Horsing Around

So we thought this trip to the Hunter Valley we would do what every brochure suggests: horseback-riding (far more comfortable than horse-front riding). Tanja had ridden several times before, but my experience was limited. By limited, I might add, I mean that once at the Fredericton Exhibition I was led around in a circle on a pony named Marshmallow. I was 5. So I approached this morning with trepidation.
We, and three other couples (all three women were blonde. Strange) were given our horses and saddled up. Tanja got a grey dapple, and I got a gold/strawberry blonde gelding with, erm, an attitude. Not a bad attitude, per se, but just the sort of manner where he'd decide to stop and then not move. Or slow down and down and down until Tanja's horse behind me was nearly nose-to-tail with mine. Essentially, the horse was trying it on whenever he could, and if he could get away with it? All the better. According to the head rider (who needed to readjust my saddle as my horse had “puffed hisself up when the girth was tightened, then relaxed so youse'll slide around”), this particular horse needed me to keep an eye on him, as he's “cunninger than a shithouse rat, he is”. I dubbed him Smartarse. He did eventually settle down; the head rider gave me a tip to wallop the horse with the reins and “give him a kick in the belly” when he dawdled. After my first tentative attempt, the head rider piped up with “'At's a half-ton 'a horse! You're not gonna hurt 'im! Give 'im a whack!” And I did. And he, contrary to what I thought he would do (buck me over a nearby fence, trample me to death, go to tea), he responded. Go figure.
So Smartarse and I travelled along. Tanja spoke later about how she had to adjust her mind from driving a car to riding on living creature. As I've never driven or rode before, my issue was learning to communicate with Smartarse. Mostly, I spoke to him the way I was speaking to a dog I was trying to cajole. Now, before I come off as the Horse Whisperer, I have no idea if this was having any effect. Essentially, I found horse riding to be similar to sailing or driving a motorboat; you're constantly over-steering and then steering back, always making minor adjustments to keep on a general straight line. How people can do this with just their knees eludes me.
About 45 minutes into the ride, and after Smartarse and negotiated a short trot (we trotted for about 15 seconds, then he stumbled, snorted, slowed down, and returned to a walk, snorting again if I tried to move him faster. Alrighty then) it started to rain. A slight drizzle at first, which didn't bother us. We all had jackets or hoodies on, and the helmets kept off the worst of it. Then it started to pour. And pour. Then the wind picked up. We, and by default, the horses, became quickly drenched from head to toe/hoof. At one point, when the downpour became even heavier, Smartarse turned, against the reins, and put his head towards a nearby fence. I looked up, and without a signal or a sound, all the other horses were pointed the same way, parallel to Smartarse. They had put their, and by default, our, backs to the storm.
While we waited, I had the bright idea to pull up my hood over the helmet. This made sense, bar one fact. A well-woven hood is, in essence, a cup made of fabric. This cup had been hanging down my back during our ride. And it was full. You know the feeling when you're so soaked you can't get any more soaked? Rubbish. There is always more,and colder, soaked to get.
We trekked onwards in the rain, until the head rider called a halt. He said that we were turning back early due to the inclement weather. We had no complaints for the lost 25 minutes or so, as we had all noticed the horses stumbling, snorting, and generally feeling miserable. So back we went.
My one near fall came on the dismount, when a slippery stirrup had me scrambling for a second, but that was the closest I came. Tanja and I hopped into the non-alive vehicle we had brought, drove home with the heater on (the rain had of course, stopped at this point). We arrived back at the cottage, left the doors open to air out the soaked seats, and went inside to a hot bath*. Afterwards, we got dressed in dry clothes and went for lunch about as relaxed as we'd ever been. So good day.
*Said bath was briefly interrupted when we heard the ran start again. Say what you want for gender politics and chivalry in a post-feminist world, it was yours truly who had to throw on a towel, run out into the rain, slam he car doors and run back inside. Sir Walter bloody Raleigh, I am.

Blame Canada

see more crazy cat pics

Memo to Certain People *cough*DamoRickZacVas*cough*: It's really not that funny when you sing "Blame Canada" at me. Yes, hardy har, it's from the South Park movie. It was a funny scene then. It was even mildly amusing when Robin Williams sang it at the Oscars. But assuming that pointing out my nationality is the beat-all in a conversation or the ultimate verbal barb? No way. That is all. Return to your crack pipes and your beer bongs.

My Daemon (apparently)

Going to see the Golden Compass tonight with Tanja (after a decent review from the Totally Rad Show).

Not a LOLcat. Promise.

For all of the complaints (well, ok, two), that lolcat was my most-commented blog post in, well, months. It did it's duty.

The new iPod Touch commercials are using CSS's "Music Is My Hot Hot Sex" as their theme. It's a fun song. I read a review of the band in Mojo and bought that song on iTunes. Now it's in an ad. People are going to think I have the song because of the ad. So, like all those people who actually like "Jerk It Out" by the Caesars (which was also on an iPod ad, which I also have but admittedly, I first heard it from SSX3 on PS2), that was, I must screen what comes out of my speaks for fear of being a trendwhore.

Tanja and I joined a gym. Happily, it doesn't open until late January, early February. The need for it was intensified by Kommi at work, who, after seeing me with a piece of cake from someone's farewell, tactfully asked if I had gained weight. I spent the rest of the evening feeling like I had a bowling ball hanging off my gut. I even contemplated going out and buying a looser shirt on my lunch break. Of course, she DID rectify the situation by saying that I was "a cuddly guy" and that she liked her fiance with his lovehandles. Yeah right.

Peterson's Champagne House Sparkling Pinot Noir.

Which has a bouquet that smells like dog. I'm serious.

See, now you're giving me the same looks that the guy at the cellar door did. It freaking does! Not like bad dog or wet dog. Just dog.

After a furious conversation with my better half in the car, I realised that it smelled like dog fur, specifically, the lanolin that is released when you brush a big dog, like a rottweiler or a golden lab. Which is a nice warm smell.

I'm not crazy. It's my palate, not his!

Ants are eusocial insects of the family Formicidae and, along with the related families of wasps and bees, belong to the order Hymenoptera.

So I've learned something. In the small area of the Hunter Valley that I visited (just around the cottage) there are five seperate species of ants. Wikipedia was no help in identifying them, though. There were huge black ones, hugeish red ones with black heads and abdomens (which I learned are endangered Sugar Ants!), medium sized reddish-purple ones with elegant N-shaped legs, little red ones with big heads and tiny black ones. I explained these interesting facts to Tanja, who called me a schoolboy and didn't understand my enthusiasm.

I found a boll weevil too, but they're not meant to be here in Australia.

Oh, and we got seven-and-a-half cases of wine (each of which seems to be more costly than last year's cases, proof that my tastes are improving) and had some fantastic meals.

But the ants! Wow.

Weekendaru!

So, my weekend:

Saturday:

Had practice with Ted in the morno. Love my new cowbell and my splash upside down on the crash (for all that hitting the underside of the splash dents it). Makes me much faster on the left side of the kit, for all that it now sounds a bit disco-like. Songs are coming along too. Ted and I are slowly agreeing that we can do a three-song grouping (maybe a medley?) off the White Stripes new album(songs 8, 9, and 10). I enjoy this as it gives me the chance to do my Jack-White-snake-oil-salesman-vocal-impression. Also, I broke my first drumstick ever! I hit the cymbal and the left stick split along the grain and cracked in half. Just about took my eye out. As much of a fun milestone as this is, it was from the good pair of sticks I just bought. Oh well. I borrowed 5 more CDs off of Ted. I need to stop doing that. Listen to the ones you have, Lucas, don’t get more!

Later that evening, I was set to go to Alexandria and take pictures of David as he played, but he called up at the last minute saying he was sick as the proverbial. So free evening. Tanja and I got picked up a few bottles of vino, and settled in to watch movies. First was Thank You For Smoking. Very dark and funny. Highly recommended. At that point we were through a litre of Sauvignon Blanc/Chardonnay blend. Then we started on the Merlot. And a little movie called Blood Diamond. The movie was stopped several times for booze-fuelled argument and discussion. Eventually (with about half a glass left in the 1-litre bottle of Merlot), I had to turn it off. That much senseless violence (and not cool Sin City or Scream violence, before Craig rebuts) I just can’t stomach. Apparently even my hard-bitten Dad took three tries to get through it. Went to bed.

Sunday:

Urgh. Slightly hungover. Fixed with Panadol dissolvable and back rub from Tanja. Hooray! So then we head off to Taronga Zoo with before-mentioned hard-bitten Dad. Had lots of fun, despite Tanja’s lunch noodles being seemingly solid garlic. Took lots of pictures. Once again had the thought that tigers seem to be the big cats who remind me most of small cats. Lions are lions, leopards are leopards, but tigers are big Magrats.