The End of This Blog

What I saw: another tick stuck in my leg.

What I did beforehand: I had a memorable mother’s day, with some of my kids around and a lot of time in the yard. The next morning I found the tick.

What I did:  about ten days later I woke up with a high fever, with intense body aches. I went to the doctor and she ordered a lot of blood tests, which were negative. She concluded I had the flu. 

I felt better after about 4 days and resumed my life.

Things that were sad: I was sick again with fevers and body aches a week after that.

I went back to the doctor, who re-ran some bloodwork, which was still negative, but somehow in my bleary-eyed limpness we managed to agree that we should treat it like it was Lyme,  and I started a course of doxycycline. 

By the time the June horse show rolled around I was still light sensitive and feeling sort of ok but not 100%.

How I napped: there had been a good chance I wasn’t going to make it to the show at all and so when I did make it there I took each day as carefully as I could. Saturday I had two classes, one in the morning and one in the afternoon, and in between I had horse-show breakfast and stopped in my car to put something back and it was breezy and delicious there so I opened all the car windows and took a nap in my car. As I dozed I listened to the sound of horses walking on pavement. Sunday my schedule was the same, with a class first thing and then another six hours later. I was, in fact, going to be the last to go from our barn, so I knew everyone was waiting for me. 

Where I sat: my last test was Level 1, Test 1, which I've only done a few times. We started out fine, but when I asked Hado to lengthen his canter he kind of blew me off, so I had to get after him. The second canter lengthen was much more like what I’d asked for. And, in between the canters I started to feel we were riding the test, not just trotting at X and cantering again at C, but connecting the pieces. And doing it together, not me sitting on and steering a bicycle/horse but both of us as a unit.

Why I cried: when I halted and thanked the judge, I felt a wave of relief and gratitude.  A week before it didn't seem like I'd be able to show. A year before we weren't doing this level. 

A couple of years ago, Hado was kicked in the knee by another horse and had to spend several months doing nothing but stand in his stall. We didn't know if he'd heal from that. When he was cleared to start walking around he had lost so much muscle in his top-line I compared him to a sweater that hung too long on a hanger. It took two years to get him completely back in shape.

And a few years before that I had taken on the challenge of learning to ride him believing he was too much horse for me, and worried that it might not work out.

So after I turned and headed out of the ring, I thought about how great it is to have a horse to learn on, what a privilege to have the time and money to go to shows, what a joy it is to have a partner like Hado, and how a lot of things conspired to stop us but we kept going. I started to cry.

Who was waiting for me: P., one of the grooms at the barn, came along as an extra pair of hands at the show. She had water, and she listened with understanding when I had something to tell her. 

What it is: this is the last post of this blog. All of these posts (except this one) and all future posts can be found at another site. 

Why this blog is ending: the new site is on Wordpress, so I will be able to add features.

Things that are (a little) funny: when I interrupted my regular writing to take a class, people noticed, and asked. When the class ended, I was out of the habit of writing and posting and had trouble re-starting. 

Things that are not funny: I promise to try to keep blogging. Please come with me.

All time page view stats, as of this writing

Who should see it: you. Thank you for reading this blog. In the beginning, you went to Italy with me. You came with me to find treasures in my basement. You ragecooked with me. You read about my pets, my  headaches, my neighbors, and my childhood. You read about the Bacon Provider and my kids. You read about the plays I saw. You got a fuck-ton of my opinions. Some of you found typos. Some offered words of encouragement. Some of you make me think that someday I really will get around to writing a book (or three). 

What I saw a few days after I got home: a photographer (and friend) caught me as I finished at the show. When she posted this photo on her Facebook, I didn't immediately recognize myself. I didn't even recognize my horse. What I did see was the story, captured in a moment. And I just happened to know the story.

I saw "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory"

Why I haven't been posting blogs: I am taking a class and working on improving this website. The class meets twice a week and has actual homework and requires me to give up two entire afternoons and their adjacent whole evenings every week and, oh,  also there is the extra time spent dreading leaving, seconds blown complaining about leaving, minutes frittered away leaving, hours squandered riding the train, and stretches wasted panicking about having only half of my homework done. 

What I saw: "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," a new Broadway musical, with some songs from the first movie (but not all), at the Lunt-Fontanne Theatre, 205 West 46th Street in Manhattan.

What I did beforehand: pilates, chased down a $289 error while balancing the checkbook, baked the bread dough I made the night before, met with a tree guy in the drenching rain, riding lesson, drove to S's new house, took the inaugural shower in my friend's new guest bathroom, got dressed, talked to Radar. 

What I wore: Chinese-made Australian boots, James jeans black micro-cords, Danner belt, Eileen Fisher brown jersey go-to top, mushroom-colored cardigan with fringe, the Indian scarf from the gift shop of the Folk Art museum, black parka 

Who went with me: S., her husband, their two kids and au pair.

How I got tickets: S.

Why I saw this show: all the nights in 4th grade I spent when I couldn't sleep, and didn’t stop reading until Charlie got his golden ticket; being able to sing all the words to all the songs in the original movie; knowing someone with kids who was going. 

Where I sat: front row, second mezzanine, between S. and her younger child L.

Things that were good: spending an evening with my friend S. and her family. 

Things that were sad: Augustus Gloop is still a strange, fat, hungry, carnivorous German, but other characters have been “updated” to include some Heroes of the Internet and a Russian mobster/billionaire. This remake didn't have time for my favorite song, Veruca Salt's "I want it now." L. was upset that two of the bad children seemed to have been killed (one exploded, the other torn into five pieces). I have to say that I enjoyed my friends' company more than the show. 

Things that were funny/not funny: Grandpa George's jokes about wishing he was dead, the (unintentionally) comically undersized sets (think Spinal Tap's Stone Henge), my laughably sincere hope that the Oompa-Loompas will be the last of the tiny-yet-jolly enslaved people portrayed in children’s literature (no longer orange-skinned in this production); grade A performers with a C+ script.

Something I ate: Shake Shack with S.'s fam.

What it is: proof that this children's book classic should not be remade anymore. People should read the book, watch the original movie and leave it at that. 

Who should see it: unintelligible to anyone who hasn't seen the movie(s) and/or read Roald Dahl's classic children's book. 

What I saw on the way home: a distracting, decorative throw pillow on the side of the road.

I saw “Present Laughter”

What I saw: “Present Laughter,” a revival of a Noël Coward play, starring Kevin Kline at the St. James Theater on West  44th Street in Manhattan.

What I did beforehand: dinner at the upscale and modern Chinese restaurant Hakkasan at 311 W 43rd St. Some reviews dismiss it as being part of a chain. Pre-theater dinner options are limited, and this place is very good. Show up early and grab cocktails in the bar.

Something I ate: hot and sour soup with chicken and chocolate passion fruit dessert 

What I wore: a weird combination of a new sweater and tweed skirt, with tights. I should have worn wool tights, but I don’t have black ones. And a black Barbour down coat that is too tight in the arms and shoulders when worn over a sweater. 

Who went with me: the Bacon Provider and a lot of eager Kevin Kline fans.

How I got tickets: online, from Ticketmaster. Alas, they require you to pay quite a bit extra to get physical tickets, so I had to do the print-at-home deal. My preferred plan is to pick up tickets at will-call, so I don’t have to wait for them to come in the mail, store them, and remember to bring them. An 8 1/2 by 11” sheet of paper from my computer's printer with a bar code and some boxes of text describing the event is no substitute for actual tickets. Real tickets are memorabilia. E-tickets are trash.

Why I saw this show: I grew up in the same suburban St. Louis neighborhood as Kevin Kline, and back in the 80s I thought he was hilarious and brilliant.

Where I sat: Mezzanine Row A, seat 109, between my husband and a distracting woman who took up a lot of oxygen if not space.

Things that were sad: the acoustics were meh. I think the play would be better in a slightly smaller venue. 

Things that were funny: the chain-smoking Swedish housekeeper, the aggressive Trump-style injurious handshake of the wacky playwright, the baby-men business partners, slamming doors, ringing phones and doorbells. Kevin Kline is still hilarious and brilliant. What a joy to see great physical comedy live on stage. 

Things that were not funny: the actor who played the secretary seems to have been injured in the first act, and was wearing a bandage on her left wrist in the second act. The coffee that was served onstage over and over was said to taste like curry but in my excellent seats I could see plainly that it was water.   

What it is: another vehicle for an aging-but-vibrant actor; also a funny mid-20th Century farce from a true master of the genre about an aging-but-vibrant actor. 

Who should see it:  backstage comedy devotees, Kate Burton buffs, dressing gown enthusiasts, forties fashion fanciers, fools for redheads, Matt Bittner freaks, Ellen Harvey hounds, latchkey lovers, hat mavens, Noël Coward nuts, suckers for the mellifluous baritone of Peter Francis James, Reg Rogers regulars, Kristine Nielsen groupies; admirers of Tedra Millan (it’s her Broadway debut), Kevin Kline cultists, disciples of Cobie Smulders, and Bhavesh Patel boosters.

What I saw on the way home: jackhammers

I saw “The Light Years”

What I saw: “The Light Years,” a play by The Debate Society, at Playwright’s Horizons, 416 West 42nd Street, in Manhattan, on the south side of the street after the scaffolding ends but before the Hudson River, on that weird off-Broadway strip of theaters I can’t keep from confusing with each other. 

What I did beforehand: the first year we lived in New York, I thought that coming into the city on a MetroNorth train was like riding an futuristic satellite elevator from an orbiting space station to the surface of the planet. The atmosphere was different. And the gravity. The conductors needed shiny silver suits, of course, but I used my imagination  Five years later, I don’t feel like a prisoner here as much as I did then. Still, the way the train dives under the streets just south of Harlem means the commuters have to emerge from under the city’s skin, like parasites hatching. I brought homemade beer, anyway.

Not The Graduate. But almost.

What I wore: Chinese-made Australian boots, new James skinny jeans, black Brooks Brothers fitted cotton blouse, too long Eileen Fisher cardigan, hoop earrings, gold bead necklace, black parka, favorite rag & bone scarf.

Who went with me: The Graduate and his gf S; she liked my jewelry.

How I got tickets: about a week ago, online. They were the last three seat available.

Why I saw this show: it was billed as a “spectacular tribute to man’s indomitable spirit of invention.”

Where I sat: Row B, Seat 5, next to two unoccupied seats on one side and a woman who laughed too much on the other side. I, also, laughed too much.

Things that were sad: [spoilers]

Things that were funny: lightbulbs, songs, monologues, promises, and a bucket.

Things that were not funny: this one time I was brushing my teeth and I went to put the toothpaste back in the medicine cabinet and got shocked by it. This is the primary memory I have of the place we lived in Salt Lake City in the mid-80s.

Something I ate: a bag of peanuts in the lobby

At a food museum near the theater

What it is: an unusual play about the creators of the 12,000-seat theater called The Spectatorium for the Chicago World’s Fair of 1893. 

Who should see it: electricians, Chicago aficionados, history buffs, aluminum evangelists, love story bugs, theater nerds, devotees of the Depression, bicycle enthusiasts, folding attic stairs fanatics, dirigible fanciers, soliloquy fiends,  junk junkies, lovers of lightbulbs, milk maniacs, World’s Fair nuts, suckers for jingles, impresario connoisseurs, and anyone who’s ever wondered if there’s an inventor living in their attic

What I saw on the way home: the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal, with its light-bulb constellations .

I saw "Sweat"

What I saw: "Sweat," a play, at the theater known as Studio 54, on West 54th Street in Manhattan.

What I did beforehand: PT on my right knee which I found out this week hurts not because of a ligament tear (hooray!), but because of arthritis (boo!). I was happy about this for perhaps 12 hours, until I realized it meant that instead of surgeryI was facing some amount of knee pain for the rest of my life, which I would get to manage henceforward. Then I went and got my hair cut. 

What I wore: plaid wool dress, ripped tights and Fluevog boots. 

Who went with me: B., a friend of my parents, who I've known since I was a kid, and haven't seen since 2004.

How I got tickets: online as soon as the new venue was announced after missing the chance to see this show's sold-out run at The Public Theater. 

Why I saw this show: rave reviews.

Where I sat: Row A, on the end, with no one in front of us. 

Things that were sad: this perfectly paced play is about the destruction of working class lives thanks to the relentless forces of unchecked American capitalism. 

Things that were funny: it is not a funny play, but it is not without humor.

Things that were not funny: the venue shows evidence of having been painted, as if current management accepts that audiences look askance at obvious shabbiness, but it’s like someone’s brother-in-law got them a really good deal on many gallons matte black paint and the paint was applied by people who’d never painted before, and as quickly as possible. Crumbling theater venues can do shabby gloriously, like BAM’s facilities. Studio 54 looks like the party ended in 1980, and they just woke up and swept a little.

Something I ate: confetti eggplant and filleted whole durade, part of a really fine and fun meal sitting at the bar of Taboon, on 52nd and 10th Ave. When you go, make a reservation. Share the entrees and order lots of meze plates. 

What it is: a big (and by this I also mean important), serious play with a strong ensemble cast. If this was not the best play I’ve seen in the last year, it was certainly in the top five. Tackling issues of economic uncertainty and race relations in America with fully fleshed-out characters and meaningful stakes, “Sweat” engages on all the levels the talking heads on TV don’t.

Who should see it: line workers, strugglers, bartenders, union members, strike breakers, white supremacists, people who’ve done time, conservatives, drunks, survivors, managers, liberals, know-it-alls.

What I saw on the way home: the dark Saw Mill River Parkway, built with bridges too low for buses, so only passenger cars could use it and specifically buses could not, stretched out before me in a familiar blur. This road is like everything we’ve ever done in America.

I saw "Sunset Boulevard"

What I saw: “Sunset Boulevard," a musical, on Broadway at the Palace Theater at Broadway and 47th.

What I did beforehand: riding lesson, dog walk, shower; drove to town, walked to train station, waited on the platform outside because the heated waiting area smelled like farts, heard an announcement that the train was running 15 minutes late. Heard a Connected Teen say “Whoa. Like, the next train is at like, Goldens Bridge and like, running 40 minutes late.” 

I texted the Bacon Provider. He encouraged me to like, bail on the train and drive. So I did. It was a relatively quick drive to the city, followed by a slow crawl while I figured out parking. Never trust navigation software about getting places within NYC. They’re all wrong. 

What I wore: yellow Fluevog men-styled oxfords, black mini-cord pants, purple Eileen Fisher sweater, dangly gold earrings. 

Who went with me: my friend S, who also wore purple.

How I got tickets/Why I saw this show: S suggested it, and booked them.

Where I sat: Mezzanine Row E, somewhere in the middle of the row, between S. and a French-speaking woman with a Québécois accent who was writing things down in a notebook during the production, took out her phone and caught a photograph during the first act and failed to suppress her flash. 

Things that were sad: we were scolded, as a group, for having and using phones by an irate usher during intermission. The woman next to me, who was the one who took the flash photo, sat calmly eating from her bag of ROLD GOLD® Tiny Twists Pretzels and made no indication that she heard the usher at all.

Things that were funny: the original movie version of Sunset Boulevard is a Hollywood classic , directed by Billy Wilder. The dark and slightly campy film-noir inspired many zingers and spoofs over the years, and any time a classic line is uttered in this production the audience burst into cheering. 

Things that were not funny: when we left, there were a number of pretzels on the ground next to my seat, broken and ground into crumbs.

Something I ate: meatballs at the Marshal.

What it is: a big, glossy Broadway vehicle for the aging movie star, with soaring music by Andrew Lloyd Webber, a large, full orchestra, and most of the good lines fans of the original film are looking for. Maybe Glenn Close isn't quite the singer to deliver the songs as perfectly as they could be sung; certainly it mattered not at all, and maybe was better for her imperfect pitch. 

Who should see it: Glenn Close groupies, film-noir aficionados, Broadway buffs,  admirers of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Billy Wilder boosters, pretzel-loving Quebeckers. 

What I saw on the way home: mounted NYPD, but after that, just the road.

I saw “The Penitent”

What I saw: “The Penitent,” a new play by David Mamet, at the Atlantic Theater Company in the Chelsea neighborhood of Manhattan, on West 20th Street. 

What I did beforehand: baked bread, drove to the city, found on-street parking which was free and not illegal and it made the afternoon feel like winning a prize when you didn't even buy a raffle ticket, got cappuccinos at Grumpy's. 

What I wore: Doc Martens, black micro-cord jean leggings from James Jeans, black shirt with white dots, shirt and sweater I found on my closet floor, parka.

Who went with me: the Bacon Provider

How I got tickets: via phone, in December. I forgot to put it on the calendar in my phone and  booked something else the night before and thought maybe we'd make a theater-weekend of it, but then other stuff came up and we just drove back and forth. Sorry, planet. Next time I will take the train.

Why I saw this show: David Mamet.

Where I sat: row E, seat 9, behind the only empty seat in the theater and surrounded by old white people. I assumed the empty seat was saved for the director, or 44, or Jesus, and in the moments between scenes where they dimmed the lights onstage and re-arranged the table and two chairs and the women next to me whispered intrusively, I thought about what it would be like to have the director, or 44, or Jesus sitting directly in front of me and I decided I wouldn't be able to concentrate.

Things that were sad: the forces of evil in this play (homophobia, mental illness, media manipulation, capitalism, the legal system) exert their will upon the characters but cannot be confronted or thwarted. 

Things that were not funny/funny: lawyers can be funny as all hell.

Something I ate: bread and cheese in the car on the way there.

What it is: another subtly brilliant Mamet play, which might feel like a masterpiece to those who've been sued, and might feel dry as toast to anyone else, with four actors and one brief intermission. 

Who should see it: lawyers, libelers, therapists, ethicists, people who like crime dramas, language mavens, fans of Mamet, people who have been libeled.  

What I saw on the way home: we made excellent time, and were buoyed by the language of America's master playwright, but an especially big white SUV wandered menacingly linto our lane on the Saw Mill Parkway up around Elmsford, and I had to honk. 

I saw “All the Fine Boys”

What I saw: The New Group’s production of “All the Fine Boys,” a new play written and directed by Erica Schmidt at the Pershing Square Theater, on West 42nd between 9th and 10th in Manhattan.

What I did beforehand: woke at first light realizing that I’d fallen asleep and left the bread dough in its bulk rise on the counter overnight so it was ruined, made new bread dough for party the next day, called favorite NYC restaurant seeking a reservation and failed to obtain one, glumly walked dogs, resignedly changed, absently drove to city, inadvertently made excellent time, parked in garage, walked to favorite restaurant, noticed they weren’t even open yet, got a table anyway on the promise that we’d be gone by 6 pm, ate a terrific meal, left an extravagant but not unwarranted tip, walked to theater, drank a tea and a beer because sometimes you need both.

What I wore: 90s-era black Doc Martens, favorite jeans (actually clean this time), almost enormous 80s black silk blouse, loose-knit black linen sweater, larger than necessary gold hoop earrings, ponytail, mascara

Who went with me: the Bacon Provider, who only likes plays with happy endings

How I got tickets: in December, online.

Why I saw this show: I subscribed to the season.

Where I sat: Row A, Seat 3,  between a guy who wanted my attention to tell me things about famous people in the audience, and my husband, who is indifferent to the seeing of and commenting on famous people.

Things that were sad/ not funny: in a play where one character crossed the rapids of the river of adolescence by choosing a good stone to step onto and landed safely on the other bank, but another character chose a stone that looked just as good but was tragically wrong, there was not the happy ending the Bacon Provider prefers.

Things that were funny: a soundtrack of 80s hits, a stack of 80s horror movies, snacking on Pringles and Twizzlers.

Something I ate: deviled eggs at The Marshal.

What it is: another good play with Joe Tippett in it, this intermission-free, 100-minute production moves quickly, tackles some very scary coming-of-age subject matter, and features three other fine performers. 

Who should see it: people unafraid of strong, sexual subject matter with 14-year-old protagonists. 

What I saw on the way home: a bit of rain as a cold front had moved in while we were at the theater.

I saw “Man of Good Hope”

What I saw: “Man of Good Hope” at the BAM Opera House in Brooklyn, NY

"I think this is an opera house.

See how it says 'opera?'"

What I did beforehand: drove to Brooklyn, being re-routed twice, and arriving to discover that the parking garage described on the website did not exist (and there was a coupon you had to print out to use it). Also, there was a Rangers game at the Barclay Center, so the streets of downtown Brooklyn were full of sober, pre-game hockey fans.

What I wore: Chinese-made Australian boots, favorite jeans, Tanner indigo belt, feelings sweater, earrings that kept trying to fall out.

Who went with me: my dear friend W., who was born in Zambia.

How I got tickets: online, when I realized I would not, as promised, be able to take her to the recent revival of “Master Harold and the Boys” because those tickets were $30 and they sold like hotcakes.

Why I saw this show: I am a sucker for a story about refugees.

Where I sat: Mezzanine Row A, seat 18

Things that were sad: stories about refugees are always filled with death and fear and loss and terrible set-backs.

Things that were funny/not funny: the part about the little boy living on the streets of Nairobi who went from one house to the next and every night had a dinner with a different family, and the song about how America is safe, how there are no guns here, how everyone drives big trucks and everyone is rich.

Something I ate: hummus and pita chips, standing in the lobby, while trying to balance a beer in my other hand. 

What it is: a profoundly moving, engrossing, and lively production, featuring African music and dance and a refugee story that is both utterly like and unlike any others. 

Who should see it: people who, like me, believe that all shows should have live music; people who, like me, believe that if you are going to have live music you must place the musicians where the audience can see them; people who, like me, who are working very hard right now to remember what good things America is supposed to represent to people in the rest of the world; people who, like me, know and love several immigrants.

What I saw at home, two days later: W. texted me that she was still thinking about it. 

I am, too.