never
The one you love and the one who loves you are never, ever the same person.
- Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
- Chuck Palahniuk, Invisible Monsters
new york
I blame a cheap, no-name brand cell phone data cable for the huge gap in my posts this past week. Oh, and also the fact that I'm having way too much fun on vacation to sit in front of a computer all day. Actually, I'd rather never sit in front of a computer again, but I'm pretty sure work people are reading this so I'll have to leave it at that.
It's my third time in New York, and while it's a nice place to visit, I think I like it either the same, or possibly, less. And, according to my realtor, if you like a house less upon visiting it the second time, it's not for you. If you like it the same or more, you should make an offer. I'm not making an offer on New York, but I don't mind visiting every now and then. The funny thing about living in a place is that you often don't see as much of it as a tourist. When L. Diddy toured me around the Big Apple, he had never been to the Ellis Island immigration museum. When Sampleminded took me all the way up to 190th Street to see the Cloisters, a medieval monastery (and now, museum) overlooking the Hudson, it was a new trip for him as well. Ditto for my recent trip to Muir Woods, only about an hour from my place in Mountain View, and yet I'd never been.
Friday we took the A train (Sampleminded was disturbed that I didn't know the "famous" song by the same name) to a station that looked a lot like the other subway stops, except that upon exiting the elevator, we were surrounded by trees instead of concrete, and a warm breeze rose up over the river and across the street. We were at the entrance to Tryon Park, and kids were running and yelling through a fountain of water in a playground to our left, just like the kids in Sesame Street when I was a kid. I think all my childhood perceptions of New York derive from the not-so-accurate representations of that kid's TV show.
Tryon Park has numerous flower gardens that wind around for half a mile to the Cloisters entrance. It was a nice break from the heat and haze and noise of the city. If all of New York was like this, I might reconsider, but then again, if it was, I suppose it wouldn't be New York. The Cloisters is a medieval art museum that extends the Met. The problem with medieval museums is that unless you're interested in looking at religious art for three hours straight, you're going to get a little bored. (This is why they have Renaissance Faires and not Medieval Faires, because at a Medieval Faire there'd be nothing to do but sit around praying all day, wearing hair shirts, and occasionally, beheading people). Nonetheless, it was a very pretty building, as you can see for yourself in the pictures (more to come).
I finally got to walk around inside Central Park today also. Where there is a skating rink in the winter, there was instead a mini-carnival complete with kiddie rides shadowed by a city backdrop. I had to look at a map to understand how big the park was in relation to Manhattan. It's huge. Even so, the traffic seems to go through it in a lot of places, and there are just as many people in the park as in the rest of the city, so you don't really feel as if you've escaped from anything -- now you just have grass instead of asphalt. I wanted to go see the carriage horses, but Sampleminded doesn't like horses and just complained about how they smelled, so I didn't make any requests. I would have just wanted to drive a carriage anyway, and I'm pretty sure I didn't have enough money on hand to bribe one of the guys to let me drive. I can drive horses for free at home if I want, so I don't know what I was thinking, other than it would make for a great blog entry and no one would believe me.
One of the more haunting images on the way to Manhattan from Sampleminded's Jersey City apartment is the huge "hole" that the Path train passes through where the World Trade Center used to be. Disturbingly, the giant hole in the ground appears to be a tourist attraction, albeit not as big a draw as the original two buildings. According to Sampleminded, most of the WTC train station looks exactly as it did before the destruction, except that now, upon the approach to the stop, the tunnel opens up into the sunlight, reflecting on grayish-white, jagged concrete walls with the remnants of rusted steel support beams protruding in a grid shape from the sides of the hole. You can see both trains as they circle around this vacancy, passing each other in opposite directions. "No matter how many times you go through this stop," Sampleminded said," it's still creepy." The station was fairly empty; the expected throngs of people represented only by a few gawkers who stood pressed up against the glass and metal that was built to enclose the worksite. I have to say that I, too, had a look, but there wasn't much to see other than a few orange construction vehicles and a vast emptiness. At street level, the huge chrome sign still says "World Trade Center Station," and an American flag flies at half mast in the middle of the hole. Across the street in an ancient cemetery, Sampleminded says there's a 200 year old tree that was destroyed when the buildings fell and is now just a stump. Sure enough, as we walked by the cemetery I saw a crowd of the curious through the iron bars, staring at a tree stump near the entrance. This is as close as I've come to ground zero since November of 2002 when L. Diddy and I walked within a block of the site but were scared away by the hundreds of memorials to dead people plastered all over the chain link fences.
Riding the subway is still a treat for me, no matter how silly that sounds. When you live in a state where you have to drive everywhere, mass transit that works and doesn't cost a fortune is a novelty and feels like a ride at Disneyland instead of a commute. So of course, when Sampleminded wanted to walk from 60th street all the way to the Met somewhere near 82nd street, I begrudgingly obliged him. Being from California, I of course can't bear to do anything athletic (including walking twenty city blocks) without the perfect clothes and the right shoes. This means, I don't get sweaty in my "going out" clothes. I figured I'd have to chalk that one up to the exercise I really needed after eating my way through a vacation that had only just begun.
We managed to get to the Met right before a mortal downpour started, and we did the 5k marathon through the museum in the manner I probably should have used to tour the Louvre when I was in Paris. It reminded me a lot of the Louvre actually, except that you see the work of American artists and painters and some local themes with a familiar flavor. I
especially liked the exhibit by American Impressionist Childe Hassam, who painted Boston in the mid 1800s, complete with women in Victorian dresses and horse drawn carriages and the glow of street lamps at night. I drew some satisfaction from actually recognizing the places in Boston as perceived by this painter. I haven't seen a furniture exhibit at a museum before, but that's exactly what the Met had, rooms upon rooms of ornate tables, desks, sofas, and those wicked little chairs with the velvet cushions that look like they come alive at night and tiptoe stealthily through the museum.
Saturday we left the city for a breather and drove several hours to the Poconos for a whitewater rafting trip. I love Pennsylvania. Every time I see the trees I can recognize the state on sight. I remember the day I was watching TV and the news was showing a rainbow wood, with colorful trees stretching all the way to the horizon. "That looks like Pennsylvania," I had said. A minute later, the caption at the bottom of the screen displayed "State College, PA." I knew it. The other way you know you're in PA is when you come to a highway entrance and there's a stop sign with about ten feet in which you are supposed to accelerate from 0-60 and merge into speeding traffic. Yes, that's the state as I remember it.
The rafting, while fun at moments, was a bit of a wash, since we didn't have a lot of current despite their advertised "dam release day." We were pretty sure we saw some old ladies in boats on the same trip as us, having a grand old time and doing just fine paddling their way through the river. Droo did fall out of the boat once when we hit a large rock, and was hoping to God we'd pick him up before the Japanese tourist boat did.
Sunday we wandered around the city again, and Sampleminded looked in vain for an NYPD baby doll t-shirt that would fit me, but to no avail. Yes, this is why I order all my clothes online. I left in a big yellow taxi this evening, just like in the song, except not as romantic, because I couldn't understand the driver and although I was dead tired from all the walking, I was too afraid to fall asleep in a cab. Tonight I'm off to Boston to see my favorite person in the whole wide world and shoot the DS dragon poop and all that good stuff. See you in Boston.
It's my third time in New York, and while it's a nice place to visit, I think I like it either the same, or possibly, less. And, according to my realtor, if you like a house less upon visiting it the second time, it's not for you. If you like it the same or more, you should make an offer. I'm not making an offer on New York, but I don't mind visiting every now and then. The funny thing about living in a place is that you often don't see as much of it as a tourist. When L. Diddy toured me around the Big Apple, he had never been to the Ellis Island immigration museum. When Sampleminded took me all the way up to 190th Street to see the Cloisters, a medieval monastery (and now, museum) overlooking the Hudson, it was a new trip for him as well. Ditto for my recent trip to Muir Woods, only about an hour from my place in Mountain View, and yet I'd never been.
Friday we took the A train (Sampleminded was disturbed that I didn't know the "famous" song by the same name) to a station that looked a lot like the other subway stops, except that upon exiting the elevator, we were surrounded by trees instead of concrete, and a warm breeze rose up over the river and across the street. We were at the entrance to Tryon Park, and kids were running and yelling through a fountain of water in a playground to our left, just like the kids in Sesame Street when I was a kid. I think all my childhood perceptions of New York derive from the not-so-accurate representations of that kid's TV show.
Tryon Park has numerous flower gardens that wind around for half a mile to the Cloisters entrance. It was a nice break from the heat and haze and noise of the city. If all of New York was like this, I might reconsider, but then again, if it was, I suppose it wouldn't be New York. The Cloisters is a medieval art museum that extends the Met. The problem with medieval museums is that unless you're interested in looking at religious art for three hours straight, you're going to get a little bored. (This is why they have Renaissance Faires and not Medieval Faires, because at a Medieval Faire there'd be nothing to do but sit around praying all day, wearing hair shirts, and occasionally, beheading people). Nonetheless, it was a very pretty building, as you can see for yourself in the pictures (more to come).
I finally got to walk around inside Central Park today also. Where there is a skating rink in the winter, there was instead a mini-carnival complete with kiddie rides shadowed by a city backdrop. I had to look at a map to understand how big the park was in relation to Manhattan. It's huge. Even so, the traffic seems to go through it in a lot of places, and there are just as many people in the park as in the rest of the city, so you don't really feel as if you've escaped from anything -- now you just have grass instead of asphalt. I wanted to go see the carriage horses, but Sampleminded doesn't like horses and just complained about how they smelled, so I didn't make any requests. I would have just wanted to drive a carriage anyway, and I'm pretty sure I didn't have enough money on hand to bribe one of the guys to let me drive. I can drive horses for free at home if I want, so I don't know what I was thinking, other than it would make for a great blog entry and no one would believe me.
One of the more haunting images on the way to Manhattan from Sampleminded's Jersey City apartment is the huge "hole" that the Path train passes through where the World Trade Center used to be. Disturbingly, the giant hole in the ground appears to be a tourist attraction, albeit not as big a draw as the original two buildings. According to Sampleminded, most of the WTC train station looks exactly as it did before the destruction, except that now, upon the approach to the stop, the tunnel opens up into the sunlight, reflecting on grayish-white, jagged concrete walls with the remnants of rusted steel support beams protruding in a grid shape from the sides of the hole. You can see both trains as they circle around this vacancy, passing each other in opposite directions. "No matter how many times you go through this stop," Sampleminded said," it's still creepy." The station was fairly empty; the expected throngs of people represented only by a few gawkers who stood pressed up against the glass and metal that was built to enclose the worksite. I have to say that I, too, had a look, but there wasn't much to see other than a few orange construction vehicles and a vast emptiness. At street level, the huge chrome sign still says "World Trade Center Station," and an American flag flies at half mast in the middle of the hole. Across the street in an ancient cemetery, Sampleminded says there's a 200 year old tree that was destroyed when the buildings fell and is now just a stump. Sure enough, as we walked by the cemetery I saw a crowd of the curious through the iron bars, staring at a tree stump near the entrance. This is as close as I've come to ground zero since November of 2002 when L. Diddy and I walked within a block of the site but were scared away by the hundreds of memorials to dead people plastered all over the chain link fences.
Riding the subway is still a treat for me, no matter how silly that sounds. When you live in a state where you have to drive everywhere, mass transit that works and doesn't cost a fortune is a novelty and feels like a ride at Disneyland instead of a commute. So of course, when Sampleminded wanted to walk from 60th street all the way to the Met somewhere near 82nd street, I begrudgingly obliged him. Being from California, I of course can't bear to do anything athletic (including walking twenty city blocks) without the perfect clothes and the right shoes. This means, I don't get sweaty in my "going out" clothes. I figured I'd have to chalk that one up to the exercise I really needed after eating my way through a vacation that had only just begun.
We managed to get to the Met right before a mortal downpour started, and we did the 5k marathon through the museum in the manner I probably should have used to tour the Louvre when I was in Paris. It reminded me a lot of the Louvre actually, except that you see the work of American artists and painters and some local themes with a familiar flavor. I
especially liked the exhibit by American Impressionist Childe Hassam, who painted Boston in the mid 1800s, complete with women in Victorian dresses and horse drawn carriages and the glow of street lamps at night. I drew some satisfaction from actually recognizing the places in Boston as perceived by this painter. I haven't seen a furniture exhibit at a museum before, but that's exactly what the Met had, rooms upon rooms of ornate tables, desks, sofas, and those wicked little chairs with the velvet cushions that look like they come alive at night and tiptoe stealthily through the museum.
Saturday we left the city for a breather and drove several hours to the Poconos for a whitewater rafting trip. I love Pennsylvania. Every time I see the trees I can recognize the state on sight. I remember the day I was watching TV and the news was showing a rainbow wood, with colorful trees stretching all the way to the horizon. "That looks like Pennsylvania," I had said. A minute later, the caption at the bottom of the screen displayed "State College, PA." I knew it. The other way you know you're in PA is when you come to a highway entrance and there's a stop sign with about ten feet in which you are supposed to accelerate from 0-60 and merge into speeding traffic. Yes, that's the state as I remember it.
The rafting, while fun at moments, was a bit of a wash, since we didn't have a lot of current despite their advertised "dam release day." We were pretty sure we saw some old ladies in boats on the same trip as us, having a grand old time and doing just fine paddling their way through the river. Droo did fall out of the boat once when we hit a large rock, and was hoping to God we'd pick him up before the Japanese tourist boat did.
Sunday we wandered around the city again, and Sampleminded looked in vain for an NYPD baby doll t-shirt that would fit me, but to no avail. Yes, this is why I order all my clothes online. I left in a big yellow taxi this evening, just like in the song, except not as romantic, because I couldn't understand the driver and although I was dead tired from all the walking, I was too afraid to fall asleep in a cab. Tonight I'm off to Boston to see my favorite person in the whole wide world and shoot the DS dragon poop and all that good stuff. See you in Boston.
over and out
I'm on my way to San Francisco International now. See you on the east coast!
on blogging
"I think blogging is getting old," a friend messaged me over IM. Really, I don't think so, and I don't think it ever will. People enjoy blogging and reading blogs for the same reason they enjoy reading books and magazines. People love a good story. People love a good story even more when it's about people they know. It's that circle of proximity we learned about in my graduate game design class. If you see on TV that someone won the lottery, you're mildly interested. "Great, someone won the lottery." If you see on TV that someone in your neighborhood won the lottery, you're very interested. "Wow, someone down the street from me won the lottery!" If you hear that your friend won the lottery, you're intensely interested. "Oh my gosh, my friend won the lottery!" If you win the lottery, well, it's all about you, isn't it? "I won the lottery!" The closer it gets to you, the more interested you instantly become. We're self-centered like that, and this is why blogging works.
People love snooping into other people's lives. I think people who watch soap operas are desperately in need of real life drama, whether it be their own, or preferably, someone else's. Blogging enables these vicarious living enthusiasts to snoop legally and in hiding. At the same time, the blogger still decides what exactly you get to "snoop in on," and that doesn't include the kitchen garbage.
Blogging is also for people who love to write. I always sucked at math and science, and now, salvation, I finally have a way, without being a famous author, to use that skill that everyone seems to overlook. Engineers don't like writing for the same reason I don't like coding -- it's work. But writing isn't work for me. It just gushes out like lifeblood from a severed artery (I never claimed it was good or appetizing), and no matter who complains, no one's stopped reading yet.
I think our earlier commentator is just bitter because of his small audience. Sounds a little Freudian to me. Of course, I wouldn't bother reading something that was updated once a month either. On the other hand, my blog story of the week entails my boss taking me for a spin in his FERRARI in the middle of work last Wednesday. That's right, I'm just sitting there, doodling away in Visio, when my boss walks by my cube, hardly stopping, and says "I got the car downstairs, wanna go for a ride?" "Hell yeah," I said, dropped everything, and left.
We rumbled out of the parking garage, setting off every car alarm in our path, careened out of the lot, and sprung onto Ralston Avenue. Temperamental about my boss' shifting, the car would take a deep breath before suddenly leaping forward, jetting down the street and sending dust and birds flying in all directions. We turned back onto campus through the other entrance, veering past a sedan and leaning into the sharp turn around the block Oracle logo in front of the main building. Just when I thought we'd lose our grip on the road we'd suddenly accelerate so that we seemed to lift off the asphalt around the corner.
"You can't sneak up on anyone with this car!" I yelled with both windows rolled down and the engine roaring. "Nope!" my boss said back, hitting the brakes just before the imminent flattening of a frightened employee who darted across the street. He let me out at the building 200 turnaround, and I returned to my cube, windblown.
I probably shouldn't have turned down the offer to drive it (and there was an offer), but I am just way too irresponsible to be allowed to drive my boss' car, especially with him in it.
* * * * *
I'm putting a line here, because as I told B, when you're too lazy to link anything together in your blog using methods your English teacher taught you, you should just put a line and start talking about something else. Works great, less saturated fat than other leading brands. B's started a blog about her travels in Japan. Now that I've done my duty advertising for her, I think everyone should spring for the "buy B real site hosting" fund, and convince her that $3/month is worth saving me a little bandwidth. In reality, I'm just jealous that the photos I'm hosting for her are getting more hits than any other page on my site combined. I've also told her that I am not sure I can post another picture of a Japanese toilet while at work.
In other news (this is also a good method of starting an unrelated paragraph), I see Saturyne in five days, and I am already contemplating if I should borrow another one of her articles of clothing, take it to Faneuil Hall, and spill clam chowder on it. You know, for old time's sake.
People love snooping into other people's lives. I think people who watch soap operas are desperately in need of real life drama, whether it be their own, or preferably, someone else's. Blogging enables these vicarious living enthusiasts to snoop legally and in hiding. At the same time, the blogger still decides what exactly you get to "snoop in on," and that doesn't include the kitchen garbage.
Blogging is also for people who love to write. I always sucked at math and science, and now, salvation, I finally have a way, without being a famous author, to use that skill that everyone seems to overlook. Engineers don't like writing for the same reason I don't like coding -- it's work. But writing isn't work for me. It just gushes out like lifeblood from a severed artery (I never claimed it was good or appetizing), and no matter who complains, no one's stopped reading yet.
I think our earlier commentator is just bitter because of his small audience. Sounds a little Freudian to me. Of course, I wouldn't bother reading something that was updated once a month either. On the other hand, my blog story of the week entails my boss taking me for a spin in his FERRARI in the middle of work last Wednesday. That's right, I'm just sitting there, doodling away in Visio, when my boss walks by my cube, hardly stopping, and says "I got the car downstairs, wanna go for a ride?" "Hell yeah," I said, dropped everything, and left.
We rumbled out of the parking garage, setting off every car alarm in our path, careened out of the lot, and sprung onto Ralston Avenue. Temperamental about my boss' shifting, the car would take a deep breath before suddenly leaping forward, jetting down the street and sending dust and birds flying in all directions. We turned back onto campus through the other entrance, veering past a sedan and leaning into the sharp turn around the block Oracle logo in front of the main building. Just when I thought we'd lose our grip on the road we'd suddenly accelerate so that we seemed to lift off the asphalt around the corner.
"You can't sneak up on anyone with this car!" I yelled with both windows rolled down and the engine roaring. "Nope!" my boss said back, hitting the brakes just before the imminent flattening of a frightened employee who darted across the street. He let me out at the building 200 turnaround, and I returned to my cube, windblown.
I probably shouldn't have turned down the offer to drive it (and there was an offer), but I am just way too irresponsible to be allowed to drive my boss' car, especially with him in it.
I'm putting a line here, because as I told B, when you're too lazy to link anything together in your blog using methods your English teacher taught you, you should just put a line and start talking about something else. Works great, less saturated fat than other leading brands. B's started a blog about her travels in Japan. Now that I've done my duty advertising for her, I think everyone should spring for the "buy B real site hosting" fund, and convince her that $3/month is worth saving me a little bandwidth. In reality, I'm just jealous that the photos I'm hosting for her are getting more hits than any other page on my site combined. I've also told her that I am not sure I can post another picture of a Japanese toilet while at work.
In other news (this is also a good method of starting an unrelated paragraph), I see Saturyne in five days, and I am already contemplating if I should borrow another one of her articles of clothing, take it to Faneuil Hall, and spill clam chowder on it. You know, for old time's sake.
speaking of type a
Someone reminded me tonight of my type A comment a few posts ago, so I decided to Google up some personality tests instead of doing my laundry or unloading the dishwasher. I first chanced upon this unofficial five question version that simply scored your tendencies towards type A or B (C wasn't even factored in). My results were as follows:
I have many characteristics of a Type A personality?! Damn this thing, now I'm pissed! Ok, maybe not. I just find this a little hard to believe, since all the other Type As I know make me look like a banana slug on the beach. If I scored 68, these people must be dying of coronary heart disease as I type this. Of course, I'm going to meet one of these people in three weeks, and he only has to stay alive long enough to entertain me for a few days on vacation. After that, it's his problem. And who says I'm type A?
On a scale from 10 (extreme Type B) to 40 (extreme Type A), your score is: 25Well ok, I thought. I guess that sounds like me. Then I found the eighty-seven question mother of all personality tests, took that one, and received the following ranking:
You are relatively balanced between Type A and Type B. You want to get things done on time but not at all cost. Competition is fine with you, but you do not feel that you always have to win. To you, time is precious but patience is a virtue, under certain circumstances.
I have many characteristics of a Type A personality?! Damn this thing, now I'm pissed! Ok, maybe not. I just find this a little hard to believe, since all the other Type As I know make me look like a banana slug on the beach. If I scored 68, these people must be dying of coronary heart disease as I type this. Of course, I'm going to meet one of these people in three weeks, and he only has to stay alive long enough to entertain me for a few days on vacation. After that, it's his problem. And who says I'm type A?
burned pre-vacation
Yesterday I wrote a to-do list on a pad of paper with my realtor's grinning face on it. I labeled it "Sunday," underlined. Today I got back from morning practice, and after seeing that it was 80 degrees out and my right shoulder was still jacked from the game the night before, I threw my list on top of the pile of other paper on my desk and went outside to lay by the pool. My thought was to obtain a mild bikini tan before my "East Coast Adventure," which is what I quickly named my itinerary at Orbitz before I realized there was no way to edit the trip later. All the witty trip names I could have come up with are now moot, due to crappy interaction design. So again we see here another fine example of how HCI affects our personal lives. Of course, maybe this trip will prove to be more aptly named than planned (or rather, unplanned).
I sat out on the pool deck for a bit, while family after family of screaming children came and went. A friend and photographer loaned me one of Palahniuk's books, Invisible Monsters, which is about a model who becomes horribly disfigured in an "accident," and the subsequent reinvention of her bizarre life. Thanks dmk26, I know I can always count on you for uplifting reading material. I'm only on page 92, but I thought I'd share this line with you:
"Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close." Page 15.
The novel is full of alternate reflections on life like this. Which reminded me, I had been burning up in the sun for at least two hours. I checked my bikini tan by lifting the edge of my top. Ay carumba. I was cooked. I jumped in the pool and sidestroked it a few laps (it's the only stroke I can do reliably without sinking), then went back into my house. My tan, or burn, rather, is uneven where I had been holding my book across my waist to read. Weren't we just talking about horrible disfigurement? Maybe it won't be so obvious by the time I hit the east coast in two weeks.
I haven't taken a vacation in years, unless you count my cross-country drive to Pennsylvania for grad school, the time I spent unemployed after graduation, or my jaunt to Pittsburgh over New Year's to go to Home Depot and pick out paint for Superstar's living room. Bentley's mom and I have been trying to coordinate another horseback riding vacation this year for quite some time, but we keep missing each other at the barn. B has been desperately inviting me to Japan, where she is stationed for six weeks to watch satellites and eat fish and rice for breakfast, and the Midwest Princess has invited me to Indy for her wedding, but everything is being thwarted due to work, or maybe due to work's inability to deal with a lead time shorter than two months. I'm going on vacation now to spite work, and I'd love to say I'm picking destinations almost at random, although the truth is I'm picking destinations where my friends happen to live. But knowing I could have fun with most of these people at the edge of the Arctic Circle, the people at point B are a fine enough reason for a trip.
"Give me some airport codes," I said to Sampleminded over IM, "and I'll put them into Orbitz." "I hate shopping for plane tickets," A said. "There's no logic to the changing fares." "That's why it's so great," I said, "it's like Vegas." Where I'm going on vacation in the next few weeks has been more unpredictable than what's under the Surprise card on Wheel of Fortune. It's always helpful to have some cooperative and semi-spontaneous people on the other end to make a trip like this work, and luckily I found seven such people in one of the bigger jackpots this year.
With less than two weeks until I leave, there are still hazy parts of my trip here and there that I haven't figured out. Like, what will I be doing between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. on July 2? I haven't thought that far ahead. I have, however, obtained an airplane adapter for my laptop and a data cable for my mobile phone, so you vicarious living folks will be happy to know that I'm going to try to document this trip as I go. I'm sure all my generous hosts will be thrilled to have their lives exposed on the internet. Stay tuned.
I sat out on the pool deck for a bit, while family after family of screaming children came and went. A friend and photographer loaned me one of Palahniuk's books, Invisible Monsters, which is about a model who becomes horribly disfigured in an "accident," and the subsequent reinvention of her bizarre life. Thanks dmk26, I know I can always count on you for uplifting reading material. I'm only on page 92, but I thought I'd share this line with you:
"Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you'll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close." Page 15.
The novel is full of alternate reflections on life like this. Which reminded me, I had been burning up in the sun for at least two hours. I checked my bikini tan by lifting the edge of my top. Ay carumba. I was cooked. I jumped in the pool and sidestroked it a few laps (it's the only stroke I can do reliably without sinking), then went back into my house. My tan, or burn, rather, is uneven where I had been holding my book across my waist to read. Weren't we just talking about horrible disfigurement? Maybe it won't be so obvious by the time I hit the east coast in two weeks.
I haven't taken a vacation in years, unless you count my cross-country drive to Pennsylvania for grad school, the time I spent unemployed after graduation, or my jaunt to Pittsburgh over New Year's to go to Home Depot and pick out paint for Superstar's living room. Bentley's mom and I have been trying to coordinate another horseback riding vacation this year for quite some time, but we keep missing each other at the barn. B has been desperately inviting me to Japan, where she is stationed for six weeks to watch satellites and eat fish and rice for breakfast, and the Midwest Princess has invited me to Indy for her wedding, but everything is being thwarted due to work, or maybe due to work's inability to deal with a lead time shorter than two months. I'm going on vacation now to spite work, and I'd love to say I'm picking destinations almost at random, although the truth is I'm picking destinations where my friends happen to live. But knowing I could have fun with most of these people at the edge of the Arctic Circle, the people at point B are a fine enough reason for a trip.
"Give me some airport codes," I said to Sampleminded over IM, "and I'll put them into Orbitz." "I hate shopping for plane tickets," A said. "There's no logic to the changing fares." "That's why it's so great," I said, "it's like Vegas." Where I'm going on vacation in the next few weeks has been more unpredictable than what's under the Surprise card on Wheel of Fortune. It's always helpful to have some cooperative and semi-spontaneous people on the other end to make a trip like this work, and luckily I found seven such people in one of the bigger jackpots this year.
With less than two weeks until I leave, there are still hazy parts of my trip here and there that I haven't figured out. Like, what will I be doing between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m. on July 2? I haven't thought that far ahead. I have, however, obtained an airplane adapter for my laptop and a data cable for my mobile phone, so you vicarious living folks will be happy to know that I'm going to try to document this trip as I go. I'm sure all my generous hosts will be thrilled to have their lives exposed on the internet. Stay tuned.
why i quit my d league
I know I've been dragging with the posts. Vacation planning, work emergencies, horse shows, and angry D league captains have shortened my stride a bit this week. If you recall my comment during our May 27th game, you will be halfway to understanding how all this idiocy with my D league started and ended. I've played hockey with snooty, catty, high-maintenance women who were easier to cope with than the Icehound's crazed, opinionated, melodramatic captain, "Mr. Price." The night I was finally starting to overcome my disgust for playing with the anger management poster children team, Mr. Price sent me a scathing e-mail, extolling the virtues of his leadership and the depravity and corruption towards which I was steering his NHL-bound team. This is of course, in reference to my comment in the midst of one of his typical tirades, during which he was telling us the same thing he tells us every week, to skate hard, to shoot, to backcheck. What, pray tell, does he think we're trying to do, I wonder? Perform a triple Salchow? Get a date with the Zamboni driver? Invent lemon bar recipes on defense? Normally I'd let this go. I'm much too lazy to argue with people these days, even though arguing is normally a favorite hobby of mine. But unfortunately, his e-mail continued on in classic Type A form, suggesting that I take over as team captain if I knew of better things to tell the team. Poor Mr. Price. I could have won us a hockey game for once. I simply would have said, "If you win tonight, I will strip down to my skates and do ten laps in the nude." Granted, I'd never be allowed to skate at Yerba Buena again, but at least the boys would finally win a game. After all, Mr. Price says "what fun is it if you don't win?" How odd, I always thought the act of playing hockey was fun, but then, maybe I just have low expectations like that.
I responded to his e-mail with one equally as polite, simultaneously quitting the team and ripping him eleven new ones in the infamous Jess style that may never have technically "won" any arguments, but always resulted in the offending party apologizing. I didn't expect an apology. I seriously didn't even expect a phone call. I just felt the need to defend myself after being linguistically assaulted in the comfort of my own home. Mr. Price called me five minutes after I sent the mail, at around 1 a.m., hedging his way into a conversation that he very clearly didn't know how to start. Every other sentence began with "To be honest..." I don't think you're dishonest, Mr. Price. I just think you think hockey is life more so than my bumper sticker does, and I also think you need to lay off the caffeine. It's making that crease between your brows really noticeable. An hour later, Mr. Price was apparently convinced that he had gotten me to reconsider my decision in spite of our bad blood and the blunt e-mail I had sent to the team mailing list, quitting. I hung up the phone, sighed, and went to bed.
I missed the game last week, citing the need for a "break." This week Mr. Price didn't send me his usual evite to the game so he could figure out who was coming. Instead, like the kid who gets a rock in his Trick or Treat bag instead of a Snickers bar, I got mail from Mr. Price saying that he "recommended I don't return to the team," and that "the team has accepted my departure." I nearly snarfed my milk. If you know the Icehounds, you know that the only thing that team accepts is the guarantee that they will be able to go drink beer when the game is over, regardless of the outcome. They try to skate, try to shoot, and sometimes score. If we were doing this for a living we'd all be in the unemployment line, punching each other with our gloves off for the Canadian penny we found on the carpet. The straight facts are that we're not getting paid to do this, and it dawned on me after his e-mail that I was once again paying to be tortured, just like in college, except in the end, instead of fame and fortune, my reward might be getting boarded by a 250 lb. man who can't skate, just like what happened to Hattrick.
I didn't snap back at his last e-mail, although he was begging for it. I just quit. I'm still skating elsewhere about twice a week. Sometimes we don't even keep score. I know, it's completely unthinkable.
I responded to his e-mail with one equally as polite, simultaneously quitting the team and ripping him eleven new ones in the infamous Jess style that may never have technically "won" any arguments, but always resulted in the offending party apologizing. I didn't expect an apology. I seriously didn't even expect a phone call. I just felt the need to defend myself after being linguistically assaulted in the comfort of my own home. Mr. Price called me five minutes after I sent the mail, at around 1 a.m., hedging his way into a conversation that he very clearly didn't know how to start. Every other sentence began with "To be honest..." I don't think you're dishonest, Mr. Price. I just think you think hockey is life more so than my bumper sticker does, and I also think you need to lay off the caffeine. It's making that crease between your brows really noticeable. An hour later, Mr. Price was apparently convinced that he had gotten me to reconsider my decision in spite of our bad blood and the blunt e-mail I had sent to the team mailing list, quitting. I hung up the phone, sighed, and went to bed.
I missed the game last week, citing the need for a "break." This week Mr. Price didn't send me his usual evite to the game so he could figure out who was coming. Instead, like the kid who gets a rock in his Trick or Treat bag instead of a Snickers bar, I got mail from Mr. Price saying that he "recommended I don't return to the team," and that "the team has accepted my departure." I nearly snarfed my milk. If you know the Icehounds, you know that the only thing that team accepts is the guarantee that they will be able to go drink beer when the game is over, regardless of the outcome. They try to skate, try to shoot, and sometimes score. If we were doing this for a living we'd all be in the unemployment line, punching each other with our gloves off for the Canadian penny we found on the carpet. The straight facts are that we're not getting paid to do this, and it dawned on me after his e-mail that I was once again paying to be tortured, just like in college, except in the end, instead of fame and fortune, my reward might be getting boarded by a 250 lb. man who can't skate, just like what happened to Hattrick.
I didn't snap back at his last e-mail, although he was begging for it. I just quit. I'm still skating elsewhere about twice a week. Sometimes we don't even keep score. I know, it's completely unthinkable.
product modeling?
First off, thank you Big Red for sending me the movie. It arrived on Friday and was totally unexpected, especially to the bomb squad I had called in to open it, who took off their helmets and gloves to hand it to me and say "It's just a hockey movie." I could only smile sheepishly at that, of course.
Now I just need a DVD player. Oh, and a TV set. I'll get back to you on that one. I've posted a photo of myself enjoying the description on the back of the case, since I can't seem to make the movie out no matter how hard I stare at the shiny underside of the disc.
You may also observe, by the painful way I'm Vanna White-ing the case, my amateur efforts at product modeling. Let's face it, with these riding thighs and this farmer's tan, I'm never going to make it as a swimsuit model, even for those cheap swimsuit catalogs with the women who all need nose jobs but opted for other types of plastic surgery instead. Not that I ever had any desire to be a swimsuit model, but I think I'd be decent at peddling the wares of the Home Shopping Network, especially if it involved hand modeling. Even my old hockey player admitted one day I had "nice nails," which is probably not something I should tell the whole world, but most people don't know his name anyway.
Here is my debut modeling "The Brain Eraser," with apologies to dmk26, who shot this photo while testing out his Sekonic L-358 Flash Master, but graciously gave me all the photos on CD anyway, despite what I might do with them. The device is supposed to measure light (or so he tells me), but he can't ever get the thing to work, so I made up a new function for it that I think is much cooler.
Say something stupid you immediately regretted? Get pulled over for speeding again? Need to pass that class? Want a second shot at that hottie who dumped you? You need the BRAIN ERASER! Guaranteed to erase mild to major recollections -- you select the time span, aim, and fire. Re-present your opinion, re-plan your route, re-take your exam, re-ask them out! The future is up to you! Most people think it's some fancy photography device. They'll never suspect (or remember) when you use the BRAIN ERASER! Call now! 30-day money back guarantee if you use it on yourself and still remember what it's for!
On second thought, the marketing of this product probably needs some professional help, because it's technically a memory eraser. "Brain Eraser" causes visualizations of gray matter melting away, and it needn't even be stated out loud that if I were ever to use this on any ex-lovers, they'd need every brain cell they could keep.
As you can see, those "waves" appear to be going straight for my head, so if anyone at work asks me on Monday why I didn't finish my flow diagram, I will point to this picture and nod and drool. I'm not sure how long I'll be able to use this excuse, but there is so much paperwork to get even the smallest thing done at this company that I'm sure it will be a good month before they figure out how to fire me.
what country folk do for fun
My trainer lives out in Morgan Hill, far past the realms where city slickers dare to venture, and far beyond the roads where Jags and Porsches can drive without bottoming out in a muddy pothole. Don't get me wrong, I've always been part of that britches-wearing, crop-wielding, velvet-helmetted set, but if my trainer hasn't inspired a little bit of cowgirl in me, then I have no business calling myself a rider. I drove to her house on Sunday for a Memorial weekend barbecue, stopping at a makeshift plywood stand off the paved street to buy a three-pack of strawberries and continue on my way.
Her house is at the end of a narrow road of three houses, surrounded by crop fields and the golden backdrop of so many sun-blistered Northern California hills. As I pulled into the horseshoe driveway, I was greeted by the standard cowboy hat wearing tenant. "Where should I park?" I asked. "Anywhere you want," he answered. I navigated through a mass of pickup trucks and parked in front of the horse trailer that I didn't think would be going anywhere this afternoon.
My trainer had started renting this place several months before, and the owner had, not surprisingly, allowed them to build whatever they wanted on the property, including horse stalls and sheds and a round pen and an arena. This was my first visit to the house and I was amazed. In rollicking western flavor, my trainer had adorned the house with curio cabinets full of horse and cowboy paraphernalia -- silver tooled stirrups, bridles, championship belt buckles, trophies, plaques, saddles, chaps, wool blankets and numerous other decorations. I entered the kitchen and was greeted by the regular crowd of random but entertaining crazies, including a woman I'll call "Trinity," (because she reminds me of her) whose passions also happen to involve two seemingly unrelated sports -- horses and hockey (more on this strange connection later). Trinity and her blonde hockey playing friend were both standing in the kitchen, chowing down on melon slices and carrots with dip, when they saw me enter and immediately started talking hockey. The next thing I know, they've explained how they've quit playing everywhere else except for Ice Oasis, because everyone has an anger management problem. They begin to describe how they saw a goalie get arrested and taken right off the ice and put into a cop car during a scrimmage in Tahoe, because he hit someone across the face with his stick. I start to think back on my D league team that I recently quit, and wonder if I should add to their stories, but decide against it.
I wandered into the living room where my trainer's dad is sitting in front of the big screen TV, mesmerized by a war flick and surrounded by at least four longhorn bull skulls and the ever watchful eye of an enormous buffalo head on the wall above the fireplace. I point at it and look back at my trainer. "Nice buffalo." "That's Elvis," she responded, skewering cut peppers and laying them out on a napkin. "He's from Las Vegas." I looked back at the head. "When you carry something like that through the casinos, you get a lot of weird looks." "No doubt," I said. "You know, they're all real heads, and they all have different expressions. Some look left, some look right, and one of them just looked stoned. We got this one because it was the best." Elvis did have a quirky character to him. Pretty soulful for something without a body.
My trainer's boyfriend appeared and hustled us out back, eager to show the work he'd done on the property. You're welcome to browse the images page to see what I'm talking about, but in all, he's done an impressive amount of work. From the hay barn to the tack room to the riding mower with the flames he's painted to the Model A he's building to the stalls, grill and picnic tables, round pen, and arena he's started, it's no small feat. He introduced us to Jack and Whiskey, the resident decrepit "fixture" horses at the barn that he and "Bull-Riding Pete" take for trail rides when drunk. Bull-Riding Pete isn't this other guy's real name, obviously, but I feel responsible for protecting the identity of a guy who's landed one too many times on his head after getting bucked off by bulls, broncs, and probably, his own two inebriated feet. When you talk to BRP, his eyes go in two different directions and you aren't sure which one to look at, or sometimes, if he's even talking to you or your neighbor. Jack and Whiskey hung out in their stall together and looked at us dumbly.
When we returned to the house, my trainer told us we should go out and ride. Trinity's hockey friend immediately volunteered, even though she'd only ridden two other times in her entire life. I'm of the belief I can teach any hockey player how to ride, but then, I have a bit of an ego about it too. I put my boots on and we saddled up Whiskey and Jack and placed her precariously on Jack's back, then led her into the round pen. I rode Whiskey around for a bit then tried to help her navigate Jack around the pen without him running back towards his friend. She did reasonably well for someone riding in sneakers and jeans with the pant legs folded up.
By this time, it was three in the afternoon, and pushing 90 degrees with a dry wind. I went to dismount when I saw that one of the kids, Molly, was waiting in line to ride Jack. I watched as she tried to figure out the reins, then finally gave her some instruction. I tried to dismount again but saw that no one could figure out what to have her do. "Molly," I said, "look right, then pull on the right rein." I guided her to the round pen and we locked her in. The next thing I knew, I was at a BBQ giving a riding lesson. "Is the food done yet?" I screamed from the backyard. "Almost!" someone shouted from the house.
I haven't taught lessons in nearly two years. I got really burned out after four years of it, and I have to say by the end of my days as an instructor I was far from pleasant to be around. The two years off did me some good. I was back to my old ways, with my affected speech patterns, drawling "Faaaabulous," to Molly as she tried awkwardly to jog around the round pen without falling off. For a short time during my teaching days, there was a teenager who had tried to take over some of my lessons for me, and she could never get over my bizarre style of stretching out the word "Faaaabulous," as people rode by me. She laughed inappropriately every time.
I later let Molly out of the pen as her father rambled on and on to me about how most horses hated him, how he was the youngest kid ever in his county to get a pilot's license, how he rode cruisers, and so on and so forth. I took Molly riding around the property to escape him. "Do you teach riding lessons?" Molly asked as we ambled along the fence line. Whiskey bowed outwards nervously at the sprinklers. "I used to," I answered. "You'd make a good teacher," she said. I looked back over my shoulder and smiled. I guess, every now and then, it's good to know not everyone thinks you're a total failure.
We rode off the property and down the paved street a ways, and then onto a dirt road that ran alongside a planted field. Whiskey took the opportunity to spook at every piece of trash and green mud hole, while Molly giggled in a 12 year old fashion, oblivious to any danger or equine disobedience. Jack looked calm despite his buddy's skepticism about being away from home. We jogged home when we heard the dinner call, tied the horses up and went inside and stuffed our faces. My trainer's boyfriend showed me how to mix grenadine with Smirnoff Ice to create a drink I liked enough to get sick off of. I ate second helpings of salad and bread and cookies to try and dilute it, but I only succeeded in making it even harder to breathe.
When I was pretty sure I was going to die of an asthmatic reaction, the buzzing of small gas powered engines summoned everyone to the front yard, where the "older boys" were tearing up and down the street on a mini-bike, looking like bears in the Russian circus, and on a scooter with two orange plastic gas tanks attached to the sides of it. I watched for a while before the mini-bike was offered to me. By that point, I had had enough Smirnoff Ices to ride a wheelbarrow hitched to an emu, so the mini-bike was no problem (see pictures). I tried the scooter too, which was much faster but a lot less stable. It wasn't long before one of the kids crashed the mini-bike and my trainer's boyfriend, bored with the small toys, busted out his 650cc off-road Honda and roared up and down the side of the field, killing plants and pelting us with rocks and dust.
There's always something else to do when the motorcycles run out of gas. We went inside and ate cake. Molly's parents had created a three-person Napoleon style cake, with a left birthday section for Molly's brother, a middle birthday section for Molly, and a "Congratulations on your divorce" right section for my trainer's boyfriend, complete with chocolate dirt and candy tombstones. There was, of course, a combined candle-blowing-out ceremony.
The country is a great place for adults with attention-defecit disorder. When evening rolled around and we just couldn't eat anymore, my trainer took us out to see the deck where her boyfriend was planning to install the hot tub. "There's a possum living under here," she said. "We can't get rid of it." She took a flashlight and peered through the wooden planks. We couldn't find any sign of the possum. "Safari will find it," she said, and called to the dog. A neurotic, bloated Jack Russell terrier came bounding out of the bushes, dashed around the boards where we were standing, then immediately darted to the corner of the deck and started barking and scratching furiously at the wood. "Get it Safari!" we shouted, egging the dog on. "There's a place she can get under the deck," my trainer said. She picked up the dog and took her to a yawning gap between the dirt and the floor of the deck, and let her loose. The dog sprinted into the darkness, and we shined the flashlight in but saw only the beams holding up the deck.
There was intense barking for a minute, and then a primal growl before the showdown under the deck. We waved the flashlight around wildly, looking for the dog. Everyone started shouting her name. "There she is!" I said, shining the light towards a beam. Safari had the possum by its neck and was shaking it viciously with all the fury of a German Shepherd attacking a fleeing criminal. People started freaking out left and right and running for the house, but I stayed and stared at it. Molly leaned in next to me to watch. "This is the best birthday ever!" she declared, and I turned to her, laughing in shock. That's my kinda kid.
Safari eventually came out on her own, but not before the possum was extremely dead, and not before vomiting up a pasty red sludge that no one wanted to identify. Her collar was gone and she was completely soaked from the hose we tried to use to coax her out. My trainer immediately took her to the tie up and scrubbed her down with horse shampoo. Photos of the poor, soggy, deranged animal are available for your amusement. There's nothing quite like a Jack Russell after the kill.
I spent the rest of the evening lying on the couch with the much more docile Australian Shepherd puppy, Cheyenne, reading Practical Horseman (a snooty English riding magazine), and struggling to breathe. I read an excerpt from a really interesting book that I might pick up, called A Day at the Races, which in chapter 8, makes yet another startling connection between horses and hockey! I kid you not.
If you're ever in town for a visit, I'll take you to my trainer's place. She said come by anytime and ride the horses.
Her house is at the end of a narrow road of three houses, surrounded by crop fields and the golden backdrop of so many sun-blistered Northern California hills. As I pulled into the horseshoe driveway, I was greeted by the standard cowboy hat wearing tenant. "Where should I park?" I asked. "Anywhere you want," he answered. I navigated through a mass of pickup trucks and parked in front of the horse trailer that I didn't think would be going anywhere this afternoon.
My trainer had started renting this place several months before, and the owner had, not surprisingly, allowed them to build whatever they wanted on the property, including horse stalls and sheds and a round pen and an arena. This was my first visit to the house and I was amazed. In rollicking western flavor, my trainer had adorned the house with curio cabinets full of horse and cowboy paraphernalia -- silver tooled stirrups, bridles, championship belt buckles, trophies, plaques, saddles, chaps, wool blankets and numerous other decorations. I entered the kitchen and was greeted by the regular crowd of random but entertaining crazies, including a woman I'll call "Trinity," (because she reminds me of her) whose passions also happen to involve two seemingly unrelated sports -- horses and hockey (more on this strange connection later). Trinity and her blonde hockey playing friend were both standing in the kitchen, chowing down on melon slices and carrots with dip, when they saw me enter and immediately started talking hockey. The next thing I know, they've explained how they've quit playing everywhere else except for Ice Oasis, because everyone has an anger management problem. They begin to describe how they saw a goalie get arrested and taken right off the ice and put into a cop car during a scrimmage in Tahoe, because he hit someone across the face with his stick. I start to think back on my D league team that I recently quit, and wonder if I should add to their stories, but decide against it.
I wandered into the living room where my trainer's dad is sitting in front of the big screen TV, mesmerized by a war flick and surrounded by at least four longhorn bull skulls and the ever watchful eye of an enormous buffalo head on the wall above the fireplace. I point at it and look back at my trainer. "Nice buffalo." "That's Elvis," she responded, skewering cut peppers and laying them out on a napkin. "He's from Las Vegas." I looked back at the head. "When you carry something like that through the casinos, you get a lot of weird looks." "No doubt," I said. "You know, they're all real heads, and they all have different expressions. Some look left, some look right, and one of them just looked stoned. We got this one because it was the best." Elvis did have a quirky character to him. Pretty soulful for something without a body.
My trainer's boyfriend appeared and hustled us out back, eager to show the work he'd done on the property. You're welcome to browse the images page to see what I'm talking about, but in all, he's done an impressive amount of work. From the hay barn to the tack room to the riding mower with the flames he's painted to the Model A he's building to the stalls, grill and picnic tables, round pen, and arena he's started, it's no small feat. He introduced us to Jack and Whiskey, the resident decrepit "fixture" horses at the barn that he and "Bull-Riding Pete" take for trail rides when drunk. Bull-Riding Pete isn't this other guy's real name, obviously, but I feel responsible for protecting the identity of a guy who's landed one too many times on his head after getting bucked off by bulls, broncs, and probably, his own two inebriated feet. When you talk to BRP, his eyes go in two different directions and you aren't sure which one to look at, or sometimes, if he's even talking to you or your neighbor. Jack and Whiskey hung out in their stall together and looked at us dumbly.
When we returned to the house, my trainer told us we should go out and ride. Trinity's hockey friend immediately volunteered, even though she'd only ridden two other times in her entire life. I'm of the belief I can teach any hockey player how to ride, but then, I have a bit of an ego about it too. I put my boots on and we saddled up Whiskey and Jack and placed her precariously on Jack's back, then led her into the round pen. I rode Whiskey around for a bit then tried to help her navigate Jack around the pen without him running back towards his friend. She did reasonably well for someone riding in sneakers and jeans with the pant legs folded up.
By this time, it was three in the afternoon, and pushing 90 degrees with a dry wind. I went to dismount when I saw that one of the kids, Molly, was waiting in line to ride Jack. I watched as she tried to figure out the reins, then finally gave her some instruction. I tried to dismount again but saw that no one could figure out what to have her do. "Molly," I said, "look right, then pull on the right rein." I guided her to the round pen and we locked her in. The next thing I knew, I was at a BBQ giving a riding lesson. "Is the food done yet?" I screamed from the backyard. "Almost!" someone shouted from the house.
I haven't taught lessons in nearly two years. I got really burned out after four years of it, and I have to say by the end of my days as an instructor I was far from pleasant to be around. The two years off did me some good. I was back to my old ways, with my affected speech patterns, drawling "Faaaabulous," to Molly as she tried awkwardly to jog around the round pen without falling off. For a short time during my teaching days, there was a teenager who had tried to take over some of my lessons for me, and she could never get over my bizarre style of stretching out the word "Faaaabulous," as people rode by me. She laughed inappropriately every time.
I later let Molly out of the pen as her father rambled on and on to me about how most horses hated him, how he was the youngest kid ever in his county to get a pilot's license, how he rode cruisers, and so on and so forth. I took Molly riding around the property to escape him. "Do you teach riding lessons?" Molly asked as we ambled along the fence line. Whiskey bowed outwards nervously at the sprinklers. "I used to," I answered. "You'd make a good teacher," she said. I looked back over my shoulder and smiled. I guess, every now and then, it's good to know not everyone thinks you're a total failure.
We rode off the property and down the paved street a ways, and then onto a dirt road that ran alongside a planted field. Whiskey took the opportunity to spook at every piece of trash and green mud hole, while Molly giggled in a 12 year old fashion, oblivious to any danger or equine disobedience. Jack looked calm despite his buddy's skepticism about being away from home. We jogged home when we heard the dinner call, tied the horses up and went inside and stuffed our faces. My trainer's boyfriend showed me how to mix grenadine with Smirnoff Ice to create a drink I liked enough to get sick off of. I ate second helpings of salad and bread and cookies to try and dilute it, but I only succeeded in making it even harder to breathe.
When I was pretty sure I was going to die of an asthmatic reaction, the buzzing of small gas powered engines summoned everyone to the front yard, where the "older boys" were tearing up and down the street on a mini-bike, looking like bears in the Russian circus, and on a scooter with two orange plastic gas tanks attached to the sides of it. I watched for a while before the mini-bike was offered to me. By that point, I had had enough Smirnoff Ices to ride a wheelbarrow hitched to an emu, so the mini-bike was no problem (see pictures). I tried the scooter too, which was much faster but a lot less stable. It wasn't long before one of the kids crashed the mini-bike and my trainer's boyfriend, bored with the small toys, busted out his 650cc off-road Honda and roared up and down the side of the field, killing plants and pelting us with rocks and dust.
There's always something else to do when the motorcycles run out of gas. We went inside and ate cake. Molly's parents had created a three-person Napoleon style cake, with a left birthday section for Molly's brother, a middle birthday section for Molly, and a "Congratulations on your divorce" right section for my trainer's boyfriend, complete with chocolate dirt and candy tombstones. There was, of course, a combined candle-blowing-out ceremony.
The country is a great place for adults with attention-defecit disorder. When evening rolled around and we just couldn't eat anymore, my trainer took us out to see the deck where her boyfriend was planning to install the hot tub. "There's a possum living under here," she said. "We can't get rid of it." She took a flashlight and peered through the wooden planks. We couldn't find any sign of the possum. "Safari will find it," she said, and called to the dog. A neurotic, bloated Jack Russell terrier came bounding out of the bushes, dashed around the boards where we were standing, then immediately darted to the corner of the deck and started barking and scratching furiously at the wood. "Get it Safari!" we shouted, egging the dog on. "There's a place she can get under the deck," my trainer said. She picked up the dog and took her to a yawning gap between the dirt and the floor of the deck, and let her loose. The dog sprinted into the darkness, and we shined the flashlight in but saw only the beams holding up the deck.
There was intense barking for a minute, and then a primal growl before the showdown under the deck. We waved the flashlight around wildly, looking for the dog. Everyone started shouting her name. "There she is!" I said, shining the light towards a beam. Safari had the possum by its neck and was shaking it viciously with all the fury of a German Shepherd attacking a fleeing criminal. People started freaking out left and right and running for the house, but I stayed and stared at it. Molly leaned in next to me to watch. "This is the best birthday ever!" she declared, and I turned to her, laughing in shock. That's my kinda kid.
Safari eventually came out on her own, but not before the possum was extremely dead, and not before vomiting up a pasty red sludge that no one wanted to identify. Her collar was gone and she was completely soaked from the hose we tried to use to coax her out. My trainer immediately took her to the tie up and scrubbed her down with horse shampoo. Photos of the poor, soggy, deranged animal are available for your amusement. There's nothing quite like a Jack Russell after the kill.
I spent the rest of the evening lying on the couch with the much more docile Australian Shepherd puppy, Cheyenne, reading Practical Horseman (a snooty English riding magazine), and struggling to breathe. I read an excerpt from a really interesting book that I might pick up, called A Day at the Races, which in chapter 8, makes yet another startling connection between horses and hockey! I kid you not.
If you're ever in town for a visit, I'll take you to my trainer's place. She said come by anytime and ride the horses.
