Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Where I Talk About My Fear of Horses and Large Dogs

Right now, I am lovin' this picture of my dreamy man.


Really. If I could package his personality up in a photograph, it wouldn't be exactly like this, but it would be a whole lot similar. Also, we need to buy him new glasses because, the other week, Max ripped these suckers off his face, threw them to the ground, and fifteen minutes later (after we got home), Mr. C. was hollering for a bread tie to stitch things back together, which he did because he is more creative at fixing things than I could ever be.

Anyway, the past few days, I've had the opportunity to photograph some beautiful women and beautiful places. Today, I photographed a professional rodeo gal with her horse, which was a big deal for me because I've never photographed animals, except for once when I convinced my parents to buy me a puppy for my eighteenth birthday and, since it was fall, I put her in a crate of apples and dedicated half a roll of film to her baby beagle face and oh. my. soul., she was a beautiful dog. Then she went crazy and my parents sold her two years later without telling me since I lived in Salt Lake City and they lived in Lee's Summit.


But here's my confession: I am scared of horses and big dogs. Maybe that's because my family had a humongous chocolate lab who tried to attack a three year old girl or maybe it's because, once, when I was seven, I wore pink jeans and saddled up on my Uncle Bernard's horse (named Brownie) and even though I knew she was safe, her field mate Star scared the living tar outta me and I cried a little when I was lifted out of the saddle. Also, my pink jeans smelled like horse for weeks afterward, even after they were washed, and I had to throw them away, devastating my future plans of all pink ensembles that I hoped I would wear to the first grade.

I'm not sure how those two fears are related, nor am I aware of how my fear of large dogs is related to my pink jeans from first grade, but I think I'll leave that paragraph just as it is. And since I've written three paragraphs about nonsense, here's an out-the-window shot I took today as Mr. C. and I held hands and drove 60 miles an hour in a semi-country interstate with a 55 mph speed limit.


We live dangerously.