Yesterday, Hal and the boys and I were at a birthday party and the topic turns to horseback riding. Vicky, the birthday girl, turns to me and says, “Do you ride?”

Me and my big mouth say:

Not anymore. But I used to. When I was eight years old, close to 100 years ago, we lived on a dairy farm, Spring Lake Farm, in Greens Fork, Indiana with 500 head of cattle, a small herd of pigs, a flock of chickens, a gaggle of geese and one horse: Big Red. He was Big – 15 hands Big – and he was a gorgeous dark auburn.

(Why I don’t just say, “Not anymore,” and leave it at that, I’ll never understand. I continue:)

Big Red was owned by the tenant farmers, Virginia and Charlie Brown. I kid you not, those were their names. Anyway, Virginia used to let me ride Big Red. I was a speck on top of that saddle and I’d canter around the training arena, jumping little baby jumps like it was nothing. She was very impressed with my apparent God-given riding skills and would often remark that I had a “natural seat.”

Not everyone has a natural seat, you know, and I have always been very proud of mine. So proud that yesterday, after I told the story, I tried to get someone there to translate the natural seat part to Scott’s girlfriend who does not speak perfect English. Nobody did, saying it wouldn’t really translate. Well, that wouldn’t do… My big mouth instantly disconnected from my pinhead brain and told her:

Yo tengo una silla natural para caballeros.
[Joe TANE-go OO-na SEE-ja nah-tour-AL PA-rah kah-bah-JAIR-ohs.]

Well, Mayra’s eyes lit up in big surprise and the crowd – all of whom speak way better Spanish then me – went crazy. I thought my husband was going to choke up a lung. Because, while I meant to say, “I have a natural seat for horses,” what I actually said was, “I have a natural seat for gentlemen.” Smooth. I’ll never live that one down. At least I tried… that’s worth a few points right there, right? Right!

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