Rain, rain, get over here!

Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

Isn't it funny how our priorities change when Mother Nature throws us a curve ball?
Now that we're skidding into summer, I've been working both my horses before 10 a.m. to beat the heat and teach lessons on their days off. This means most of my day is quite free by noon: I can grocery shop, hit the feed store, or trawl the internet, looking at wildly expensive dressage prospects for sale. When I'm stuck in traffic (oh, all right, behind two cars at the junction of 14 and 176), I find myself sometimes coveting a gorgeous, brand new, Ford dually in front of me. And when the new equestrian catalogues arrive in the mail, I dream of having an entire wardrobe of Pikeur riding breeches in every color.

Until I step outside...

RAIN! That's what I really crave. As I write, we've had a " big ol' dome of high pressure" as Jack Roper remarks rather snarkily to me through my television set, that has sat on top of us as though plopped in a Barco-lounger with absolutely no intention of getting up anytime soon.

He's got his Big Gulp wedged in the cup holder on the arm and a bag of Bojangles biscuits in his lap. Yep, he's just gonna sit awhile.

(You know, I don't believe Mr. Roper is as "folksy" as he appears. I believe he's gone mad with the power of his Super Doppler Viper Pit Bull Hell Cat Radar. Only he knows if we have any chance at precipitation. I'll bet if I met him at the Golden Corral and asked him if it was going to rain, he'd say, "Maybe, maybe not. Hand over that fried okra and we'll talk about it." But I have to watch him because the people on the Weather Channel always block the Carolinas with their butts. Drives me crazy.)

Anyway, what this "big ol' dome of high pressure" means for me is that my fields are beginning to resemble the salt flats of Utah and I have to water my arena each evening, otherwise the clouds of dust that arise from riding might be mistaken for some sort of Dark Corners opium den. There's dust on the car, the truck, the roses, inside the house (but that has nothing to do with the weather) and my skin. I hate that gritty, grimy, sticky feeling. Reminds me of every meeting I ever had with my agents.

I love how the simple elements of Mother Nature releases any material want I might have. A sudden, prayed-for cloud burst is so welcome, so glorious, so cleansing...

The grass greens up literally before your eyes and you can actually see Hogback before the haze settles back in. Tiny butterflies appear, taking refreshment from sodden leaves and the lip of the birdbath and there's a sudden burst of bird song.
The heat dissipates, the ground steams.

Who cares about a stupid truck?

But those breeches, ohhhh...

Girls night out

Editor's Note: Commedienn
Editor's Note: Commedienne Pam Stone writes her column for The Tryon Daily Bulletin twice each month from her office in the "Unabomber Shack" on her Gowensville farm. Want a chance to respond to this column? Go to Pam’s blog at www.tryondailybulletin.com.

As I write this, Paul has been overseas for nearly a week. He’s expected back tomorrow evening. When he patted my hand and said, “I’m going to miss you!” I felt a quick surge of guilt because, well, I have the house to my own!

Oh, bliss! Don’t get me wrong: I love the man but every woman can relate to coming in at the end of a tiring day and seeing the kitchen just as immaculate as she left it. No crumbs scattered on the countertop, no greasy knives or plates heaped in the sink, no slowly-souring milk forgotten to be put away.

Obviously, the toilet seat is down but, even better, no wet towel crumpled on the bed and no sweaty socks dropped on the floor beside the washing machine.

This, I’ve never understood. I mean, the washer is right there. All you have to do is lift the lid and drop the articles inside. It does all the work: suds, rinse, everything, but it does not and never will project a hand that comes out of the top and pick up clothes left on the floor.

Secondly, there’s television. I’m quite fortunate: Paul and I have very similar tastes (except basketball) and share a penchant for BBC America. We also enjoy reading. However, we both consider ourselves slightly intellectual and snottily refuse to embrace pop culture so it is with great guilty relish that I have watched “The Girls Next Door” on E Entertainment Television, which chronicles the lives of three Playboy Bunnies sharing the Mansion with Hugh Hefner. You know what? It’s fascinating! I realize that their days consist of romping around frequently topless and shopping (not at the same time), but they seem genuinely kind and they’re not hurting anyone. Well, perhaps Hugh. I can’t imagine being 80 years old and having three girlfriends under the age of 25. No wonder he’s always in his pajamas, the poor man’s exhausted.

So I’ve rather fallen for these girls and, with a sigh, realize I can’t watch them ever again if I want to keep Paul’s respect. If I let the show linger on a nanosecond longer than casual channel surfing, he would eye with me with great disappointment, pick up his class of Volnay and the John Adams’ biography he’s currently reading and leave the room.

But tonight, between “Masterpiece Theatre” and “Clatterford,” I shall gleefully tune into “The Girls Next Door” for a final viewing and open a bottle of Chardonnay.

Here’s to you, girls. By the way, how on earth do you get them to do that? Do you use tape?