Thursday, March 17, 2011

Yoga? Noga!

I'd love to post a photo of me in the Warrior Position. Just thinking about me in the Warrior Position makes me laugh. Hard.

I just attended my first yoga class. I'll give it one more try. But after that I've given myself permission to tell everyone to stuff it and leave.

Yes, the Stuff It Position.

I know, that at some point during my stretching and breathing, I breathed out "WTF." I think it went unheard. Everyone else was concentrating on their own noisy breathing.

I always believed that that noisy breathing was a result of incorrect breathing. Apparently, I was wrong and need to learn how to breathe all over again. We were supposed to breathe noisily. That leads me to think that my husband is practicing yoga breathing in the middle of the night.

I tread to like it. I really did. Its just that my inner cynic had taken over my body, probably during the deep breathing, and began marching around in my head and waving a large, red flag. I tried more deep breathing to drown the bastard out, but to no avail. After a while, the inner cynic got a tad tired and sat down. The instructor moved us into a relaxation pose. We were (some of us anyways) becoming one with the earth. Our bodies were letting go of stress. We were beginning to shine a golden light. Our innards were becoming golden also. When the instructor stated (gently and calmly) that we were the proud owners of a golden liver and a golden pancreas, the inner cynic just lost it. Thank heaven we were then instructed to pull our knees to our chests and rock back and forth, because the inner cynic had doubled over in laughter and fell over.

We were supposed to ignore the outside world and just focus on moving, stretching and breathing. Impossible for me. The artist in me wanted to get home and push around some glue, the writer in me just wanted to get home and do this. The normal human in me just wanted to get home and chow down on a sandwich and candy.

One more chance. And that's it. The inner cynic just can't handle much more. Nor can my golden pancreas.

Namaste (or not).

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Summer? Done!

In this time of instant messaging (or is that old now?), instant coffee (maybe not, since I stand in the Starbucks line for 20 minutes while all the customers ahead of me have lengthy orders that require the complexity and time of spinal surgery), and movie streaming, I can't understand why so much of life has to be planned months in advance.

If I have a medical issue crop up, I should have known about it 6 months ago so I can get an appointment to have this new affliction taken care of. If my child is going to miss a day of school today, I should have had the "educational trip form" filled out two weeks ago. Planning a trip to Spain? Then get the computer language program a year in advance. Wait. I did that. Should have planned two years in advance.

But this summer? Its all done now. Might as well be over. Summer clothes for the kid. All ordered and bad things returned. Yep. Swimsuits are at the ready. Why? They are already on the sale rack. Picked over like succulent road kill. Summer shoes? Done. Sunscreen? Ready. Plenty of beach towels here. I'm sure the store racks are almost emptied of them by now.

Vacation plans? Done. Plane tickets purchased months ago. If a family of three wants to sit together and not spend their life savings, you've got to do it early. Actually, a it's a vacation for me and the young one -- a conference for the hubby. But hey, its somewhere else and that's what matters.

Summer camps? Done. OH YES!!! Registration for summer camps is a full contact sport. Kicking, spitting, hair pulling and throwing checks left and right. I make the hubby do the work. I help pick the camps and then I just stand back. The stress in unbelievable.

I'm going to take a day or two to recover from the planning and buying. Once I'm rested up, I'm going to tackle fall and winter again.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Back Again


I'm back to the land of the ice and snow.

The bags are unpacked. The regulation-size baggies of trial size creams and lotions have been mostly emptied. As usual, there was much leakage.

But enough bitching. That trip was fun. See here for photos. Yeah, the other blog for those of you who didn't already know.

I'm missing things about Barcelona that I should miss: narrow alleys, cathedrals, cobblestones, the language, eating outdoors, drinking wine, going up hills and looking down, going down hills and looking up. I'm missing things I shouldn't miss: the smell of sewage and cigarette smoke, the buzz of motorbikes, those little plates of little olives.

The hubby misses those little olives, too. Itty bitty ones in a pool of chartreuse. Could be the thing he misses the most. While devouring a plateful one afternoon, he yet again mentioned his olive oil dream to me.
He walks (with his stunning wife) down the narrow streets of a city and stumbles upon a small shop displaying a wealth of bottled olive oils. Upon walking into the shop, he is engulfed by the rich, fruity scent. A lovely young lady asks if he would like to sample a variety of local olive oils. One spoonful after another is passed his way. His mouth, time after time, filled with the luscious . . .

He never mentioned that he needed a change of trousers, but I'm thinking he was just a little too embarrassed.

A true story indeed, with just a teeny bit of embellishment.

Luckily, the olive oil made the trip without leaking or breaking.

Wish I could say the same about that damn orange shampoo.

Thursday, March 3, 2011


The housewife is being whisked off to foreign lands. She will be back soon, laundering and picking up all the odds and ends of post-travel chaos.

Hopefully, the artist will be inspired to make a return appearance.