Shampoo Solo

The New York Times actually published (a condensed, impotent version) of my letter.

This won’t change anything, except for the feeling of powerlessness I have being the slightest, tiniest bit less.

We are questioning everything. Why we love the things we love. If this was a mistake; if that was a mistake; if the whole thing was wrong from the start. We bargain, we argue, we cry; we try and fail to make the whole thing add up. We grieve; we eat sandwiches of guilt, shame and tomatoes. We made a mountain of of this molehill, and then made the mountain into a state and the state into a country. Eventually, we stopped asking questions and started pointing fingers at each other. And, more carefully, at the people around us.

These are the best of times; they are the worst of times.

We are trying to remember to be gentle. And kind. And trying to remember that often nothing is gentle or kind.

I don’t know what to say, so I am saying nothing at all.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There is no way The New York Times will publish this letter, because it’s crazy talk, but it’s where we ended. It is our solution. We are not the only ones; we wish we could say we were done, that we are walking away, that we are turning our backs, but we cannot. We cannot put an end to pain by ignoring it.

To the Editor:

Re ‘So Young, So Strong, So Fast and Oh So Very Sad’ (essay, May 4)

My husband and I, lifetime racing fans, watched the 134th Kentucky Derby from the Churchill Downs grandstand; afterward, we watched brokenhearted fans sobbing in their seats. We’ve been soul-searching since.

We agree with Jane Smiley; having watched Barbaro, Pine Island, George Washington and now Eight Belles crumple, horse racing must change. It is a matter, now, of convincing breeders and buyers. Our proposal is this: Create a race that is more important than the Triple Crown.

Stop rewarding speed and start rewarding longevity with new race open only to six-year-olds with at least 20 starts, held at Keeneland – or another track that has switched to synthetics – with a purse of $8 million, run over a mile and an eighth, in honor of Eight Belles.

Perhaps by creating a loftier goal, breeders and buyers will stop creating brittle, precocious speedsters – and curate stronger, sturdier horses built to last. It’s a longshot, but this sport loves a longshot – and only when this shift in thinking begins can horse racing truly begin to change, and heal.

I haven’t quite figured out how to describe, understand or feel about our Derby trip, but there is this: The first thing we noticed when arriving at Churchill Downs was that all the flags were at half mast, and we had no idea why. Eventually we learned that a soldier from Kentucky had been killed in Iraq earlier in the week and the governor had ordered them lowered; we had no way of knowing then that the day would be bookended by sadness. It doesn’t seem fair to focus on the end of the day; it also doesn’t seem fair not to. For starters, here are some photos.

The Twin Spires of Churchill Downs.

Newlyweds at the track.

At our seats. We were just below the fourth turn, meaning the Derby post parade trotted right by us, and the horses broke from the gate almost directly in front of us.

If you paid really, really close attention, we were actually on the TeeVee for more than a minute.

The mad dash out of the starting gate. Big Brown, the 20 in pink, is closest to us.

The top of the stretch, with Big Brown in the lead. You can also see Eight Belles making her move on Recapturetheglory.

A panoramic view from our seats.

So obviously we have been thinking about Eight Belles endlessly, talking about it and just … trying to figure it out. We can’t; I can’t. Sally Jenkins for The Washington Post has the best op-ed that I’ve seen:

There is no turning away from this fact: Eight Belles killed herself finishing second.

Thoroughbred racing is in a moral crisis, and everyone now knows it … Horses are being over-bred and over-raced, until their bodies cannot support their own ambitions, or those of the humans who race them.

According to several estimates, there are 1.5 career-ending breakdowns for every 1,000 racing starts in the United States. That’s an average of two per day.

Part of the trouble is the makeup of thoroughbreds themselves: They are creatures physically at war with their own nature. … Anyone who has spent time around a barn understands that horses love to run. They do it for fun.

I don’t have a fancy bow to put on this post; I wish I did. Clearly, this isn’t what we were expecting from our trip; we didn’t want to witness what’s being called the most tragic Kentucky Derby in history (nor did anyone else, I’m sure), but we did … and the thing is, that’s racing. And that’s also life — tragic, heartbreaking, ugly and unfair at times.

That doesn’t make it any easier.

I love this monthly Esquire feature (I believe last month’s was written by the adorable Leslie Mann), but this one seals the deal for me. I’m not shy about my love for Mindy Kaling (yes, I give link love to her site, Things I’ve Bought That I Love, despite the occasional sneaky typo or out-of-business vitamin dealer) — some lolworthy highlights, all of which I 100 percent agree with:

Instead of calling your ex a bitch, say: “[Name] is being difficult and could act more reasonable.” Then vent by flattening some boxes for recycling. This shows restraint and a love for the environment.

Your buddy doesn’t mind receiving his new book in the Borders bag. We do. Wrap everything. Except engagement rings.

Women love sex tapes. Not porn — sex tapes, because scandal is titillating. If you want to trick us into watching porn, tell us the girl in it is famous and we just haven’t heard of her yet.

Scott and I spent a little less than a week in San Francisco in mid-April, visiting very, very good friends we haven’t seen since our wedding day, Tracey and Nick. Before we left on April 9, I’d been working without a day off since March 24, so we (I) needed some downtime, some funtime, some goodtimes — the kind you only get with friends who you can fart around*, or at least talk about farting around.

My one request for the visit was: Let’s go to a Giants game! This was my fourth time in SanFran, and I’d gone to zero games (yes, I know — I live in DC, and I don’t plan on going to a game at Nationals Park, um, ever). But you really can’t deny the beauty of the stadium, which I cannot remember the name of. It isn’t Candlestick anymore, and it can’t be just Giants Stadium, so I shall call it the Yahoo Center, which can’t be far off, because Yahoo ads infiltrate the place just as AOL ads cover the MCI/Verizon/Whatsit Center here in DC. Like I said, it’s pretty, though it is a stadium built for ants, apparently:

After the game, we miraculously had energy for some clubbing, which meant stopping by the Comet Club. The last time I’d visited, we’d had a rather drunken, sweaty dance club time at the CC. Turns out, it’s not super busy on weeknights, but there was still some drunken dancing. (To a Rihanna song, in particular, ‘SOS,’ I think, and when the song stopped abruptly, I believe one of our party shouted, “PLEASE, don’t stop the music!”) Visual proof:

Not too long later, some of the lightweights among us passed out. Others debated how many calories were in McDonalds cheeseburgers.

The next day, we headed to Napa/Sonoma for a tour through wine country, another thing I’ve never fully experienced before. For some reason, I’ve always been a little dismissive of day trips and wine tours. I have done a complete reversal there. I heart wine tours. I heart five dollars for a few sips of a few different wines. I think my favorite of the day was the Blackstone Winery, where we bought a few bottles of wine, probably because the tastings were choose-your-own-vino-adventure. The funny part is, we found Blackstone wines at our local Trader Joes when we got home … for about $10 less a pop. (Yes, Tracey, we got shrunked.) Regardless, we took a break to snack at a pretty picnic area outside some castle-like winery, where filming was in place for a show on one of the home/garden networks, which we got in the way of once or twice.

That night, we crashed in a little cabin on the Russian River in Sonoma. The deck was built around huge redwood trees, and we could see the river from the windows (along with naked ladies making their way upstream for some reason we couldn’t figure out). It will someday be the setting for The River House, the sequel to The Lake House, because everything about it was sweet and clever and adorable.

When we got back into San Fran proper the next day, I’m not going to lie to you — there were hangovers and upset stomachs. (They were mine.) We took it slow. A little bit of shopping, a small lunch, and a lot of bocce in the Golden Gate/Marina Park. Scott took this one during lunch, because he was thrilled to be able to get everyone in the photo. I had no idea it was being taken; that look on my face is “Oh my Beer, I hope I don’t puke/poop myself RIGHT HERE.”

After bocce, it was our last night in town — we had an early flight the next day, so we played it low-key, just hitting up a few bars in Tracey and Nick’s neighborhood that we liked on previous trips. This photo is what 95 percent of Scott’s vacation snaps look like:

The other five percent are just photos of his balls, and you have to go to an entirely different kind of Web site to see those.

*I don’t think we’d really farted around each other before. We’re now on a new level, one that also includes peeing with the door open.
**I’m sorry these photos are so small. It was my first time using Picasa. Picasa is stupid.

We had tickets to see the New Pornographers on Monday night.

I’d done my homework; Neko Case wasn’t with them on the first part of the tour, but according to local blogs, she’d been with them the past several stops, including Ithaca the night before (where she’d been battling a cold). We stopped for empanadas on our way into DC, we sipped a few beers, we suffered through the first, slow part of Okkervil River’s set, we enjoyed the second, fast part of Okkervil River’s set, we waited for the New Pornographers until 9:30, when, ever-so-prompt, they popped on stage.

Without Neko Case.

Look, you can take either side in this argument, and you’ll be right. I’m in the “if she couldn’t perform, why not cancel the show?” camp. I think the “it’s Carl Newman’s band anyway so you shouldn’t expect the whole group at every show” camp has a very valid argument as well. We would’ve gone to the show anyway, even if it was just a Carl show, but we would’ve had different expectations. I felt cheated, and bitterly disappointed. I thought about breaking up with them — getting rid of my NP albums, but I couldn’t; I listened to Mass Romantic on my drive to work the next morning, feeling mad and sad (yes, I know, I take things very personally).

I felt — as I described it to Scott — the same way I would feel, back when he and I were first dating, and we’d get into these stupidly huge fights*. I’d be so angry with him, so disappointed, so hurt — but I knew that ultimately I’d forgive him because I loved him so damn much. Clearly, I will always give the things I truly, truly love as many chances as they need.

So, obviously … we bought a pair of tickets to the Tuesday night show. I had a feeling Carl Newman was going to seek me out in the crowd, punch me in the face and then say, “Oh, baby, why do you make me hurt you?”

He didn’t.

Neko Case was there; she was still sick, but she’s a gamer. The whole vibe was different — I felt giddy, the crowd seemed more into the show, and I didn’t want it to end; at one point I almost burst into tears because I felt so damn happy. They played so many songs I love, and didn’t expect to hear — Adventures in Solitude and The Bleeding Heart Show, for example — and I just knew, I could just tell, that they were trying to make it up to me, so I let them.

It’s true: I totally had make-up sex with the New Pornographers.

Tonight, we’re driving to Richmond to see them again, and I’m pretty sure Kathryn Calder is going to throw me down a flight of stairs.

*We don’t have fights like that anymore. Yay for maturity!

To: Meredith & Scott
From: Male Friend Who Shall Remain Anonymous
Re: McSweeney’s

It goes without saying that I have the McSweeney’s book of lists on my coffee table. It also goes without saying that my friend Lucy has no interest in college basketball, so she’s been reading it when she and her husband come over to watch hoops. She’s hooked on it.

Anyway, we’re sitting at my house last night and she says, “I was at the McSweeney’s site today and read the best list. It was ‘Other Things There Will Be, In Addition to Blood.’”

This struck me as adorably cute, the kind of randomness that happens only in romantic comedies and rarely, if ever, in real life. It also got me thinking about some of my favorite McSweeney’s list, and while I do enjoy many, my No. 1 most favorite of all times would have to be Airlines That Never Took Off. There is a bar/lounge we frequent often called the Continental; immediately after reading that list it was forever renamed the Contimental.