I wrote this up in a flurry to enter in a contest to win an expenses paid trip to the World Equestrian Games next year. I'm going no matter what (I already have my tickets for the Freestyle Dressage and Three Day Eventing, yay!)  but if someone else was going to pay for my hotel and flight, well gee willikers!

They asked for a 150 word or less essay on your relationship with your horse, and I went back and forth first of all on who to write on.  Ralphy and I have the most illustrious career, having competed at Nationals Together, and Jurnisa was positively heroic when she stepped in last minute as an older mare to be my State Championships horse when Starr was injured.  Any of the mustangs or burros seemed like a great idea just because of how desperate I am to promote what wonderful animals they are. 

But in the end, I couldn't help but go back to the horse who genuinely made me the person I am today.  She was the one I rode every day, or would just go sleep on bareback in the sunshine.  She's the one who gave me my "sea legs"  and unshakable confidence in the saddle. She's the one who dumped me when we tried to carry an American flag, walked backwards in fear for the first two blocks of the Fountain Green Lamb Days Parade, and sat her chubby black ass on the ground when my younger cousin rode her, refusing to pony a novice even one more step.  She's the one who used to dunk her head in the trough up to her ears, and chase my mom around the fairgrounds for Paydays, much to the amusement of all my horse friends. She's the one who HATED having her ears touched, loved having her tummy itched, and " made a man" out of more of our geldings than any of us care to remember. She's the one I have in the back of my head when I imagine going to Heaven- the very first thing I would want to see.  

And, as I mention in the essay but don't have the chance to elaborate on, this silent animal who mostly slept and ate and obeyed,  is my conscience.  She is quiet soul who I go back to, that reminds me of me on the inside, and makes decisions in silence.  It wasn't that her soul was entirely clean-in fact she had a lovely streak of wicked- but that her character was so enthralling, her expressions so earnest, and antics so hilarious, you just got sucked into the unconditional love-game, and after that there was nothing I wuoldn't do for the sake of a horse. 

holy cow, I've already written a novel on my childhood horse, and haven't even pasted in the essay yet. If you're still reading, here it is:

"I often say of my childhood, “I had more chores than friends, but I was happy.”  Growing up on a working horse ranch in rural Utah, The only friend I needed was Poco’s Brass.  A swarthy bay mare, Poco’s companionship was my constant motivation to be a better horsewoman.

Every horse lover has that “first horse” story, but she was more than the first. She was my friend, my teacher, and remains my conscience. I have a few memories of winning ribbons and trophies with her at the local 4H meets, but none of them captures her in my mind like the memory of her falling asleep with her heavy black head in my arms late one night after a long horse show. It was a moment of perfected companionship, ritual, and trust. 

I enjoyed every ride with Poco, but I enjoyed the friendship so much more."

1. Today, even though I hate my job, I am leaving my job, I don't give a damn about my job- I did my job incredibly well.  I gave the Lorraine the registrar, Lorraine the editor in chief, Lorraine the Foreign Affairs Intern, Lorraine the aspiring equestrian effort that I give to things I care about.  I worked HARD, and I mean, skipped lunch, sweat into my work kind of hard. I was given an absolutely ridiculous task at 11:30 today, and I finished it at 10pm tonight.  I stayed until it was done, because that was how my Dad taught me to work. I remember us driving up the road to the ranch on the weekends and Dad would drive past a tractor stopped in the middle of the field in mid-plow and he would say "why would you ever stop in the middle of a field? Why wouldn't you finish the row? Why wouldn't you finish the field? These guys look their watch and say 'ayep, it's 5 o'clock, gotta gets me up to Birch Creek Bar.' That's why these guys are never going to do any better than break even." 

Now I wouldn't dare say that I have always followed this council, because I'm not sure anyone is as good at finishing what they start as my Dad is.  But today, I did what I was asked to, and did it at my best performance level I could offer.

2. Last weekend, I finally was able to replace the ring that my sister Aimee gave me for my 18th birthday. It was my favorite ring that could not be compared to in any form, until one day in my Senior year of college, I took it off for Ceramics, and that was the last time I ever saw it.  I have literally been sick to my stomach about it for years, because the ring represents a certain bond Aimee and I have, and also a shared sense of independence and well being.  So ever since that day, I have been looking for the ring that would replace it.  (Aimee says its ok to replace things and think of them as the first thing, so I hope this counts, too.)  I ended up finding it at the Tibetan Shop in Adams Morgan, easily my most favorite place to shop in Washington. The owners are people I consider friends, who know me and what things I like.  The husband's photography hangs above my bed, and the wife's jewelry around my neck.  So this weekend, there appeared the perfect shiny silver ring with a bright red stone.  It's a near perfect match to the lost friend, but with a little foreign life all its own, as if it were the old ring, but like me, a little smarter, a little more weathered.  Moreover, it gave me the chance to say goodbye to friends, whose lives have permanently intertwined with mine.

3. On the way home from my atrocious day, I was faced with either waiting 17 minutes for my usual train, or risking trying to hop connecting trains through the city.  I took the risk. I had to run, I had to dart between people, I had to accept the risk that it would actually take me LONGER to get home, but not only did it pay off, I liked myself more at the end of it.  It reminded me of me.

4. And finally tonight, on my way home, I looked up and saw a single beaming star in the sky. The city and monument lights of Washington drown out almost all the stars, but this guy was beaming, not twinkling, which actually meant that it was Jupiter.  I knew it immediately, from years of ranch sky lessons- bundling up in the frigid air of desert nights in Utah, 8,000 feet above the ocean, and looking at the brilliance of the night sky uninterrupted by the electric distractions of men.  My whole family would take these nylon blue cots out and lie on our backs with indian blankets and slippers and mom would help us pick out constellations and tell us their stories while dad would find planets in his telescope for us to look. I loved seeing the planets in that little lense, but nothing enraptured me like the scale and scope of the thick strip of the wings of the Milky Way. I couldn't believe you could really SEE it, like a wool cinch on a black pony, it was in my mind a glue that held the universe together.  It was my own mythology. 

And now, even while I can only see that single glutonous planet, even as the Glamours of Washington drown out the brilliance of everything above and beyond it, I am completely confident that what I can't see is still there, assured in what it means to me, and faithful that I will see it again in all its splendor, soon. 

Piece by piece, I am getting myself back, and better than before. 

There weren't any wild horses on the beach on Sunday when I went to Chincoteague, but they left me a little raincheck.   

I couldn't decide when I got up this morning if I should dress up to quit.  Do you dress to impress when you're walking away?  does it matter?  As the Mapmaker put it, "maybe it's like dressing up when you're breaking up with someone.  Like a parting shot so they always know what they're missing."  So I dressed up. Just a little.

I hashed out multiple scenarios of how I would do it.  When you have bad days, it's something we all fantasize about, how you would walk out, how you would have the upper hand, how you would feel making a demand for your freedom from the man!  It's so totally not like that at all.

Mr. Cogsworth took it well.  Much better than I thought he would.  But then I also went very out of my way to not try and cause a rift with the man who might eventually be supplying information to future employers.  All the fantasies we all have of explaining how horrible it was the day you found out you weren't getting a raise, weren't getting flex time, were losing insurance benefits, that you were hired over two other people more qualified because you were a) white and b) female.  The first time Treelighter complimented my "hot bod" to sweeten me up as he handed me a ten dollar bill and asked for "the usual" at Subway.  You can see the fantasy I build up of calling up the swirling spiritual waters of Joan of Arc, my labor union founding Uncle Len, Elizabeth Cady Stanton and demanding that it was an outrage that humans be treated this way, and I would no longer sink so low as to be apart of it. 

But, the first and greatest lesson I learned in 4 years of academia is that the key to success is adapt adapt adapt.  Know what the boss is looking for, and give it to them.  Somewhere back there I crossed the line of things I would take before I would put my foot down, in exchange for a quiet compliant experience at the Pivil Tar Weservation Crust.  The peace I make with myself on this issue is while I may not have strode through the gates of oppression, or taken my fists to the streets and demanded this mismanagement be brought to justice, I did at least finally, after years of wondering if I'd made the right choice, actually decide to make the right choice. 

Don't get me wrong.  In my actual speech, I said that I had had a truly wonderful experience at CWPT, and I was honored to have been selected fresh out of college for this opportunity.  I learned a lot about things I'd never known before and loved working with the people in this office.  but my family, and my heart, were calling me West.

  And while there is certainly discontent in my reasons for leaving as well, what I said was just as much the truth. I will try hard to remember the Pivil Tar as something that I 100% loved and 100% hated.  There are things I LOVE about the character I played here, and things I HATE about her.  Now I hope to get some distance and separate the good from the bad and move on. 

I should also mention, that not unlike what they say about people who commit/attempt suicide, the split second before they die/almost die, they have an insatiable urge to live.  If quitting your job is anything like suicide, then yeah, it's totally true.  Even though I knew I was doing the right thing,  I clearly scared the pants off like 35 Trillion molecules in my body, and in their teeny tiny microscopic voices, they all went "WWWWHHHAAAAA????!" 

And to those 35,000,000,000,000 molecules I say, shove it.  You're about to go road tripping and lay on the beach and hook up with melanin molecules to make us tan.  So shut your teeny tiny pie holes. 

Unless you're the fat molecules, and then you should be scared pantsless cause you are NOT going to last long in California. 

Ladies and Gentleman, let the November 2009 RoadTriptopia planning begin. 

When I was in high school, my friends coined a term they referred to as "Lorraine's Lobster Hands." It would come up when I was storytelling, impersonating, walking, eating....well, basically I always had lobster hands.  To my best understanding, this originated in my early post theatre years. In the early days I was allowed, nay, encouraged to making crazy gestures with my hands when I talk. It made me positively splendid to watch on stage. And I of course could say leagues more with my hands than my mouth, and you all know what a talker I am. 

However, when I actually did leave the theatre room in High School and dabble in mainstream society, I would get self conscious, and rather than gesture wildly like I wanted to, or not at all which I was incapable of, I ended up sort of gesturing just from the elbow down, with my arms locked to my sides. At the time is seemed like a restrained compromise. The effect was that I much resembled a fiery lobster fighting for her life as they shove her down into the steaming execution pot.

This gesture has more or less taken hold for life, sadly, and as you can imagine, has only been exacerbated by the fact that one of my hands is a giant white tube right now. Oh dear.  I even just realized that they've pinned my fingers down with rubberbands, like those poor grocery store lobsters. This is getting dark...

Anyway, as previously mentioned, the act of gesticulation cannot  be curbed in me.  I continue to try waving, pointing, counting, emoting, pontificating, and cab hailing with a broken hand.  What happens is either confusion to the person I'm gesturing to (is she just swinging her arm for exercise? does it mean something?) or extreme discomfort (can't she wave with her other hand? she just wants more sympathy) or my at my deepest paranoia, fear that by continuing to wield Madam Left like a mace in a knight tournement, people will start to think I've made the whole thing up.  To which I say, YOU WANNA SEE THE SCAR TISSUE??

The most recent incident of this nature was this morning.  As one of my coworkers got off the elevator, we locked eyes, but as they were on the other side of the glass doors still, I couldn't really say good morning.  So I went to wave.  In this case, I stick my club in the air and hold it there. In my head, the fingers are doing a cute charming little twinkle, but in reality they are quite stationery.  The moment is passing quickly, no time to switch arms, too late to take it back, do something do something!  So...I resist the bands in my index finger, and waggle.  One finger.  Here is this idiot with her club waggling an index finger at 8:36 on a wednesday morning.  No one's even had their coffee yet. 

Fate knew it would be cruel to take away typing, writing, signing, knitting, utensiling, and driving.  But did he really consider the ramifications of taking away my ability to dramatically gesture?  Take that, stupid idiot face fate. I'm going to continue waggling my one finger just to make a point.  A point, not pointing. that would still be impossible.   

I had absolutely the sweetest loveliest day in Baltimore this weekend. Aimee, Jared, the boys, Sylvie and I all went down to the waterfront of Baltimore and took on the heat and humidity of the post-hurricane eastern seaboard in perfect American style.  The boys played in the little ground fountains near the aquarium, enjoying every moment of freedom the rest of us are so rarely afforded to frolic through  water fully clothed. You do that as a grownup and you’re nuts. Which is why Zeke so wisely promised his mother that he would stay three forever. 

He later changed his mind, reneging on the solemn mother-son oath, because he wanted to grow up and make money.  “how do you plan to make money?”  “buying cars.”  “how do make money buying cars?”  The answer was rather incoherent, but it did include sound effects and imaginary cars zooming off my perfectly ramp shaped cast into air and crashing to their deaths.  Sounds like most MBA business plans I heard in college, actually.

I then had the glorious opportunity of trying Rita’s custard shack on the waterfront, which is a kind of sweet succulent ambrosia one should never miss when one is in a 10 mile radius of Baltimore.  We all got various flavors of a thing called they call gelati, which is a tangy sweet flavored slushee on the bottom and then a rich wonderful vanilla custard on top.  The custard is so ridiculously creamy that it actually doesn’t seem cold when you eat it, it just tastes velvety and smooth.  Over the top of the slushy, it’s all your favorite things about frozen treats that there ever were to have. 

We explored some of the outlying parts of the waterfront and discovered a beautiful antebellum lighthouse, and finally sat down to very affordable, fresh and delicious Asian restaurant overlooking the water.

Throughout all of this, we just watched the boys exert insane amounts of energy, had very pleasant talks, and googooed over the most perfectly behaved sparkly-eyed baby you’ve ever seen.  Sylvie is so sickeningly smiley and pleasant, and her perfectly bald head so flawless and delicious.  It’s still a bit of a daze to finally have these precious little girl babes in the family to go nuts over!

It was exactly the day I needed, after a week of horrors at work, and already a week of job-related horrors ahead.  I need to know that I’m not completely alone on this massive strip of east-coast-o-centric land that separates the old world from the rest of America.  I need to know that when thousands of strangers that shuffle by me on the streets in their suits and narrowed ambitions, there are people out there with whom I figure in.  I feel so lucky to figure in with people like Aimee and Leo and Zeke.  I love you!

I'm sitting here watching Return of the Jedi on TV, the day after finishing Confederates in the Attic, and all these dork things start circling around my head. As  I'm watching, there's some tugging themes so reminiscent of the Civil War, and I'm sitting there on the couch as little cannons chase little millenium falcons around my noggin, and I can suddenly totally see why there is all this overlap in CW and Sci-Fi dorkdom. 

As Horwitz put it in his book, the Civil War is the first war we have tangible relatable images (photographs) of, and the last real War that hinged  on erratic and epic figures. As he says, "where a single individual really could affect the whole outcome of the war."  and-gahhhh I am actually feeling every ounce of coolness I worked so hard to collect in Junior High leaving my body-I get this real tangible sense of why these movies were so epic to us in the seventies, and have been ever since. With thousands of boys who died anonymously in Vietnam and World War Two, with the sexual revolution and all our roles feeling out of our hands- here was this movie that was futuristic and imaginative, but clearly a piece of the past. Where charismatic rebels took on the vast and impersonal villians of the galaxy. All the themes of good and evil (but that are not black and white), where bold people made decisions for whole galaxies and refused to settle for oppression and evil.  Unexpected, unsung, fallen and finally redeemed heroes. It's all at the heart of our dorkiness.

That's why reenactors and sci fi conventioners are all that same sort of person. Yes they are weird. Yes they may take it too far. Yes, they might even suffer from major issues in terms of distance from reality and responsibility. 

But you have to admit, these boys got soul.   

I can take the pain.

I can  take the nausea.

I can take the immobility.

I can take the funny looks.

But I am having a deep internal struggle with the fact that, despite every scrubbing, cleaning and drying exercise in futility, my hand is starting to smell like a foot.