Dear 2012: I WILL Turn This Car Around

And the week started off so well.

I hit the ground running on Monday. Literally. Out of bed at 10:30, had breakfast and worked with a timer, signalling for me to go for a run at 1:00. I was getting SO much accomplished, cleaning my inbox and formatting manuscripts and following up on things and finishing edits and proposing ideas to the boss which he accepted. I started tweeting from my new work account (more on that later).

Phone rings. My mother was in tears. Then she says the words that stopped me cold:

"Clancey fell."

Oh god.

To back up, Clancey is her horse. She's had him 6-7 months. She lost her horse last year and was completely lost and devastated before she found this boy. He's a seven year old Belgian, over eighteen hands high, very antisocial with other horses, and he comes to his name and follows my mother around like a dog. He likes me, I like him, though he has stepped on my feet three times so we like each other from a distance now.

(Here is Dina with Clancey back in September.)

She can't handle losing another horse, not so soon. I endeavored to remain calm and found out the details: they fell on the ice, he got a leg caught in the gate, she went under him and thought she would be trampled as he flailed, but he got up and jumped over her. Yeah, horses? If they break a leg, they're done. I had trouble wrapping my head around that as a kid until I understood that you can't keep them off their leg for it to heal.

Honestly, do you know how many things go wrong with horses? It's like the supreme creator of the universe WANTS them to die, like the screamapillar.

Anyway, he was walking and eating still on Monday, glancing at her constantly and probably worried that he'd hurt his mum. But she was beside herself with worry (and also bruised/banged up pretty badly). Barely slept, couldn't eat. We went to see him yesterday though and found him okay. Definitely bruised but the limp was only apparent when he did a brief trot.

Thank god

Well, probably not god-god. I swear, he's got it in for horses, so screw 'im.

I spent yesterday morning/afternoon with Mum, came home, and promptly realized I was coming down with something. Did some stuff for the boss, had some soup and went to bed early with a headache. A headache I didn't manage to sleep off.

Oh joy of joys.

Last January? Yeah, start of the month, Mum was thrown from her horse and broke a rib, cracked her shoulder, we spent six hours in the ER in which I was ranting at everyone for leaving a broken old (don't tell her I said that) woman just sitting there while they fucked around. And then I came down with the flu--probably from the fucking ER--in which I had a high enough fever that I was hallucinating stuff and had to take a week and a half off of work.

This, 2012? This is not okay. This is not how you make a first impression. This is showing up to a blind date and punching me in the fucking face. I'm wary enough given that every bloody planet is retrograding at least once this year. I've shown up, trying to hope for the best, and you're not doing much to ease my concerns.

Stop it. Now.

When I get out of bed after his horrible headache is gone, I expect you to be in your Sunday best, offering me pie and vodka, with an apologetic gleam to your eye.

I will accept no less.