Last Friday, the local farmer's market opened for the year. Last Saturday, I went for the first time this season. I had grand plans of picture taking, bouquet buying, sour cherry strudel eating...*dreamy sigh*
Alas, I left my camera behind, arrived far too late to buy the Hungarian lady's strudel (it goes quite swiftly), and the only bouquets left were of dainty daffodils I didn't want to pay for. So I contented myself instead with a delicious half loaf of French bread with yummy garlic spread, four pots of flowers, and a planter pre-massed with flowers. Not terribly difficult to be content with that lot, I must say.
All but the garlic bread now make their home on my balcony, the first stage in my annual "garden." Which would be nothing but enjoyable if not for the also annual innundation of yellow jackets. I've asked the apartment complex in the past to please take care of the wasp problem. "Oh, yes, they are all over, aren't they?" the staff replies. "Have you tried going out early in the morning or after the sun sets and knocking down the nests?" Well, no. I can't reach the nests. I might try them again this year, but I may have to resort to other methods. If you have any wasp-eradicating suggestions, I'd love to hear them.
Otherwise, it's lovely to have a proper spring again. The last few years seemed to jump directly from winter into summer, from 30s to 80s with perhaps only a week in between. This year is far more moderate, which gives me hope for autumn as well. I live in Michigan because I LIKE having all four seasons. I resent the loss of my two favorites. (Leaving aside any philosophical argument about how part of why they're my favorites is precisely their fleeting nature).
And speaking of flowers and spring and all that, if you weren't already aware of it, I've begun a photo blog. The explanation can be found in the original post on the page, but suffice to say that I'm posting a picture (at least--often more) every day for the next year. Suggestions for shots are always welcome. Right now, you'll probably notice I have several shots of flowers, but there are plenty of pictures of other things as well. Do go take a look!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Random words
Mellifluous
Pronunciation:\me-ˈli-flə-wəs, mə-\
Function:adjective
Etymology:Middle English mellyfluous, from Late Latin mellifluus, from Latin mell-, mel honey + fluere to flow; akin to Gothic milith honey, Greek melit-, meli
Date:15th century
1 : having a smooth rich flow [a mellifluous voice]
2 : filled with something (as honey) that sweetens
Susurrus
Pronunciation:\su̇-ˈsər-əs, -ˈsə-rəs\
Function:noun
Etymology:Latin, hum, whisper
Date:1826
: a whispering or rustling sound
Pronunciation:\me-ˈli-flə-wəs, mə-\
Function:adjective
Etymology:Middle English mellyfluous, from Late Latin mellifluus, from Latin mell-, mel honey + fluere to flow; akin to Gothic milith honey, Greek melit-, meli
Date:15th century
1 : having a smooth rich flow [a mellifluous voice]
2 : filled with something (as honey) that sweetens
Susurrus
Pronunciation:\su̇-ˈsər-əs, -ˈsə-rəs\
Function:noun
Etymology:Latin, hum, whisper
Date:1826
: a whispering or rustling sound
Thursday, April 16, 2009
*sigh* Cats.
On Monday night, Tabitha peed in the hallway. There is no litter box in the hallway; she chose to go there nonetheless.
The last time this happened, it heralded a urinary infection, crystalline and painful, though I didn’t figure this out until she’d done the same thing twice more in other places. “Oh,” I finally thought when the frustrated screaming had died down. “There must be something wrong with her.”
I would not be caught out again. I called the vet and made an appointment for the next day and in the meantime, she spent the night in the bathroom with one litter box, food, water, and a cozy kitty bed.
Tuesday evening I took her in, having been unable to procure the necessary urine sample. They poked and prodded her while she tried to bore her way through my abdomen to hide. Then they tried to get a sample…from what I understand this involves squeezing and manipulating and none of it sounds like a good time. Tabitha was more than a match for these efforts, though, and there was no joy. “We’ll have to keep her overnight,” they said, “and you can pick her up tomorrow after she leaves a sample.”
I took the cat carrier and trundled off to home, confident that this would be solved. It must be solved, you see, because I’m flying to Savannah for a week in a few days and poor catsitting Holly doesn’t want to clean up cat pee. Administering medicine is bad enough.
Hamlet and I spent a quiet evening, just the two of us. Occasionally he would look around for Tabitha, look somewhat confused, and then shrug his linebacker shoulders and come purring back to curl up at – or rather, on my feet.
Wednesday I called the vet at lunch to make sure I could pick Tabitha up. “No luck yet,” they informed me. “She’s being a bit stubborn.” No problem. I called back at 5, at which point she’d been at the vet for about 24 hours.
“Still no pee,” they said.
“How about I come get her and some of that fancy plastic litter and see if I can get a sample at home like I did last year?” I suggested.
We had an agreement and the carrier and I went back to the vet to take my poor, beleaguered kitter home. Apparently, she was very unhappy there: they wanted me to go back and get her myself because they didn’t want her to bite them. I looked incredulously at them, but when I got back to the cage, she was twice her normal size and had somehow fastened herself to its metal floor in the back corner.
And at once I saw the problem of her not peeing – the “litter box” they’d placed in there was half a Styrofoam take-out container with a tiny mound of plastic NoSorb litter in it. She’s apparently tipped it over more than once. How is that supposed to bear any resemblance to her litter box, and if she did figure it out and tried to use it, how was it supposed to stay upright?
At any rate, I stuck my hand in, she growled at it, I held out a finger, she sniffed it and then let me lift her out into the waiting carrier. I paid, we went home (during which trip she licked my finger repeatedly), and I set up the pee-gathering litter box, shut the bathroom door, and let her out.
First she scarfed down the food left in the dish, with frequent time outs to come rub up against my legs, meow, or sniff at the litter box. And as soon as her hunger was sated, she jumped into the litter box and peed like Austin Powers when he wakes from his cryogenic sleep. Oh, so happy kitty! The entire process took about 7 minutes.
Off I went, back to the vet’s office armed with a jar of something I really hope doesn’t spill in my car. I went in and asked brightly, “Would you like some cat urine?” The look on the receptionist’s face said, “I’d rather have syphilis,” but she took it and sent it into the back for the long-awaited urinalysis.
The results came in about fifteen minutes later.
Tabitha is fine.
“Oh,” they said knowingly. “So it was behavioral.”
“Argh!” I said.
“Yes,” they said. “Now, how many litter boxes do you have?”
“Two,” I answered, knowing that they would next say—
“We’d really recommend you get another, since you have two cats. One more litter box than you have cats is a good rule,” they said, just as I knew they would.
“Yes,” I said. “I know. But as there’s no good place to put another, I scoop the boxes about four times a day.”
“Oh,” they said. “Oh. Well. Yes, that sounds sufficient. Hmm.”
“Exactly,” I said.
I went home, let Tabitha out of the bathroom finally, and she commenced being very peeved that I’d shut her in when she thought she was finally free. No, she did NOT want to cuddle. She would rather lay here in the middle of the floor and glare pointedly, in fact.
And I also discovered that Hamlet was apparently not, as I thought, missing Tabitha the night before, but instead checking to make sure she’d really gone and it wasn’t wishful thinking. On her return, he immediately set about bullying her, following her around and smacking at her. He had apparently been saying, “Thank heavens! You finally got rid of her!”
*sigh*
Cats.
The last time this happened, it heralded a urinary infection, crystalline and painful, though I didn’t figure this out until she’d done the same thing twice more in other places. “Oh,” I finally thought when the frustrated screaming had died down. “There must be something wrong with her.”
I would not be caught out again. I called the vet and made an appointment for the next day and in the meantime, she spent the night in the bathroom with one litter box, food, water, and a cozy kitty bed.
Tuesday evening I took her in, having been unable to procure the necessary urine sample. They poked and prodded her while she tried to bore her way through my abdomen to hide. Then they tried to get a sample…from what I understand this involves squeezing and manipulating and none of it sounds like a good time. Tabitha was more than a match for these efforts, though, and there was no joy. “We’ll have to keep her overnight,” they said, “and you can pick her up tomorrow after she leaves a sample.”
I took the cat carrier and trundled off to home, confident that this would be solved. It must be solved, you see, because I’m flying to Savannah for a week in a few days and poor catsitting Holly doesn’t want to clean up cat pee. Administering medicine is bad enough.
Hamlet and I spent a quiet evening, just the two of us. Occasionally he would look around for Tabitha, look somewhat confused, and then shrug his linebacker shoulders and come purring back to curl up at – or rather, on my feet.
Wednesday I called the vet at lunch to make sure I could pick Tabitha up. “No luck yet,” they informed me. “She’s being a bit stubborn.” No problem. I called back at 5, at which point she’d been at the vet for about 24 hours.
“Still no pee,” they said.
“How about I come get her and some of that fancy plastic litter and see if I can get a sample at home like I did last year?” I suggested.
We had an agreement and the carrier and I went back to the vet to take my poor, beleaguered kitter home. Apparently, she was very unhappy there: they wanted me to go back and get her myself because they didn’t want her to bite them. I looked incredulously at them, but when I got back to the cage, she was twice her normal size and had somehow fastened herself to its metal floor in the back corner.
And at once I saw the problem of her not peeing – the “litter box” they’d placed in there was half a Styrofoam take-out container with a tiny mound of plastic NoSorb litter in it. She’s apparently tipped it over more than once. How is that supposed to bear any resemblance to her litter box, and if she did figure it out and tried to use it, how was it supposed to stay upright?
At any rate, I stuck my hand in, she growled at it, I held out a finger, she sniffed it and then let me lift her out into the waiting carrier. I paid, we went home (during which trip she licked my finger repeatedly), and I set up the pee-gathering litter box, shut the bathroom door, and let her out.
First she scarfed down the food left in the dish, with frequent time outs to come rub up against my legs, meow, or sniff at the litter box. And as soon as her hunger was sated, she jumped into the litter box and peed like Austin Powers when he wakes from his cryogenic sleep. Oh, so happy kitty! The entire process took about 7 minutes.
Off I went, back to the vet’s office armed with a jar of something I really hope doesn’t spill in my car. I went in and asked brightly, “Would you like some cat urine?” The look on the receptionist’s face said, “I’d rather have syphilis,” but she took it and sent it into the back for the long-awaited urinalysis.
The results came in about fifteen minutes later.
Tabitha is fine.
“Oh,” they said knowingly. “So it was behavioral.”
“Argh!” I said.
“Yes,” they said. “Now, how many litter boxes do you have?”
“Two,” I answered, knowing that they would next say—
“We’d really recommend you get another, since you have two cats. One more litter box than you have cats is a good rule,” they said, just as I knew they would.
“Yes,” I said. “I know. But as there’s no good place to put another, I scoop the boxes about four times a day.”
“Oh,” they said. “Oh. Well. Yes, that sounds sufficient. Hmm.”
“Exactly,” I said.
I went home, let Tabitha out of the bathroom finally, and she commenced being very peeved that I’d shut her in when she thought she was finally free. No, she did NOT want to cuddle. She would rather lay here in the middle of the floor and glare pointedly, in fact.
And I also discovered that Hamlet was apparently not, as I thought, missing Tabitha the night before, but instead checking to make sure she’d really gone and it wasn’t wishful thinking. On her return, he immediately set about bullying her, following her around and smacking at her. He had apparently been saying, “Thank heavens! You finally got rid of her!”
*sigh*
Cats.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Affirmation is nice
I don’t know about you, but I often have fears that I’m not doing my job well enough, that I’m not competent in any way at anything, that I lack some critical function that enables success (this despite my recently diagnosed “fear of success”—but that’s another story). No matter how good or effective you think you are, if no one ever acknowledges it, it erodes away your self-confidence.
Some of you remember when I worked at the Daily Iowegian. I started there working part-time as the writer for the weekend children’s page. Then not long after I got there, the typesetter quit, so they asked me to take her full-time job on top of the children’s page. They also decided that I should be a reporter, photographer, in charge of the legals, business, and farm pages, and, oh, yes, the proofreader. At the same time. So I ended up with two and a half full-time jobs – for about $8.50 an hour. *shrug* It was decent money for the area.
The problem was the… well, we’ll call it “lack of morale” at the paper. It was an incredibly messed up environment in ways I can’t (or rather, don’t feel like) describe. Suffice to say I have never before or since had a job that I literally every day wanted to slam my fist on my desk and scream, “I quit!” and just walk out. Possibly after chucking something heavy at my editor’s head.
So, not a fun place. And while I KNEW I was doing the work of at least two people, and doing it well, I never got any kind of feedback to that effect while I was there. It was all very tiring.
A year or so back, one of my former co-workers there found me online. She’d found me once or twice before and every time she wants to know when I’m moving back to Centerville. (Never ever ever, please.) That time, she regaled me with tales of the people they’d hired to replace me. It seems none of them had lasted very long. According to Patsy, some could write all right but not type, most could type but not write, and none of them could do both “as well as you could.” That was incredibly nice to hear.
Yesterday, she found me again and, once again, asked if I wanted to move back. Then she said she was finally quitting. Apparently she doesn't like the new editor—which, if you knew the past editors, you’d know would take a ridiculous level of doing. (“I’d take [a past editor’s] temper tantrums any day over this guy,” she said. And she means tantrums—throwing things, getting into fights with people who’d come in.) After much discussion about the situation we had the following exchange that prompted this over-lengthy entry:
Me:
This isn't going to happen, but do you think if I came back and talked to Becky (ed. note: the publisher of the paper) that she'd give ME the editor job? :)
patsy says:
Yes. We have said often that you were the best one we'd had in the newsroom. You always did your job - and had time left over to look at shoes and spiders.
I was the best one in the newsroom?! In the 16 years that Patsy’s been there? That sentiment alone is mind-boggling to me, much less the fact that they still bring me up. I haven’t worked there since February 2005.
I don’t want the editor’s job. I really, really don’t. But the fact that I could have it for the asking(and if Patsy says I could, I could)…that’s a pretty good feeling.
Some of you remember when I worked at the Daily Iowegian. I started there working part-time as the writer for the weekend children’s page. Then not long after I got there, the typesetter quit, so they asked me to take her full-time job on top of the children’s page. They also decided that I should be a reporter, photographer, in charge of the legals, business, and farm pages, and, oh, yes, the proofreader. At the same time. So I ended up with two and a half full-time jobs – for about $8.50 an hour. *shrug* It was decent money for the area.
The problem was the… well, we’ll call it “lack of morale” at the paper. It was an incredibly messed up environment in ways I can’t (or rather, don’t feel like) describe. Suffice to say I have never before or since had a job that I literally every day wanted to slam my fist on my desk and scream, “I quit!” and just walk out. Possibly after chucking something heavy at my editor’s head.
So, not a fun place. And while I KNEW I was doing the work of at least two people, and doing it well, I never got any kind of feedback to that effect while I was there. It was all very tiring.
A year or so back, one of my former co-workers there found me online. She’d found me once or twice before and every time she wants to know when I’m moving back to Centerville. (Never ever ever, please.) That time, she regaled me with tales of the people they’d hired to replace me. It seems none of them had lasted very long. According to Patsy, some could write all right but not type, most could type but not write, and none of them could do both “as well as you could.” That was incredibly nice to hear.
Yesterday, she found me again and, once again, asked if I wanted to move back. Then she said she was finally quitting. Apparently she doesn't like the new editor—which, if you knew the past editors, you’d know would take a ridiculous level of doing. (“I’d take [a past editor’s] temper tantrums any day over this guy,” she said. And she means tantrums—throwing things, getting into fights with people who’d come in.) After much discussion about the situation we had the following exchange that prompted this over-lengthy entry:
Me:
This isn't going to happen, but do you think if I came back and talked to Becky (ed. note: the publisher of the paper) that she'd give ME the editor job? :)
patsy says:
Yes. We have said often that you were the best one we'd had in the newsroom. You always did your job - and had time left over to look at shoes and spiders.
I was the best one in the newsroom?! In the 16 years that Patsy’s been there? That sentiment alone is mind-boggling to me, much less the fact that they still bring me up. I haven’t worked there since February 2005.
I don’t want the editor’s job. I really, really don’t. But the fact that I could have it for the asking(and if Patsy says I could, I could)…that’s a pretty good feeling.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Wrapped in a cloud of pouting
I should be working right now.
I'm taking the time to ramble and grumble and kvetch.
Today is one of those days in which you wake up and everything SEEMS fine. But the longer the day goes on (and it's only ten a.m. right now), the grumpier you get. I'm trying not to be, I swear! There's no real reason for it. There are a hundred little things that normally wouldn't bother me even all clumped together as they are--yet today they are the stinging gnats carrying teeny tiny buckets of lemon juice they release over an open wound I can't remember getting.
Yesterday I got a lot accomplished for one project and took it as far as it could go. But in so doing, I missed a very good friend's birthday, even though I KNEW it was coming up for once. I had a couple of fairly awkward phone conversations with a person I normally speak quite easily with--and it was my fault. I have another extremely important project that I should have done weeks ago, but keep putting off for reasons I don't understand. It is the possible culmination of a number of dreams and yet I can't seem to sit down and do it. And it MUST be done by the end of the month...which is swiftly approaching. (It also must be secret--I'll 'splain later). I can't seem to find the time to sit down and write for my writer's group tomorrow night, but I have to find something to take because I skipped the last meeting for lack of material. And that's when zillions of new people showed up. I forgot to take the trash out again! I only have leftover soggy pizza from last week for lunch today. I need to do laundry and I don't have quarters.
Normally, other than the frustration about the "very important project," I'd deal with the other stuff just fine. After all, against all of that, I got to see very dear friends this weekend for hours on end, I get to go to an Inklings Conference at the end of the week, next weekend I'm hitching a ride to Chicago to see very dear friends again, and my best friend is getting married in one month and two days. These are all fantastic things. I'm in controlled debt only, I have a roof over my head, I read a good book yesterday, and I'm getting a decent tax return. These are little things that are great.
It's just a Jonah day, I suppose.
I'm taking the time to ramble and grumble and kvetch.
Today is one of those days in which you wake up and everything SEEMS fine. But the longer the day goes on (and it's only ten a.m. right now), the grumpier you get. I'm trying not to be, I swear! There's no real reason for it. There are a hundred little things that normally wouldn't bother me even all clumped together as they are--yet today they are the stinging gnats carrying teeny tiny buckets of lemon juice they release over an open wound I can't remember getting.
Yesterday I got a lot accomplished for one project and took it as far as it could go. But in so doing, I missed a very good friend's birthday, even though I KNEW it was coming up for once. I had a couple of fairly awkward phone conversations with a person I normally speak quite easily with--and it was my fault. I have another extremely important project that I should have done weeks ago, but keep putting off for reasons I don't understand. It is the possible culmination of a number of dreams and yet I can't seem to sit down and do it. And it MUST be done by the end of the month...which is swiftly approaching. (It also must be secret--I'll 'splain later). I can't seem to find the time to sit down and write for my writer's group tomorrow night, but I have to find something to take because I skipped the last meeting for lack of material. And that's when zillions of new people showed up. I forgot to take the trash out again! I only have leftover soggy pizza from last week for lunch today. I need to do laundry and I don't have quarters.
Normally, other than the frustration about the "very important project," I'd deal with the other stuff just fine. After all, against all of that, I got to see very dear friends this weekend for hours on end, I get to go to an Inklings Conference at the end of the week, next weekend I'm hitching a ride to Chicago to see very dear friends again, and my best friend is getting married in one month and two days. These are all fantastic things. I'm in controlled debt only, I have a roof over my head, I read a good book yesterday, and I'm getting a decent tax return. These are little things that are great.
It's just a Jonah day, I suppose.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Thoughts on the relative nature of personality
That sounds far more high-falutin' than this is likely to end up. This is prompted by a review of my Johari window a few days ago. I noticed my old roommate Kelly jumped on board at some point to bring my grand total of "people who took the time to choose six words of me-ness" to five. (Still a bit shy of my longed-for goal of 8, but vastly beyond my expectation of 1 and a half).
I'm noticing more and more how distinct my personality is to different people. Now, I've sort of known this about myself for a very long time. I'm adaptable and polite in my interactions with people according to their expectations and my desires. I think everyone probably is. This is slightly different than that, I'd say. More along the lines of how good friends, each with their own distinct personality, draw out different facets of me. Different social situations do the same--which would explain why the two people who describe me is "silly" both lived with me for extended periods of time. I'm a freakin' nut job, people, and it's fun. I'm also often fairly guarded about it (I'm aware it can frighten the weak), so you may see only glimpses...unless you get to spend vast amounts of time with me.
You get a taste of these thoughts in the comments section for the original Johari post. So I'm going to cut and paste a bit here, because it's easier to cheat:
Kastie says:
Nonetheless, it's fascinating to see how different people think of me. John and Amy (at least, I'm almost positive the third anonymous is Amy) chose adjectives that very much describe not only me as a whole, but who *I* think they think of me as specifically with respect to them.
[Amy replies: Why yes, I AM the 3rd anonymous. You are very perceptive.]
And then there's the anonymous person who clearly thinks of me as a frightened mouse of a person--their choices are all words like "nervous" and "self-conscious," and "shy." Not that I'm not occasionally some of those things, but I'm not remotely exclusively or even mainly described by them. So I'm fascinated by who that might be (I have my suspicions) and hope that someday they'll see what those other labellers see.
So. Do you really know me as well as you think you do? As much as I crave being deeply known, I think there are probably very few people -- including those I consider close friends -- who actually do. In fact, I'm not sure one can ever really know someone else completely because of how personality tends to shift as needed. There are general traits that stay constant (most people seem to agree that I'm intelligent, for example), but others -- however true they are -- are only really apparent in relation to not only IF you trust someone but HOW you trust them.
I wander away now to get lost in a fog of happy contemplation. Please, PLEASE feel free to comment and/or add to the conversation or, if you have not yet done so, to click through to my Johari window and add your own definition of me. (I'd love to know your name if you're feeling brave. I have three anonymouses, fer cryin' out loud!)
I'm noticing more and more how distinct my personality is to different people. Now, I've sort of known this about myself for a very long time. I'm adaptable and polite in my interactions with people according to their expectations and my desires. I think everyone probably is. This is slightly different than that, I'd say. More along the lines of how good friends, each with their own distinct personality, draw out different facets of me. Different social situations do the same--which would explain why the two people who describe me is "silly" both lived with me for extended periods of time. I'm a freakin' nut job, people, and it's fun. I'm also often fairly guarded about it (I'm aware it can frighten the weak), so you may see only glimpses...unless you get to spend vast amounts of time with me.
You get a taste of these thoughts in the comments section for the original Johari post. So I'm going to cut and paste a bit here, because it's easier to cheat:
Kastie says:
Nonetheless, it's fascinating to see how different people think of me. John and Amy (at least, I'm almost positive the third anonymous is Amy) chose adjectives that very much describe not only me as a whole, but who *I* think they think of me as specifically with respect to them.
[Amy replies: Why yes, I AM the 3rd anonymous. You are very perceptive.]
And then there's the anonymous person who clearly thinks of me as a frightened mouse of a person--their choices are all words like "nervous" and "self-conscious," and "shy." Not that I'm not occasionally some of those things, but I'm not remotely exclusively or even mainly described by them. So I'm fascinated by who that might be (I have my suspicions) and hope that someday they'll see what those other labellers see.
So. Do you really know me as well as you think you do? As much as I crave being deeply known, I think there are probably very few people -- including those I consider close friends -- who actually do. In fact, I'm not sure one can ever really know someone else completely because of how personality tends to shift as needed. There are general traits that stay constant (most people seem to agree that I'm intelligent, for example), but others -- however true they are -- are only really apparent in relation to not only IF you trust someone but HOW you trust them.
I wander away now to get lost in a fog of happy contemplation. Please, PLEASE feel free to comment and/or add to the conversation or, if you have not yet done so, to click through to my Johari window and add your own definition of me. (I'd love to know your name if you're feeling brave. I have three anonymouses, fer cryin' out loud!)
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Send my friend to Australia!
There's a job opening for the Australian tourism board right now. They send you over to live on an island beach for six months as the "Island Caretaker," and periodically you send reports to the Queensland tourist bureau about how fabulous life is there.
I have no desire to do this job. My good friend Tonya, on the other hand, is dying to do it.
If you go to this link you'll get to watch her short video and vote for it. Everyone who applies has to submit a video and the most popular get shortlisted for the job. Vote early, vote generously, and vote often, from different computers if you can.
I have no desire to do this job. My good friend Tonya, on the other hand, is dying to do it.
If you go to this link you'll get to watch her short video and vote for it. Everyone who applies has to submit a video and the most popular get shortlisted for the job. Vote early, vote generously, and vote often, from different computers if you can.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Horse girl says, "Squee!"
Sunday last (Feb. 8th) I did a lovely thing on a whim--I spent my weekly grocery budget and went to see the Royal Lipizzaner Stallions perform. And I got a really great seat for my not-much money, too! There were two rows of folding chair on the actual floor, a tiny half wall, and then the first row of stadium seats. I was in that first row. So I had a better view (I think) than the people on the floor, because I was just slightly raised.
I took pictures with my cell phone, which basically means, you can tell those white blurs are horses, but not much else. Nonetheless I share them with you. And a very brief video of a couple of the more spectacular "Airs Above the Ground" if I can figure out how to add it. I was trying to be a bit surreptitious, so they're kind of truncated, but still impressive. I really should go to more things like this. I had plenty of food to last the week without that money and I have a wonderful memory. I love when money goes toward experiences!
I took pictures with my cell phone, which basically means, you can tell those white blurs are horses, but not much else. Nonetheless I share them with you. And a very brief video of a couple of the more spectacular "Airs Above the Ground" if I can figure out how to add it. I was trying to be a bit surreptitious, so they're kind of truncated, but still impressive. I really should go to more things like this. I had plenty of food to last the week without that money and I have a wonderful memory. I love when money goes toward experiences!
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