I am so, so tired. so very tired. exhausted to the bone. things are already very busy. I'm not complaining. I'm just tired.
on saturday, my horse sent her younger half-leaser to the hospital. in an ambulance. on a backboard. she'd been bucked off again. maybe you can imagine my frustration and worry; I paced around all afternoon.
I rode her sunday morning, prepared to have a serious discussion with her. of course, as is always the case, she was a nearly perfect angel.
her high-alert face, which sometimes precedes a twenty-foot teleport across the ring
we rode for ninety minutes. she was hot but cooperative. I popped her once with my dressage whip, lightly, because she had blown through my outside leg at the canter. then she had a minor, momentary explosion -- the only moment of bad behavior.
so, there's that.
yesterday was the company holiday party. I am on the planning committee; we've been planning for months. I worked almost exclusively on the party on both monday and yesterday. I got to the office early and stayed late.
the theme this year was 'game night.' we hosted jeopardy, set up the ping pong table, put up the projector and played just dance on the wii, set up a 9-hole mini golf course through the office, which included a beer cart at the halfway point (just before the music library). there was blackjack and a raffle, a ms. pacman game cabinet, board games.
a lot of us, not in collusion with one another, came as clue characters.
there were two peacocks. perhaps we could have been sad at having worn the SAME PROM DRESS, but instead we did this.
peacock v. peacock:
unfortunately I'm pretty sure there is not a single good photo of my costume, which took me two days to make and included eight yards of tulle and a flurry of felt peacock feathers. I lost the costume contest by a nose to a giant chicken holding a slingshot (angry bird). to be fair, his costume was hilarious AND he kept it on all night. won fair and square. birds = rule.
all my people are larger bodies than mine, with voices gentle and meaningless, like the voices of sleeping birds.
-- james agee