sweet-faced creatures who looked like Dr. Seuss drawings ; I would attend the Puyallup State Fair so that I could pet the cows. And of course, I loved horses and always had: especially my own.
With the proceeds of my WaMu settlement, the prior June when I’d caught on at Vectron, I had both of them trailered down . Now what business did I have, you ask , puffing up lik e a GOP Senator, your jowls spilling over your neck , to keep horses when I was stone-ass broke ? Lately, I hadn’t been able to afford their board, paying $400 at a time when I was lucky enough to be working . Why then, didn’t I sell them, relieving me of a huge financial burden and getting some cash in the bargain ?
Let me try to express it, Dear Reader. Just watching them calmly chewing their hay or enjoying Mrs. Pastures cookies brought a sense of inner peace that for me was rarer than happiness. I had owned both of them for six years. I had nursed them back from near-fatal colic and a serious leg injury . When I was out on the trail – saddle creaking like they did in the old Westerns – barely touching the re ins since Murdoch knew what to do – my troubles fell away, and the days, normally fraught with fear, panic , and sweat, took on another aura – another era – and I was a cowboy riding the plains ; a centaur whose hooves smacked the soft dirt as I loped slowly uphill . In other words, the horses gave me a reason to live.
Rachel had no time for such lyricism . She was a dollar s -and-cents gal, and she had plenty of both . Indulgence was not to be borne, unless you could pay for it upfront. Pleasure must come from hefty principal, not monthly payment plans.
“What?” I thought she had just said something.
“What is the situation with the horses? Why is ‘B oard ’ an expense? Do you still have them?”
“Well. . .” I contemplated lyi ng, but hated that . “Yes.”
She went into full c orporat e crisis mode .
“ Amy ! Haven’t we discussed selling them? Just give them away! They need to go – now!” I was surprised she wasn’t clicking through a PowerPoint presentation .
“Well…” I stumbled, clutching at the errant spreadsheet. “I haven’t really been able to pay for them. The last time was $400 in February – as you see . ” I pointed to a lonely cell.
“Unacceptable!” Each strand of her shoulder-length hair, dyed a light brown, seemed angry. I looked at her face – drawn from year s of stress; from trying to do it all and in the process make everyone happy . “I will not p ay for tho se horses! I will withdraw my support if they’re not gone by the end of the month.”
I looked down. She had already reduced my monthly stipend to $1,600 . A punishment for hanging on. “Alright.” This time I meant it. I would leave them at the barn to be sold. I would abandon all of my tack, so this too could be traded for back-board.
I would cut off my bottom limbs and become a centaur without legs.
GREG
I mentioned early on that this book would contain a death . So let’s start at the very beginning, to quote a wise nanny, Maria .
It was February, 2010. Rachel’s money had kept us afloat until January, when – huzzah! – I scored another gig, this one at a fashion firm called CoutureBay.com . If you think the film business is wild, it’s nothing compared to fashion . I had three bosses in as many wee ks, each one gone so fast I can’t remember their names. I think that one was a woman.
IT sat at a giant counter in the middle of the ope n floor, bookended by racks of 7 For All Mankind jeans; DKNY jackets ; Burberry scarves and hats . Everyone who worked there – except for IT – looked like a budding model, thigh-high boots matching D&G bag s on zero-fat young bodies. The guys didn’t walk – they glided . My presence there was hilarious: I cared as much about fashion as Anne Hathaway in Devil Wears Prada before she starts wearing Prada. But steady work – and an income I earned myself –
With the proceeds of my WaMu settlement, the prior June when I’d caught on at Vectron, I had both of them trailered down . Now what business did I have, you ask , puffing up lik e a GOP Senator, your jowls spilling over your neck , to keep horses when I was stone-ass broke ? Lately, I hadn’t been able to afford their board, paying $400 at a time when I was lucky enough to be working . Why then, didn’t I sell them, relieving me of a huge financial burden and getting some cash in the bargain ?
Let me try to express it, Dear Reader. Just watching them calmly chewing their hay or enjoying Mrs. Pastures cookies brought a sense of inner peace that for me was rarer than happiness. I had owned both of them for six years. I had nursed them back from near-fatal colic and a serious leg injury . When I was out on the trail – saddle creaking like they did in the old Westerns – barely touching the re ins since Murdoch knew what to do – my troubles fell away, and the days, normally fraught with fear, panic , and sweat, took on another aura – another era – and I was a cowboy riding the plains ; a centaur whose hooves smacked the soft dirt as I loped slowly uphill . In other words, the horses gave me a reason to live.
Rachel had no time for such lyricism . She was a dollar s -and-cents gal, and she had plenty of both . Indulgence was not to be borne, unless you could pay for it upfront. Pleasure must come from hefty principal, not monthly payment plans.
“What?” I thought she had just said something.
“What is the situation with the horses? Why is ‘B oard ’ an expense? Do you still have them?”
“Well. . .” I contemplated lyi ng, but hated that . “Yes.”
She went into full c orporat e crisis mode .
“ Amy ! Haven’t we discussed selling them? Just give them away! They need to go – now!” I was surprised she wasn’t clicking through a PowerPoint presentation .
“Well…” I stumbled, clutching at the errant spreadsheet. “I haven’t really been able to pay for them. The last time was $400 in February – as you see . ” I pointed to a lonely cell.
“Unacceptable!” Each strand of her shoulder-length hair, dyed a light brown, seemed angry. I looked at her face – drawn from year s of stress; from trying to do it all and in the process make everyone happy . “I will not p ay for tho se horses! I will withdraw my support if they’re not gone by the end of the month.”
I looked down. She had already reduced my monthly stipend to $1,600 . A punishment for hanging on. “Alright.” This time I meant it. I would leave them at the barn to be sold. I would abandon all of my tack, so this too could be traded for back-board.
I would cut off my bottom limbs and become a centaur without legs.
GREG
I mentioned early on that this book would contain a death . So let’s start at the very beginning, to quote a wise nanny, Maria .
It was February, 2010. Rachel’s money had kept us afloat until January, when – huzzah! – I scored another gig, this one at a fashion firm called CoutureBay.com . If you think the film business is wild, it’s nothing compared to fashion . I had three bosses in as many wee ks, each one gone so fast I can’t remember their names. I think that one was a woman.
IT sat at a giant counter in the middle of the ope n floor, bookended by racks of 7 For All Mankind jeans; DKNY jackets ; Burberry scarves and hats . Everyone who worked there – except for IT – looked like a budding model, thigh-high boots matching D&G bag s on zero-fat young bodies. The guys didn’t walk – they glided . My presence there was hilarious: I cared as much about fashion as Anne Hathaway in Devil Wears Prada before she starts wearing Prada. But steady work – and an income I earned myself –
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