a horse of a different color

Oh, you know me. Another weekend, another fabulous benefit.  

This one was at the racetrack!

I love Del Mar. Have we discussed this? It's the epitome of summer out there, such a gorgeous venue and festive atmosphere. I love the horseys and the wee baby jockeys and crusty old gamblers and the fabulous hats. Not necessarily in that order. 

The benefit was held in a fancy room on the 6th floor of the grandstand. The views were spectacular.  

 

Here's Shannon, have you ever seen a girl so happy to be working a charity event? 

There was a raffle pull in between each race, wherein women in large lids enlisted small children to choose tickets. It was awesome due to the "snooze you loose" factor. It was almost as cutthroat as mail call at Casa Ravioli Simmons.

Oh, and look at the blimp!

In honor of nerdicon, occuring concurrently in San Diego on this particular weekend.

Imagine the view from that blimp?

Anyhoo. There was a lovely luncheon and a lovely bar, and lots of lovely people to meet and greet.

and there were baskets and bid sheets, natch

There was also a handicapper!

His name was Bert. Or Bud? Buddy?

He was awesome, he had lots and lots and lots of helpful information about all of the horseys.

The winning formula was to listen carefully to all of Bert/Buddy's tips, then write them down so you'd remember not to bet a clucking penny you ever wanted to see again on any of his top picks.

But he was so shweet. (bastard)

Our fancy grandstand room also boasted its own betting window, which was awesome. The guy on the left was 900 years old and deaf, but didn't miss a trick. 

And there were hats! So many hats. So many poorly photographed hats.

This one won the hat contest.

Only the VIPs were invited to visit the paddock with Bert/Buddy

livin the dream

There's an inappropriate joke in here about being escorted by the handicapper to the handicapped section of the paddock....

Here are all the tickets I did not win

But winning isn't everything! It was a beautiful day at the races.

Next benefit is for me, to recover the losses.

These two girls

I took a bazillion photos of these two girls on the 4th of July. These two girls were so happy to be hanging out together. Both the 3rd of 3 children, they tend to be dragged to the activities of their older siblings, where they merrily go about their business making friends with whomever, because, well, because they're the 3rd of 3 children.

But on the 4thof July they had each other, actual friends, to play with - all day long. You may remember that and the taller, blue-eyed girl is actually the girl that my girl, also pictured, gave a recent, unplanned (at least by herself and her parents) haircut to.

(Thank god she is the 3rd of 3 children, right?!?)

So, without further adieu, here is the pictorial recap of the day. From the perspective of the 3rd of 3 children:

Who needs a stinkin' towel?

Laughing on the boat.

Laughing and holding on for dear life on the boat.

Cute and normal photos, right?

Well, hold on. Once the sun went down, and their parents gave up all effort of trying to keep them any where close to tidy, this is what these two girls looked like:

Crazy, dirty, dirty, whirling dervishes ;)

These two girls.

Beat The Heat

Remember back last winter how cold it was around these parts?

8 a.m., January 24, 2013

Yeah, that cold.

Well to compare apples to apples -- as it were -- here's the same thermometer, in the same place, at the same time of day, six months later:

8 a.m., July 19, 2013

Baby, it's hot outside.

But just as we intrepidly conquered the Deep Freeze, well, shoot, this is a shoreline community. If *we* can't beat the heat, who can?

Step one: Go To The Beach.

Preferably one with Ledgie Light beyond one's tootsie-toes.

Step Two: Watch the kayakers.

Preferably with Ledgie Light beyond the kayakers.

Step Three: Enjoy the Mystic Clipper.

Preferably with Ledgie Light beyond the Ol' Girl.

Step Four: Stare down the Seagulls.

Preferably with Ledgie Light beyond the greedy bastids.

Yeah, you.

Step Five: Watch the ferries come and go:

Oh hello Cape Henlopen.

Step Six: Be joined by Mistah.

Oh hello Mistah.

Step Seven: Give Mistah the camera.

Steps Eight through Forty-Seven:

Repeat.

(sideways) (for now) T shirt wisdom

...and flash vague gang signs

Two time loser

A lawyer I went to see a few years ago, when I was first contemplating a second divorce, said offhandedly when I expressed my desire to try to stay married, that if I didn't I'd be a "two-time loser."

That term stuck with me. And brought to mind other terms, some of which gave me some latitude, such as "three strikes and you're out." Three? Well, this was only a potential second!

Time passed, the marriage deteriorated, and now I am officially that particular attorney's definition of a two-time loser.

Only I'm not.

I'm so winning.

I haven't won the game yet, or clinched any titles. But I am in the lead. I'm ahead.

It's true that I'm a twice divorced mother of three, who has two baby daddies (but again, two is not three). My name has changed so often in the past decade that the current-and-past-identities section (aka, the aka section) of my recent title documents was a list of seven names, and, my name will more than likely change again (back to my maiden name, which is already my middle name, which could be kinda tricky).

But I digress.....

The point is that I sound like a train wreck. And I'm sure that there are people out there who think of me as such. The great PurcellSimonsenCordasco two-time losing train wreck.

Only I'm not.

I am emotionally healthier than I've ever been. Or at least that I've been since I hit puberty. I am so much closer to not giving a flying fuck about what people think or say abut me than I ever have been, because, well, (a) I probably don't want to hear it, and (b), and more importantly, because what matters is what I think about what I think and say about (and to) myself.

As the saying goes, 

I am free to be who I am, and who I want to become. I no longer have the white-picket-fence, perfect-heterosexual-nuclear-suburban family ideal to live up to. I shattered that one, not on purpose, but it's broken beyond repair nonetheless. It no longer fits. And never can again.

It's an ideal with merit, one that has been around for many decades. I am truly happy for, and somewhat in awe of, my friends that are thriving and happy living this life. Congratulations all around for the ample hard work and tenacity, and perhaps the bit of luck, that it takes to make it work -- to go the distance.

 I couldn't do it. I tried and I failed.

But my failure at this (my two-time loser-ness), is the exact entryway into my success at something else. What that something else is, exactly, has not quite yet been determined. But I'm hopeful, and ready, and willing to take it on.

The Best Mailbox in New London

We had the worst mailbox in New London.

We also have a spot on our camera lens, 
but that's not important right now.

It was a huge eyesore, a terrible blind spot. We just kept not noticing the rusty old green mailbox, which used to hang on the front porch railing, but which therefore made all the mail wet, was now instead leaning up against the house -- for years -- looking downright decrepit and embarrassing.

I mean, we take pride in our house and our front porch. It was a Blind Spot Extraordinaire.

One day we were home when our lovely letter carrier Lori delivered our mail and we said to her, "We just realized we have the Worst Mailbox in New London." She said, "Um, no you don't."

"Still," we replied, "we're going to do something about it."

Enter the City Classic.

One cannot just mount a City Classic on vinyl siding, though. No, first one first has to affix a mounting block to said siding, to then mount festive mail boxes.

Mounting block, check.

And one needs to drill pilot holes in said mounting block, with a 3/32 drill bit.

Oh dear, that must be the drill bit still inbedded in my bedroom window sill.

Wait, maybe Dad left me a 3/32 bit . . .

Thanks Dad.

Pilot holes drilled.

Next, one caulks those screw holes . . .

The only thing I love more than caulking
is the spout cutter on the caulk dispenser.

And while we've got the caulking gun out, how's about some caulking around the mounting block?

Oh, yeah.

And . . . voilà.

Oh, wait! One more thing:

Now we're talking. And what, you ask, did the most important and relevant person in New London think about the home improvement?

The Best Mailbox in New London.