all that's changed

In case you don't follow the sport of kings - Barbaro, the horse who won the KY Derby, broke his leg in 3 places in the Preakness. He's had surgery and is so far okay. But that's it for showtime.

I love horses, but I don't think I'll own one for quite awhile. It's too much of a commitment. I'm leasing Bear now, but people at my barn are always telling me about horses for sale, even free horses. There are plenty of those around, precisely because people can't afford to take care of them as they'd like.

And because there are so many sound yet cheap/free horses, some owners have a pretty low budget for vet bills. Horses are prone to foot problems, and some owners will put a horse down if a simple antibiotic doesn't knock an infection out. It's expensive to treat horses, plus a foot problem could ruin a whole summer's riding, so I can't say I blame them. But I couldn't do it.

Horses are kinda mysterious, full of contradictions, and we girls have a unique connection with them. They're big but super-sensitive. They're sweet and playful, but they have this innate sense of how to take care of riders, too. Because they're so sensitive, they don't trust as easily as, say, dogs - but once you've won their trust, you're in. It's such great feeling walking out to the barn, whistling for your horse, and seeing them run, whinny, and toss their head. See Robert Vavra's All Those Girls in Love With Horses if you want to get into the history of it.

I like this bit from today's NY Times about Barbaro:

"In victory and defeat, and every day in between, horses remain wordless creatures. To those in the sport who spend their days caring for them, these thousand-pound thoroughbreds are like children — not in any sentimental sense, but in the sense that they cannot take care of themselves. They need people to provide them with water, food, shelter, exercise. The good ones are treated the way every child should be treated — with the mixture of care and discipline best suited for that particular individual."

There are also plenty of horse owners who never ride. They just feed, groom, and hang out with their horses. My favorite owner at my barn is one of these - her stalls are spick-and-span, her horse looks perpetually ready for a show, and she never rides. But she's out there with him more than any other owner there, usually grooming him, or just sitting there on a lawn chair next to his stall.

Posted by em at 9:46 AM | Permalink | Comments

1. I got the testis wrong on my anatomy fetal practical. They look all weird when they're undescended - thought it was the willie!

2. While at the vet, the doctor pulled a tick out of *my* hair.

Posted by em at 3:01 PM | Permalink | Comments

I decide to take a study break, and run Maisie out for a gambol at Alston Park, it's her favorite. Check out the photos - easy to see why - puppy wonderland!

After chasing her ball into some weeds, she starts sneezing like crazy. I check her out, don't see anything. Happens again a few minutes later. We stop at the water spigot so I can really check her out and she's winking at me. I roll back her eyelid and pluck out a 2 inch long foxtail.

Those fucking things! Ivan used to get them buried in his fur, usually on his belly. After 2 exploratory surgeries to get them out, I swore never to have a double-coated dog again. Apparently, that doesn't help.

Anyway, I can see Maisie's cornea is scratched so off to the vet. I guess she wanted to make sure I'd read my exam flashcard on Erythromycin, because that's what we got, after the vet dyed her eye and checked it under black light. (He also gave me mad props for pulling the foxtail out myself - apparently people are usually too squeamish. How could you not?)

I figure what the hell, while I'm here, I'll get heartworm and flea stuff for both dogs. Buy a year's supply, they tell me, it's 10% cheaper. I left there with a grand total of $796.54.

Re. foxtails - the only thing to do is avoiding walking your dog where they grow. In California, that's basically everywhere, but if you can stick to "lawn grass" type parks and avoid scrubland, you're better off. Poor Maisie - she'll really miss Alston.

Posted by em at 2:37 PM | Permalink | Comments

I'm in the weeds, people - it's all bugs & drugs from here til Monday morning. I did my lab practicals already and those went fine. The anatomy one involved identifying the organ/gland, systems and functions of the little flags posted in cadavers. And then I went out to dinner!

To cheer myself up I'm wearing Gucci Rush - it's gardenia & freesia (two of my top 3 favorite floral scents) with the twist of a coriander note. Oh yeah. That's right. Just when you thought it was nothing but floral, here comes the greeny spice to keep you guessing. It's straightup provacative. Luca Turin describes it thusly: it's) strong, loud, irresistible, a sultry wind fit to keep everyone stark awake and plotting indiscretions.... "

Posted by em at 11:24 AM | Permalink | Comments

From http://youcantmakeitup.blogspot.com/

Posted by em at 12:39 PM | Permalink | Comments

I'm secretly addicted to perfume. I have loads of it - so much that I've limited myself to 5 at a time. I'm usually about 5 over. Here are the big ones I've worn over the years:

Halston - I started here, at about 13 I think, stealing off mom's dressing table, immediately jumping into my love affair with chypre (that's mossy, woody scents.) I could never stand baby powder or (ugh) Love's Baby Soft. Next came:

Lauren - it's a floral, but has some chypre notes that always come up beautifully on me. Early highschool, I wore this.

Chanel #19 - it's fresh and green but sophisticated, and I wore it when I was 17, knowing I couldn't hope to pull off #5 yet. (I don't think Coco Mademoiselle existed at the time, or if it did, I didn't know about it.) My dad once brought me back a ridiculously huge bottle of it from duty-free, I think a liter's worth, and I used every drop. I should try this one again; it's been awhile.

Poison - this was the bad-girl 80's supermodel of perfumes - big big big. (Giorgio would be the good-girl 80's supermodel. I never wore it.) Dark and moody, with overripe fruit and deep wood notes that hang the fuck on. You love it or hate it. I loved it. Most males did too. I wore it all through college, past its "it girl" heyday status, but it always worked for me. And what do you know - it's in reissue now.

Todd Oldham - This scent will always evoke a great outfit worn on a steamy hot dancefloor with the distinct possibility of an upcoming sexual encounter in the bathroom for me. (If that sounds I'm calling up a specific memory, then you should have come out with me more in the 90s.) Oldham was peach with lots of amber and really hangs on. It's heavy and sexy and in your face and boy oh boy did it get me some action if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Tommy Girl - currently being praised as one of the greatest American scents of all time. It was mass marketed, but I was the only one I knew wearing it (although roommates would frequently borrow it). Camellia, apple, tangerine. One of the few great 90's scents that didn't feature vanilla (which I cannot stand as a top note.) I get comments from men and women alike when I wear Tommy Girl, which I still do.

Grain de Folie - I rounded out the last decade with this lovely pink & gold creation. It's lime, grapefruit, and mandarin that slips into pikaki. It has a prettiness and elegance but still retains that tropical passionate note. I'm still buying and wearing it.

I'll confess to the rest of what's on my dresser some other time. It gets funkier.

Posted by em at 12:08 PM | Permalink | Comments

Lula decides at the break of dawn that she needs to go out, urgently. Naturally, Maisie is up and around too at Lula's disturbance. I stumble to the front door with them, because if I let them out in back, they'll inevitably chase the squirrels away from the bird feeder and make a big ruckus. Out front they just run out, do their bidness, and come back in. I open the front door, and a second too late (I hadn't bothered to put on my glasses) I realize there's a small fuzzy form in the middle of the street. A cat. Both dogs take off at full speed and are gone, completely out of my sight, within about 3 seconds. I'm standing there in my underwear. I run back in, struggle into jeans, t-shirt, glasses, and flops, and take off down the street after them. By this time, Lula has wandered back and is blithely sniffing the grass for a place to pee. I go off after Maisie who's nowhere in sight. I find her 4 houses down under a window of a neighbor, growling at the cat, clinging to the side of the house. I can only hope it wasn't somebody's bedroom. I nab her and run back for the house before anybody can bust us.

Posted by em at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments

I'm going through the typical PMS/pre-finals insomnia. Goddamn, it's a bitch. I'm denied the one thing I relish the most in life - a good long lie-in. I got up and made focaccia on Sunday night for the love of Pete. Which takes 2 punchdowns and 3 hours to rise. Monday I knitted, Tuesday I writted, last night I fretted. Tonight's formula is semi-boring book about Catherine of Aragon+earplugs+bourbon. Maybe I'll pick up some melatonin, too.

Please to be firing off your suggested prescriptions.

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Posted by em at 11:31 PM | Permalink | Comments

I'm paraphrasing, I'm sure: Love is giving something you don't have to someone who doesn't exist.

Posted by em at 11:28 PM | Permalink | Comments

Midwest food I miss

Matt's Cookies

Canfield’s 50/50 Soda. Half grapefruit, half lime. Samurai Mike Singletary (Bears #50) used to do the ads.

Garrett Cashew Caramel Popcorn. I'm jumping the reservation by not pimping the Cheese Corn, which *everyone* loves, including me, but this stuff...omg.

Edwardo’s spinach deep dish. Why, oh why can’t they make pizza like this outside of the Midwest? Pizzeria Uno is a very pale substitute.

Swedish pancakes at the Stockholm Inn. Best quote off the website: “and of course; one of our investors, Rick Nielsen of Cheap Trick fame, is often seen here.”

Posted by em at 11:47 AM | Permalink | Comments

I've been playing with this facial recognition software. You upload a photo - front-facing, closeup head shots are best - and it runs it through their celebrity database. The results:

me first: i ran several photos through - the grumpy makeupless one above worked the best. My top results were Selma Blair (82%!), Cate Blanchett, and Juliette Binoche. Cate came up w/ 2 photos, Ashton Kucher came up in 3 - and both of them came up in my mom's, so I guess they're the closest. I can see Cate - the small eyes & face shape, anyway - but Ashton? Mom's not talking.

Anne B: you're still skewing young, dear... Alyson Hanigan, Anne Hathaway & Jamie Lynn Spears. I know you love that last one.

Matt M: Jerry Seinfeld, Rosanna Arquette, and, take comfort, Enrique Iglesias. In that order.

KC: Lech Walesa, John Cleese, and Juliette Lewis. Let's see - power to the people + absurd humor + crazy-ass Scientologist. Mhm.

Rorick: the completely unsurprising hat trick of Hugh Jackman, Hayden Christensen, and Owen Wilson.

dad: L. Ron Hubbard (omg), Robert Altman, and Julio Iglesias.

Kat: Candice Bergen, Holly Hunger and Tara Reid.

ms. Downhill All the Way: George Cloooney, Catherine Deneuve, and Sean Lennon. Glasses confuse the software, but that's a damn fine roundup.

Mauritius: Guess what? I have no head-on shots of you. You do love the Melrose Place angles. I finally came up with Ewan McGregor and Rachel Hunter, you sexy thing you.

I tried virtually every photo I have that I thought would work (including the dogs, which sadly had no hits), so if you're not on here, know I tried, and consider yourself an original.

Posted by em at 11:17 AM | Permalink | Comments

I always forget what my moon and rising signs are, so I looked 'em back up today. Check yours out too, at www.astro.com. It's fun! Quick review:

Sun sign - the face you show to the world, equivalent to your ego.

Moon sign - your inner self, the way you feel inside (replete with insecurities and dreams you don't admit to)

Rising/Ascendant sign - the true self. traits usually only seen by those who know us really well.

Facts I gathered about my star chart:

1. My rising sign is totally fucking me over.

When Pisces rises the person concerned can be in real danger of losing their identity, especially if in a relationship with someone with much stronger personality traits. The Pisces rising person is in many ways a mirror, reflecting back at others precisely what they want to see, yet the true person remains hidden, vulnerable and more than a little frightened. With enormous imaginative and creative talents, the person with Pisces Ascendant is probably one of the true artists of the zodiac, in whatever form they may choose to use their skills. Sensitive and more than a little gullible they need to take care that they are not taken advantage of. Shyness and a lack of confidence are common, as are psychic and healing abilities and a great deal of spiritual wisdom.

2. My moon sign isn't helping either.

Moon in Virgo: Talkative, expressive, literary/critical ability, overly self-critical, lack of confidence, shyness, diffidence and deference, emotional need to be of service.

Related: every psychic I've ever seen tells me I'm psychic and/or I have a healing touch. Tell me your sign and let me hug it out with you, people. I can help.

Posted by em at 3:06 PM | Permalink | Comments

Every now & then, I buy a non-fashion "women's magazine" to see what's up in the world of middle America. It's always frightening.

In this month's Family Circle, there's an article on how to deal with your husband's bad habits: not taking care of his health, too much TV, not helping with the housework, and my favorite - how to make him more of a "go-getter" so he'll earn a higher salary. Apparently the best thing to do is infantilize him -- "nudge, don't nag." If that doesn't work, the author, a Ph.D in who knows what, basically advises you to transform yourself into a passive-aggressive scion of feigned understanding.

Re. the salary problem, the advice is... don't ask about work. (!) "Instead, get him to talk about his dreams and ways ways he might pursue them." How does talking your husband, say a middle manager at a pharmaceutical company, into ditching his salaried gig to become a karate teacher get you and the kids that holiday in the Caymans, I ask you? The advice is rounded out thusly - "Consider that he may actually be content with his job. If you're the ambitious one, maybe it's time to focus on achieving your own goals." Take THAT, you bloodsucking cow.

(A worse habit in my book would be a workaholic - a lazy husband has time to hang out.)

But what if your husband actually *is* a lazy fuck - and you hate it? (And come on. We know he is, and we know you do.) The time-tested techniques of spousal "encouragement" employed by virtually everyone I know aren't listed at all - not even in the "are you being overbearing?" sidebar. Here's what I say: want to eliminate a bad habit in your mate? Proceed in this order: withhold sex, throw a fit, blackmail, and publicly shame. I can smell the coconut oil already.

Posted by em at 10:46 AM | Permalink | Comments