Well, if I have to choose — the Bears. I’ve never liked that Peyton Manning.
control
I rolled my hair in curlers today. For no apparent reason. Suddenly, I just found myself robotically rolling my hair in those old-fashioned spongy rollers that my mother used on me when I was a kid. I think these were my mother’s actual rollers once, from the 60s. And here they are, on my head again. Orange and pink and enduring, I guess. I’ve always liked their gentle sponginess, their unassuming way, but I almost never use them. Are they soothing somehow; is that it? I don’t know. Really. I don’t even know why I did this. I have nowhere to go. Not until later, when we meet with our potential landlord again. So I sit here and type with a head full of curlers and I wonder why I did this. I saw myself in the mirror just now, startled a bit and laughed; I’d forgotten they were there.
Maybe it’s control, trying to control something — tame my hair — because I feel out of control right now. Here I am, trying to be a businesswoman. Playing a role, really. Out of my league in so many ways. I don’t know how to be a “hard-nosed businesswoman.” I don’t know how negotiate a business lease. But I can curl my hair. Tame it. Make it do what I want.
And suddenly, out of nowhere, I’m not sure I like him — Thee Olde Landlord. I liked him okay before, even though he seems a bit odd to me because he almost never blinks. He just stares. He has little chocolate chip eyes and he uses them mostly to stare. They are small and dark and expressionless, really. They may be actual chocolate chips for all I know. But I’ve learned that when he does blink, it means something. Something bad, usually. Someone else may furrow a brow; he just blinks … finally: I don’t think I like what you just said. Bllliinnnk. And it’s a slow blink. It’s not automatic. It seems conscious, deliberate. Some people remind themselves to breathe during yoga, he reminds himself to blink during life.
He bows a lot too. That Buddhist bow, the wai I saw in Thailand where it didn’t bother me. But in this context, I have no idea what it is. In one instant, he will approach you, all short and pigeon-toed, press his little palms together and bow. The next instant, he will straighten up and rattle off a stream of Spanish to one of his employees. In Thailand, it’s cultural. Here, it seems like affectation. He’s basically a very short, pigeon-toed Mexican man who stares and bows, but he’s Buddhist to match the decor.
At our recent Sunday meeting, he acted like a jerk, questioning our commitment after we’d spent thousands of (borrowed) dollars already. He lectured us. Pressured us. And he hadn’t been that way before. What is his problem? I sat there and wondered. Why am I letting myself be afraid of him? I wondered that too. My mind wandered, trying to figure out the vibe, obsessed with what his problem was. I said very little, cut the meeting short, lying that I didn’t feel well. He didn’t bow goodbye. I didn’t look at his chocolate chip eyes. And out on the sidewalk, I burst into businesslike tears of frustration.
We meet with him again tonight. So I’m psyching up. Maybe that’s what the curlers are about. Trying to dress the part I have to play tonight.
Here I come, Senor Buddha.
and affordable, too
Order now. There are only 400 available.
ode to a magical horse
We are now writing love letters to the dead Barbaro.
It started in the comments here, when I demanded that Brian pen a love letter to dearly departed Barbaro for his silly pun. What could I do? I can’t put the man in timeout, for God’s sake! So he gamely stepped up to the challenge. Now others are chiming in. Well, one’s not a love letter so much as some sort of, uh, business transaction.
See?
Dear Barbaro,
I am so sorry we never got to know each other, I’m sure you were a nice horse.
I shall think fondly of you as my daughter and I make magazine picture collages with our new Elmer’s glue stick.
Much Love!
Your almost dear friend,
Brian
**********
A horse is a horse
(of course, of course)
A horse is no angel face, of course
Unless of course
The name of the horse
Is the famous Barbaro!
We went to the source
And asked the horse
When he’d be back out on the course
He said, of course
Once his leg’s in force
He’ll be running to and fro!
“Maybe I’ll just go out to stud
Or frolic along and chew my cud
I’ll stamp and neigh
Make the kids say Hey!
It’s the famous Barbaro!â€
But now that he’s gone
It’s sad of course
He really was kinda cool (for a horse)
But a horse he was
No more tears, because –
Barbaro wouldn’t want you to be so sad…
*********
Dear “Don,â€
I was beginning to lose hope in your work, but now I can rest easy. No more mares rolling their eyes when I show up, no more gelding jokes or “second greatest horse in Philadelphia history,†no more whispers about being the Harding to Barbaro’s Kerrigan.
Payment is on its way, in the usual manner: third paddock from the door, under the feedbag. If the groomer’s there just tell him you’re looking for the john.
Sincerely,
Smarty Jones
(Also Nightfly, hahahahaha!)
**********
Dear Barbaro,
All of Philadelphia mourns your departure. How could we ever forget all the wonderful things you did, like when all those kids in comas at CHOP* awakened as the result of your triumphant win? Even Andy Reid’s sons couldn’t drive properly, what with all the tears in their eyes. Now that you’re gone, terrible, terrible, things are happening on our streets. We can only hope that all the studwork you did during your “recovery†will bring forth more magical horses like you to save our sorry, drug-laden, gun-violence ridden town.
Your hometown admirer,
Kate
*Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia for youse guys not from the area.
Yes, more magical horses, please!
Anyone else? You know it’s not good to keep your grief locked up inside, peeps.
because nightfly asked
and I likes me The Nightfly.
In honor of that angel face Barbaro’s recent passing, another look at my insane panda rage.
I was home alone on a Saturday when that happened, too.
thrown out of hogwarts for sure
Daniel Radcliffe, aka Harry Potter, is starring in Peter Shaffer’s Equus in London. He gets nekkid and parents are upset — because Harry Potter’s a role model, you see.
Parents, please. Calm thyselves. Are your little kids even going to see this play? I mean, they probably shouldn’t. It’s not for little kids; it’s for adults. And, by the way, why is HARRY POTTER, a fictional character, a role model for your kids? How about YOU being their role model? I mean, for instance. Or some other real live person? And if you’re gonna get all pissed off because he’s naked in the play — uhm — read the play. You might as well know everything. After all, wouldn’t want you to miss out on the full expression of your outrage that some actor playing a part is letting your little Timmy down.
“There is now, in my mouth, this sharp chain. And it never comes out.”
Man. I need to read this play again.
thank you note
“Dear Tee Tee & Uncle (Beloved),
Thank you for the tea set and the glitter pens. You are so great and I love you so much. You’re the greatest of all.
Piper”
This was in the mail yesterday. We’d given Piper a little espresso “suitcase” for Christmas — two tiny espresso cups and saucers, two tiny spoons, all decorated with sprightly French girls, walking their dogs, riding their scooters — and she just FLIPPED for it. We told her it was for “tea.” After that, she spent the whole afternoon walking around with her tea suitcase, sitting with it, hugging it. She simply could not be parted with this new infusion of girliness into her life. She asked my sister, “Mama, do we have any tea?” My sister said no. (Uhm, dear heart, could you please get up and LOOK at least?) So I got up and started rummaging around in the pantry cupboard and — TA DA! — tea. Not the greatest tea, it was some kind of apple spice tea, but Piper didn’t care. She was, you know, “so escited.” As usual.
So I heated some water and made us tea. Then I took some of the chocolate muffins a neighbor had brought over and sliced them into small, tea-cake sized pieces, explaining to Piper that when you have “tea,” you have tiny little cakes and sandwiches that you eat, too. Her eyes were big as saucers, “Really?” “Yup, it’s gonna be good, huh?” “YEAH, Tee Tee!”
Once everything was poured and ready, we sat down and I watched her closely. I watched my niece — who daily has to play rough and tumble with her big brothers as a necessity of survival — suddenly transform into this proper young lady who drinks tea. I mean, she sipped daintily at her cup; she raised a pinky; she changed her voice, calling me “dahling” and “madam” in a vague British accent; she took delicate bites of chocolate muffin — muffin that, just a few hours before, I’d seen smeared all over her flushed and shining cheeks. I didn’t model any of this behavior. She just started doing it. The tea, frankly, tasted flat and old, probably because it was, but she just sipped and murmured with her face close to the cup, “Oooh, Tee Tee. This is soo delicious.”
And it really was, you know?
“rest in peace, angel face”??
So Barbaro is dead. Okay. That’s sad. Whatever.
But I found myself howling with laughter last night when I heard a reporter on the news actually announce, in a reverent tone, “Barbaro had a last meal of grass.”
A last meal of grass? REALLY?? Who’da thunk it? A horse ate grass? No hamburgers for the condemned’s “last meal”? No blueberry pancakes? Grass? I am astonished! And did the condemned get to make a final statement before he bit the dust? Sheesh. Calm down, people. It’s a horse. Stop trying to make him human. Stop writing him love letters, like this:
“To my dearest Barbaro, rest in peace angel face. You are pain free now. You fought bravely. Now your spirit will run free. I will love you forever.”
I got that letter from this article.
Here’s another excerpt:
How many think Barbaro was heroic, or just doing what his human handlers wanted him to do? Or, had no choice what he was doing after being anesthetized? If we’re going to start looking upon horses as if they have human qualities, then shouldn’t we stop sticking a bit in their mouths, tying their tongues in place before races, gelding or loading them with steroids?
There is no question some people began to look upon this animal, though, as a creature with human qualities, but all indications are he went to his grave withholding comment about what he was trying to accomplish the last few months.
Hahaha. It’s a sad thing, yes, but keep it in perspective, people.
sometimes you’re bored on saturdays
You know, sometimes your husband is out on a video shoot all day of a Saturday. And sometimes you’re kinda bored. And maybe there are piles and piles of baskets and cups and coffee and sweeteners and every possible whatnot shoved in every corner of your teeny little townhouse. So maybe you go a little stir crazy from crawling over and around and through the crushing, visible evidence of your utter insanity. And maybe you’ve drunk a bit too much coffee because God knows you’ve got a lot of THAT now. So maybe — just maybe — the boredom and the lonely and the caffeine and the crazy all combine to make you — oh, I don’t know — push a heavy rattan chair off its wobbly stack and up a flight of narrow and sharp flagstone stairs. And maybe, later that same day, your husband comes home asking about your day and you are vague and blase. Then maybe he stands at the bottom of the stairs and gazes up at the landing where the giant rattan chair is now stuck and looks down at you and says …. slowly …. drily:
“Uhm, is there anything else you want to tell me about your day?”
You know, maybe.
closed for business
The Beanhouse, almost all cleaned out, so forlorn.
(Sorry for the pics — camera phone and bad use of lighting on the photographer’s part, ahem.)
I now own those hanging stained glass lights.
I need to pick up these big ol’ plants this weekend.
The patio, empty of furniture — uhm, because I bought that, too. But people are still showing up to sit, even in their own beach chairs. Makes my heart ache, the loneliness here. These are just three random people I watched from a distance. They were not together; they were just sitting, completely separate, at the place that used to be their place.
