Fanfreakingtastic

This photo expresses the level of class displayed by my mother on a daily basis.

As a heads up – this story probably shouldn’t be read by people who are easily offended or who have a high opinion of me. Also, if you have a high opinion of me, I am sorry to inform you that you have been tricked. I am not the classy dame you think I am.

This story begins with a gentleman familiar to readers of this blog. A gentleman named BOTASTIC. While BOTASTIC will always remain in my heart, and I love him dearly, my earlier depiction of him left out some things. Lots and lots of things, actually. You see, BOTASTIC is not the classy gent you think he is. BOTASTIC is, in fact, a world class chain puller, and a sometimes user of salty language.

Additionally, for this Actual Real True Story, you need to be introduced to the character of my phone. It is an iPhone. It hates me. I hate it. The stupid sensor doesn’t work, so my face is constantly hitting mute, hitting speaker, making conferance calls, writing emails. You name it, the right side of my face does it. Who knew the right side of my face even had fingers. But apparently, it has, like, a million, given how many tasks it accomplishes in a two minute phone call.

Finally, there is my mom. Please read about her here. My mother is, in all ways, a complete and total classy dame, one who has never used salty language in her entire life. Out of deference, I have always followed her lead whilst in her company. Because while I may not be a classy dame, but I am a.) not an idiot and b.) genuinely respectful.

You may already see where this is going.

So, I am having a verbal slugfest with BOTASTIC. He is pulling my chain with wild abandon, and I am yelling at him. More to the point, I am yelling at him with salty language. My phone beeps, and I look down. It is my mom. I decide not to answer. I am too busy yelling at BOTASTIC.

The right side of my face, though, has different ideas. “I am totally going to answer this,” says the right side of my face, and it does so, without telling me.

This guy is more representative of my own class level.

And so I wind up yelling this: PUNK A** M*********** not at BOTASTIC, but at MY MOTHER. MY CLASSY, CLASSY MOTHER. I YELL THIS. AT HER.

There is silence.

Mom: Whaaat????

Me: (sheer panic) I was talking to Bo! I was talking to Bo!

Mom: My daughter talks like that?????

Me: Bo was pulling my chain! Bo was pulling my chain!

Mom: I don’t care if Bo was pulling your chain, you don’t talk like that!

Me: I’m sorry! I’m sorry!

Mom: Well look, I am only calling you because I felt guilty I hadn’t called you back yet, but I am busy, and apparently, so are you.

Me: I am so sorry!

Mom: Talk to you later.

We hang up. I call BOTASTIC back. I explain to him both what occurred, and also his responsibility for this incident. BOTASTIC, who is a consultant, by the way, then says, “I think this is good. I think this is an opportunity for greater honesty, greater closeness, with your mother. I think this is going to lead to a high point in your relationship. I think you’re going to reach a new plane of understanding.” As previously mentioned, BOTASTIC is a PUNK A** M***********.

That night, my mom invites me to a movie. You better believe I am there with bells on the next day. I get to my parents house, and my dad, who is a lot like Santa Claus, gives me a hug and goes into his typical spiel. This is his spiel, by the way: “I want you to know how proud I am of you, how special you are to us, and how much I love you.” I am deeply, deeply surprised by this reception.

My dad leaves the room, I look at my mom, and she mouths the words, “I didn’t tell him.” And then she smiles a deliciously wicked smile.

Which just goes to show, my mom might be classy dame, but I know where I got my naughty streak from.

Many moons ago, when I started this blog, I thought out in advance a sort of governing code of ethics. I do a lot of ranting, a lot of mocking. There were some ranting stories I wanted to tell, but I felt uncomfortable with them because they were stories about regular joes. Ultimately, I decided I would rant about public figures, Rolling Stone magazine’s various lists, and I’d tell stories where I am the goat, but I would never write a negative story about a regular joe.

And then I met Blake.

Blake who hates water.

You want this? Can't have it.

Blake is a server at an airport restaurant. Ursula (who recently turned 90, by the way) and I went to this restaurant while we were waiting for Evan’s plane to come in. As it turned out, his flight got delayed, which was convenient, as we were at this restaurant for about a month and a half.

We arrived for an early dinner and the restaurant was close to empty. On the menu was a french dip sandwich, and Ursula shocked me by telling me she’d never had a french dip with au jus. So we decide to both order the french dip. Now, it took us awhile to come to this decision, and I start looking around for the waiter who’d seated us. He is oddly absent. (Hint, hint, this will become a theme.)

Eventually, he shows up and informs us they’re out of the french dip. For the best, I say to myself, I should really get the chicken breast and veggies anyway. Blake then informs me they’re out of vegetables. VEGETABLES. So then I order a Philly cheesesteak sandwich, which they can make. Riddle me that, fanfreakingtastic readers. You can make a Philly cheesesteak but you can’t make a french dip and you have no vegetables. So, peppers and onions aren’t vegetables? A french dip is not the exact same thing as a Philly cheesesteak minus said vegetables? Apparently not.

During the conversation wherein Blake informs us we’ve actually time traveled back to late 80’s Soviet Russia, where there is little food and even less logic, Blake starts to give off a real punk kid kind of vibe. I didn’t like him from the first but now I really don’t like him. Before he leaves we ask for glasses of water. He’d successfully delivered cups of coffee when we first arrived, back when we were young and innocent. Ursula has dry mouth really badly, a relic of her past fight with thyroid cancer, and it’s super hard for her to eat without water.

Ursula and I settle in to wait for our food. Several months pass. Ursula turns 91, and it’s sad because no one is there to help celebrate.  Finally, finally, finally, Blake returns with our food. “We really need water,” I say. And then Blake says this, “I’ll get to it when I can.” I then watch him as he cleans off dirty tables, seats people, takes orders, and generally does everything he can do other than get our water.

Two enormous African-American men sit down behind us. They remind me tremendously of Grizz and Dot Com from 30 Rock. They sit in silence, both absorbed by their iPhones. After a certain point, I swivel around in my chair so I can watch for Blake unemcumbered.  It’s been a long time since my last sighting of the elusive Blake, and I don’t want to miss a chance to glimpse this most rare species. When they see me turn around, the two men say, “If you want anything, you best just go get it yourself.” I take it they are regulars.

And there he is! I’ve spotted him! Blake is approaching and I’m ready to reach out and nab him. But another woman gets him first, saying, “We’ve asked for our waters three times now.” Blake raises his hands angrily and says, “It’s going to be awhile.” He leaves, and the woman and I exchange murderous looks. I think about forming a cabal to jump Blake and pummel the water out of him. Because, really, it’s all about the water hate for Blake. He will consent to bring you food, even coffee. But water? The hell are you thinking? Asking for water! IT’S BENEATH HIM. And why do all this people want water, anyway? WATER IS FROM THE DEVIL.

At this point, Ursula has choked down her chicken tenders without water, and I’ve eaten my sandwich. I just want to get the hell out. As he walks past, intent on ignoring us, I shout that I want the bill. We wait for about another six weeks.

He brings us, simultaneously, the bill and two waters.

I hope that it goes without saying that the bill was filled with errors.

Westside Pavillion, site of the Massacre of the Betrayers.

Upon waking this morning, this happened:

Evan: I had a dream last night.

Me: What was it about?

Evan: We were in a zombie apocalypse and we’d managed to escape with a bunch of our friends and acquaintances, plus we’d managed to get some of our cats out. We were holed up at the Westside Pavillion, and a faction within our group betrayed us.

Me: How did they betray us?

Evan: They ate our cats for dinner.

Me: Oh no!

Evan: I took this as a personal affront.

Me: Did you kill them all?

Evan: No, because I realized, even though I had an AK-47, they were all armed with guns, too, and there was no way I could kill all of them quickly enough. So instead, I took you and a couple of people loyal to us and we left.

Me: Who was loyal to us?

Evan: I don’t remember. Anyway, so you and I and the couple of people loyal to us leave the Westside Pavillion, but as we’re leaving the building, I prop open the doors and pull the fire alarm.

Me: Wow.

Evan: {Evil Cackling}

Me: So you killed them all by zombie horde.

Evan: {Evil Cackling}

Me: I would have been okay with that, because of the cats. By the way, you can’t say you don’t love those cats, given you’re willing to kill all your friends because they ate them.

Evan: I didn’t care so much about the cats. It was the personal affront of the betrayal.

Me: I see.

Evan: We did think there was a chance one of the cats might have escaped both becoming dinner and the zombie horde, and we were going to sweep the building later to see if we could find any cat survivors.

Me: That’s nice.

Evan: Darren was the ringleader of the betrayers.

Me: Figures.

It should also be noted that rational people don't do things like this.

I found myself on Behind the Bit today, and discovered this post. I was reminded of the fact that horse people are crazy, and I decided to share with all y’all my three point theory as to why this is.

1.) Horse people weigh, on average, somewhere between 100 and 200 pounds. And yet when they look upon a four-legged, 1,200 lb. beast, they say to themselves, “I should be in charge of this creature. I should get onto its back and steer it about with nothing but my legs and seat and two flopsy bits of leather. This makes perfect sense to me. If this beast becomes aggressive with me, I will not back down, but instead make the beast back up vigorously, whilst yelling, HEY! or NO! or DON’T YOU DARE! The 1,200 lb beast will respond to this by actually backing down. This also will make perfect sense to me, because I know I should be in charge of this creature.”

2.) Horse people prefer the company of horses to the company of people. This can be quite instructive, if we simply examine the nature of the horse. Horses, unlike cats and especially dogs, are mostly silent creatures. They do not meow or purr or bark or growl. Yes, they do communicate vocally, but their stock in trade is the world of silent gestures, of body language.  The pinned ear, the snaking neck, the raised hind hoof, the chewing gesture of a two-year-old. Horse people know this language intuitively. When outsiders say horses aren’t expressive, they can’t believe it. Horses never stop expressing themselves, and horse people never stop listening. Horse people get in trouble not when communicating with their horses, but when they have to open their mouths, speak, and try to communicate with other humans. It tends to not go so well. Horse people are blunt, rude, coarse, frank, assertive, and generally unbearable. It goes beyond a lack of social graces, and really runs into something like Aspergers. Quite possibly all horse people are actually on the autism spectrum, going about undiagnosed and unknowing.

3.) Every single individual horse person knows the way it should be done. Every single individual horse person does it a different way. Barns are collaborative environments. And chaos ensues. This fact actually ties back into points one and two. Horse people believe they should be in charge. They are lone wolves.  They have come up with a wide variety of opinions based on personal experience, and like the natural leaders that they are, they know they are right.

Now, of course there are horse people who are gregarious and easy going. But they are the exceptions that prove the rule, and dare I say that the crazier the horse person is, the more horsey they actually are.

A photo of the keg stand in question.

I don’t spend a lot of time talking about my personal life here at Fanfreakingtastic. There are two reasons for this. 1.) I’m pretty private. 2.) My personal life is exceedingly boring. Don’t get me wrong. I deeply, deeply appreciate just how boring my life is. I can’t abide drama. I like things still and quiet and serene.

Anyway, back to the point. If you haven’t already figured it out, this is going to be a more personal story than usual. Also, I am going to say some nice things about some friends of mine. I don’t want them to let this go to their head, or think I am going to make a habit of it. After this, it’s back to business as usual.

This last weekend was the 8th Annual FlowerFest. What is this FlowerFest, you may be asking yourself. Well, once upon a time, when Evan was 18, his parents went away for nine days. Evan and his friends therefore had a nine day party. This was the original FlowerFest. It is important to note that this group of friends had been tight for a very long time upon the occasion of the original FlowerFest, and they remain tight to this day.

Growing up, I didn’t have a tight group of friends. I did have some wonderful friends, both at school and in horses, and I am grateful for all of them. But let me put it to you this way – I lived in the same house from age 3 to age 18. I changed schools four times. The first change was foisted upon me by the school district, the rest were voluntary. Here’s the thing. I have a pretty big personality. Over the years, I’ve gotten much, much better at managing myself, but I still tend to be a person who garners strong reactions. People love me or hate me. When I was in school, this quality was magnified about eleventy billion times. I would change schools, and there’d be love at first, followed pretty quickly by the hate. And then I’d leave. As my dear friend Eminem put it, I’ve been chewed up and spit out and booed off stage. But, like Em, I couldn’t stop rhyming or writing the next cypher, and so the cycle would begin all over again.

These were not pleasant times for yours truly. I have two vivid memories of my final days at Auburn Senior High School (the second high school I’d attended). I remember walking down the hallway and thinking, “Is this really it? This is all high school is going to be? Where’s my Ferrari ride with Ferris Bueller? Why all the lies, John Hughes?” The other memory is of graduation. You may be surprised to hear that when you’re 5′1″ with broad shoulders and big boobs a graduation gown pretty much turns you into a giant bowling ball. And when you’re essentially dressed in a Halloween costume of a giant bowling ball, you’re already not feeling too frisky. So, there I am, feeling like a fat, fat bowling ball, on the football field, with 650 people, the vast majority of them I didn’t know at all, just wanting to get the hell out of there. (Actually, I just had a memory – I was in this Commercial Arts class, and we were charged with the task of making the senior t-shirts. I desperately wanted the slogan to be, “Like Bats Out of Hell.” For some reason, the principal felt this was too negative.)

Anyway, the good news was – in three short months I was off to inner city Los Angeles and USC. Right away I met my future husband, Evan. He was from Clemson, SC, and over the year I met some of his friends, talked to others on the phone, and heard millions of stories about the group of guys Evan had grown up with. They were really, really good stories.

Summer was coming up, and back in Auburn, WA, my parents had taken in my sister, her daughter, as well as my grandmother who had Alzheimer’s. There was literally no room at the inn. My dad was supporting four generations on one small income, and I was going to a very expensive private school. I’d mentioned to my mom that in the South, one could acquire a factory job and earn a lot of money. My mom isn’t stupid. Some time later, she said, “So, are you going to spend the summer in South Carolina with Evan and work at a factory?” And I was like, “Uhhh….” But inside my head I thought, “SHE’S SO SMART. IT’S CREEPY.”

And so, at nineteen, I moved 3,000 miles away to spend my summer with a bunch people I’d never met before while working swing shifts at a textile mill. (?!?) That first summer wasn’t easy. There was one point where I called my friend Kate, crying. Never in all our years of friendship had I ever called Kate, crying. But there were also plenty of good times, too, and my parents visited, fell in love with nearby Greenville, and moved there the next year. (This isn’t as weird as it sounds – my dad is from the South and they’d been looking to move to Atlanta for a long time. In Greenville, they found a much better version of what they’d been looking for.)

By the next summer, Clemson had started to feel like home. Over the next few years, I spent my summers there, and Evan’s friends became my friends. It was easy to see why Evan had so many really, really good stories. His group of friends are good people. They’re funny, they’re smart, and they’re loyal to the bone. Eventually, in 2003, we moved to Clemson and got married. Shortly thereafter, Evan’s best friend had a brilliant idea – a FlowerFest Revival. The original crew came together for a two-day regression therapy session.

FlowerFest has become an annual rite of summer. It has changed over time. A lot of the boys got married, to women I love like sisters. Some of the boys now have kids, leading to a new schedule of FlowerFest Days and FlowerFest Nights. Some of them have remained unmarried and childless, which is nice for Evan and I, who remain happily locked in at a mental age of around 24. Every year new people come to FlowerFest, and the boys welcome them with open arms. FlowerFest is the most inclusive gathering of people I’ve ever known. As long as you’re not a jerk and you’re up for a good time, you’re welcome to join in the merriment.

And so it was this past weekend, while I watched grown men launch complicated strategies to pants one another, and I watched people with PhD’s repeatedly, and violently, throw one another off a dock and into Lake Hartwell at 2 in the morning, it dawned on me how much I love these people.

During my L.A. years I always thought of myself as homeless. People would ask me where I was from, and I never knew how to answer. I could say Seattle, which was true - I went to high school there, and the city had a big impact on me. I could say rural Kent/Auburn, which was true, too. That’s where my house was. I could say L.A. I did live there for eight years.  Or I could say South Carolina, because I spent my summers there. But really, I didn’t have an answer. And so that word stuck with me – homeless. I felt homeless.

But last Saturday, while I watched ten men chase my husband down, tackle him, drag him several yards and force him to do a keg stand against his will, I realized I didn’t feel homeless anymore.

It's a good thing Diana Ross wasn't included. She had a very short career that didn't influence anyone.

Everybody has their triggers. Bad drivers. Poor grammar. This commercial.

For me, there is no quicker shortcut to a rage high than a Rolling Stone 100 Best Whatever List. This is because Rolling Stone is, in my opinion, the single most chauvinistic institution on the face of the earth. Bar none.

Growing up, Sam Cooke was my favorite singer. I loved “Wonderful World,” “Cupid,” and “Twistin’ the Night Away.” Just a little bit older and I found “You Send Me,” and “Stand By Me,” and then “Another Saturday Night,” and “Bring It On Home To Me.” Much later, I found, “A Change is Gonna Come,” and I know I’m not original in calling that one my favorite.  These songs are just the tip of the giant canon of work that is the Sam Cooke oeuvre.

So, I’ve spent a good bit of time the last few days listening to Sam Cooke, and I decided he was the greatest vocalist of all time. A day after that, I started to wonder if the man was receiving enough respect these days, so I googled him. And there, at the top of my search results, was a Rolling Stone list of the 100 Greatest Singers, compiled in 2008. I knew – I KNEW – I shouldn’t open it. But I saw Sam Cooke was number 4, and I was curious who they’d put ahead of him. I opened the link. The answer to my question was right there in front of me – Elvis, Ray, and Aretha. For pure vocal talents, I still put Sam first (and yes, I know his range wasn’t tremendous, but the purity of his tenor and the quality of his pitch takes him to number one in my book), but you can definitely argue for Elvis, Ray and Aretha.

And then, I was curious about something else – how many women were on this list of the Top 100 Greatest Singers of All Time?

I knew – I KNEW – I shouldn’t look. I knew what the answer would be. I knew that Rolling Stone lists do not matter in any way, shape, or form. It’s a stupid list! Who cares! And yet, I couldn’t stop myself.

I looked.

And felt the rage-ohol hit my bloodstream like an adrenaline shot.

Debbie Harry. What a loser. She did nothing to popularize the new wave/punk movement.

So, having read the list, I have some questions. Like, where’s Debbie Harry? Where’s Diana Ross? You’re going to put MARY J. BLIGE at number 100, but Beyonce isn’t present at all? That makes perfect sense to me. Where’s Grace Slick? For the record, here are the women who did make the list:

100 - Mary J. Blige, 98 – Stevie Nicks, 95 – Patti LaBelle, 94 – Karen Carpenter, 93 - Annie Lennox, 84 – Darlene Love, 83 – Patti Smith, 79 – Mariah Carey, 73 – Dolly Parton, 60 – Björk, 58 – Christina Aguilera, 51 – Gladys Knight, 50 – Bonnie Raitt, 46 – Patsy Cline, 42 – Joni Mitchell, 35 – Dusty Sprinfield, 34 - Whitney Houston, 29 -Nina Simone, 28 - Janis Joplin, 22 – Etta James, 17 – Tina Turner, 1 - Aretha Franklin

In other words, women constitute 22% of the list. TWENTY-TWO. With only 2 women in the top 20, and 11 in the top 50.

And I’m just so confused, because I thought Jagged Little Pill was the number one selling album of the 90’s, and you’d think that would be worth something, but apparently not. This fact may or may not be ironic. (Don’t ask Alanis Morrisette.)

I also thought that Madonna had the most Top Ten hits of all time, with 37, and love her or hate her, I thought she’d had a pretty enormous impact on pop culture and the music industry, founded her own record label, Maverick, that didn’t exactly suck (See above, Jagged Little Pill) and generally was a generational touchstone. But, she doesn’t have much of a voice, so maybe that’s why she wasn’t in there.

Cyndi Lauper. A completely talentless and totally unoriginal human being. Also, sucks at songwriting.

This must also explain the absence of Emmylou Harris. Oh, wait, that’s right. Emmylou Harris sings like an angel sent down from heaven.

And what about Cyndi Lauper? And Melissa Etheridge? Joan Jett? Donna Summer? Joan Baez and Ani Di Franco? Or Pat Benatar and Linda Ronstadt? PJ Harvey and Liz Phair? Celine Dion and Carole King? Lauryn Hill and Sade? Brenda Lee and Martha Reeves?

Also – Dolly Parton at 73? SEVENTY-THREE??? Have those soulless bastards at Rolling Stone ever even listened to Little Sparrow?

And see, this is why I shouldn’t even open a link that says, Rolling Stone Top 100 Whatever on it. It always winds up with a lot of question marks and all caps.

Found this image of a banner for a Victorian flea circus, and I had to redo Fanfreakingtastic in its image.

Fanfreakingtastic! It’s had a makeover. I’ll never forget, when Fanfreakingtastic first debuted, more than a year ago, and my beloved BOTASTIC said, “Really? Pink? Orange? Little stars?” I replied, “Yeah! Little stars!” Botastic said, “Huh.” So I was like, “What’s wrong with little stars?!?” And Botastic was all, “I just figured you go with, you know, autumn colors or something.”

Botastic had a point. I’d put together the original Fanfreakintastic whilst in a particularly happy mood, whilst particularly enraptured with a pair of pink and orange sandles I’d bought. True story.

So, I present to you something reflective of the Victorian dark grunge freak show that is more reflective of my usual mindset? Question mark because, not sure if it’s ACTUALLY more reflective of my normative state, but it’s definitely a state I visit at least somewhat frequently. Rather like Georgia or North Carolina.

Also new to the Fanfreakingtastic site – the Equus category, where one can find all horse-related links. A friend recently made the point that there was no one place to go for all horsiness. Now there is.

Hope you like the new look! If you don’t, I’m sorry. I’m done fighting with Wordpress for the time being. I’m sure I’ll get back in the ring again eventually. Change is good for soul, after all.

Walmart, as America would have you see it.

Dear America,

And when I say, “America,” I am really saying, “American Haters of Walmart,” but that’s kind of long, so I’m just going to say, “America,” and you can sort it out amongst yourselves whether I am talking to you or against you. But back to what I was saying -

Dear America. You have long protested the rise of the evil empire that is Walmart. You cite their poor treatment of their workers, their destruction of local economies, their undercutting of US manufacturing. Look, America, you’re not wrong. When you say these things, I agree with you. Wholeheartedly. But here’s the thing America. Walmart does something for me that you do not.

Walmart makes me feel thin, rich and beautiful.

 Right now, America, as I type this, I am wearing a tank top that is labeled a size 4. I bought it yesterday at Walmart, and it is not tight, America. I probably could have gone to a size 2, just for the entertainment factor. Do you think this tank top would be labeled a size 4 at Ann Taylor? No, America, it would not. It would probably be a size 10, maybe 12. You know what it would be at Guess? An XXX-Large. So what happens if we get rid of Walmart, America? Are you going to come to my house and cut out all the size labels on my shirts and pants, and replace them self-esteem boosting size 4? Because I like feeling thin, America, and I’ve seen your magazine covers and your television shows. You want me to feel fat. Walmart vertiably insists that I feel thin.

A picture of me, at the Walmart.

Alongside  my size 4 tank top — which, for the record, has an ugly Hawaiian print, but it was a size 4, and I was buying it, by God – there were several other tank tops in a variety of colors. Grey and white striped, different shades of grey stripes, plain pink, a red and white bandanna looking thing that was very Fourth of July, and a variety of other options I’ve since forgotten, even though it was yesterday, and I actually bought them. Thing was, there were so many choices, and I couldn’t figure out which varieties I liked best. And then I realized, THEY’RE TWO DOLLARS EACH. And like Scrooge McDuck diving into his pile of gold coins, I went hog wild and bought all the colors I liked. My ugly size 4 Hawaiian print shirt was a pricey four dollars, bringing my grand total to SIXTEEN DOLLARS.

I’d stopped by Walmart on my way to feed the horses. I was therefore dressed in ancient jeans, falling apart paddock boots, a dirty Smarty Jones ball cap and a purple t-shirt I got in 2003 for free at a bar. And yet, America, I was one of the most beautiful women in all of the Walmart. If we lost the magic of the Walmart, America, where could I go, wearing that outfit, and still feel beautiful? I’m waiting, America. That’s right, there is no other answer to that question. Walmart is the only place where that kind of magic happens.

And this is to say nothing of the additional feelings of well being I find at the Walmart. Never do I feel so cultured, civilized, and benevolent as I do while at the Walmart. After all, I have never called a child stupid and then spat on the floor in public. But there are people who have, and they’re at the Walmart.

So the ball’s in your court, America. You want to see the destruction of the Walmart. I want to feel thin, rich, and beautiful. You find me a one stop shop that can reliably produce such feelings of well being, and I’ll side with you. Until then, I am with the magic of the Walmart.

My niece, Courtney, on Robin Hood.

This last weekend was my niece Courtney’s 18th birthday, as well as her last event on the Irish Sporthorse gelding, Robin Hood. And so it was that I traveled north, to a state I’ve never been to, Virginia. Prior to setting off, I told my mom I was sure our hotel would be nice. She asked why I was so sure, and I said, “It’s in Virginia.” And verily has it been so in my imagination, that Virginia was a land of beauty, wealth and resources. I wasn’t wrong. As far as I could tell, Virginia was prettier, nicer, and altogether more perfect than the Carolinas. That said, I’ve always believed that imperfections are where one finds the most compelling sorts of beauty. This is why I love South Carolina. (How about that complisult, South Carolina? South Carolina does not deign to reply.)

Upon arrival at the Virginia Horse Park, we found my niece at the Bent Tree barn. A lot of showgrounds have chintzy, impermanent stabling. Because we were in Virginia, the barn was gorgeous, bright and airy, with its own indoor schooling ring (!!!).

Now, my sister Becky had told me that Hillary Irwin and her mother Carrie Cotter Irwin would be there. To refresh y’all’s memory – Carrie’s parents own my beloved Toby’s Corner, the chestnut piece of awesome that won the Wood Memorial, vanquishing Uncle Mo. Hillary Irwin is a top eventer who owned the original Toby, a pony who had the corner stall. Becky said she’d introduce me to Carrie, and I was all twitterpated. For me, meeting the Cotters is akin to, say, meeting Rihanna, or Kristen Stewart, or Fill-in-the-blank-celebrity-of-your-choice.

So imagine my surprise when upon meeting Carrie I discovered she was sitting with her father, Mr. Julian Cotter, owner and breeder of Toby’s Corner. Did I have a complete and total fan girl freak out? Yes, yes I did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I believe there might have been some ranting. “I was never afraid of Uncle Mo!” There was some gushing. “You’ve bred TWO Wood Memorial winners!” There was probably some blathering. Luckily, I don’t remember the details of that.

Best of all, Mr. Cotter was even cooler than I expected him to be. He was very classy, and didn’t say anything untoward, but he definitely had some great lines, too. For example: “At the Wood Memorial, they’d declared it Uncle Mo Day. When we walked in, they tried to give us an Uncle Mo bracelet. We politely declined.”

He also proudly declared, “When I looked at Toby’s Corner, I said, ‘This is going to be the one.’” At which point his daughter said, “You’ve been saying that for forty years.” Mr. Cotter replied, “And I’ve been right twice!”

As you all can imagine, I was in horse girl nerd heaven.

The classy speed, Shackleford. Look how happy Jesus Castanon is.

Mr. Cotter also said he’s been traveling to Saratoga religiously for years. Now that Toby’s on the mend, and according to trainer Graham Motion, pointed toward the Travers Stakes, one can only imagine how much a Travers win would mean to the Cotter family. If Toby were to win the Travers, you can rest assured I’d once again scare my cats with my over-the-top celebration.

On a somewhat related note – my mom and I have been attending horse events for years. We are small, small fry in the big world of equestrian sport, and we’re pretty used to being treated like the very, very small fry that we are. (One notable exception – Bobby Costello. He’s always nice. And funny.) In any case, on the second day of the show, my mom and I found ourselves sitting at a picnic bench, waiting for results. (We would eventually find out that Courtney finished 7th out of a big and competitive field.) As we sat there, sipping our coffee, a nice looking horse and rider came our way, obviously exiting a cross country go. “Good morning!” said the rider. My mom and I looked at each other, wondering if we were the ones being addressed. And then I realized it was Hillary Irwin. “Hello!” we called back. After she passed by, my mom said, “Holy cats. A friendly top class rider? Who’da thunk it?” Soon enough, Hillary passed us again, headed back to cross country, now on a grey. “Good luck!” I said, and she said, “Thanks!”

Now, this probably seems like a paltry small deal, and maybe it is. But both my mom and I found it a remarkable one. Perhaps a sad reflection on a lot of top riders, but it’s also just the truth. And it’s one more reason why I’d be so thrilled with any future success Toby’s Corner might have – his people are good people, and that’s all too rare in this day and age.

****

I do think Animal Kingdom would relish the added ground. If he’d had a few more yards in the Preakness he would have overtaken Shackleford and won. I hope they send him, but I can see where Graham Motion might want to save him for the second half of the season.

For myself, with no Triple Crown on the line, my focus shifts to the year end Eclipse Awards. Who’ll win top 3 year old colt? Toby’s still in it, and my money’s with him, wherever he goes.

Today, I tried to purchase champagne for a friend. Unfortunately, he lives in a state you can’t ship alcohol to. Thinking myself clever, I did a google search and called up a wine shop close to his home. Let’s listen in and see how this conversation went. 

ME: Hello, I was wondering if I could buy something for a friend. I’m out of state.

WINESELLER: Of course, that would be no problem.

ME: Great! I made a bet on a bottle of champagne and lost.

WINESELLER: Very good. (droll laughter)

ME: And you can take care of the delivery?

WINESELLER: I will take the bottle myself, personally, today.

ME: Wow! Really? That’s fantastic. So, the bet we made was on a bottle of Moet & Chandon White Star, I guess they’re calling it Imperial these days. Do you have that in stock?

awkward pause

WINESELLER: No.

ME: Do you have any other varieties of Moet?

WINSELLER: No, we do not carry any varities of poo.

awkward pause. (perhaps he didn’t specifically use the word “poo.”)

WINESELLER: We do not carry mass produced poo. We only carry boutique, handcrafted champagne and wine. No poo.

awkward pause, while I wonder if I should inquire further.

WINESELLER: I would be happy to recommend an establishment with champagne you can afford. (And yes, he specifically used those exact words.)

ME: Ummm….okay?

WINESELLER: Please call Soandso Liquor store. They’re close by and can help you with the sort of poo you’re looking for.

ME: Ummmm….thank you?

WINESELER: Happy to be of help! And I hope you’re able to get the poo delivered to your friend.

ME: Me, too.

*****

Poo.

Okay, so, I have some questions. Where the hell did I call? The private purveyors of champagne to the royal family of Monaco? I called this place because they popped up on top of my google search. There was nothing in the little blurb that said, “Do not call unless you have an American Express Black card.” But I have little doubt that the man was right – I am sure there is nothing in that store I could afford.

And like, am I crazy, or isn’t Moet a perfectly respectable bottle of champagne? I mean, it’s fifty bucks. Isn’t fifty bucks decent? I mean, it’s not like I was asking for Andre or something. I did not ask for Barefoot Bubbly.  I did not ask for for Yellow Tail Sparkling Wine. Not that there’s anything wrong with cheap champagne, either. (Although asking a wineseller to arrange delivery of such would be a bit gauche.)

I don’t know. I just found the thing so baffling. And he was so eager to be helpful, while simultaneously letting me know exactly where I stood on the socio-economic ladder. Maybe he’s hoping one day I’ll be able to climb up a few rungs.

In any case, I did call Soandso Liquor Store, and they were great. Totally reminded me of Old Town Spirits here in Pendleton. They even gift wrapped it at no extra charge. So, all’s well that ends well, I guess.