Horse Show Trainer's Diary

This blog is dedicated to the few, the proud...the horse trainers.

Get up at dawn of crack. Fumble in dark, pull on mismatched outfit and head for horse show. Finally appreciate that Starbucks opens at 4am.

Arrive at showgrounds, get exhibitor numbers from office, try to organize riders and schedule for the day.

Have advil and coffee for breakfast.

Where are my riders?

Find riders for warm-up hunter class. School riders. Holler same three instructions fifteen times. Each.

Realize this is day one of five-day show. Enthusiasm wanes.

Get to in gate. 27 people ahead of you. Go to kiddy ring to school riders for crossbar class. Chew off what’s left of your fingernails praying nobody gets killed.

Go back to hunter ring. 29 people ahead of you now. Don’t ask how this happened.

Pop more advil and one of those little white pills that you hoard. Say silent prayer of thanks that they only drug test horses, not trainers.

Pass porta potty for the 18th time. Make mental note to stop next time.

Have 22nd cup of coffee. Look at watch. It’s 9am. Resolve to stop looking at watch.

School equitation riders. Realize your feet are starting to hurt.

While watching rider in equitation ring, hear announcement that hunter ring is holding gate for you and your rider. Run like hell to ring. Make rider jump two fences in warm-up area and send her in for her round.

Rider goes off course.

Bang head against railing. Spook pony next to you. Apologize. Pony rider’s trainer gives you understanding, sympathetic smile.

Great, now your head hurts too. Pop more advil.

Did I pee yet?

Bad news: Wind speed measured at 45 mph. Good news: nature’s facelift.

Run to horse show office to put rider in class she forgot to enter. Pain from aching feet beginning to eclipse headache.

Frantically attempt to be in three places at once. Fail miserably.

Stop at beer tent. Who cares if it’s 10am?

Run back to barn to organize riders for medal class. In a spastic fit of poor judgment, tell 15-year old rider she can braid her own horse. Feet are now killing you.

Make mad dash for pony arena.

Say… that’s a nice bike.

Ride bike to ring to school pony riders. Discover your pony rider has painted her pony’s hooves with purple glitter.

Attempt to find solvent capable of removing purple glitter.

Kid who braided her own horse shows up at in-gate.

Attempt to find braider to re-braid horse.

Finally get to use porta potty. Pop more advil and check to make sure your breath doesn’t smell like alcohol.

Ignore loudspeaker announcement re: missing bicycle

Head back to hunter ring to watch rider in adult amateur class. Try to maintain composure while Run Dobbin, Run! plays out in front of you.

Attempt to explain to pasty-faced amateur who hasn’t two brain cells to rub together why it was NOT a good idea to leave a stride out of the outside line.

Covet thy neighbor’s beer.

Make panicked attempt to locate rider called back for medal class workoff. Find her in photographer’s tent watching video of World Cup Finals.

Run to jumper ring to school rider for jumper class.

She wins!

Thank your mother, your teachers, the Academy, and God. Reaffirm your confidence as a horse trainer.

Run to hunter ring to school kid for children’s hunter class.

Explain for the fifteenth time why purple and pink saddle pads are NOT a good idea for hunter classes.

Watch rider chip all 8 fences.

Make mental list of occupations you could still go to school for.

Get to exhibitor barbeque late. They inform you they are out of barbeque.

Must. Control. Fist. Of. Death.

Go back to beer tent and drink dinner.

Return “borrowed” bicycle.

Go back to barn, make sure horses get legs wrapped and are fed and blanketed for the night.

Look at watch and are horrified at time. Make mistake of mentally calculating how many hours sleep you will get. Make bigger mistake of mentally calculating how much you actually make per hour.

Resolve to check out your options next time Starbucks has a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window.

Spend half an hour looking for car keys in barn office.

Find car keys in coat pocket.

Get home after midnight.

Repeat above scenario for 4 more days.

Realize that this is only the first horse show out of 8 this summer.

Take more pills, drink more beer, yank alarm clock out of wall, threaten husband and children with bodily harm if they wake you, and go to bed.

Resolve to look into witness protection program on Monday.

When you care enough to send...

Like anyone with an entrepreneurial spirit, I’m always looking for the ‘next big thing.’ You know, like pet rocks or mood rings or some equally useless item that, regardless of the fact that it serves no purpose, everybody simply has to have. All it takes to be a gazillionaire is one good original idea. You sell a few hundred million of whatever-it-is then take the money and run. Hello, retirement on a private tropical island! What could be easier?

Okay, there are a few flies in my get-rich-quick-scheme ointment. I’ve had no shortage of good ideas, but I’ve got zero investment capital and little marketing savvy. Executing my grand notions has always proved logistically or financially infeasible. I needed a product that was simple, inexpensive, and – since I’m keen on keeping business in the USA – home grown.

It took much consternation and gnashing of teeth before I realized, one day while I was at the barn, that the answer was right in front of me. It’s uncomplicated. It’s abundant. And it is home-grown. Literally.

It’s the Manure-o-Gram.

There endless ways to Say It With Manure. “My new job stinks.” “Sorry you got dumped.” “Just dropping in to say hi.” “The muck stops here.” “Heard you feel like crap.” “So…it finally hit the fan?” Or the ever-popular, all-purpose “Shit Happens.”

Manure is amazingly versatile. Individual nuggets occur naturally in a variety of sizes, shapes, colors and textures, depending on the size of the horse and the particulars of its diet. Manure sculptures can be crafted for any occasion. Manure makes an ideal football (great for Superbowl parties), a terrific scale replica of Mt. Eyjafjallajökull for science projects (add water for optional lava flow effect!), and, for all those Star Wars theme parties, an eerily realistic likeness of Jabba the Hut.

Want to make a truly unforgettable impression? Consider the Flaming Manure-o-Gram. Manure is in itself an incendiary device and easily combusts into a variety of fragrant, flickering colors. Firm manure also makes a fabulous receptacle for birthday candles, making the Birthday Manure-o-Gram a great alternative to those boring store-bought cakes. Individual nuggets also fit perfectly into standard cupcake wrappers.

Manure completely retains its character when flattened and compressed, so you can even slip it in to birthday cards and standard envelopes. Try it with your favorite-shaped cookie cutters! Never mind those pesky postal regulations that prohibit mailing of organic matter…what the post office doesn’t know won’t hurt it.

The applications are infinite, limited only by one’s imagination and/or tolerance for horse crap. While they may be received with varying degrees of enthusiasm, one thing is certain: no matter what the occasion, a Manure-o-Gram will be one gift that’s never forgotten.


Manure-o-Grams are completely green, organic and natural. And since horses are strictly herbivores, Manure-o-Grams are 100% suitable for your most pretentious vegan friends. Horses roam freely and aren’t fed hormones or other unnatural substances, making Manure-o-Grams perfect gifts for animal rights activists. Environmentalists will love that Manure-o-Grams are completely biodegradable – just toss them in the yard when you’re finished with them. Or, put them in your flowerbed and you’ll have the best looking pansies in town. A Manure-o-Gram is literally a gift that keeps on giving.

Best of all, production of Manure-o-grams requires little overhead and zero cash output. You don’t even have to own your own horse to be a distributor. All you have to do is find the nearest equine and follow it around for five minutes. Voila! You've got your quota for the day. There’s not a horse owner alive that cares if somebody else carts off a wheelbarrow full of manure; we don’t care what you do with it as long as we don’t have to pick it up ourselves. You've essentially got an endless supply of free raw materials.

Next time the doorbell rings on your birthday, anniversary or mother’s day, you may be lucky enough to receive your very own Manure-o-gram.

Give someone crap today. Just call us at 1-800-GET-POOP.

Manure-o-Grams: When you care enough to give a shit.

Skirting the Issue

Women are endowed with innate weaponry. Weapons we can choose to conceal or reveal, but that we don’t need a license to carry. Weapons that must be used responsibly and judiciously, and that must be wielded with care. Because, like guns, women are always loaded. 

Every once in a great while, I bring out this natural arsenal. Like the time I volunteered to build new bridle and saddle racks for the tack room at the barn. I had an impressive collection of tools and an equally impressive ability to use them. But there’s one thing I didn’t have: a vehicle big enough to carry uncut lumber. None of the hardware stores cut lumber for the customers anymore; it didn’t matter how much you begged or pleaded. At the time I didn’t have an available friend with a pickup truck.

But I had something better. 

Cue the ZZ Top song She’s got Legs.

I arrived at Orchard Supply Hardware wearing my little short skirt and spike heels, calling upon years of theatrical training to convey complete helplessness. This was the kind of place where people (mostly men) shopped in jeans, sneakers and overalls. The moment I stepped through the door, I looked like a fish out of water. 

Eggggggggggggsellent. 

I tippy-toed about the store in my stilettos. They clicked on the concrete floor, echoing across the aisles. The ears of every male within a 200-foot radius immediately perked the way my horse’s ears did when he heard the sound of a snapping carrot.

Click click click click. Pause at a tool display and stare at it like it’s an alien life form.                                                                                                     

Click click click click. Pause in front of paint display and look at all the pretty colors.

Click click click click. Pause in front of lumber display and adopt expression that is both vacuous and pensive (try this, it’s not easy, I had to practice in front of the mirror). Reach out and gently stroke lumber. 

Five young men sporting OSH uniforms appear out of nowhere and surround me like they are Pit Bulls and I am a pork chop.

All five say in unison: “May I help you?” while vying for the coveted me, me, pick me! position.

Me: Big sigh followed by big, more vacuous, doe-eyed stare. “Well…..I need four pieces of lumber, but I know you don’t cut lumber here…” (employing my best I just lost my puppy tone) “…and it’ll never fit in my little car.”

They run into and over each other grabbing lumber for me. Boards fall over domino-style. Two of them grab the same piece and I fear a fistfight will break out over who gets to carry it for me. It looks like a Three Stooges movie.

“We’re not supposed to cut it,” one of them winks, “But we can do it.”

“I’ll get the hacksaw,” another one says, lighting up like a Christmas tree. 

“I’ll get it,” the third one says.

“No, I’ll get it,” the fourth one says.

The fifth one was ahead of them all and had already split to claim the sole hack saw they kept hidden in the back room.

Click click click click. I followed the lumber, which was being borne with all the pomp and circumstance of an emperor in a rickshaw, to the workbench area, where I stood and watched in vacuous fascination as they meticulously measured and drew lines and cut. The hacksaw was a tiny, old thing and took a lot of manpower to chew through the two by fours. There were four boards and five employees; one of them didn’t get to cut anything. He seemed wholly disappointed. He did, however, get to carry the lumber to the register and to my car for me.

Click click click click. The other four stood vying for position at the door with goofy smiles on their faces as I left. It didn’t matter that I was old enough to be some of their mothers. Their eyes never ventured any further north than the hem of my skirt. Not a one of ‘em could have told you what color eyes I had.

I drove off, waving at them.

The second I got home I doffed the stilettos and skirt and put on jeans, a tee shirt and my work boots. Then I hauled out my own tools and started building. Before you could say Dude Looks Like A Lady, I’d built and painted three bridle racks and two saddle racks.

The skirt and the stilettos are still in my closet, patiently waiting, like magical talismans, for their next assignment. Someday, I’ll need to build something again. And I know that if I need to build it (and if I wear the skirt and shoes), they will come.