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Welcome to my own personal lifelong dream come true. This is the backdrop for where I’ve begun (at last!) formal horseback riding lessons. Still sniffling and somewhat under the weather from my persistent cold, having canceled on brunches and parties and even my mom’s birthday this past weekend, I kept one commitment: I showed up to ride a pony in Woodside on Sunday morning. I didn’t have the contact information for the instructor (it was on my work email, which I thankfully have not yet had to access on the weekend), and they were expecting me. Being a no-show for my very first lesson wasn’t even a consideration.

Luckily, the sun was out and the sky was clear. It was almost warm that day, even. Isn’t it just stunning?

Not far from the meadow I’m pictured in, there are several stables (as above), many paddocks, a spattering of roofed and roofless pens of various sizes, and at least one arena for jumping or fencing. That’s where I train! The facilities are nestled in a heavily wooded park just between our home and the Pacific Coast, with redwoods and oaks and creeks and meadows and madrones, much of which is only accessible by foot or horseback.

As I drove through the tiny, old-fashioned downtown of Woodside, my breath caught at how completely beautiful and lush everything looked. Things suddenly felt surreal. You know how taking off on a flight for some yet unexplored destination doesn’t feel quite real, like you won’t actually believe it’s happening until you touch down in a world entirely different from any you’ve known? It felt just like that, but instead like landing. A smooth, graceful, dreamy landing.

The tires of my car bit into the gravel of the small parking lot canopied by all the trees (one of my absolute favorite sounds, next only to walking in it), and I parked and stepped out of my car. I seemed to be the only person around and hoped I hadn’t botched the time in an OTC-drugged haze, and then I stopped dead still.

I saw them. At least a dozen horses, some with their little cold weather coats on, some ignoring me, some craning their necks curiously, all of them gorgeous and possessed with distinctly unique personalities. I had to force myself not to cry in awe and gratitude. After a few moments I looked up the hill and saw a few stablemen in the distance, fussing over a gorgeous black horse with white markings, so I headed there. They sent me back down the hill, past the parking lot to the arena, where a boy no older than ten or eleven was practicing jumps with his pony and a trainer. She sent me back uphill to the stables, and as I reached the top, a little winded, I saw him.

Dakota! His reigns were held loosely in my trainer’s hand, who smiled at me and told me I was early. I had no idea. I thought I was late! Without much ado at all, the trainer gave me the reigns, told me to walk Dakota to the mounting block and get acquainted, as he had to fetch waiver papers he’d forgotten back in the office for me to sign.

Just like that, I was a girl all alone holding the reigns of a big, dark chocolate brown horse with a jet black mane and big, open brown eyes. Just like that.

We walked. I led, Dakota followed politely. I cooed and passed my hand along his cheek and nose, peering into those bright, shining eyes. He appraised me then leaned in reassuringly. We’d reached the mounting block. The trainer came back and I completed the form, snapped my helmet on (the bangs will have to be grown out immediately as they do not at all agree with helmets), went through the motions of cinching the saddle before hoisting myself up to begin the lesson. From there it was easy, the ghosts of lessons I’d taken years ago shaking off dust and taking form again. We kept the lesson simple, basic. Dakota and I have to get used to one another before moving on to more advanced areas, but that will all happen in due time.

I feel tremendously lucky and like I’ve got a missing piece of my heart back again.

This blog is obviously about to get heavily equestrian in the next few months, so I hope you’ll bear with me. When ski season ends, I’ll be taking weekly lessons at least. This outfit (getting back to the essentials) isn’t much: a pair of Banana Republic extra-skinny jeans, a Ralph Lauren Polo wool turtleneck with suede patches, the black jacket by Gap and Lamica boots.

I got home late tonight. My last frantic moments at work today involved calling 84,000 cab and car service companies to try and get my colleagues to a mansion for an event I wasn’t attending. (Despite a great deal of peer pressure for me to attend for “just one drink” or to ” pop by for a second” and “mingle for a few minutes” etc.)

I myself attempted to catch a taxi to get to my hair appointment .9 miles away, but there were no taxis to be found, and so I hoofed it the entire way, showing up 20 minutes late, sweat upon my brow, breathless. God bless my stylist, for he swooped me with reassurance into his chair and regaled me with stories of Autumnal surfing whilst perfecting my fringe.

After that, I bounced out of the salon with the kind of self-satisfaction that comes with a head of meticulously cut hair, hopped into a taxi snagged from a guest checking into the Hotel Triton, and it whisked me off to Cask at 3rd and Market. There I picked up some orange bitters, a bottle of Combier, and enough Bulleit to warrant an officiously stamped carry-along cardboard box.

You know what else all that warranted? A bloody taxi home.

You know what else I did while I was there? I hung out with Tom Bulleit, the great-great-grandson of Augustus Bulleit, and the man behind the revival of the brand and the bourbon. He was a real treat – a gentleman through and through – cheerfully waving his handlers away to linger over an old barrel conversing with me about everything from the wonder of Gaudi architecture to NOLA to Cool Hand Luke and then some, and not only indulging my request to take a photo, but insisting on taking ones of his own to “beam to the Facebooks” and such.

I had him sign a special bottle for M. She adores it, and ran it right into the bedroom to place on her shelf reserved for only her most handsome, manly things.

So that’s why I was late. Late enough to miss all the day’s light and late enough to miss my turn to take the dogs out, almost too late to cook dinner, but that’s why God invented casseroles. M & the petite came with me to take some HIGH FLASH photography of this outfit at a mini-park nearby. The petite fell off a swing. I mangled myself on the monkey bars. The tomboy employed some rather interesting engineering for just the right lighting and hilarity ensued, and when we all came barreling back through the front door, the house smelled of our smoky Havana candles and of dinner baking in the oven.

Blazer: Banana Republic
Blouse: H&M
Pants: Silence + Noise
Necklace: Betsey Johnson
Oversized Clutch: Vintage
Boots: Lamica
Hair: Paul @ Elevation Salon

Since a post titled this wouldn’t be complete without it, here:

We adore this woman more than we can possibly say. I wish to God she existed in present day, as our drunk ass BFF:

Tie one on! A trench, that is. I came out of summer wanting a classic khaki trench. I searched high and low, was displeased with everything, nearly went to H&M to buy theirs, and then I found this. Is it neutral? Hell no, it’s not. Is it fabulous and do people die with envy every time I wear it out? Totes. I’ve even caught women scowling at it.

I adore it. The lining is wonderful, it’s a sturdy, almost canvas-weight cotton, and insanely fierce things happen when the collar pops.

Last night M held paws hands with Bird on the couch, all the laundry that had been delivered at 7:30AM sharp that morning had been unwrapped and carefully put away, and the Coq Au Gratin we cooked for dinner was a success, pure comfort food. Alas, there was a rapist loose in SF and unrelenting news of gay teens taking their lives. The former was giving me nightmares. I woke up adrenalized because my muscle memory started drilling self-defense techniques. My heart rate quickened, my breath fast.

This morning brought news of yet another beautiful, gay teenage boy’s suicide, and by this afternoon someone had called in a tip and the rapist was taken into custody. Somewhere in between I made small talk with the nurse whose entire flu shot operation was set up in one of our videoconference rooms at work, and the inactivated virus being pumped into my arm through a tiny needle smarted like hell.

I’m so grateful for everything I have in my life, yet there’s a piece of me that aches for it to be better – mostly in ways I can’t control, like wishing our sponsor baby in Ecuador wasn’t in the middle of violent civil unrest, wishing there weren’t rapists about our neighborhood or gay kids killing themselves before their glorious lives have even had the chance to really begin at all.

Every story takes the wind out of me. As a woman, as a mother.

Autostraddle has a great post up right now, so heartbreaking but also so good and real. Please go and read it. I really like the idea of the It Gets Better project. There will be a film crew at the Castro Street Fair this weekend recording people’s stories for it, so that’s really lovely and maybe some of you will go and tell your stories, try to save a life.

I do think we have to factor in a lot of the things which have played out politically, that are of course at the core personal – like all the gay marriage fights from state to state, DADT, the promises given by Obama that have amounted to next to nothing at best – it’s all sending a message to our society, and that’s manifesting in emboldened violence, ignorance and bigotry. It’s lending tacit justification to more fragile or vulnerable kids that the terrible nagging voice within them (or that of their parents or their bullies) is right: I’m worthless. I’m not equal. I have something to be ashamed of. I have nowhere to turn, no one to protect me. I’m not worth anything.

When our rights reflect the prejudiced so-called values and religious beliefs of those who hate us, what fighting chance is there for our kids, let alone our future?

It’s appalling to me that the biggest figure to address these death is Ellen (bless her heart). Here in CA, the terminator signed the new Mental Health Services for At-Risk Youth Act bill into law Thursday, which “expands access to essential mental health services, especially prevention and early intervention programs for youths ages 12-17 by allowing them to obtain counseling without parental consent.” That’s a big, important step. We had a statement from the U.S. Secretary of Education Arne Duncan today. He says: “This is a moment where every one of us – parents, teachers, students, elected officials, and all people of conscience – needs to stand up and speak out against intolerance in all its forms.”

What would you say, either as a gay person or a straight ally, to these kids who are suffering so much?

Trench: Richard Chai for Target
Dress: H&M
Boots: Lamica
Broach: Vintage
Nails: Wham Bam Glam by MAC
Kitten: Nosy, taunted the pups. New to the ‘hood. I haven’t dubbed her yet, but I’m leaning toward Chubby.

Hi, there. Have I mentioned that I joined a book club and we’re gearing up to read Anna Karenina? It’s true. I’m so excited. Nevermind that I’m concurrently working my way through a half dozen or so books right now, a book club is just what I need. Assignments, discipline, discourse! The timing also excites me. We might be in the throes of an Indian summer now, but this 838-page edition, translated by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky, will last us well into Autumn.

There’s also this rather modern version, you know, they’re calling it Android Karenina.

I’m told my translation is by far the superior one, by someone who would know.

I’m just a little bit fretful that my copy is brand new. Time constraints prevented me from purchasing a more storied, gently loved tome. The result is that it’s got zero street cred and no personality, as far as the lovely tactile nuances of books go. Sadface. I’ve already appealed to the book club not to laugh at it’s horrible shiny newness when they see it.

Compared to one other girl’s edition from the 1960s, mine is like an obnoxious Marina girl standing next to a chic Parisienne who dates moody beat poets and nonchalantly poses topless and smoking for artistic black and white photos, and so on.

What else is knew? We’ve had a series of incredible cocktails at home this week, created on-the-fly by yours truly and as I type this, the handsome one toils away in the kitchen while dinner cooks, peeling a cucumber to whip a batch of something boozy and delightful, I’m sure. Tuesday night we enjoyed French 75s with Boodles London Dry gin and a nice Charles de Fère Réserve Blanc de Blancs Brut. Last night I slapped together some Ketel One vodka with lavender-infused simple syrup, Domaine de Canton, fresh lemon juice & a sugar rim, and it was delicious.

M has emerged with the cocktails: Muddled cucumber with gin, Combier and Domaine de Canton, fresh lemon juice. It tastes like eating dirt and drinking lemonade at the same time (in a good way).

My round won the night’s experiments, however. Gin with French Berry sparkling lemonade, fresh lemon juice and lavender-infused simple syrup.

Let’s talk about this book! It’s called, obviously, The Secret of Scent, and it’s a fascinating read on the science of smell, very heavy on  olfactory theory. It is chock full of the most amazing diagrams of molecules and compounds and, I mean, I may or may not have googled whether or not there are tattoos for, say, tuberose or Astrotone out there. Luca Turin, the author, is a world-renowned biophysicist and a true giant in the world of fragrance. I had no idea that there was so much we still don’t know about smell.

Anyway, this outfit!

Tunic: Staccato
Leggings: Calvin Klein
Bag: Betsey Johnson
Boots: Lamica
Cuff: Dollywood
Lips: Revlon’s Just Bitten Lip Stain in Frenzy

These are all M’s favorite looks and pieces from Zara’s F/W Collection for Men. What do you think? She’s very into (as always) bulky, shawl-collared sweaters with bold patterns, sweaters that look like dead animals, and military detail. I like it all, but the oversize infinity scarf really threw me for a loop!

The other day we got into my car and realized I’d taken in all of my decent CDs and we didn’t have the iPod on hand, either. I glanced fretfully down at a book of CDs on the floor of the passenger side, filled mostly with Ani DiFranco, Bjork, Cowboy Junkies, The Cranberries, Massive Attack, Mazzy Star, Sarah Mclachlan, Tori Amos, etc.

It was basically the Big Lesbian CD Book of Shame & Processing, and/or Cry Sex circa forever ago, and I warned M about this in advance. There was a reason it was being kicked around on the filthy floor of my car. (I haven’t washed my car in, like, 2.5 years or something obscene like that. I digress.)

She picked it up anyway, trying not to gag at the first 3/4 worth of CDs. Toward the back were some random musical soundtracks and whatnot and she excitedly yanked one out of its plastic sleeve. “What’s that?” I asked, and she shoved it into the CD player. “I dunno, you wrote ‘fancy French femmes’ on it in Sharpie” which sounds just like something I’d do – not really helpful and only vaguely informative.

It started playing and I thought I heard The Doors, so I wrinkled my nose up and skipped forward a few tracks, at which point it began to sound like hot drunk French girls stumbling their way through covers of classic American rock ‘n roll at 3AM karaoke! It was so weird. I had no recollection of ever hearing any of it.

M looked just as confused/delighted. “What, were you dating someone French when you burned this CD?” she joked, and then we both looked at each other and giggled, because chances are I probably had been. Happily, we kept on driving, windows down and crazy French ladies crooning up.

She’s lucky she wasn’t getting an earful of Comme à la radio!

This outfit was thrown together for the new queer ladies night at Lime, about which I have nothing very nice to say, so I’ll just stop now!

Dress: Ruby Rox (I had to throw it away last night; it was pilling! So sad, it was comfy.)
Scarf: While it has got ponies and old-timey things on it, it’s not vintage, I don’t think. I’ll have to dig it up and look.
Terra Cotta Corset-Belt-Suspender Thing: Etsy
Belt w/ Pouch: Modcloth
Boots: Lamica
Leather: Zara

More San Francisco alley murals. More flat boots (the dog went and re-busted up my ankle fixin’ to fight some other dog on Monday night, just when I thought I was all healed up). MORE COVERT LESBIAN SMIRKING, courtesy of dear old Judge Walker’s incredible decision in the now very well known Proposition H8 trial. I thoroughly enjoy history being made in an irresistible hotbed of sexy, compelling, riveting logic, rationale, and sanity. It moves me.

I had the honor and privilege of being at the (not-nearly-as-open-to-the-public-as-I-thought) press conference that was held in the Banking Hall of the historic Bently Reserve in San Francisco yesterday, immediately following the announcement of the decision. The plaintiffs were there and spoke with eloquent emotion about how deeply grateful they were to the court, the legal team, their families and friends and colleagues, and of course, to one another for enduring the hell and glory of this battle for marriage equality. It wasn’t until Ted Olson took the podium, however, that I really began to get emotional. That man has a splendid command of words and speech, backed by a tremendous amount of authenticity.

It was out of this world to be in the presence of all of them, a wonderfully brave group of people who will live on forever as heroes to our community! If you haven’t already read or heard or watched what they all had to say at the press conference, you can catch some of it here.

Let us discuss this dress. I really love it. I bought it without even trying it on. The silk is beautifully lined but unforgiving, the kind that clips your natural stride by a quarter or perhaps even a third. I kind of like it, but saying so will probably make M call me a big old masochist. (I’m not, honest.) It looks a bit strange without the belt, but who cares? I have a belt! I’ve worn it dancing (with very sheer black hosiery instead of the thick leggings you see here), I’ve worn it to dinner, it’s one of my favorite finds of the year so far.

Dress: Castle Starr
Belt: H&M
Boots: Lamica
Tiny Hungarian Purse: Vintage
Necklace: Spoiled!

Sunday before last, we went to an epic brunch featuring an outstanding drag show at the Sir Francis Drake in San Francisco. This past Sunday, we went to an SF Giants vs. LA Dodgers ballgame, an exciting one, apparently, on account of the fact that the Giants were poised to sweep the Dodgers in the series. (I don’t speak baseball; forgive me any errors.)

On Saturday, however, M indulged my new lust for suspenders and bought me a pair of skinny ones from H&M, and I was dying to wear them. You know how it goes. (I am currently typing so speedily that M suspects I have Nasdaq trading windows open. I do not. Hello, the market’s closed. Except in Japan, but I’m so sure.)

So, yeah, this is what I wore to AT&T/PacBell Park. (Free drink for the first person to correctly name it, I really just can’t keep up.) One girl walking past literally squealed, pointed and exclaimed, “OOH, SUSPENDERS!” all gleefully. I felt more like a stable boy than anything else, but it was a really, really fun outfit to wear. Believe it or not, not a lick of what I’ve got on belongs to the tomboy. Not even the hat. That belongs to the petite, and it’s from Goorin Bros.

A girly girl in tomboy drag makes what?! I don’t know, but it was S U P E R.

Let’s break it down from head to toe!

Hat: Goorin Bros.
Suspenders: H&M
Shirt: RVCA
Trousers: RVCA
Boots: Lamica
Bag: Betsey Johnson
Sunglasses: Kenneth Cole

Last but not least, some pics from the day just for fun. The tomboy in her LA Dodgers garb, the consumption of cotton candy (do you know they come in flavors? I like blue the best, M prefers pink, how’s that for GENDERFUCKERY, yo), me feigning delight and excitement in a souvenir shop, boozing and the big, gloriously blue sky we were blessed with on game day…