Namaste

So, I finally took a real yoga class this week.  I’ve been practicing yoga for a couple years now.  And by “practicing”, I mean, "attempting yoga poses through various videos, Wii Fit and P90X".  I actually think I’ve gotten pretty good with the P90X one.  The first time I did it?  I cried at the end.  That was either a good or bad sign.

But, because I never had any formal training, I was afraid I was doing the poses incorrectly (although the computerized Wii Fit trainer told me I did a great job).  So, I’ve always wanted to take a class.  My cousin is a yoga instructor and gave me the name of a woman on my side of town to try. 

2 years ago.

But, because I’m a big baby social, I wanted to take this class with a friend.  I begged pleaded with implored suggested to my friends that they take a class with me.  No one said yes.  Or, rather, they said yes, but never meant it.  Love you guys! 

Finally, FINALLY, I talked a friend into going.  Hooray!  We made a date, she contacted the teacher, we were set.  The class was held at the instructor’s house about 25-30 minutes south of where I live.  It’s a little far for a class, but I was going to get real training!  By an instructor who was recommended to me by another instructor!  It was going to be awesome! 

I passed by the house on my first attempt.  Damn.

  

We all walked into her house, took off our shoes.  Her yoga studio is pretty awesome.  I am not good at describing things, but it was pretty.  Beautiful lightly-stained wood floors, big floor-to-ceiling bay windows that look out onto 8 acres of land.  Through the window, I could see an outdoor area for yoga, but with the mosquito problems we’ve had this summer, we voted to stay indoors. 

There were 11 of us in all in the class.  We began class seated in a circle on the floor.  Went through about 20 minutes of introduction.  Who we are, why we were there.  Then the chanting began.

I knew chanting was a part of it.  In the P90X version I’d done, there are ohms at the end of the video.  And, I did them.  Because, according to Tony, our nervous system needed to be massaged.  Or something.  But, this time, I was afraid I wasn’t going to get through them without laughing.  I mean, I understand the benefits of yoga.  That was the main reason I want to do it.  It just felt… silly.  I had to give it a chance, though.  If I wasn’t going to go all in, there was no point being there. 

So, I faked it chanted. 

And messed up the words.  How do you mess up an ohm?

Eh. 

The poses we did were pretty similar to what I’ve done in the past.  I felt good about my technique.  She only corrected my position once.  Wait, twice.  When she told us to rotate our knees, I had each knee going in the opposite direction of each other (picture 'wax on, wax off').  She then put my knees together and showed me what she meant (both knees going in the 'wax on' direction).

Oh. 

Okay, that part made me laugh out loud.  Was I trying to make it difficult?  Picture you knees rotating in towards each other.  It’s not easy.

And then came the half hour relaxation part.  This was the part I always skipped in my prenatal yoga video.  Who can lie still for that long without being asleep?  Or watching a movie?  Or reading?  And how are you supposed to turn off the outside world?  For as long as I can remember, every time I’ve tried to “tune out”, it has only made me think more obscure thoughts.  

"Did I turn off my curling iron this morning?"
"I should stop and get some milk on my way home."
"Gaaah!  Stop thinking!  Concentrate on not thinking!"
"I should consider getting one of those yoga blankets.  They're cute."
"I wonder how long we have to lie here?"
"Man, I suck at this." 

But, then it got a little easier because she gave us images to think about.

A butterfly.

A sunset over the ocean.
A bottle of ketchup.

I have to admit, I felt pretty great afterward.  Didn't feel like talking much afterward, but I was Chatty Cathy once I got home.  And the euphoria lasted clear through the next day.

This is my kind of exercise.  Namaste!

The dating game (kids version)

So, my soon-to-be-7-year-old started first grade this year.  Unlike Kindergarten, he is in school full-time this year, including lunch.  The start of first grade brought on a whole new set of supplies needed (which I secretly love, by the way):  art box (!), 5 colored folders, hole reinforcers (?), crayons, scissors, pencils, etc., and a lunch box (!).  With that lunch box?  Lunches.  With snacks.  I think that might've been the most important part to him.

I have to admit, I was a little more worried about him at the start of this school year than last.  For one, he's there a full 7 hours instead of 2-1/2 (and yes, Kindergarten was only 2-1/2 hours - how that teacher taught all 28 children to read is a minor miracle).  Secondly, he only knew one kid from Kindergarten that was going to be in his first grade class.  I'll tell you, I was more bummed than he was.  He knew the kids in his Kindergarten class, his cousin was in there, we knew some of the parents already... we were on our way to finding his lifelong BFF.  And then, bam!  Now we had to start all over again.

As a parent, you worry about your child making friends.  Looking back, I don't know how I made my childhood best friend.  I just remember her being my best friend.  I don't remember my mother setting up play dates or even talking to my friends' mothers other than a friendly wave at drop off and pick up.

It's not that way anymore.  Now we set up play dates.  I had had "play dates" before, but those were more my friends and I getting together while our children played with each other's toys.  The real play dates are different.

Personally, I think these play dates are more interviews than anything.  To see if we, the mothers, like each other, which, in turn, makes it okay for our children to hang out.  And, since I'm really not all that good at making friends (the ones I have are the ones I've had practically all my life and I'm happy with that), these interviews are unnerving.  What if they don't like me?  What if I don't like them and my child does?

Over the summer, my soon-to-be-7-year-old played T-ball.  A few of his friends from Kindergarten were on his team.  The other mothers and I slowly got to know each other over the season as we cheered on one another's children.  We were even invited to one of the boys' birthday parties, which then led to a real play date.

I was nervous before the play date.  What's the protocol?  Do you just drop your kid off and pick him up in an hour?  Do you stay to chat while they play?  I ended up staying.  And the mother and I chatted nonstop for 3-1/2 hours.  I LOVED her.  I had visions of her becoming my new bff (lower case - no one could possibly replace my BFF).  She and I were so compatible, it was so easy.

And then, a few weeks later, we learned her son was not in my son's class (bubble bursting).  My son was, however, in the same class as one of the other boys on his T-ball team, so I felt good about that.  He's a nice boy, I like his mother.  We tried to have a play date (ugh, that stupid word) at the zoo the week before school started, but it was packed, so, instead, we went to Chuck E. Cheese's (double ugh).  My almost-7-year-old was happy that this boy was going to be in his class, so I was happy for him.   

(Sidenote:  I saw my bff at meet the teacher night and she swore we would still get together for play dates [fingers crossed]).

In the meantime, I had to move forward.  My son had to meet the new kids in his class.  He kept bringing up one child's name in particular, and, one day, brought home this boy's phone number.  My son wrote his number down and gave it to his new classmate the next day and his mother called us on Friday to set up a play date.

Sigh.  Here we go again.

I had high hopes.  Our first and second attempts at play dates went well, so there was no need to think otherwise.  I honestly don't know how kids make friends.  Is it location?  Is it that like-minded people gravitate towards each other?  I remember my mother telling me once that my second grade teacher told her at a parent-teacher conference that I was with a good group of friends and not to worry about me.  How did I get so lucky?  How did I not end up best friends with the girl across the street who used to smoke at the bus stop?  More importantly, how could I ensure my child wouldn't be friends with the kid who smokes at the bus stop?

So, on Saturday, we had a play date.  It went... okay.  The conversation flowed pretty well, but I didn't get the "we are going to be besties!" feeling from the mother.  She has 2 older children and had some pretty good horror stories about other mothers she's met.  And I wasn't sure how she felt about me.  She mentioned how she watches her son pretty closely, but, at my house, I pretty much let the boys run free.  I know they're safe in our house, so I don't feel I need to constantly be in the same room as them anymore.  I only worry when it's quiet, which usually means they're up to no good (for example, I once caught my 3-year-old drawing on his walls in permanent marker [where'd he find the marker?  and while I should be proud his shapes were perfect, it was permanent marker! on the walls!] or the time my at-the-time-4-year-old stuffing dirty underwear under his dresser).

What was I saying?

Oh right.  So I wasn't sure if she was judging me for letting the kids play unsupervised in our (childproof - except for the kitty litter [which I hope she didn't notice]) basement.  But she seemed nice enough and, while I don't need to be besties with my child's friend's mother, I think she and I will be fine waving to each other at pick ups and drop offs.

Hey, it was good enough for my mother, it's good enough for me.

I'm still holding out for my bff.  Call me! 
              

DC is as DC does

Disclaimer: some, all, or none of this story is true.

So, I went to DC this past weekend to visit my BFF. We had planned a girls’ weekend, complete with hotel accommodations, swim-up bar with fruity beverages and plenty of books. And, most importantly, no (although I love them dearly as they are the light of my life) children. In fact, I didn’t plan to talk to my BFF at all. It was all about relaxing, reading and drinking fruity beverages. It was going to be heaven.

The trip started as it always does. Get on the turnpike. Head east. For 6 hours. Arrive at destination. Simple, right?

Not this time.

After about 5 minutes on the turnpike, we screech to a complete and utter stop. Nothing is moving. While waiting, I check my phone for Facebook updates. I update my Twitter status. I paint my nails. Nothing. I then notice some cars in front of me pulling a U-turn. On the turnpike. Where the sign clearly says, “No U-turn”. But, at this point, making the U-turn looks mighty appealing. I had to pee, it looked like there was no hope in sight of ever moving again. So… what did I do? I made the U-turn, you betcha. I'm craaaaaazzzzy! (Or? It never happened. You decide.)

40 minutes out of my way and I was back on the original route. I made my routine stop in Breezewood, PA for some gas for the car and snacks for me. Breezewood was swarming with motorcycles. They were like locusts, eating up all the available space. I stopped at one gas station, noticed the line was too long, so I inched my way back into traffic to hit the next gas station.

The light was red. I had gotten halfway out of the parking lot and into the street before I could move forward no further. And then the motorcycles came from out of nowhere and surrounded me. I was already halfway onto the street, but I inched forward a little more so the biker who had decided to cut me off could see that I was already there. His response?

“Don’t even think about it.”

Now I’m wondering where I could possibly go. I can’t go forward or this hairy scary man was going to beat a poor helpless girl (me - in a minivan no less!), and I couldn’t go backward as there were bikers behind me. I was trapped.

So, I did what any crabby respectable girl in a minivan would do. I rolled down my window to yell at talk to the asshole nice biker.

Me (in my sweet angelic voice): “Excuse me, sir. I was already here before you and your menacing charismatic posse group of friends took over the road.”

Him (in his smoker’s gravelly voice): “So, hit me. You got insurance? Hit me.”

Me (with bluebirds tweet tweet tweeting in the background): “But, where am I supposed to go?”

Him (with George Thorogood’s “Bad to the Bone” playing from his bike radio): “Not my problem.”

Me (on the verge of sweet tears): “Thank you, you’ve been very helpful jerkoff.”

Alas, the light turned green and the chivalrous biker let me out first. “After you,” he said, with a grand sweep of his arm.

I drove 2.2 inches from the driveway I was hanging out of into the next gas station driveway. (Or? It never happened.)

(I did learn later that the swarm of motorcycles was for an annual memorial ride to commemorate the 9/11 attacks. This guy sure did have a malevolent attitude for such a benevolent tribute. Idiot.)

And, because of all this, I hit DC just in time for rush hour. And a thunderstorm. And? I had to pee again.

But, the rest of the weekend was great and can be summed up like this:

- Overeating
- Meeting brother’s lady friend (I like her, which, of course, means it’s doomed)
- Unexpectedly spending a fun evening with an old high school friend
- Learning that President John Tyler has two living grandsons
- Wanting to punch sorority/bachelorette girls in the throat for being too loud at the hotel when all I wanted to do was read my book
- Actually punching sorority/bachelorette girls in the throat for being too loud at the hotel when all I wanted to do was read my book
- Remembering what it was like to be annoying while drunk on spring break (Spring Break ’99 – holla!)
- Wondering if we annoyed thirty-something-year-old mothers on a weekend away from their children
- Determining that no one goes to South Beach and expects quiet
- Reminding myself that I’m old
- Not going to jail

(Or? Did I?)

Deep in the heart of Texas, y'all

So, now it's time to talk about the wonder that is Texas.

Our trip started out with a bang (unfortunately, not a bang from the gun of a traveling cowboy). 3 hours into our vacation, we were at the neighbor's pool when my husband dove into the pool with gusto and... dislocated his shoulder. So, we were lucky enough to visit the inside of a Dallas emergency room. For 4 hours. We had some very nice people taking care of us, Jojo and Beau. (Not kidding.)

Our second day, the plan was to take the boys to Dave and Buster's for some lunch and games and then to the aquarium. While at Dave and Buster's, my sister's cell phone was stolen. 0 for 2.

Third day, the neighbor girls took Miss Macie Mae for a walk. And promptly lost her. 0 for 3. Luckily Miss Macie Mae is a smart dog and was able to walk herself home.

The fourth day, we planned to go to the circus. I told my sister that if we were stampeded by a herd of elephants, if a trapeze artist fell and landed on one of us, if a clown car ran us over, we were on the next plane out of town. Luckily for her us, that didn't happen. The only memorably bad thing that happened the rest of the trip was, while at the aquarium, a bird pooped on the husband's head. Even though it's supposedly good luck, he didn't think so. The trip was not kind to that man. He may never vacation again.

I think the best way to sum up the trip is in song:

The stars at night, are big and bright,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The prairie sky is wide and high,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(My sister had explained to me there is no elevation in Texas. When we flew in, I saw what she meant. Dallas is as flat as the bugs we stepped on. Not that Ohio is the Swiss Alps or anything, but we have some rolling hills. It never rained while we were there, so we were able to see the stars every night. They, surprisingly, looked like the stars in Ohio. Go figure.

But it's true that everything is bigger in Texas. The churches, the strip malls. The hair. Their love of the lone star (it's imprinted on every overpass), honey mustard, Dr. Pepper and frozen yogurt.)

The sage in bloom is like perfume,deep in the heart of Texas,
Reminds me of, the one I love,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Hmm. No comment here. The houses are so close together in Dallas, there is no room for vegetation.)

The coyotes wail, along the trail,
deep in the heart of Texas,
The rabbits rush, around the brush,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(Didn't see any wildlife either. The houses are too close together. And it's so hot, all the wildlife is probably dead.)

The cowboys cry, "Ki-yip-pee-yi,"
deep in the heart of Texas.

(This is what I was looking forward to the most. And I have to say I was a bit disappointed. Don't all people in Texas wear cowboy hats and boots, snap shirts and belts with big buckles? Isn't there tumbleweed rolling along the dirt roads? Aren't there duals at high noon every day for us to observe? What a letdown.

We did, however, go to Fort Worth one afternoon to watch the cattle run. By "cattle run", I mean 8 cows ambling down the street in the insufferable heat. The boys really enjoyed it when one of the cows pooped right in front of us. But I bought myself an adorable cowboy hat that day, so not all was lost. I may never wear it outside the state of Texas, but it's a nice souvenir.)

The doggies bawl, and bawl and bawl,
deep in the heart of Texas.

(The only dog I heard was my sister's dog. And she just sort of yipped. And only when I stepped on her. The boys fell in love with her. At any given time of day, you could find the 6-year-old or 3-year-old carrying her around. And she was so tolerant of them. She would look at you, sort of resigned, thinking "I'll get you for this", but never fought the kids. The 6-year-old asked if we could get a dog. I told him that Zoe (our cat) probably wouldn't like that. His response? "When she DIES?" Nice. And? Sorry, Zoe.)

Thanks sister and brother-in-law for a great trip! Y'all are great hosts! And, um, sorry if we broke any of your stuff. Like the dog.

There are only two emotions in a plane: boredom and terror. ~Orson Welles

So, my cousin got married last week in Tyler, Texas. My sister lives about 2 hours from there, in Dallas, and told me I was going to this damwedding (no offense, Jonas) or she'd kill me. See, I hadn't visited my sister since she moved there. 5 years ago. My other siblings had been there, my parents, some cousins. Even my husband had been there. But me? Notsomuch. And why, do you ask?

My insane, totally illogical, and, at times, uncontrollable fear of flying.

I'm well aware that flying is the safest form of travel. I still don't get how that's possible (a 10,000+ pound tin can in the sky), but I am aware of the statistics.

I have never had an easy time flying. As I've mentioned, my first flight was when I was 9 years old. To Greece. A 9-hour flight. It went about as well as you'd expect for a girl petrified of everything (at that time, anyway. I have now limited my fear to flying. And ghosts.  And tiny ants.). The trip involved a lot of screaming. And crying. And dragging. And (my mother denies this) a little white pill.

So, needless to say, I never flew much. I think it was 10 years before I flew again (again, to Greece). And, after that, random trips to DC, NYC, Denver, Salt Lake City, LA. When my brother got married in Florida, we flew. We had a layover in Chicago, so, while we waited for our connecting flight, my sister called my brother, already in Naples, and told him that I didn't get on the plane.

Ha ha. Isn't that funny? Lea didn't get on the plane. Again! Ha ha ha! Grr. How was I the only one in the family with this fear? It's irritating.

I found I flew better by myself. I wasn't able to project my fears onto anyone. On another trip to Florida to visit my college roommate, I ended up helping the woman next to me who sounded the way I felt. Since my brother was a pilot, I knew how airplanes worked, what all the sounds were and I explained it all to her. I was damproud of myself.

Since this flight to Texas was the boys' first, I didn't want to project my fears onto them. We had been talking up the trip for weeks and the boys were really excited. They love to point out planes in the sky, so I figured being in one would be equally exciting. But, 2 days before our flight, my 6-year-old admitted to me he was afraid. Crap. Instead of blowing him off with a "You'll be fine" like everyone does with me, I tried to explain the logistics of air travel. I suggested he talk to my brother if he wanted more explanation than that, but he seemed satisfied.

The day of the trip, I was a nervous wreck. I was up at 4:30am, which is never a good thing for anyone. We got to the airport, I did my normal nervous routine. Pacing pacing pacing, bathroom, pacing pacing pacing. The kids were quiet, but I could tell they just wanted to get on the plane already. They were a bundle of excitement and nerves. Excited nerves. Nervous excitement.

The husband and I divided and conquered. He took the 6-year-old, I took the 3-year-old. As we were gaining speed for liftoff, the 3-year-old started to cry. Crap. But once we took flight, he was laughing. Whew! And... they were great through the entire trip. Better than me, that's for sure. My random thoughts included:

• thank goodness for movies
• flight attendants HATE their jobs
• I think I smell smoke - is that smoke?!
• I cannot wait for the Bachelor Pad 2
• I still don't understand bumps in AIR
• unclench
• now I smell onions
• is this over yet?

And yet, we survived.

Okay, here's a picture

Isn't she precious?

Incidentally, I inadvertently named my friend's cat when I called her precious they day they got her. They liked it so much they named her Precious. That was before the movie Precious came out and totally ruined the adjective for me.

Mar, you asked for it

My sister asked me to write about her “adventures” with her new dog. I warned her not to ask me to do this since I’d probably mock her, but… here goes.

So, my sister recently acquired a puppy. A little Yorkie running loose in her neighborhood. My sister and brother-in-law agreed to foster the puppy until its owners came looking for her.

Yeah, like my sister was going to give her up.

My sister glanced scoured their neighborhood website, to see if there were any messages from the puppy’s owners. She had even gone so far as to publish a message herself, saying she had found this puppy. She panicked when she saw someone had posted about a missing dog and decided immediately that she wasn’t giving the puppy back. Luckily for her, that particular poster had found her dog a day later.

Whew, my sister was not a thief. This time. Well, puppy-snatcher anyway. She does tend to steal candles from those silly candle parties, but that doesn’t really count, right?

Anyway, my sister’s history with pets hasn’t been all that great. In college, she had found herself a kitten. A year later, that kitten was knocked up and living with my parents.

Her excuse? “That poor girl cried all day...I couldn't in good conscience keep her in that apartment alone. Besides, the girl downstairs might have poisoned her.”

Callie did give birth to the sweetest, most lovable cat ever, so I’m glad my sister was a heedless parent, allowing her baby out all night to gallivant with the local bad boys on our street.

Next, my sister found another cat in the street on her way home one night. She had decided to name him Lincoln, after the car that had almost hit him. He must’ve been weaned early because he had a tendency to suck on people’s earlobes. While said person was visiting her sister. And trying to sleep. And again, this cat ended up at my parents’. My mother was quickly becoming the Old Woman in the Shoe (with cats instead of children). It’s a wonder my father didn’t move out.

My sister then moved onto dogs. One day, she and I had taken our annual day trip to Amish Country to buy our fall decorations. And, apparently, this particular year, pick up free puppies. To be fair, these puppies were damcute. I almost took one myself, but, luckily, dogs were not allowed in my apartment complex. Crisis averted.

So, my sister brought home sweet little Henry. In our defense, we had tried to get my brother-in-law on the phone before bringing the dog home, but he didn’t answer (which, in my opinion, was his fault, so, really, he shouldn’t have been mad about this). But anyway, when he got home? He. Flipped. Out.

Not that I blame him. I mean, he came home from a hard day's work to find a puppy peeing on his Wall Street Journal in his kitchen. Where they eat. Not exactly a “Hi honey, I’m home!” moment. In the end (read: the very next day), they gave the puppy to a nice family with a little boy who had desperately wanted a puppy of his own. I picture little Henry (or whatever they named him) scampering happily with this boy and feel a little better for taking Henry away from his little Amish brothers and sisters.

But, apparently, now is the time for them to have a dog. And like I said, she is a cutie. It took my sister 4 days to name her. 4 days and 214 options. In alphabetical order.

Allie? No.

Beatrice? No.

Coco? No.

My favorite was Kiki, but my mother didn’t like it (she really should’ve limited the number of opinions she required to help make the decision).

It’s been about 2 (3?) months and my sister has gone a little off her rocker. I assume this is what I was like when I had my boys, but I continue to find this all very amusing.

In the past couple months, my sister has:

• Named her Miss Macie (Macy? Macey?) Mae (no really).


• Skyped with us so we could see how cute she is (she really is cute).


• Sent me pictures of no less than 3 little outfits for her to wear for Easter (which were, of course, kee-yute).


• Taken her to the dog park (actually, my BIL did that – picture a 200-pound man walking around with a dog small enough to fit inside his shirt pocket).


• Built a bed for her. In their bed.


• Almost kicked her husband out of their bed to make room for the baby.


• Taken said bed into the bathroom while she got ready for work so “she (the dog, not my sister (I think)) wouldn’t be lonely”.


• Taken Miss Macie Mae to puppy training school. And when she graduated, she took a picture of Macie in her graduation cap.


• While in puppy school, my sister sent me this email:
  Last night we went to puppy school. She knows her name and knows how to "Watch Me". No sitting yet, but we're working on it. Poor thing...we're in there with about 6 big barking dogs and a barking chihuahua. And my sweet little quiet puddin sitting on my lap. Know what else is great about her? She's not a shaker or nervous. I like that.

Sigh. Can't wait to meet my new niece.