There’s this guy. And, you know, I’m trying really hard this time to not write him off immediately. It is so very easy to rule someone out very quickly, even if he thinks you are the best thing since spice racks. This guy in particular is reasonably enlightened, reasonably smart, reasonably many things, but he also lays claim to these things but still calls the waiter a “fucking idiot” in all seriousness when all the waiter is is busy. And I can’t imagine that a comment like that shouldn’t rule a person out. Also, newsflash, folks, I really am more than big tits and a big smile. I mean, as it stands right now, I’m substantially more than that just in body, but my days of being cavalier are long gone and I want someone who thinks I’m hot AND a good writer, or whatever.

I think I know what I want, but then I am presented with exactly what I thought I wanted, and it’s just not it. I think I really need to get it through my thick skull that I don’t actually know what I want (beyond a non-smoking non-Republican). In fact, those are going to be my only two indicators for this next period of time. I think I want someone older, and instead I find someone totally set in his ways. I think I want someone fun and I get someone who lacks depth. I think I want someone in the arts and I get someone who is a narcissistic flake. So, I officially clear my mind, and seek whatever it is that is out there seeking me. We’ll find each other eventually, or we won’t.

As an aside, I saw a Motown cover band tonight called Pride and Joy, and they were really good, you know, if you like Motown, but the one thing I did appreciate is the universality of the song “Shout” from the movie Animal House. I am willing to be that fully half of that audience has never seen Animal House, but somehow it is hard-wired in our DNA to throw our hands up at the appropriate times in that song. We, as a species, cannot help ourselves. I like that.

I do not like that it is well over 100 degrees here in the land of wine. It’s 10:20 at night, and the thermometer in my house, that only goes up to 90, is laying wilted on its side, way past that particular heat mark. Needless to say, Fezzik is not pleased. A few years ago when we were in New York, my dear roommate Hayley went and bought blocks of ice and laid both Fezzik and the late Zooey across the top of them, because they couldn’t stop panting. When I got home tonight, lacking a block of ice, I briefly considered sticking Fez in the fridge for a minute or two.

And that’s the news from Napa Valley.

In the life times of my cat Fezzik, it only gets more expensive and more exhausting as I have to, every day, give him subcu fluids, talk him into eating, and then clean up his barf. But he still is reasonably entertaining, so I think I’ll keep doing it for a while.

When it came time to take a dear friend to a “paint-your-own-pottery” shop, I decided that the only thing I could truly use was another bowl to house the food that will, eventually, just end up on my carpet anyway, but why not at least begin auspiciously. So I chose to paint a wee kitty bowl.

Now, this is a picture of Fezzik with a toy that his Aunt Anastasia sent him.

You might notice that his left ear looks a little funny. So funny, in fact, that when people meet him, they instantly say, “What happened to him?” to which I defensively reply “NOTHING”. (What really happened is he got a hemotoma that had to be drained, which then filled again, and had to be drained, and the ear was never the same.) But Aunt Anastasia started referring to little Fez as “One Ear”, and it stuck. Now we all call him “One Ear”. And I thought, to celebrate his uniqueness rather than shame him for his deformity, I’d honor him- and his ear- on the food bowl.

I think it’s a pretty good likeness.

Is there a polite way to tell my new neighbor’s son, who doesn’t live here but is here miraculously every time I’m outside reading a book or watering my plants and he drools his forking cigarette smoke all over me, that not only is he playing his music too loud, but that it *sucks*?

I live in a treehouse now. Out of every window, all I see are fluttering leaves, branches, sky, and last night, a great blue heron made quite a racket when he crash-landed on a too-small branch.

But that is not what this blog is about. This blog is about my new cowboy boots.

When I was thirteen years old, and my family was shattering, some of us- I can’t remember everyone who was there- had Christmas at my brother Kent’s house in Iowa City, Iowa. I remember that my nephew Sean Patrick had just been born. He was still a baby, a tiny infant, and my sis-in-law Melissa quietly led me into his room and we peered into his crib. He was laying half on his side, half on his stomach. “I think that was his favorite position in the womb,” she whispered. He was the sweetest, softest little child.

I, however, was neither sweet, nor soft. I was already a bit of a mess, having suffered through the awakening that all was not remotely right with my family. It was a really hard time- puberty had come a’calling about a year earlier, and I was already dreaming of liberation, of having some control over my own life. I was vaguely furious with just about everything and everyone. But Christmas morning came and with it, a small envelope from my brother Steve and his girlfriend Holly. Inside was a gift certificate for lessons at the riding stable that was just across from our condo in Basking Ridge, New Jersey. Along with it was a note saying they would also get me riding boots.

It was, and is, one of the most thoughtful gifts I’ve ever received. You know how something like 98% of girls love horses, and about 97% of them grow out of it? Not me. All through my childhood I’d collected those Breyer horses… you know, like the
quarter horses…

and the Apaloosas (I was particularly fond of this foal)

and of course the mighty Clydesdales.

When I was very young, I’d put one of these horses (by the end, I must have had 20 or 25 of them) in the middle of my bedroom and then I’d turn my back and pray and pray and pray that he would turn into a real horse, so we could run away.

I never fell out of love with horses, and the fact that my brother and his girlfriend wanted to unite me with the real deal was extremely meaningful to me. The sucky part of the story is that we got home, and everything fell apart even more, and I just couldn’t be bothered to take the lessons, and I never pursued buying the boots. They would have been English boots, and I wanted to ride Western, and I think that may have been one of the ways I rationalized giving up the dream. But more than that, I was consumed with finding acceptance at my new school, obsessed with worming my way into a group of friends that actually already quite liked me, and some of them might still be friends today if I hadn’t gone overboard. It seems as though every free minute of that particuar year was spent worrying about whether or not I was still “in” with them. Clearly, things like “going to school” or “doing homework” were NOT priorities. What was a priority was finding a group of people who loved me, who thought I was great and cool, and who would stick around.

Fast forward twenty years. A couple of weeks ago I walked into a shop called “Western Wear” or something like that. There were blankets and saddles and reins and spurs and easily a hundred different kinds of those Breyer horses. I tried on several pairs of boots, helped by a sweet young lady who, when she smelled the poverty on me, offered to give me 15% off a particularly beautiful pair. I slipped them on, pulled my jeans over the tops, walked around for a bit, and handed over my credit card. And a week later, I went to a dear friend’s house to climb on the back of a beautiful bay for a ride through the vineyards.

I don’t know how often I’ll get to ride, but if it’s once a month, I’ll be delighted. And someday, someday, dammit, I will have my own horse. And a husband and two little ones. And when I’m done writing for the day, I’ll walk down to the barn and throw the saddle over the back of my gorgeous palomino, hoist myself up, and do my riding for the day. And I’ll still be wearing these boots.