Pardon me for a moment while I get out my soap box and dust it off. I feel a rant coming on.
I drove downtown the other day and passed on of those new fangled billboards with an ad for a gun shop on it. The guy in the ad, presumably the owner, had a giant and gorgeous dead leopard draped over his shoulders, which I guess he shot with one of those guns he sells. That ad pissed me off in several different ways, which I will now list, if I can remember them all.
1. We live in freaking South Carolina. How many people around these parts are going big game hunting? It’s all deer, squirrels, and ducks in this neck of the woods, all of which you pretty much can hit with your car. Maybe you might see the occasional wild boar or lost black bear. But leopards? Not so common in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
2. I am not a big fan of hunting in general, but if you plan to eat what you shoot, then I can respect it. Food is expensive. Hell, I am paying $5.99 a pound for organic boneless chicken breasts at Costco, so I understand that a little free and free range meat is a good thing. Leopards, on the other hand, are probably not such good eating. Nor are they local or sustainable. You have to go to where the leopards live, unless you are buddies with Ted Nugent or something. Big game hunting has nothing to do with feeding your family and everything to do with power and control. Look at that beautiful animal, I love it so much I am going to kill it? I don’t think so.
3. I am also not a big fan of guns. I’ve never even seen one up close and personal. But seriously, the Second Amendment was written at a very different time in history. Those colonial fuckers didn’t have a police force or a national guard or a war on drugs. They didn’t have roads or grocery stores or an infrastructure. So it made more sense in the 18th century for everyone to arm themselves. They needed to hunt for food and protect themselves from opportunists and Injuns. We don’t have the same issues today with our personal safety. We have cell phones to use in an emergency. We have easy transportation and security alarms and mace key chains.
4. And handguns? Does anyone really hunt with them? Who walks up to a deer and shoots it with a pistol? They are for shooting other people, are they not? That argument that guns don’t kill people, people kill people, is nonsense. People kill people with guns, not show tunes!
5. Why is violence such an acceptable part of society? I thought for a moment about saying American society, but really, it is a global problem. We don’t cane people here, or chop off heads or hands in a public square. We are quite fond, however, of all things involving shooting or blowing up. Based on our television dramas, you would think the whole world revolved around forensics and detective work, or the legal action that follows such investigations. If our movies are to be believed, we have quite a little problem with serial killers. And what is the fascination with blood spewing? We have increasingly violent video games, but if you put any of those teenagers in front of a live birth, they would all hurl based on the amount of blood and gunk involved in bringing a life into this world.
6. Why is it more entertaining to watch a life end violently than a new life begin peacefully? The pussy might not be pretty, but pussy is pussy! (See number 5.)
7. Now this may be a tangent, but I would have less of a problem with a billboard with a scantily clad busty woman sucking her own index finger than I do with the man draped in a dead cat. We don’t have a problem with extreme violence, but sex is a disgusting sin? Well, I don’t know about you, but I rather screw than get shot in the head. In fact, you don’t have to hold a gun to my head. I’m pretty much happy to do it.
8. Did it occur to the people who sold the ad that the billboard isn’t that far away from the city zoo? The zoo where we just got leopard triplets? I bet those kitties are shaking in their little fur coats over that one. And those poor little kids who have to see that ad. How confusing for them. "Mom, did that man shoot one of the new leopards?" 'No sweetie, but he would if he could."
I know I should keep at this until I get to ten reasons, but fuck it, I’ve lost my steam. Time to put away my soap box and go do the laundry. Or go clean my gun. Or maybe go watch some porn. As long as it isn’t a snuff film.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
A Purell Moment
My husband is a real stickler for washing new clothes when he brings them home from the store. It doesn’t matter to him if they are socks, briefs, or a button down shirt; he throws any and all new clothing into the wash before he will wear them. I used to think he did this just to create more work for me, seeing as how I am the laundry maven and all. I agreed with him to a point. I also wash all my new panties, nighties, and socks before I wear them, but it never occurred to me to wash everything. Not even after all the hoopla about bedbugs in clothing stores. But my little jaunt to TJ Maxx yesterday changed all that. I am now solidly on my husband’s side, and let the record show, HE IS RIGHT! And I am not afraid to admit it.
So, here we go. Swallow that last bite of cookie. Put down your iced tea. It’s going to get a little hairy.
I stopped by TJ Maxx yesterday, not for anything specific, because, seriously, who goes to TJ Maxx for something specific? It’s one step up from a flea market, which doesn’t stop me from shopping there, although after yesterday, it might. I was looking for stuff for a beach condo I am decorating, but when I didn’t find anything quite right, I scooted over to the bathing suits and perused the selection.It's about that time of year, and it's never too early to find a perfect swimsuit for less than a night's stay at a four star hotel.
As luck would have it,I found a really cute suit, which is a miracle because good bathing suits are harder to find than Waldo. The swimsuit was a black strapless one piece with a little twisty bandeau top and a very slight flouncy skirt. It was a far cry from an old lady tent swim dress, but it still provided the kind of coverage that a woman over forty with a slight weight problem and a little body dysmorphic syndrome could feel good about wearing. It did not have a product tag on it, just the store price tag, but I checked the size on the label and felt confident it would fit me. I liked it a lot but I didn’t have time to try it on, so I took it, along with a cute black and white top that I found, to the checkout counter.
I handed my shirt and swimsuit to the clerk and asked, “What is your return policy for swimsuits? I didn’t have time to try this on.”
She scanned the tag and said, “As long as you have your receipt and the original tag on it, you can return it.”
“What about the panty liner thing? Does it have to have that too?” I asked, turning the crotch inside out. “Oh Jesus, that’s disgusting! Don’t worry about it, because I am not buying it!”
We both looked at the crotch of the bathing suit. It had been used. On the black fabric was evidence that a naked crotch had touched it. In layman’s terms, there was a snail trail.
The cashier voided the bathing suit, continuing on with her spiel, “Well, if you purchased the suit, you would need to retain your receipt and keep the tags on it so you could return it later.”
“Maybe your return policy is too liberal,” I suggested, “if things can be returned in a used condition, like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders and, get this, hung the bathing suit back on the hanger, readying it to go back to the sales floor! The customer service cashier was watching us curiously and sidled over.
“What’s wrong with that bathing suit?” she asked.
“She don’t want it,” the cashier said.
“No I don't. Because it’s been worn. And used. And soiled,” I said.
“Put it in the damaged goods bin,” the customer service cashier said.
My cashier did as she was told and finished ringing up my shirt. I skedaddled to the car and bathed myself in hand sanitizer.
I bought the black and white shirt, but I took it back today. Ewww. It was too close to that bathing suit. As an aside, when I was waiting in line to return the shirt, a woman got in line two ladies behind me, stood there for a minute, and then asked if we were waiting in line to check out. Really? "No, I said, "We are waiting because it's fun."
When a sign tells you to keep on your panties when trying on bathing suits, do it. There is a reason. I might have to go so far as to wear those free little foot condoms when trying on flip flops too. Maybe I should just start shopping in a Hazmat suit. Or I could go all FLDS and make my own prairie dresses. At least they don’t come pre-slimed with someone else’s va-jay-jay smear in them. And for the record, let me say once again, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT. But only about washing new clothes before they are worn.
So, here we go. Swallow that last bite of cookie. Put down your iced tea. It’s going to get a little hairy.
I stopped by TJ Maxx yesterday, not for anything specific, because, seriously, who goes to TJ Maxx for something specific? It’s one step up from a flea market, which doesn’t stop me from shopping there, although after yesterday, it might. I was looking for stuff for a beach condo I am decorating, but when I didn’t find anything quite right, I scooted over to the bathing suits and perused the selection.It's about that time of year, and it's never too early to find a perfect swimsuit for less than a night's stay at a four star hotel.
As luck would have it,I found a really cute suit, which is a miracle because good bathing suits are harder to find than Waldo. The swimsuit was a black strapless one piece with a little twisty bandeau top and a very slight flouncy skirt. It was a far cry from an old lady tent swim dress, but it still provided the kind of coverage that a woman over forty with a slight weight problem and a little body dysmorphic syndrome could feel good about wearing. It did not have a product tag on it, just the store price tag, but I checked the size on the label and felt confident it would fit me. I liked it a lot but I didn’t have time to try it on, so I took it, along with a cute black and white top that I found, to the checkout counter.
I handed my shirt and swimsuit to the clerk and asked, “What is your return policy for swimsuits? I didn’t have time to try this on.”
She scanned the tag and said, “As long as you have your receipt and the original tag on it, you can return it.”
“What about the panty liner thing? Does it have to have that too?” I asked, turning the crotch inside out. “Oh Jesus, that’s disgusting! Don’t worry about it, because I am not buying it!”
We both looked at the crotch of the bathing suit. It had been used. On the black fabric was evidence that a naked crotch had touched it. In layman’s terms, there was a snail trail.
The cashier voided the bathing suit, continuing on with her spiel, “Well, if you purchased the suit, you would need to retain your receipt and keep the tags on it so you could return it later.”
“Maybe your return policy is too liberal,” I suggested, “if things can be returned in a used condition, like that.”
She shrugged her shoulders and, get this, hung the bathing suit back on the hanger, readying it to go back to the sales floor! The customer service cashier was watching us curiously and sidled over.
“What’s wrong with that bathing suit?” she asked.
“She don’t want it,” the cashier said.
“No I don't. Because it’s been worn. And used. And soiled,” I said.
“Put it in the damaged goods bin,” the customer service cashier said.
My cashier did as she was told and finished ringing up my shirt. I skedaddled to the car and bathed myself in hand sanitizer.
I bought the black and white shirt, but I took it back today. Ewww. It was too close to that bathing suit. As an aside, when I was waiting in line to return the shirt, a woman got in line two ladies behind me, stood there for a minute, and then asked if we were waiting in line to check out. Really? "No, I said, "We are waiting because it's fun."
When a sign tells you to keep on your panties when trying on bathing suits, do it. There is a reason. I might have to go so far as to wear those free little foot condoms when trying on flip flops too. Maybe I should just start shopping in a Hazmat suit. Or I could go all FLDS and make my own prairie dresses. At least they don’t come pre-slimed with someone else’s va-jay-jay smear in them. And for the record, let me say once again, MY HUSBAND IS RIGHT. But only about washing new clothes before they are worn.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Some Adderall Might Help
Sitting down to write is always a lesson in focusing and tuning out as much as it is about the process of actually writing. I usually have a bunch of ideas in mind, wondering only if I am able to construct them into an essay rather than a snarky Facebook status update. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say, although, truth be told, I don’t. I am a stay at home mom. Either everything is funny, poignant, or hmmm-producing, or nothing is. Sometimes I drive home from errands thinking about calling a friend and realizing that I don’t have anything to say. So I drive on, frowning to myself. I doubt it is any different than the doldrum life of an office worker. In fact, I know it isn’t. I used to be an office worker. That was boring too.
Wanna know what I did today? That depends on if you are having trouble sleeping.I could tell you about going to the gym, as I sometimes do. Nothing rib-tickly happened there today. No one fell down in the kickboxing class, although I was tempted to roundhouse the woman behind me who had an issue with invading my personal space. She even put her water bottle on top of my sweaty towel, so I did not feel bad when I bent over and dripped all over the mouth piece. Yoga afterwards was nice and peaceful. Nothing to report there either. I do wonder though if I am the only one who sweats like a pig in that class. It’s not hot yoga, it’s only room temperature yoga. Maybe I am still sweating from the combat class. It was nice and stretchy and I enjoyed it very much, thank you.
Next I went to Whole Foods. I secretly wished for free samples of something because hell, I just did two classes at the gym. Nothing free today. Just grocery shopping and my usual seventy something dollar tab. So I drove home. I ate lunch. I tried to not eat any chocolate. I talked to my friend MJ on the phone, who also didn’t feel like working and had very little to say. I took a shower, I started a load of laundry, and I sat down to write.
The house is empty, so you would think it would be an ideal time to write, but again, not so much. I am listening right now to a carpenter bee trying to eat its way through my window pane. I can’t see the bumbly fucker, but I can hear it, buzz buzz, like a tiny little dental drill. I can even see the pile of sawdust or whatever the hell it is outside the window. You know how you can’t sleep when you go camping outside in the summer because of that mosquito hum in your ear? Try writing with a carpenter bee outside your window.
If that wasn’t annoying enough, add the two cats that live in my house. They like to sleep a lot, but not when I try to write. It’s like they know I am working, much like my husband or children do. All I have to do is tell my family I am going to write and for the next hour it’s “Mom” this and “Mom” that. The cats have their own version of irritating me. It involves running up and down the steps, down the hallway, and over the furniture, chasing each other in a complete circuit of both floors of the house. When one of them gets angry, there is hissing and growling. When one of them can’t find the other, there is howling and meowing. And when they wear each other out, they find me and lounge across my desk or nibble on the plant by the treadmill. Bees buzzing outside the window. Cats chewing leaves on the floor. Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Right now, my big tuxedo tom cat is making bedroom eyes at me while making biscuits on my monthly planner. Did I mention he purrs like a jackhammer? Do lions and tigers purr? It’s got to be quieter than my cat.
If that weren’t distracting enough, how about listening to the washing machine upstairs? I l have an upstairs laundry room, which I love for convenience but fear for the potential of flooding. I can’t think of another sentence right now because I am listening to the basin fill up with water. I hope it stops soon. It hasn’t ever overflowed, since that is the toilet’s job, but still, I hope it stops soon. If I don’t formulate a thought shortly, it’s going to be time to put the clothes in the dryer.
Did I mention how loud the fan is on my laptop? Jesus, it’s like a wind tunnel in here. Who can concentrate with that constant droning? Buzz, purr, slosh, hum. What was I saying again? Oh yeah, something about writing. Which I would love to do, but now it’s time to meet the school bus.
Wanna know what I did today? That depends on if you are having trouble sleeping.I could tell you about going to the gym, as I sometimes do. Nothing rib-tickly happened there today. No one fell down in the kickboxing class, although I was tempted to roundhouse the woman behind me who had an issue with invading my personal space. She even put her water bottle on top of my sweaty towel, so I did not feel bad when I bent over and dripped all over the mouth piece. Yoga afterwards was nice and peaceful. Nothing to report there either. I do wonder though if I am the only one who sweats like a pig in that class. It’s not hot yoga, it’s only room temperature yoga. Maybe I am still sweating from the combat class. It was nice and stretchy and I enjoyed it very much, thank you.
Next I went to Whole Foods. I secretly wished for free samples of something because hell, I just did two classes at the gym. Nothing free today. Just grocery shopping and my usual seventy something dollar tab. So I drove home. I ate lunch. I tried to not eat any chocolate. I talked to my friend MJ on the phone, who also didn’t feel like working and had very little to say. I took a shower, I started a load of laundry, and I sat down to write.
The house is empty, so you would think it would be an ideal time to write, but again, not so much. I am listening right now to a carpenter bee trying to eat its way through my window pane. I can’t see the bumbly fucker, but I can hear it, buzz buzz, like a tiny little dental drill. I can even see the pile of sawdust or whatever the hell it is outside the window. You know how you can’t sleep when you go camping outside in the summer because of that mosquito hum in your ear? Try writing with a carpenter bee outside your window.
If that wasn’t annoying enough, add the two cats that live in my house. They like to sleep a lot, but not when I try to write. It’s like they know I am working, much like my husband or children do. All I have to do is tell my family I am going to write and for the next hour it’s “Mom” this and “Mom” that. The cats have their own version of irritating me. It involves running up and down the steps, down the hallway, and over the furniture, chasing each other in a complete circuit of both floors of the house. When one of them gets angry, there is hissing and growling. When one of them can’t find the other, there is howling and meowing. And when they wear each other out, they find me and lounge across my desk or nibble on the plant by the treadmill. Bees buzzing outside the window. Cats chewing leaves on the floor. Sounds peaceful, doesn’t it? Right now, my big tuxedo tom cat is making bedroom eyes at me while making biscuits on my monthly planner. Did I mention he purrs like a jackhammer? Do lions and tigers purr? It’s got to be quieter than my cat.
If that weren’t distracting enough, how about listening to the washing machine upstairs? I l have an upstairs laundry room, which I love for convenience but fear for the potential of flooding. I can’t think of another sentence right now because I am listening to the basin fill up with water. I hope it stops soon. It hasn’t ever overflowed, since that is the toilet’s job, but still, I hope it stops soon. If I don’t formulate a thought shortly, it’s going to be time to put the clothes in the dryer.
Did I mention how loud the fan is on my laptop? Jesus, it’s like a wind tunnel in here. Who can concentrate with that constant droning? Buzz, purr, slosh, hum. What was I saying again? Oh yeah, something about writing. Which I would love to do, but now it’s time to meet the school bus.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
She Said Yes!
Have you heard the news? Barbie and Ken are finally getting married! I know, I was surprised too. I never thought he would pop the question, certainly not to Barbie anyway. But there they are, sharing the same cardboard box in their own special display at Target. I always assumed both Ken and Barbie secretly fancied GI Joe, with his close cropped hair, rugged beard, and hot camouflage attire. But Barbie needed someone less blue collar to be her life partner. After all, she has a lot on her plate. She is a busy modern gal, but with her busy social calendar, surely it will be nice to have a legitimate escort to accompany her. Think of it, no more nights alone in the Dream House, wishing a man would call. No more solo cruising on the Party Boat. No more driving around by herself in the glamour convertible. Plus, she will have a live-in stylist with her. Who better than Ken to offer Barbie some fashion advice?
Truth be told, Barbie doesn’t really need Ken. She has her own car, her own house, and more jobs than I can remember. She has been everything from a flight attendant to a teacher to a doctor. Hell, she has even been a mother and a bride. But never before has she actually been a fiancée. How many little girls have played with their Barbie bride, wishing that Ken would actually ask her to be his, instead of just wearing a tux and looking uncomfortable? Anything is possible in Barbie’s pink world, even a marriage of convenience.
And Ken, poor Ken. Even though he has been Barbie’s companion for years, his sexual orientation has always been called into question. Sure, it’s easy to stereotype him as gay. He hasn’t aged a day in over fifty years. He is neat as a pin. He was born with that six-pack, and while he has had some unfortunate haircuts over the decades, his winning smile and boyish good looks haven’t faded. He has had to take a back seat to Barbie forever, much like Oprah’s Steadman, also a lifelong bachelor whose sexual preference is tabloid fodder.
I bet after all those years of rumors and innuendo, Ken just asked Barbie to marry him so that everyone shut up and leave him alone. I hope it works better for him than it did for Michael Jackson.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Reaching Nirvana in Down Dog
My yoga instructor cried at the end of class today, and she wasn’t the only one. I cried too, also at the end of class. Our tears were for different reasons.
LH has taught yoga at the gym for a few years now and has become one of my favorite instructors. When she first started, she would do the usual sun salutations, warrior poses, balance sequences, and calming stretches, much like a typical pattern of a lot of yoga classes. As she became more comfortable with us as a class and with her own skills as a teacher, however, she became creative. Sun salutations were just a quick warm-up instead of half the class. A simple balance pose gave way to scorpions, crows, and headstands. Warrior poses begat side planks which begat a whole variety of odd pushups with legs balancing on arms in all different directions. If the class had an even number of participants, she would pair us up for couples poses, which are much less erotic than they sound even though they involve almost as much body awareness and trust as other erotic things do.
Her class evolved into more than just a yoga class. You never knew what you were going to get when you unrolled your mat, and if you were lucky, she might come around during the relaxation at the end and tug gently on your neck with lavender scented hands. In short, LH’s yoga practice was everything yoga is meant to be. It challenged you, it pushed you, it made you step outside of your daily routine and your comfort zone, and it brought you back to a place of peace.
Like all good things, LH’s time as an instructor at the gym came to an end today with that last yoga class. She has decided to move on with her life, and that includes a change in workplace. I can’t say I blame her. People and water stagnate when still for too long. She decided to end her practice with her yoga regulars with a bang, doing all her favorite challenging poses, bringing in all her signature moves, and ending with a last hands-on relaxation technique. After her final Namaste, she sat on her mat and wiped the tears from her eyes. She knew it was the close of a chapter of her life, and while we all shared the moment, those tears were highly personal, just for her.
I was moved by her show of emotion, but that is not why I cried. My participating in yoga today was the first time I returned to hers or any yoga class in over two months. Back in January, I injured my Achilles tendon. I didn’t tear it, but I sure did make it angry, angry enough to seek the help of a physical therapist who recommended I lay off the downward dogs and warriors for a good six to eight weeks. Over those months, I moved away from my two class a day norm, replacing that time at the gym with more errands, more volunteering, just more. I packed on a few extra pounds, spent less time doing things I love, and devoted more of myself to caring and helping other people, whether my family, my friends, or my community.
I missed the yoga. My ankle healed, but my schedule had already absorbed that extra hour on a Friday, just as it did the ones on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. My practice time vanished, and I didn’t even notice how much I missed it because I was still working out, just in a different way. But today, I wanted to take the time to be there, to have my last two-person star pose and feel the connection to another person in a non-sexual way, to close my eyes and trust that wherever I was touched, it would be healing. As I moved through the routines and positions, I found my muscles had more memory for yoga than I would have believed. Even after over two months of rest, I was still able to participate in a challenging way. I could still do it, baby.
I stretched and I breathed and sweated, and when I finally earned my savasana, I closed my eyes, relaxed my muscles, calmed my breathing, and I cried. I felt at peace, a serenity I don’t know anywhere else, including my temple where I am so overcommitted. I felt, in a word, spiritual. That realization brought me to tears, not in a sad way, but just pure emotion. I was me again, doing something for me, and it felt right.
I am going to miss LH, as I imagine most of the class will. We will continue our yoga practice without her and in time we will find another instructor that we will grow with and enjoy. It won’t be the same, but it shouldn’t be. her absence won’t stop me from going to yoga, though, because I learned today that it is something I should always make time for, something that means more to me than an hour at the gym. It is about a connection that I forgot I needed to make, one with myself.
Namaste.
LH has taught yoga at the gym for a few years now and has become one of my favorite instructors. When she first started, she would do the usual sun salutations, warrior poses, balance sequences, and calming stretches, much like a typical pattern of a lot of yoga classes. As she became more comfortable with us as a class and with her own skills as a teacher, however, she became creative. Sun salutations were just a quick warm-up instead of half the class. A simple balance pose gave way to scorpions, crows, and headstands. Warrior poses begat side planks which begat a whole variety of odd pushups with legs balancing on arms in all different directions. If the class had an even number of participants, she would pair us up for couples poses, which are much less erotic than they sound even though they involve almost as much body awareness and trust as other erotic things do.
Her class evolved into more than just a yoga class. You never knew what you were going to get when you unrolled your mat, and if you were lucky, she might come around during the relaxation at the end and tug gently on your neck with lavender scented hands. In short, LH’s yoga practice was everything yoga is meant to be. It challenged you, it pushed you, it made you step outside of your daily routine and your comfort zone, and it brought you back to a place of peace.
Like all good things, LH’s time as an instructor at the gym came to an end today with that last yoga class. She has decided to move on with her life, and that includes a change in workplace. I can’t say I blame her. People and water stagnate when still for too long. She decided to end her practice with her yoga regulars with a bang, doing all her favorite challenging poses, bringing in all her signature moves, and ending with a last hands-on relaxation technique. After her final Namaste, she sat on her mat and wiped the tears from her eyes. She knew it was the close of a chapter of her life, and while we all shared the moment, those tears were highly personal, just for her.
I was moved by her show of emotion, but that is not why I cried. My participating in yoga today was the first time I returned to hers or any yoga class in over two months. Back in January, I injured my Achilles tendon. I didn’t tear it, but I sure did make it angry, angry enough to seek the help of a physical therapist who recommended I lay off the downward dogs and warriors for a good six to eight weeks. Over those months, I moved away from my two class a day norm, replacing that time at the gym with more errands, more volunteering, just more. I packed on a few extra pounds, spent less time doing things I love, and devoted more of myself to caring and helping other people, whether my family, my friends, or my community.
I missed the yoga. My ankle healed, but my schedule had already absorbed that extra hour on a Friday, just as it did the ones on Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. My practice time vanished, and I didn’t even notice how much I missed it because I was still working out, just in a different way. But today, I wanted to take the time to be there, to have my last two-person star pose and feel the connection to another person in a non-sexual way, to close my eyes and trust that wherever I was touched, it would be healing. As I moved through the routines and positions, I found my muscles had more memory for yoga than I would have believed. Even after over two months of rest, I was still able to participate in a challenging way. I could still do it, baby.
I stretched and I breathed and sweated, and when I finally earned my savasana, I closed my eyes, relaxed my muscles, calmed my breathing, and I cried. I felt at peace, a serenity I don’t know anywhere else, including my temple where I am so overcommitted. I felt, in a word, spiritual. That realization brought me to tears, not in a sad way, but just pure emotion. I was me again, doing something for me, and it felt right.
I am going to miss LH, as I imagine most of the class will. We will continue our yoga practice without her and in time we will find another instructor that we will grow with and enjoy. It won’t be the same, but it shouldn’t be. her absence won’t stop me from going to yoga, though, because I learned today that it is something I should always make time for, something that means more to me than an hour at the gym. It is about a connection that I forgot I needed to make, one with myself.
Namaste.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Harmonic Convergence
It was bound to happen, but I didn’t think it would have happened so fast. Before I tell you what it is, how about a disclaimer for the gentlemen? Yes, indeed, it is that time of the month again. I know, I know, it’s bad enough when your mom/wife/girlfriend/daughter/fag hag has to tell you all about her monthly, and now you come here for a little diversion, only to find more menses. Unfortunately, bleeding seems to be a big theme at my house these days. So indulge me yet again, and soon enough, I will be ready to share another poop story with you.
Back to what happened. Last week, my period was late. More than a day or two late. The kind of late that makes a woman start to freak out, the kind that makes a woman start every sentence with “I’m late” or “where’s my fucking period?” I am generally not late, and yes, I had reason to be a little paranoid, so it was indeed a new thing for me to obsess over, the lateness of my period. My sister, LM, told me in her usual helpful manner that it was probably just my age (Thanks, again for that, dearest older sister). My husband assured me it was stress or just a fluke and nothing to worry about, and not his fault in any way. My friends just told me to shut up about it because it was coming, it always comes, and to calm the f down. I guess that was their nice way of telling me that my worry and moodiness were probably pretty good indicators of the upcoming shedding of my uterine lining, but all I was too consumed with freaking out to notice.
The truth is, all of them were right. I am getting older, which screws up my cycle. I have been stressed, and moody, and it had nothing to do with the excess of salt and chocolate I have craved and consequently consumed. And yes, my spouse and I took precautions to avoid an unplanned pregnancy (and who says I don’t have a filter?). I was worrying for nothing, and before I broke down and bought a pee stick, I started bleeding.
Now, that’s not the amazing part. Bear with me here a moment. My daughter, E, who recently became a woman in that way, is not quite yet regular herself. She got her first period, and then didn’t get another one for about sixty days later, which meant she was lucky as hell but wasted a ton of panty liners. She was not late, though. Her period came last week too, but it was way early. Neither of us was expecting it, even though by her own admission, she ate all of her Valentine’s candy and was mean to her friends at school. At home, we can’t really tell a difference in her mood, because it’s always changing in that special tween way. I am convinced all tweens are bipolar, but luckily for society, some of them outgrow it.
If you add the two of us together, you get my husband’s worst nightmare. My daughter and I are now in sync with each other, bleeding alongside of each other, cramping and whining simultaneously. I haven’t felt this close to her since she was in my uterus. We are both walking around, rubbing our lower backs, taking turns with the heating pad, and filling up every garbage can with our used feminine hygiene equipment. I figured it would occur at some point in our lives, our synchronized bleeding, but somehow I was hoping she would not be in the fifth grade when it did. It kind of takes a little of my parental leverage away. She thinks she is now my peer, since we can share our pads and complain about our cramps and generally disgust and freak out my husband and her father.
Not only could it be worse, one day, in the next few years, it will be. At some point, daughter number two is going to join the club, and after I slap her face and buy her all sorts of special teenage rags for tiny twats (for those OMG moments!), she too will sync up with her older sister and me. Then the three of us can bleed simultaneously, and my husband can begin construction on the shed he plans to move into in the back yard.
Back to what happened. Last week, my period was late. More than a day or two late. The kind of late that makes a woman start to freak out, the kind that makes a woman start every sentence with “I’m late” or “where’s my fucking period?” I am generally not late, and yes, I had reason to be a little paranoid, so it was indeed a new thing for me to obsess over, the lateness of my period. My sister, LM, told me in her usual helpful manner that it was probably just my age (Thanks, again for that, dearest older sister). My husband assured me it was stress or just a fluke and nothing to worry about, and not his fault in any way. My friends just told me to shut up about it because it was coming, it always comes, and to calm the f down. I guess that was their nice way of telling me that my worry and moodiness were probably pretty good indicators of the upcoming shedding of my uterine lining, but all I was too consumed with freaking out to notice.
The truth is, all of them were right. I am getting older, which screws up my cycle. I have been stressed, and moody, and it had nothing to do with the excess of salt and chocolate I have craved and consequently consumed. And yes, my spouse and I took precautions to avoid an unplanned pregnancy (and who says I don’t have a filter?). I was worrying for nothing, and before I broke down and bought a pee stick, I started bleeding.
Now, that’s not the amazing part. Bear with me here a moment. My daughter, E, who recently became a woman in that way, is not quite yet regular herself. She got her first period, and then didn’t get another one for about sixty days later, which meant she was lucky as hell but wasted a ton of panty liners. She was not late, though. Her period came last week too, but it was way early. Neither of us was expecting it, even though by her own admission, she ate all of her Valentine’s candy and was mean to her friends at school. At home, we can’t really tell a difference in her mood, because it’s always changing in that special tween way. I am convinced all tweens are bipolar, but luckily for society, some of them outgrow it.
If you add the two of us together, you get my husband’s worst nightmare. My daughter and I are now in sync with each other, bleeding alongside of each other, cramping and whining simultaneously. I haven’t felt this close to her since she was in my uterus. We are both walking around, rubbing our lower backs, taking turns with the heating pad, and filling up every garbage can with our used feminine hygiene equipment. I figured it would occur at some point in our lives, our synchronized bleeding, but somehow I was hoping she would not be in the fifth grade when it did. It kind of takes a little of my parental leverage away. She thinks she is now my peer, since we can share our pads and complain about our cramps and generally disgust and freak out my husband and her father.
Not only could it be worse, one day, in the next few years, it will be. At some point, daughter number two is going to join the club, and after I slap her face and buy her all sorts of special teenage rags for tiny twats (for those OMG moments!), she too will sync up with her older sister and me. Then the three of us can bleed simultaneously, and my husband can begin construction on the shed he plans to move into in the back yard.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
I Brake for Kugel
I texted MJ yesterday afternoon: Does the baby want kugel?
MJ replied: Hell to the yes!
Kugel, for those of you without Jewish friends, who live in the South, or who list The Olive Garden and Applebee’s as some of your favorite restaurants, is a noodle pudding. It’s similar to rice pudding or bread pudding because it is a starch baked in a sweet custard. It’s heavy on the cinnamon and dairy, and if you are so inclined, you can pollute it with raisins or dried fruit bits. Like most baked foods, it can be really good or really dried out and horrendous. A lot of goyim (Google it; for Chrissakes, you are reading this online!) don’t know what to do with the idea of sweet noodles, but really, it that any weirder than soaking old bread in eggs and milk and sugar?
MJ, who is not even a little Jewish, loves kugel. She is also pregnant, so obviously her unborn baby is going to love it too. My husband, who, like MJ, is not even a little Jewish, hates the stuff, and my girls and I don’t need to finish a whole batch of it alone. So it was MJ to the rescue, because she is happy for some Jewish leftovers.
I texted her back: Are you on the road? Can you swing by and pick it up?
MJ has to drive a lot for her job. A. Lot. She hasn’t complained to me yet about hemorrhoids, but I know it’s just a matter of time. She sits on her pregnant ass all day in the car. Even the baby is going to have piles (you don’t have to Google that one, just ask your grandmother).
MJ replied: On my way home from Charlotte.
We live between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia.
I texted her back: Great, let me know when you get close.
She did, so I tidied up a bit so she couldn’t see that we live like pigs, which is ridiculous, because she know we live like pigs. My girls continued with their homework, and I kept one eye on the side door for MJ’s car.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was MJ.
I said: Hi, MJ.
MJ said: I’m not coming.
I said: What do you mean? What happened?
MJ said: I just fucking rear ended some Vietnamese chick on the exit ramp. Your exit ramp. She stopped dead still on the fucking exit ramp for NO FUCKING REASON.
I wrote that in capitals because MJ yelled that part.
I said: God, MJ, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want me to come down there? Have you called the cops? Did your air bag go off?
I really did ask a whole string of questions just like that.
MJ said: No, thank God. We are both okay, no injuries. The air bags didn’t even go off. She’s got my insurance information. She didn’t even want to move her car off the road!
I said: One of you should call the cops. Won’t she need a police report for her insurance?
MJ said: It’s barely a dent on her bumper. Jesus, I am going to implode. We are sitting here by Wendy’s and all I want to do is go home.
I let MJ do what she needed to do and got off the phone. I looked at my kids sitting there doing their homework and said to them, come on girls, get your shoes. We are going to take some kugel to MJ.
My oldest daughter, E, was very concerned about MJ, but I reassured her that everything was fine, she just had to wait for the cops to come to fill out a report. I cut a big piece of kugel and put it in a plastic container. Then I called MJ back.
I said: Are you waiting for the police?
MJ said: We never called the police. She called her FUCKING MOTHER!
MJ screamed that part.
I said: Is her mother a police officer?
MJ said: I should just leave. This is nuts. We have exchanged information. What do I need to stay for?
MJ agreed to call the insurance company instead of the cops. We got in the car with the kugel and drove to the Wendy’s. Her car was in the parking lot next to the car she hit. We pulled up on the other side of her. MJ was on the phone, looking fabulous as ever, with her tiny baby bump poking out of her dress. My kids ran over to her side of the car and handed her the container of kugel. We looked at the back of the car she hit, which had a dent in the bumper the size of a dime, or maybe a nickel, to err on the generous side, although dimes are worth more than nickels. MJ got out of her car and snapped a couple of pictures with her camera phone.
I said: Do you want me to stay?
MJ said: No, I’m fine, thanks. I guess we are about done here. Her insurance company didn’t need a police report.
I said: Well, make sure yours doesn’t. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
MJ said: No, it’s all fine. Thank you so much for driving up here.
I said: It’s the least I could do. You had an accident driving here to pick up the kugel. I hope it is worth it.
MJ said: I know it will be. Thanks again!
We kissed MJ goodbye and I drove home, leaving MJ to finish up the business of an accident and then drive home cautiously so she could eat her noodle pudding, which sat in its container in the passenger seat feeling guilty, like a blood diamond. Such devastation, all for those sweet, creamy noodles, which in all honesty, you don’t get to eat every day.
MJ replied: Hell to the yes!
Kugel, for those of you without Jewish friends, who live in the South, or who list The Olive Garden and Applebee’s as some of your favorite restaurants, is a noodle pudding. It’s similar to rice pudding or bread pudding because it is a starch baked in a sweet custard. It’s heavy on the cinnamon and dairy, and if you are so inclined, you can pollute it with raisins or dried fruit bits. Like most baked foods, it can be really good or really dried out and horrendous. A lot of goyim (Google it; for Chrissakes, you are reading this online!) don’t know what to do with the idea of sweet noodles, but really, it that any weirder than soaking old bread in eggs and milk and sugar?
MJ, who is not even a little Jewish, loves kugel. She is also pregnant, so obviously her unborn baby is going to love it too. My husband, who, like MJ, is not even a little Jewish, hates the stuff, and my girls and I don’t need to finish a whole batch of it alone. So it was MJ to the rescue, because she is happy for some Jewish leftovers.
I texted her back: Are you on the road? Can you swing by and pick it up?
MJ has to drive a lot for her job. A. Lot. She hasn’t complained to me yet about hemorrhoids, but I know it’s just a matter of time. She sits on her pregnant ass all day in the car. Even the baby is going to have piles (you don’t have to Google that one, just ask your grandmother).
MJ replied: On my way home from Charlotte.
We live between Charlotte, North Carolina, and Atlanta, Georgia.
I texted her back: Great, let me know when you get close.
She did, so I tidied up a bit so she couldn’t see that we live like pigs, which is ridiculous, because she know we live like pigs. My girls continued with their homework, and I kept one eye on the side door for MJ’s car.
Ten minutes later, the phone rang. It was MJ.
I said: Hi, MJ.
MJ said: I’m not coming.
I said: What do you mean? What happened?
MJ said: I just fucking rear ended some Vietnamese chick on the exit ramp. Your exit ramp. She stopped dead still on the fucking exit ramp for NO FUCKING REASON.
I wrote that in capitals because MJ yelled that part.
I said: God, MJ, are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you want me to come down there? Have you called the cops? Did your air bag go off?
I really did ask a whole string of questions just like that.
MJ said: No, thank God. We are both okay, no injuries. The air bags didn’t even go off. She’s got my insurance information. She didn’t even want to move her car off the road!
I said: One of you should call the cops. Won’t she need a police report for her insurance?
MJ said: It’s barely a dent on her bumper. Jesus, I am going to implode. We are sitting here by Wendy’s and all I want to do is go home.
I let MJ do what she needed to do and got off the phone. I looked at my kids sitting there doing their homework and said to them, come on girls, get your shoes. We are going to take some kugel to MJ.
My oldest daughter, E, was very concerned about MJ, but I reassured her that everything was fine, she just had to wait for the cops to come to fill out a report. I cut a big piece of kugel and put it in a plastic container. Then I called MJ back.
I said: Are you waiting for the police?
MJ said: We never called the police. She called her FUCKING MOTHER!
MJ screamed that part.
I said: Is her mother a police officer?
MJ said: I should just leave. This is nuts. We have exchanged information. What do I need to stay for?
MJ agreed to call the insurance company instead of the cops. We got in the car with the kugel and drove to the Wendy’s. Her car was in the parking lot next to the car she hit. We pulled up on the other side of her. MJ was on the phone, looking fabulous as ever, with her tiny baby bump poking out of her dress. My kids ran over to her side of the car and handed her the container of kugel. We looked at the back of the car she hit, which had a dent in the bumper the size of a dime, or maybe a nickel, to err on the generous side, although dimes are worth more than nickels. MJ got out of her car and snapped a couple of pictures with her camera phone.
I said: Do you want me to stay?
MJ said: No, I’m fine, thanks. I guess we are about done here. Her insurance company didn’t need a police report.
I said: Well, make sure yours doesn’t. Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?
MJ said: No, it’s all fine. Thank you so much for driving up here.
I said: It’s the least I could do. You had an accident driving here to pick up the kugel. I hope it is worth it.
MJ said: I know it will be. Thanks again!
We kissed MJ goodbye and I drove home, leaving MJ to finish up the business of an accident and then drive home cautiously so she could eat her noodle pudding, which sat in its container in the passenger seat feeling guilty, like a blood diamond. Such devastation, all for those sweet, creamy noodles, which in all honesty, you don’t get to eat every day.
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