I pull out the red corduroy shirt tonight and take Caprichosa for a ride.

The red corduroy shirt is the one that means autumn is coming. The one I like to pull on first thing in the morning with my favorite gray sweats and fluffy Acorn slippers so I can start the coffee brewing. The one I’ve wrapped my kids up in so many times I can’t really say. All those times when they’ve gone out without a jacket. Even though I told them about a billion times (yeah, that’s when I was counting) to bring a light jacket just in case. Because here in the high desert it can go from hot as hell to winter just like that. And they don’t listen. Because not bringing a spare jacket in the face of impending weather is the cardinal rule of nearly all kids everywhere. And of course the day turns chilly, because I do know what I'm talking about. So it sometimes happens that my children are snug and warm and wrapped up in the red corduroy shirt, and I am left out in the cold because I’m the mom and the big softie around these parts.

The red corduroy shirt matches the sky tonight. It matches my mood. Red but not raw. Not quite. No. The feelings are right under my skin. They pulse. Ebb. Flow.

I choose the bareback pad over the western saddle because riding our Andalusian mare Caprichosa is like riding one of those thunderheads floating above us in the increasingly crimson sky that will be lit up by a full moon later tonight. They are as full of the potential for rain as Caprichosa is for a good romp. They pound their chests and make a big broo-ha-ha about the storm they are going to brew up, but I feel only a drop or two on my face. Cap arches her neck and offers up the splendid trot only Andalusians are capable of. Even if she is plagued with arthritis in the hind leg that got injured once too often over the course of her life to date.

The summer is dying.

I wear the red corduroy shirt because I need to be wrapped up in crimson tonight like the lucky members of the household of that industrious and too-good-to-be-true woman in the last chapter of the Old Testament Proverbs. You know, the perfect mom with all the answers, the one we could all use once in a while. The one that none of us had, and that I probably won’t be either.

I choose the bareback pad because I can feel all of that Andalusian moving underneath me, and then I am alive. As alive as the white mare is. Although worry about her stiff hind leg wakes me up in the middle of the night sometimes, and then I lay awake wondering if it will ever be better. If the beautiful Andalusian mare and I will be lucky enough to grow old together, and when exactly will that be.

Is it now?

I call Caprichosa “Momma”, although she’s never had a foal. It’s something that I picked up from a horsewoman friend of mine. And then it just kind of stuck.

All of the mature mares are “Momma” to some degree at my house. They mother my kids and their friends, they boss around our only gelding Toby, and they console me with their somber liquid eyes. Who would ever think that such comfort could be gained by sitting on an upturned bucket in a dirt pasture among a bunch of mares who are half dozing with their hips cocked? My mares—with their whiskers, their broad rear ends, their scars, their swishing tails and languid sighs, their breath like wine—make me believe in the absolute solidity of something, in some essential truth of the universe, the underpinnings of what’s visible to my inadequate eyes, although I can’t quite put my finger on it tonight.

I pull the red corduroy shirt close.

Posted by Kimberly at August 29, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Boone the barn cat comes out of the barn to greet me every single solitary morning of the week. No matter what. The young Tom pussyfoots around the horses like most cats with a healthier sense of self-preservation most likely wouldn't. And then again, maybe Boone is just more easygoing than I would be if I were his size and shared my home with a herd of horses.

Posted by Kimberly at August 28, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

You'd never guess if you saw me in the grocery store or at school dropping off my kids. If you found yourself waiting next to me in line at the bank, and if you were mildly curious about a middle-aged woman in blue jeans and riding boots, you still wouldn't discover it. Even if the guy in front of us was refinancing his house, and we stood there all afternoon. I don't wear my secret like some cheap perfume. The secret affairs of my heart leave the room when I do. My secret is the stuff of the Duty-Free Shop. Better than Clive Christian No. 1 at $2,300 a bottle. It's so decadent that it might even be French.

So after that grandiose buildup, which is exactly how anyone with my particular brand of secret would have to begin, I give it to you without further adieu.

Ladies and gentlemen, I want to join the circus.

I want to be a rosin-back rider, standing on the back of a cantering horse with a flaming plume on his head. I want to dazzle you until you think I am super stupendous and terrific and fabulously awe-inspiring with my handsome trick horse who towers above me in mezair on rippling hindquarters center ring. I want to throw my hands in the air, palms upturned, whip dangling from my fingertips, awaiting your applause and offer you a spectacular smile that outshines all of the rhinestones on my gaudy spangled circus costume.

I want you to say, "Look!"

I squeeze myself into a jewel blue unitard and vault on an Iberian Warm Blood horse in front of the VIP stands at the Horse Park on a Saturday afternoon. As the horse canters on the 20-meter circle before the jam packed tents, I sit sidesaddle, one leg draped over the vaulting surcingle handle, toes pointed down so hard it hurts, sweeping the faces of the audience with an outstretched hand, chin held high as Epona's.

From beneath all of that mascara, I see two little girls squeezed up against the rail. They have bows in their hair, bows on their floral summer dresses, and they are holding hands. Their eyes are as big as saucers as they watch horse and woman sail past. The Warm Blood and I hurtle forward, and there's no looking back. At their age, I barely opened my mouth. I was the Amazing Invisible Girl. The Death Defying Crucible of Silence. Trained for my Totally Understated Super Solo Performance by the very ones who said they loved me.

But in the case of this glorious diva on horseback, my mouth would have been hanging wide open just like theirs are too.

I want you to know.

At the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, beneath a sky laden with helium balloons, I perform a shoulder stand on the back of the vaulting horse. The arena speakers blare Prokofiev--Romeo and Juliet. Although at 45, I'm far past the star-crossed lover stage of my life.

Watching from the stands, as I sit backwards on the horse's arched neck, is my slightly bemused husband with whom I've shared six of the best years I've ever had. In my life. Period. I can pick him out of the crowd with his sea blue eyes and signature Stetson. He's kicked back on the top bleacher with my kids, who truly don't remember life without him. I don't tell them that there's a lot I'd rather not remember or ever think about again. At nine and ten, they like to tell me, much to my delight, that I'm not like any of the other moms.

Afterwards, I get high-fived by a bevy of other middle-aged women who swear I am a hero to Women Our Age Everywhere. I'm overcome with a rush of embarrassment and guilt and pleasure.

What is the shame about, I wonder?

I want you to know.

In the privacy of my own back yard, when no one else is around, I stand on the back of my eleven-year-old daughter's Andalusian horse while she dutifully walks around the arena, sighing heavily, rolling an eye in my direction, apparently resigned to whatever brand of insanity she thinks this is. I hold the reins in one hand, and hope for her continued support.

I want you to know.

This is called Roman Riding. From the ancient Roman circus.

The Black-Eyed Peas are cranked up on the boom box singing Where is the Love. Right here, baby, I'm thinking, as I try unsuccessfully to balance on one foot.

I want you to know.

After work, I practice a circus bow with my 1,800-pound Percheron horse while my cattle dogs watch from a safe distance. His velvet muzzle touches the ground. Incorrigible clown, he snatches the ball cap from my head and waves it back and forth above me, just out of reach. Gives me a slobbery kiss when I ask him. Shakes hands by offering a pie-plate-sized hoof.

Me.

I show the horse the shiny new bicycle horn, the one with the rubber bulb he's now nibbling in spite of himself. He gives it a bite and the raucous HONK sends him skittering away, eyes rolling. "Good boy!" I praise. And then he comes back for more. "Never lose a holy curiosity," I tell the trembling horse because chatting eases him. "That's Einstein, you know." The Percheron sniffs the bulb, grabs it, then explodes in a four-hoof staccato as he careens off with dogs at his heels, circus prop in the dust.

I put the half-chewed hat back on my head, scan the cloudless dome of blue, our big top, breathe in the mountains like perfume you couldn't even begin to buy, and sincerely hope the neighbors don't see me. I hope no one leans on the pasture fence and asks me what exactly it is I think I'm doing with that big horse.

Well, that's not really the truth.

Posted by Kimberly at August 28, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (3)

Flickr photo by anthonut, part of a series entitled Spending time at the Ranch.

The magpie builds a material fortress for itself and its offspring, and then decorates it with baubles and bright objects to remind itself that the home is not just a place of safety and security, but a place of growth and beauty. The magpie comes into our lives to tell us to focus on our homes, is our home protected? Do we have the luxury of material security? Magpie brings these aspects into focus. —Magpie, the Cunning Prophet, Wildspeak.com

As we drive up the steep hill to Rowe Mesa this morning, we are surprised by four magpies flitting across the road on black and white wings and a whole bunch of magpie attitude.

“Look!” I say. “Magpies!”

“What are they doing way up here?” Dennis is peering in disblief through the cracked windshield at the perpetually formally-dressed birds over the steering wheel of our GMC 454. The battered truck is humming upward, light as a feather with no horse trailer in tow.

The kids are craning their heads out the windows, holding the collars of the heeler dogs so they don’t jump out and give chase to these interlopers in our dry and dusty part of the wilderness. The ten- and eleven-year-old point at the birds like they are some kind of angels skimming across the red dirt tracks in front of us, disappearing over the pinon trees and juniper into the ponderosa.

I’ve had magpies in my life since I lived in the Pojoaque Valley many years ago. The Pojoaque creek attracted them in droves. They nested in my cottonwoods and Chinese elms. They built their dense stick houses in my Russian Olive trees. Treasure troves of stolen goodies that our black barn cat used to try and plunder until they kicked his ass. They perched on the apple trees in the orchard that had been planted with such hope.

I was used to looking out the kitchen window nearly every morning to see a posh black and white bird perched on the rump of my dozing Andalusian mare Caprichosa. Horse and magpie as compatible with each other as if they were some kind of dual soul. One creature intermingled with the other. Black and white wings way too small for that round, Rubinesque body and those bell-shaped hooves. What the white mare couldn’t see beyond the confines of her corral, the magpie flew out and back and told her. I swear. Like a shaman.

When I opened the gates of the acequia above my Pojoaque property a lifetime ago, the magpies teased the geese and the hens marching about the ice-cold water suddenly flowing across the buffalo grass and goats’ heads. Smug and superior about having wings for flight over these land-bound domesticated birds, the magpies dive-bombed them without mercy while Caprichosa watched over the gate, swishing her thick white tail.

And I stood there, next to my crumbling adobe house, land-bound as a Rhode-Island Red too. With no flight feathers to catch hold of the air and lift me up.

This morning on Rowe Mesa, as they visit us a good two miles from their home on the nearby Pecos River, they sail straight into the heart of me. And the hearts of my family too.

Four of them. Four of us.

Jesus said, "If those who lead you say to you, 'See, the kingdom is in the sky,' then the birds of the sky will precede you. If they say to you, 'It is in the sea,' then the fish will precede you. Rather, the kingdom is inside of you, and it is outside of you. When you come to know yourselves, then you will become known, and you will realize that it is you who are the sons of the living father. But if you will not know yourselves, you dwell in poverty and it is you who are that poverty." The Gospel of Thomas

Posted by Kimberly at August 27, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

The intrepid blue heeler Lila Jane on the way home from cutting wood. It doesn't get much better than this.

Posted by Kimberly at August 26, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

My horse Toby raps along with the Black-Eyed Peas. Amazing what a little tummy scratching will get him to do.

Posted by Kimberly at August 26, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Look who just moved into the pasture next door.

Toby stands like a stone for hours on his side of the fence, willing, wishing, wanting the youngsters to come by for a visit. He jealously guards this stretch of wire all day long, and won't let any of the other horses near it. He doesn't seem to mind if J. joins him for a look, though. Even though she's a small creature from Toby's perspective, this little girl is one BIG friend.

(For the record, he stole her baseball cap immediately after I took this shot.)

Oh! Oh! Oh! (That's my best translation of Toby's whickering.) They're looking this way! Here they come!

(Breathe, Toby. B-r-e-a-t-h-e ...)

No one could ever accuse Toby of being unsociable.

Toby's newest buds.

Posted by Kimberly at August 25, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Maybe it was the flying mountain sheep? We'd just been on a long horseback ride in that area a couple of days before this blowdown.

KOAT Albuquerque -- SANTA FE NATIONAL FOREST, N.M. -- There is a mystery near Santa Fe and it is one that covers miles and miles of the Santa Fe National Forest.

A blowdown wiped out thousands of trees in the forest. It is an occurrence that takes place when high winds toss sections of trees to the ground. But this one is not just a section of trees. Trees were snapped like twigs for miles near Pecos Baldy.

"Thirteen hundred acres, almost 4 miles long, almost a mile wide in places, almost a continuous swath of trees just mowed down," said Miles Standish with the Santa Fe National Forest.

There's a video too. Check it out.

Posted by Kimberly at August 24, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Took the day off and took the kids, my parents, and two tenacious heelers to the Pecos River for a picnic. There were no twelve-hour horse treks this time, as we left the horses at home.

These photos were taken just minutes before Lila (the blue heeler) fell into the water between these two dead trees and got swept beneath the downstream log. We had to haul her out, sputtering and clawing and shivering and quaking. Poor thing. There's always some kind of adventure going on, it seems.

A water dog Lila Jane is not. And check out her sister Red Dawg crouched down on the log like a fat cat.

We went upstream a ways to where it was more shallow later on, and they had a grand dog time. A grand kid and grandparent time too. My 10-year-old son C. spent so much time in that cold water, I'm not sure he could exactly feel his feet.

It was airconditioned alongside the Pecos at 10,000 feet. The grass in the meadow up there was up to our waists. The intrepid heeler sisters hopped through it like jackrabbits.

What a perfect place to spend the day. I can't afford to go to a spa week, and I can't afford a cruise to Europe, but I can go to the Pecos on a Wednesday. I'll take that.

Posted by Kimberly at August 24, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Flickr photo by seabird1.

The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of insruction. -- William Blake

The intrepid heeler sisters are howling to beat the band, the kind of canine alert you can't ignore, and you and your husband rush to the living room window to catch a flash of sleek, jet haunches and burly tail amidst the brand new fruit trees that could be more accurately described as hopeful looking sticks straining up out of the parched New Mexico earth. Especially in the wake of the recent hailstorm.

"Toby's loose," Dennis yells the obvious as the draft horse disappears like a shadow beyond the window's edge, and you both rush outside to catch the big bull before he plows the yet-to-be realized apples and apricots and peaches into the ground beneath his pie-plate-sized hooves. Or decides to eat one for a snack. Dennis has spent over a year digging holes and preparing the ground for those two-dozen fruit trees.

They're important.

Toby and you almost collide as you come around the corner with a bucket of grain. Food--It's the foolproof plan. Always. The five year old gelding rolls his eyes and sucks in his whiskery bottom lip like he does when he's trying to tell you he's still just a little baby and not all that responsible for his actions. Even when he's obviously killed that back stretch of fence he's been working on for some time--the one separating him from all those delectable green weeds--for good.

A midnight-black percheron is not the only shadow lurking around lately. Something just as large and slightly more wiley has been prowling among the tender shoots you've planted and nurtured within your own interior landscape. A place you're slightly bemused to discover apparently comes with fruit trees too.

He's a little upset at having found himself loose, so he's been casting an eye around in your direction. And when you collide up against something that big, it nearly knocks you to the ground or makes you turn tail and run for safety. The spectre might even try to trick you into thinking that somehow he's simply not responsible. And actually, he's got it right this time around. When you find yourself staring at the ungainly, dancing shadow--he's got his bottom lip tucked in, and his eyes are rolling--all of a sudden you are laughing and laughing, and now you are nearly having to hold your sides, because you both know you are. And have been all along.

Then you give your shadow a kiss on his whiskery, velvet muzzle and start watering those apple trees.

Posted by Kimberly at August 21, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

So the truth about my recent ride up to the trailrider's wall is that I didn't really want to go, lest I give the impression that I'm some kind of backwoods adventure woman, which I'm not. At least not all on my own.

Fankly, I thought we were riding up to Lake Baldy (3 hours), having a lovely picnic and a nap in the tall grass and then returning home. But when we arrived at Baldy, my trickster husband Dennis informed me with that spark in his eye (the one that means there's no changing his mind) that we were going to ride up The Wall. "I'm so close, and I might not get to do it again," is pretty much what he said. I wonder if it's because I read him this quote from The Sheltering Sky not that long ago? I rolled my eyes and dug in my heels, whining about how the horses weren't in shape for that and blah blah blah and every other matter of excuse possible. And so my Trickster talked me into it. And I could have just ridden down to Jack's Creek on my own and waited for him there if he didn't. Because he was on his way.

I love the Trickster. Both of mine (Dennis and my young Percheron horse Toby, who is a major four-legged version of the archetype), and just generally speaking. Trickster pushes us out of ourselves and helps us become something more. Trickster transcends the mundane. Trickster laughs and plays and sees what's just beyond the horizon. Tells you to get back up on that horse because we're going to ride The Wall, baby!

If you follow the Trickster, you will most likely be amazed.

Consulting Wikipedia.org about the Trickster-- Many native traditions held clowns and tricksters as essential to any contact with the sacred. People could not pray until they had laughed, because laughter opens and frees from rigid preconception. Humans had to have tricksters within the most sacred ceremonies for fear that they forget the sacred comes through upset, reversal, surprise. The trickster in most native traditions is essential to creation, to birth.

There's wisdom in the trickster/fool archetype. From mythandmagic.com--

The complex role of the trickster. The trickster provides truth, balance, play, recreation, destruction, creation, change. He is the destroyer of our well-ordered world and the creator of the new through play. It is by change that we are made new. We are all Phoenixes, capable of rising out of the ashes, if only the destroyer will bring us change. Let the trickster lead the way.

Posted by Kimberly at August 20, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

I thought I'd missed the Perseids this year, but Dennis tells me that he saw on the local news that we'll have a good view of them tonight from here in Northern New Mexico. We are literally sailing on our planet through a meteor storm at the moment. I always find that fact rather scintillating for some reason. I imagine myself riding on Toby through a starry night, his tail streaming after us, and we are a Persied. Every August I wait for the Perseids, but occasionally I miss them because I get caught up in the everyday life stuff--husband, two gradeschool-aged kids, five horses, two dogs, working full time, and the list goes on ...

I saw a pretty good Perseid the other night, right smack dab in the middle of some of that everyday stuff, and suddenly I was reminded that yes, indeed, it is the middle of yet another August. The heeler dogs were annoying me in the middle of the night, and I trekked half-asleep and pissed off across the backyard in my nightshirt and a pair of old, worn out clogs with the wild heeler sisters (At my heels. Where else?!) to banish them to their kennel for the night. (Not exactly a severe punishment for disrupting my sleep. They have their own straw bale dog house and ample room to romp.) As I turned, disgruntled and swearing, back for the house, where my family was soundly sleeping, I was stopped in my tracks by a Perseid sailing across the jet black sky above me, bright tail flying. If I was only half awake at that point, I was certainly wide awake at that moment.

Standing in the pasture with my horses in the dark of night to watch the stars is deeply satisfying. Perhaps tonight will be Perseids, pajamas, ponies ...

I'm thinking that other people are at the cinema tonight seeing the newest release. Sometimes I think that I don't get out much.

Posted by Kimberly at August 18, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Poor Goliath, our little gosling, got killed in the recent hailstorm that decimated my sunflowers and did some serious damage to my husband's tender, young orchard. The hailstones were huge and pummeled us for 15 minutes. We watched out the windows of the house, helpless, as it came careening down. Tiny guy probably never saw it coming and just didn't make it to the hen house with his momma fast enough. It must have been akin to you or I being wolloped by a good-sized meteor as we're sitting on a park bench getting ready to eat our sack lunch or something.

I was thinking about the little fellow today as I was looking at my raggedy, dejected sunflowers, shaking my head ...

Goliath was born at the beginning of the summer, and I had to rescue him at least once and sometimes a couple of times a day as he managed to get out of the fence. In fact, he seemed hard-wired for escape. The idea of staying where he was supposed to stay seemed completely alien to him. And then once he'd get outside the fenceline, the gosling would panic and cry and cry and all of the adult geese would cry and cry back. And they'd all wind up bunched up together along the fenceline until I showed up like the cavalry. All this summer Goliath managed to not be eaten by Boone the barn cat (something you can probably also chalk up to his five committed bodyguards seen here) or whatever other critter that might have been passing by. I'd gone down to the barn to do some video blogging about the horses on the day I took this footage, when I discovered this drama in full swing.

Call me crazy, but I think goslings are a joy, and I miss Goliath. Even miss rescuing the baby goose from the wrong side of the fence on a regular basis. I just couldn't be around for that hailstone, unfortunately, which simply underscores my thoughts that the world is a wild and wooly and quite unpredictable place.

Here's to Goliath.

Posted by Kimberly at August 18, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Because I can barely move after the huge venture into the wilderness this weekend, I've spent a good day and then some on the sofa, reading, and have nearly finished The Golden Compass. In fact, I can hardly put it down. I'm savoring every word and heading to Borders this afternoon to buy the second book in the series.

I was hoping for a horse daemon, of course. But this is way cool.

Posted by Kimberly at August 14, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)

Pinon and I atop the Trailrider's Wall (approximately 12,000 feet) on the northern edge of the Pecos Wilderness this weekend. You can see the Truchas Peaks behind us. We were above the treeline and hoping to see the mountain sheep. I've heard stories about them for years--how they will walk right up to you and try to lick the salty sweat from your horse. I suspect the opinionated Pinon would not have been too keen on that... She would have thrown that head up in the air, rolled her eyes, and snorted in indignation. Maybe even given one a good drop kick over the edge and puffed up with satisfaction at the wooly critter's bleating. (Do mountain sheep land on their feet like my barn cats?) But the Forest Service was relocating the sheep herd via helicopter on Saturday. So this is what we saw of them.

The sheep were literally swinging from bags on a cord be beneath the helicopter, way above the mountain. Three at a time. All you could see were sheep heads sticking out of the bags.

It had rained on us pretty good at Baldy Lake.

By the time we hit the beginning of the Trailrider's wall, we were a good five hours into our 12-hour ride. As we started up the wall, we ran into three deer--a doe, a fawn and a young buck. They mustn't see many people up there, because they stopped and stared at us from about 20 feet away. And they seemed more curious than scared. You could read it all over their bodies, the way they seemed torn between leaping off into the pine and planting their hooves on solid ground to give us a good once over. They had huge brown eyes, large ears that they flicked in our direction, and coats that were golden. I'm not exaggerating--they were kind of a golden yellow. No boring brown for these guys. Pinon was transfixed. Enchanted. I think she would have followed them off into the wild if I'd given her her head. She might have dumped me and gone off to join the herd. You catch glimmers of the something very wild and primal inside of your horse when you get up into this kind of country. Occasionally you even get lucky and feel it reflected in yourself and all of a sudden you realize it is inside of you too. You'd like to follow the deer as well if it meant you could spend your life in these high, wild, and windswept places.

Pinon has a penchant for walking along the very edge of the trail, not the middle, and not the top, the edge. And she kind of sniffs the trail out like a 1,000 pound hound dog. So in between my bouts of vertigo up on the wall and this sense that the whole world was tilting beneath her four hooves (at that point I got off and walked), I noticed that the scrubby and very wild yellow roses that grow up there were covered in raindrops. Whenever the sun would peek out from behind the growling and grumbling thunder clouds above, more raindrops than you or I could count would twinkle like stars on the leaves, branches and yellow petals. Like stars fallen to the ground and that just happened to get hung up on some scraggly roses growing out of the rock. Shards of light in roses and rock, momentarily earthbound. Gives you the feeling that you've just barely scratched the surface of this place.

By the time we reached here (The Trailrider's Wall is that last mountaintop in the distance. Yes, we covered some ground), the trail was a bog.

Black, deep mud sucked at our boots and at the horse's hooves. The roar of a high mountain creek reverberated off of the canyon walls as we made our descent to Beatty's cabin to the aspen trees and the Pecos River, and still three more hours to go. I hung onto the saddlehorn as Pinon carried me down the final snarl of switchbacks, feeling a little goofy because I was so tired, and thankful the opinionated mare's so darned strong and has this huge, adventurous heart along with a strong sense of self-preservation. She's a mountain horse.

We arrived back at base camp just a little shy of 8PM. I was very relieved to be back at semi-civilization before dark while the silly part of me had been secretly wishing I'd get to see the stars shining above Round Mountain.

But I did see them on the scraggly yellow roses that had managed to thrive above the treeline, where sheep fly and the deer are made of gold.

Posted by Kimberly at August 13, 2007 | Permalink | Comments (0)