It’s better than a mass e-mail

I finally got to ride a horse. Somehow, I managed to grow up in the South, with a step-mother and step-sister who compete in horseback riding shows or whatever you call it (which, come to think of it, might be why I rejected the pastime so fervently), and I never rode a horse. Until today.

Said step-sister and I drove out to the state park for our 11 a.m. appointment to hit the trails. As we waited around for the teenagers to saddle up the horses, I saw the one I wanted to ride, and you know, I think he spotted me, too. His name was Spot and looked a little raggedy, a touch meek, but anxious to prove his horsehood. Step-sis got an even more raggedy looking, smaller horse I nicknamed Mange but I think her name was Goldie.

I realized really quickly that my visions of galloping though the fields atop a fearsome, muscular stallion while the wind whipped through my hair and all the animals in the fields cowered was just a fantasy. In fact, only once did Spot break out of the sleep-inducing gait, at which point I panicked and pulled back on the reins until we were at a near standstill. (I don’t have health insurance. I am high strung. And all I could picture was Spot getting a taste of the free life, breaking from the trail full speed ahead, while I hung on for dear life until finally I was flung off, my head hitting a rock, my teeth flying and my most crucial bones crumbling.)

The two of us had two guides for the 45-minute meander: Matt and Matt. They were some good ol’ boys, as was to be expected, but the extreme level off their Deep South country-fication was alarming. Allow me to illustrate in a ripped-straight-from-the-scene exchange (to be read in your best slow Southern redneck drawl):

Matt 1: Man, I got home last night, and there were 10, 12 deer in my yard.

(Me thinking: Oh how nice! Deer! They are so beautiful and naturey)

Matt 1 continued: Yeah man, then I went in and got my crossbow.

(Me thinking: Hmm…. I wonder why he would need a — oh…)

Matt 2: Aw man, you get you some?

Matt 1: Naw man, it was all foggy, but I thought I got one but it done just git on up and run off.

Matt 2: Aw, man.

Matt 1: Oh but I am ready tonight. I got me a bag of corn, two more in the garage, and I got some stump licker all over my stumps back there. And I got a case of beer in the truck and a 12-pack in the fridge. I’m gonna eat me some deer meat, man.

This was early in the ride, and about the time that I realized the only thing we had in common with our guides were the horses between our legs. Other clues were Matt 2 asking me what I did for a living, and then asking what a freelance writer was. He then told me (after I told him I don’t own a car but take public transport everywhere in Chicago): “Subways and buses? Man, that’s the quickest way to get yourself mugged. You better get you a car.”

Although it wasn’t exactly the crowd-pleasing show of Napoleon’s Marengo, it was an experience nonetheless. Feeling the strong animal underneath me was both empowering and humbling, like I was fierce and unstoppable, a force to be reckoned with, but strangely not in control at all, at the mercy of a beast must larger and stronger than I. After our 45-minutes, I began to feel a little more connected to Spot, as if at any moment he would begin to answer me or agree with my musings on our serene surroundings.

***

It’s New Year’s Eve, otherwise known as a night pretty much like any other night, except with the pressure to look good, have fun, get wasted, and kiss someone right at midnight. Seems painfully arbitrary to me, but as usual, I will participate. I thought about crafting some kind of year-end this-is-what-I-have-learned blog entry, but didn’t quite get there. Maybe I’ll think up some resolutions, which will inevitably be broken by March 1.

… you’re outside in a T-shirt and sunglasses a few days after Christmas.

… your name morphs into this muti-syllabic word unrecognizable in other parts of the country.

… your statement of good news is followed with a “well, you must have accepted Jesus into your life.”

… you see a giant Confederate flag-patterned Playboy bunny decal on the back of a truck.

… every dish is prepared with butter, sour cream, cheese, and often bacon. Or it’s deep fried.

… everyone around you moves slowly – chewing the fat with the cashier at the store, slowing the car to a stop in the middle of the road looking for a parking spot, generally taking their time with each task.

***

A note on families and getting older: This year, as with the past few years, my brother and I said we didn’t want Christmas presents. We don’t really need things, since we both make money and when we need or want something we buy it. And inevitably for Christmas, you wind up getting a bunch of things you either return for store credit or you just take back home with you, unsure of what to do with it.

See, my family still hasn’t moved on from the tradition of putting lots of things under the tree and sitting around on Christmas morning taking turns tearing into gift wrapped boxes. With two younger step-siblings, we have been slow to move to an adult Christmas, with perhaps a gift or two and a greater focus on eating ham and drinking whiskey.

But after much rangling, I gave in to my father’s requests, and told him a few things I wanted: to ride a horse, a book on knitting and pilates DVD. I did get a book, but then I also got a mid-riff-baring sweater, six pairs of size-L panties, and a hammer and a screwdriver (both of which I bought for myself three months ago when my tools were stolen.) Meanwhile, my brother’s only request was no clothes. He was given a sweater, a woman’s scarf, shorts and pants. Clothes.

I don’t want to sound ungrateful, because I know there are many people far less privileged than I, but Christmas just makes me wonder – Do they even know me? Do they want to know me? When I do tell them things, are they even listening?

Similarly, I went to have dinner at my step-grandparents house the other night, and when we walk in, step g-ma says “[Your step-mother] says you love spaghetti, so we cooked you spaghetti!” innocent enough right? Well, I don’t really eat spaghetti, because a) I have hard core GI problems and pasta does not do a body good, and b) I try to avoid refined carbs because they are void of nutritional value. Family knew this. Or so I thought. They also know I am lactose intolerant, but still continue to serve creamy dumpling casserole with cheese and sour cream (or some variation on the theme).

Again, not wanting to sound ungrateful, but it had to be said.

So what do we do? Bite our tongues? Try to connect, but when it fails, understand that we are still family, and by definition we will have our dysfunctions?

***

And finally, a voyeuristic treat. I was just informed of this slice of Craigslist where you can post missed connections – “I saw you,” “Cute barista at Starbucks,” and even a “sorry babe, I boned my ex this weekend.” Voyeuristicly brilliant.

After much debate (and a few of my friends thinking I am crazy), I thought it necessary to dedicate an entire post to moustaches.

I am a huge fan of the ‘stache, and I think their comeback into the fashion mainstream is just around the corner. As with many trends, this too will begin with people a) ignoring it, not caring about The Great Moustache renaissance, b) laughing at moustaches, perhaps out of ignorance, c) attacking the moustachioed for boldly leading the charge, and finally d) accepting the ‘stache. Soon every man will want one.

See, moustaches are the perfect blend of masculine, pervy, sexy and absolutely ridiculous. A moustache says: “I can fix the kitchen sink, I might say something sexually inappropriate, I don’t take myself too seriously, and I will always keep you guessing.”

Although I think most men can rock a moustache with much panache, there are a few things to keep in mind (compiled with some male input):

1. If you’ve tried and can’t quite fill out that upper lip with hair, give it up. Shave. It’s not meant to be.

2. Maintain the ‘stache. They must be trimmed and brushed, and a bit of conditioning probably wouldn’t hurt it either. But don’t take it too far, a la Prince circa 1990.

3. The moustache is not limited to indie rockers in plaid shirts and clip on ties listening to Death Cab for Cutie. Or to horse-riding rednecks, porn stars, plumbers or Edgar Allan Poe. It is not an accessory, but the centerpiece of any style. So grow one, and be yourself.

4. On a related point, if you have chosen the moustachioed way, be comfortable in it. Own it. Walk around like you know you look awesome, and you will then be a successful ‘stached trend-setter.

When I was in high school, and the term “don’t go there” wasn’t tired and lame (and Ricki Lake was still on daytime television), my friends and I decided we were going to write a book called “Don’t Go There.” It was going to be a guide of blatant fashion violations to avoid at all costs. We used to sit around at the coffee shop and come up with chapter titles and new fashion don’ts.

No, we never wrote the book, and looking back, I am certain we were guilty of several violations. Either way, some ten years later, here’s my “Don’t Go There Fashion Guide: Holiday Edition.”

Really, there is only one key fashion violation during the holidays: Christmas-themed appliqued sweaters or sweatshirts. They have never been in style, so me telling you they are a violation should come of little surprise. Wearing these oversized eye sores will not boost the holiday spirit of those around you, and in fact might have the opposite effect on others, like myself (much like holiday music, now that I think about it).

My brother noted today that you never see good looking, young, thin hotties prancing around the city streets wearing red sweaters bedecked with sparkling snowmen, jingling bells or a fuzzy Santa. It’s usually the borderline obese women wandering around the suburban Southern mall. It might sound harsh, but he’s right, and last time I checked, these women aren’t the folks setting fashion standards. (Sometimes, I wonder if these sweaters proliferate outside of the South. Someone please enlighten me. I’m accepting photo submissions.)

Similarly, donning earrings with bells, Christmas trees, or related accoutrements should be illegal. Decorate your house, hang lights on your lawn, but seriously does it need to creep into the closet? Until the day I see someone rock a Christmas sweater tastefully (again, submissions), I’m going to say no. Is there a way to dress festively without looking like an idiot? I am sure there must be, but I haven’t seen it.

Also related, is dressing your children in matching holiday outfits – either matching your festive garb or matching each other. Nine times out of ten they don’t look cute, only tortured and silly.

After discussing holiday fashion violations with my brother, we decided there was at least one thing that could slide: Dressing pets in holiday-themed sweaters, reindeer antlers and jingle bell collars? Fine. Anything dogs do is awesome and cute.

Editor’s note: I don’t claim to be a fashion czar, and have been called out many times on my taste (such as moustaches and plaid shirts, but c’mon those are awesome!). But this is my blog, and I get to act like I know something. Also, I (and my brother) kind of become a scrooge this time of year when surrounded by slow-driving, Christmas-sweater-wearing Southerners lapping up the Christmas sales and humming about building a snowman in the morning. Jesus. Bah humbug.

This time of year is always tainted with the persistent hole left by people we’ve lost. When a piece of the family is missing – no matter how long that piece was taken and no matter how many or few other family members come together – we are always acutely aware that they aren’t here too.

Last night, a friend of mine and I were talking about our dead mothers. Her mom died last spring – on Mother’s Day no less – and the two were very close. We were talking about how now it’s like she has been given the password to the secret club, how she’s somehow different, marked, and only young people who have lost a parent understand, but that it’s unspoken. This is a feeling I have had for more than a dozen years.

People are painfully uncomfortable talking about death. My friend recalled how others tip-toe around her mom’s death, choosing their words carefully. But why? Are they afraid she’ll have a comeapart? That it’s not really real, and by talking about it makes it so? That she’ll be insulted you brought it up? I don’t really remember the awkwardness because I was so young, but even today, when it comes out that I lost my mother, people want to apologize, change the subject, unsure how to ask the nagging questions like how old were you, and was it cancer.

To be sure, folks, not a day goes by that I don’t think about my mother. She made me who I am, and I own every part of it – her life, her illness, her death – and it has grown with me. Nothing about it makes me uncomfortable, and my guess is it’s the same way for many young people who have lost a parent.

So I say let’s talk about our dead mothers, and better yet, let’s pour one out. Which is exactly what my friend and I did.

She had poured me a glass of wine, just as we were wrapping up our having-a-dead-mother-is-the-pits talk. And both our mother’s were big drinkers – hers: Bud Light in cans and red wine, mine: Bourbon on the rocks. So I said, “Let’s pour one out for our moms.” We both positioned our glasses to let a little drop hit the ground for them, paused, and looking at each other said simultaneously: “But not too much!” (knowing our mother’s would never want us to waste a drink!)