Not just yet
The EN blogger contest took a vacation last week because of the AECs, Blenheim, and everything else but it is back in full force this evening. As a quick recap, these are the round 3 entries from the 6 EN blogger hopefuls who moved on to the 4th and final round. Stay tuned for the second group of entries from round 3 tomorrow and the final round selection of a new EN blogger shortly. In this round I asked the bloggers to identify their favorite EN Chinchilla as well as their entry. Without further ado, here are the submissions:
Lacy Cotton:
Chinchilla Love! — It’s possible that John Jr, the Carrier Chinchilla, is indeed a small furry amphibious bird… which is why I love him!
Entry — Reality Check
I have a dark secret, a tale of embarrassment so grievous it’s been entombed deep within my past. I swore I would never speak of this again, but here we are, proverbial pickaxe in hand, like some sort of Indiana Jones about to unearth an ancient curse.
At fifteen years old, I believed myself a seasoned veteran of the riding school of hard knocks. I was competing my way steadily up the “A” hunters circuit on a little spitfire welsh cob named Carbon, and in my bid for junior hunters greatness I’d set my sights on attending the Pin Oak Charity Horse Show in Houston. Back then, it seemed like everyone who was anyone attended that show. I wanted in!
And I got in – over my head!. Carbon and I endured a grueling week of three-foot hunter courses all filled to the brim with talented riders. By day four, we were both visibly tiring from the stress. Carbon wasn’t fit enough, but my pride made me selfish, wouldn’t let me quit.
Also, my had mother purchased the most beautiful new breeches for me to wear. They were made of pristine crème colored fabric, hand-stitched with a calfskin full seat patch that made my butt look “womanly” (which mattered back then, when I was all androgynous angles). Boyo, I thought I was smokin’ in those breeches and I refused to miss any opportunity to show them off!
So of course everything went to pot in the middle of a hunter round. I was distracted, far more concerned with the way my booty looked in my two-point position than the fact that my horse was pissed. Carbon was just waiting for the perfect moment to knock me down a peg. At the final fence, the traitorous beast planted his feet in the dirt and dropped his shoulder. I skittered like a handful of pebbles right off my pony’s nonexistent neck, falling boots over buckle into a wall of multi-colored jump poles. I demolished that oxer! And over the horrified gasps of my audience, I heard an equally horrifying ripping noise as my gorgeous breeches snagged the edge of the calf skin patch on a jump cup. The momentum of my fall literally tore the seat of my pants right off my body, leaving a gaping hole through which shone my pale, flat bum.
Unaware, I sprung up like a daisy in springtime, whole and unharmed with my derriere on display for my entire scandalized crowd to see. What’s worse is that I had, in my adolescent wisdom, decided to wear a pair of “thong” underwear that day (to hide unsightly panty-lines). So the onlookers didn’t just see my polka-dotted unmentionables, they also became intimately familiar with the birthmark on my left buttcheek.
Once I noticed the draft in my lower extremities, I spun to press my butt against my pony’s shoulder. Carbon didn’t notice, snacking smugly on the decorative hay bale propped by the now destroyed fence. I drug him off his mid-course meal while one hand covered my rear and crab-walked us both to the arena gate. The audience remained completely silent, so I made a weak effort to smile and wave as I left. It earned me some uncomfortably polite applause and one (memorable) wolf whistle.
I wanted to die! My life was over! But then my mom cracked a joke about my white fanny running in the family, and I burst into a fit of teary giggles that washed my shame away. I realized then that falling off and ripping my pants wasn’t the end of the world… it was just a reality check I sorely needed!
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From Jessica Keating:
Entry: Oh EN – I’m a little afraid to talk to you about my embarrassing equine moments, because they usually involve a near death experience and we’re a little too new in our relationship for that sort of tete-a-tete. I’ll need a third or fourth date and probably even a bottle of wine, before I’m sure that the chinchillas won’t scamper back to EN headquarters in horror when I reveal that I was once knocked off my horse by a tree limb to the head.
The sad truth is, if you have very little guidance, a lot of enthusiasm and parents that have three other children to worry about, you can get into a lot of trouble around horses. When I was ten, I decided to take matters into my own hands and find a place to ride. I remember sitting on our kitchen floor with the phone book open on my lap, scanning down the list of stables looking for a place that offered horseback riding lessons. I called each place and asked a few, very basic questions:
“How much are lessons?”
“Is this going to be anything like The Saddle Club?”
At the end of the day, I’m sure the place with the cheapest lessons won out. Decked out in a bright red t-shirt, jeans and a pair of old cowboy boots, I was ready to become the next Margie Goldstein. One hour later I was laid out in a field wondering if the cut on my thumb would be a scar forever, and if I would remember my first day riding and getting bucked off a horse (it is and I do).
That first riding experience pretty much set the tone for my riding for the next several (ok 18) years. I have fallen off more times than I can possibly count, spraining ankles, twisting knees and blacking eyes along the way. Dirty stopper? Off I come. Spook at a tractor? Hello, ground. Although I shouldn’t admit this, it has come to the point where I just shrug my shoulders and get back on. No biggie, right? So it is a little bit surprising that given my nonchalance about parting company with my horse that one of my most embarrassing moments involves staying in the saddle.
I was recently competing at my first Training level event and after a dressage test with slight geometric flaws I was pretty confident going into stadium. After all, we haven’t had any problems other than the occasional rail in YEARS. So color me surprised when my pony went from 60 to 0, slamming on the brakes as fast as only a chestnut Thoroughbred can (warp speed). I know what you’re thinking. Off I came, flying into the standards, blowing the rails away, and landing in a gasping heap as plywood confetti rained around me. If only. Instead, I was tossed forward onto my horse’s head, grasping his ears with my fists, ready to release and meet ground. Fortunately (unfortunately?), he simply flipped his head up, flinging me back into the saddle. This happened not once, but twice. So for the remainder of the show I was known as “the girl that almost fell off” or “she who shall not be named.”
Even after a stadium round that would have given Margie Goldstein an aneurysm, I bravely made my way to the XC start box and did the best I possibly could. Because despite the setbacks, heartbreaks and falls – that’s what eventers do. Go eventing.
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Note: Leslie’s entry was a bit x-rated, so in consideration of our younger readers we decided not to post the entire piece. It was quite funny and good enough to move Leslie on to the next round with the caveat that she keep her next submission PG-13.
Leslie Wylie:
Chinchilla: Leslie Wylie feels sorry for her favorite EN chinchilla Miss Snugglepuff when John dresses it up in stupid little outfits–and you wonder why you’re single, John.
Entry: STRIP-TO-WIN NEWS AND NOTES FROM DEVOUCOUX
Everyone knows that equestrian competition is the second most expensive sport in the world (yachting, obviously, is first). Devoucoux is still on the fence about whether to sponsor me (now I’m lying), so with horse bills piling up and what is sure to be the most AWESOME (read: costly) fall season ever looming ahead, I did what any sensible eventer (barely) under the age of 30 would do: I got a summer job as a stripper.
Being a stripper, as it turns out, is pretty magical. It’s a super career for girls who have a really expensive habit, like eventing or cocaine. All you have to do is take your clothes off and people give you money! Whoa. Who knew?
I haven’t always been an awesome pro stripper, though. At first, I was filled with embarrassment every time I got on stage. So I thought I would share with you some of my strategies for overcoming the jitters and getting on the fast track to becoming the filthy stinking rich event rider you’ve always wanted to be.
The first thing to do when you become a stripper is choose a name. The best way to do this is to think of the most expensive thing you can: Porsche, Diamond, Hennessy, etc. The priciest thing I could think of was my horse, so I decided that my stripper name should be Esprit.
