark sense of humor comes from, you will find it lying in the genes that my Dad distributed to me twenty some years ago.

A little known fact about me, that even my closest friends don't know.... I can ride horses. I know, it's kind of lame, but I keep the country girl part of me a deep dark secret. Funny thing about this, my Dad doesn't know that I hate riding horses. He stuck me on my first horse at 3, I loved it. I was fearless at 9, while racing my farm boy buddies and riding bareback in the pastures. I was bucked off at 15, watched my Dad get kicked in the leg and decided I hate all things horse related.

To humor my dear old Dad, I ride when I go home. Before I get on, me and my 5 ton horse buddy have a little come to Jesus moment. We look each other in the eye and get a few things straight, which basically means, I will kick the shit out of you with the heals of my boots if you think for a second you are in charge. Now, I'm all animal activist and all about not hurting the creatures, but if you are a 115 lb girl getting on an equestrian killing machine, you will feel no qualms about wanting to dig spurs in the rib cage, kidneys, butt of a large animal.

Here's a little how this goes... Out of our three horses, I pick the most mild. This would be "Pet". Yes, his name is Pet, no he is not friendly towards adults, but he is good with children and I am small. He gets confused. Pet is a biter, so you have to watch your back, literally. Once Pet is saddled and ready to go, I hold the reins real tight and look deep into those cold dark black evil eyes of his and whisper in his ears, "You buck me off, I will kill you". I can see that he knows I mean business. Really, again, hurting this monster is no problem for me.

So, I get on and our ride goes like this... Nice little steady pace. Suddenly, I feel a little confident, so I pick it up a little. We start to trot, then we go to a steady run. Then, oh my god, shiny objects! Pet loses all focus on reality, sees fields of grass and barrels up the steepest hill he can find. So I get control, do some forceful kicking and we are back to the steady walk.

This repeats its self over and over again, until I wonder what the real pleasure in riding horses is? I end up walking silly for three days, my ass hurts, I feel smelly, my dignity is nearly destroyed by an over sized beast. I don't get it.

Wow. I'm really thinking about deleting that last post. It kind of reminds me of when my bestie goes to the bar, find some random guy, and picks a fight with him over insurance or parking tickets. I felt the same way, only decided to use my own blog as a platform to vent my own beliefs. I'm feeling icky about it, because that's exactly how I felt at the time, when I was writing it.

I need to peel myself away from the internet, specifically Twitter and FB. I've been sick the last few days, so guess what I've been doing... laying in bed and plastering messages all over the www. This is what happens when you have too much time on your hands and looking to reach out to people because you've been quarantined by your friends. I'm glad to be feeling better today. I'm going to go cause some trouble tonight.

God, I love my life.

Last night, at 1 am I wrote this after being hopped up on allergy meds and a couple beers. It may not make sense, be really meaningful, or well written, but I think it sums up my life and why sometimes I look like a poor homeless girl with a broken cell phone. I have little, if any, desire to impress people, especially with material objects.

I was 22 when I bought my first home. I was another person at that time, another human being wrapped up in materialism. Objects ruled my life. I was fueled by them. I outfitted this little cottage of mine, tucked away in a small town, with any and all objects I could find. 

I was obsessed with newness, there was a savory shine to it.  A two car garage, where I stuffed my new car into. A new computer for my freshly updated office space that overlooked a backyard full of obscure plants. New gadgets, a PDA that I blew hundreds of dollars on because I felt that I needed it. A new cell phone that had to be the best at that time. My closet had to be stuffed with new shoes and clothes. I would only buy new expensive hair products and makeup. New, new, new, expensive, expensive, expensive.  The more I had, the more I wanted.

By 26, things had changed. I watched as people entered and exited my life. The death of my Grandparents, the instability of my father's health, the wavering of an unfulfilled relationship had taken a toll. The home, the property that I had built, that I had put everything into seemed pointless. I had sat in that shell, I had put all my energy, all of this wasted energy into these things, these objects and I watched the people exit, leaving behind useless items. I watched them move on, quickly and suddenly, leaving a mess of wasted objects behind.  

My grandparents passed away a few years after the purchase of my home. I remember going into their abandoned house. Their remnants, their belongings, were divided into rooms. My family and I were allowed to come in and take whatever we wanted as little mementos of what they once were, things they had once coveted. Things that they felt defined them. Things that we felt defined them. Dishes strewn about the kitchen, linens on the dining room floor, an old couch I spent much of my childhood sleeping on. Little trinkets and treasures were stuffed into boxes, which were packed away only to be sold at an auction the next day. What did it mean?

Inside one of the boxes filled with my Grandma's china, I found a white ceramic cup labeled "50th Anniversary", written in silver. It sat on one of the shelves on my dining room hutch. It just sat there. It didn't bring me closer to my Grandma, it didn't house her spirit, and no matter how many times my fingers graced the rim of that cup, she did not come back.

I can't find myself in objects. I can't find others in objects. I can't be someone through something. Maybe it's the buddhist, the hippie, the spiritual part of me that believes you can't define yourself through what you have. I have learned that each possession that I own at this point in my life has a purpose to serve, anything beyond that is wasteful. My car needs to get me from point A to Z. My clothes need to keep me either warm or cool. My hair looks pretty good natural and not dyed or relaxed. My shoes need to protect my feet. My home needs to protect me from the elements. I could probably survive on one cup, one dish, and a fork.