Beans and the Art of Bunny Massage

Last week I was just coming back from the LA Film Festival where I was teaching yoga and doing PR for Dead Man's Burden.

This week I'm harvesting green beans and administering therapeutic massage for a geriatric bunny. Ah, how the mighty have fallen.

I kid! I kid! But not about the bunny massage. Or the beans. Those parts are true.

First things first. In my excitement about actually being able to have a garden this year, and in my delight at being surrounded by green in the heart of a city, I neglected to note that the beautiful green bean blossoms I've been enjoying looking at turned from mere blossoms into real beans! This is partly due to the fact that the bushy leaves of the bean plants hide their bounty well. This is also due to the fact that I didn't realize the blossom to bean process was so fast.

Let me tell you--if you are not already growing something (anything!) you should get going and start growing because there is literally nothing as satisfying as growing your own food. Also, there is nothing as delicious. I promise nothing will taste better.

So get thee to a garden center pronto! It's cheaper than therapy and also more enjoyable.

Now on to the bunny massage. Yes, there is such a thing. My friend Dee is on vacation and while she's gone, I'm on bunny patrol. You see, Dee, the plant-loving, animal-loving, big-hearted lover of all live things, adopted two rescue bunnies. Due to her TLC, one bunny has lived to an advanced age (an estimated 14?) unheard of in the rabbit world. He is totally blind in one eye, mostly blind in the other and may or may not have survived a stroke. And yet he lives on, because he is loved and cared for.

Also, he receives a daily massage to incentivize him to keep living. And when Dee isn't there to tend to him, it's yours truly who steps up to the plate.

Dee trained me in the art of bunny massage, which consists of massaging him flanks to bunny nose, in order to keep him engaged and committed to life. The crazy thing is...it works!! This tiny elderly bunny will be mid old-man nap when I arrive. But he promptly comes out of his peaceful doze and starts eating/grooming/hopping around as soon as his massage begins. Which makes me wonder if we all shouldn't be getting daily therapeutic massages...

And on that note, I'm off to the hutch.

Yes, this is actually my life. I'm not sure how.

Yoga and PR at the LA Film Festival

Just back from LA--jet-lagged, bleary-eyed, and still not sure which coast or time zone I'm in. BUT the trip and the LA Film Festival (LAFF), where I flexed my PR and yoga muscles, were pretty awesome. 

NOTE: "LAFF" is pronounced letter by letter "L-A-F-F" not "laugh."And with that I hope I can spare someone else a bit of mortification. Not that I'd ever make such an uber-geek gaffe. Ahem. {whistles, looks everywhere else}

Anyway, you may recall from my very first post ever that once upon a time, I was a corporate drone/PR maven. Then I realized I was les miserables and I traded cubicles for yoga mats.

Truth be told though, I still do PR work. The difference is that now I work on a freelance basis, which means I get to choose my clients and projects. Currently, one of those projects is Dead Man's Burden, an independent film that debuted this past Saturday at LAFF. It was a huge success--the first showing sold out (actually the Festival over-sold it by 30 tickets and thus had to deal with 30 extremely disgruntled ticket-holders who had nowhere to sit!), the reviews have been AMAZING, and the after-party, planned by yours truly, was described as the best industry party ever.

And you know as well as I do that LA/film people are only ever brutally honest. They'd tell you if your party sucked. (Wait...right? Um...guys?? RIGHT??!!)

When I wasn't working the premiere, I was teaching yoga to LAFF attendees, cast, and crew.

I was excited to bring my brand of yoga teaching to LA for the first time, to see how it resonated, and what people thought. The students seemed to react to it with a mix of, "Holy crap this hard!" to "I've never done yoga before--this rocks!"

As for me, it was a brain-twizzling experience to merge my two selves (or two of my selves, my author self stayed home) and blend PR and yoga. Previously, I thought that'd be like ice cream and ketchup (yuck). Turns out, it's more like ice cream and chocolate. It works!

The Secret Lessons in Home Improvement

When my husband and I bought our first place, it, like pretty much any place, needed some work. Most glaringly, the bathroom needed to be updated. Unless you have a special fondness for 1980s track lighting and tie-dyed tiles and then, this bathroom, would've been, like, the coolest bathroom ever.

The realtor had raised a casual eyebrow and said something innocuous like, "Updating the bathroom is an obvious way to increase the re-sale value of this place." Since I don't have a thing for track lighting and tie-dyed tiles (note: this may not actually be what they're called but it's descriptive), I immediately seized upon the carrot she was dangling and thought, "Oh YES. This will be the very first thing I do! I will improve the re-sale value and I will enjoy the lack of track lighting and tie-dyed tiles in the interim!" Ah, the sweet hopefulness of first-time buyers.

Of course, this never happened. We lived there for six and a half years and it bothered me...oh, approximately everyday. But we never got around to fixing it.

Cut to buying our new place. It too came with a long list of "...obvious ways to increase the resale value." You know, things like the bathroom door not closing. And actually no other door actually closing either. And a hole in the wall that let cold air in all winter. Small things like that.

But this time, I was actually going to do it. I was going to carpe diem, carpe momentum, carpe whatever I can to fix whatever I couldn't live with. Life is just too short to live with something that could be easily fixed that bothers you everyday. (Note that the key part of this is that it's easily fixed.)

And so concludes a week-long sojourn of a home under construction and a thousand little niggly projects completed.

And now the bathroom door--and all the doors--actually close. All the way. HOORAY! (OK, I know these are small joys. But it's amazing how much they mean.)

Yet Another Brush with Crazy

Let's be honest: I've had my fair share of brushes with crazy. Sometimes crazy is kind of funny. Sometimes crazy is neutral. And, this morning, I learned that sometimes crazy is just downright mean.

While taking tiny Pelu for her morning walk, she bounded up to say hello to a man walking past us. Or at least she tried to bound up and say hello. Still working on her puppy manners, I yanked her back with a sharp, "No!"

In spite of the fact that 1. she is clearly just a sweet little 11-pound puppy and 2. due to my interception, she was nowhere near him, this total stranger viciously kicked at her. Thankfully, he missed.

Clenching my jaw, I kept walking. Let it go, I told myself.

"Next time I'm going to kick your little dog right in the face, sweetheart! Right in the kisser, baby!! YEAH! I'm gonna kick her like a football right across the street!!!"

OK. I'm only human. I couldn't let that go. Who even THINKS of kicking sweet little puppies?! Clearly, this man was a monster. "Maybe I'll kick you in the face!" I yelled back.

He was still screaming. "You better put that thing in a muzzle! I swear I'm gonna kick her in the face next time!"

"Someone should put YOU in a muzzle!" I yelled back. That'll show him!

What this really taught me (aside of the obvious fact that some puppy-kicking monsters masquerade as average-looking humans) is that man! I really need to work on my comebacks! If all I can think of is to repeat whatever insult/threat he's lodged against sweet little Pelu, it's sad times. Sad times, indeed.

A Move Gone Wrong...Very, Very Wrong

A guest post by DH (dear hubby) explaining how our move this week went careening off the rails. Literally. In this retelling, the IY is using the code name Betty.

*

Buster and Betty Buyer hire Money Movers at an hourly rate to move their furniture and boxes into their new condo.  Money Movers send Larry, Mo, and Curley to do the job.  Unfortunately, due to traffic, the movers show up almost an hour late.  In addition, although the movers assured Buster and Betty that an 18-foot truck would be more than sufficient for the job, Buster and Betty's belongings (which included a few more boxes than they estimated) cannot fit in one truck load, necessitating two truck trips and extra time on the job. Ten hours into the move, which was originally estimated by Money Movers to take six to eight hours, Larry begins having a racing and irregular heart beat.  Buster advises Larry to take a break and begins helping the other two Movers (Mo and Curley) himself to help expedite the process.  Buster checks on Larry after about ten minutes and finds that Larry still has a very  irregular pulse.  Concerned, Buster insists on driving Larry to the emergency room, where Larry is immediately admitted to the hospital. 

Buster returns from the ER to the new condo to find Mo and Curley attempting to move Buster and Betty's couch, the last item to come off the truck on the second load, up the stairs.  Unfortunately, the couch can't make the turn at the top of the stairs, and Mo and Curley decide that it must instead be hoisted into the condo.  Since the hoist requires three movers, Mo and Curley call in Schemp (also a Money Movers employee) to assist.  Because there is no clear path to hoist the couch directly into the new condo, which is the upper unit of two units in the building, Buster asks Nice Neighbors who live in the downstairs unit to allow access to their back porch, where the Movers will first hoist the couch before, in turn, hoisting it from Nice Neighbors' porch to Buster and Betty's porch above.  (The two porches are terraced.)  Nice Neighbors agree to allow access to their porch for the hoist.  It is 8:30 pm, dark outside, and, after holding of all day, now raining.

The Movers wrap the couch in the hoist bands, and Mo and Curley go to the Neighbors' porch, which is on the second floor of the building, to perform the hoist, leaving Schemp on the ground to guide the couch from below.  Buster watches the operation from his porch on the third floor of the building.  Before the Movers begin the hoist, Buster asks whether he should move his brand new car, which is parked directly below the area of the hoist.  The Movers insist that this is unnecessary over Buster's desperate pleas, and Movers begin the hoist.  With the couch in mid air, and Mo and Curley pulling the couch up, the railing to Nice Neighbors' porch gives way.  Mo and Curley, whose bodies are physically strapped to the couch are pulled off the porch.  Schemp dives for cover under Nice Neighbors porch and is unharmed, as the couch plummets to the ground, pulling Mo and Curley behind it.  Mo, who is a trained ninja and hopped up on Tylenol with codeine, grabs onto an intact porch post and swings to a soft landing on his feet.  Unfortunately, Curley falls less gracefully and lands on Buster and Betty's car, caving in the roof of the car and injuring Curley.  The railing of Nice Neighbors' porch, which was not secured properly in construction by Crappy Contractor, follows Mo and Curley down, smashing in the rear window of Buster and Betty's car.  The couch is damaged upon impact with the ground.

 *

Yeah...so that's the long and the short of it, I'm afraid. Now, two days later, I can tell you that Larry's safely out of the hospital and Mo, Curley, and Shemp appear to be (miraculously) unharmed. The couch is still on the back of the truck. We may just donate it and buy a sectional. Or miniature couch. Or do without a couch. I know moving is never easy, but this??! COME ON!!

Post-Thanksgiving Gratitude

This Thanksgiving, I was (among other things) thankful to be surrounded by family and seated at a bountiful table of homemade food.

On Black Friday, I was thankful for the delights of post-Thanksgiving leftovers without any of the work.

And, in case you were wondering what canine gratitude looks like, here it is. Pelu is thankful to have finally worked her way up to getting this close to the kitty.

Hello, Kitty...I love you.

The Alluring Scent of Wet Dog

When I got my sweet little mutt Pelu in February, it immediately became clear that we were destined for each other through a series of remarkable commonalities. I love Twizzlers...she loves Twizzlers. I love chips (the salt, the crunch, what's not to love?)...Pelu loves chips. I love gummy bears...and, why, what do you know? She loves gummy bears too!

Pelu has a remarkably diverse palate. Have you ever seen a dog who loves fruit? Vegetables? Well, sweet little Pelu does! Just like me.

Our commonalities continued...Pelu made it clear that she detested being out in the rain and would employ any means possible to avoid getting her feet wet. When I tried to take her out on rainy days (overcoming my own loathing of being out in the rain and getting my feet wet), she would lock out her joints and I would have to drag a sitting dog down the street as she squirmed frantically to get away from me and back home. Ah, sigh, a girl after my heart.

That, however, was back in the days of her earlier youth. Now, at nearly a year old, she has apparently overcome her fear/dread/loathing of rainy days and getting her tiny feet wet. I greeted this revelation with a very certain response: DARN IT!!!

Pelu's new non-minding of rain became depressingly clear when I took her out on this cold, dreary, rainy morning and she pranced happily along, looking for squirrels. Whaaaat??? Where were the locked out joints? The squirming as though she was being tortured? The darting back toward the house, pulling with more might than you might think a furry 11-pounder could pull with?

Apparently, 30 rain-soaked minutes later, soaked through to my socks and my layers of sweatshirts a  regretable soggy weight, I realized my little nugget has overcome her rain-issues.

This doggy mama, however, has not.

Now to enjoy a day full of eau de wet dog. [sigh] [sigh] [sigh]

Another Brush with Crazy at the Door

IF I was worried that I could only have brushes with crazy when I'm out and about...say, at the dog park or coffee shop...well then, that fear was allayed tonight.

Doorbell rings.
Me: Hello?
Random Guy: Is Bill there?
Me: No. There's no Bill here.
Random Guy: Bill??!! Is that you??
Me: No. There is no Bill here. There's a Bill next door though. Black door on the left.
Random Guy: Where?
Me: NEXT DOOR! The black door to the left.
Guy: The black door to the left?? Where would I find that?
Me: [silence] [pounds head on wall] [why me?]

Lessons from a Dog #2: Time is Relative

You know that whole thing about one year of a dog's life being equivalent to seven human years?

Yeah, so recently, I left Pelu in her crate for five hours (we're still housetraining phase and she's too young to be trusted outside her "den.") Five whole hours. I felt terrible and and guilty and worried. Then, in a sharp spiral down into anxiety, I thought of the 1:7 human:dog ratio. Which then made me wonder, "Five times seven is...what...35? OMG. Was my five-hour absence actually 35 hours to Pelu?"


Could it be true that a five-hour editing session with my critique partner was a day and a half to my sweet little puppy?

I guess we'll never know for sure. But it sure does help explain why she's so incredibly happy to see me when I get home after what I perceive to be a relatively short time :)

Pelu mid-yawn. She's had a tough day of playing at the park, eating, and taking an earlier nap.

If I was going to get all philosophical about this, I'd wonder, what can we do about our perception of time? Why does editing seem endless but popcorn and a movie fleeting?

What about you? What drags? What flies? What do you do about it?

A Rain-Soaked Family Reunion

I've been at a family reunion this week in the Poconos. My extended family is flung far and wide and we're rarely in the same place at the same time. Which is why I was looking forward to this week so much.

Well, that and the really tasty food. And the downtime. And the lakefront. And sun and rest and boating and swimming.

OK. So maybe there were a lot of reasons.

One thing I hadn't looked forward to (or even considered) was five straight days of rain. Torrential rain. Incessant rain. Unstopping rain. Until everyone and everyone was damp and moldy and never dry. It seems Hurricanes Katya and Lee collided on the heels of Irene and that all combined to create a hell of a lot of rain. Which lead to 15 people being housebound in a very small cabin with my cousin's two (adorable and very high-energy) kids.

More importantly, it lead to severe flooding in the area. When I hear "flooding," I think, "uh-oh," followed by, "that's terrible."

It's another thing however, to actually see it. To see people's homes under water. To see roads that you drove on to get here (and that you'd like to be able to drive on to leave) underwater. Unusable. To see normally charming streams and rivers and our beloved lake swollen and muddy and angry. To see debris washed across roads, boats submerged and drowning, and all sorts of refuse in places it doesn't belong.

We lost electricity and I felt my first flurry of panic--what would do for food once the refrigerator was no good? How would we cook (on our electric stove)? How would we manage without water (the water to the house is controlled by a pump powered by electricity). No toilet? No shower? No stove? No phone? No INTERNET???!!! What would we DO???

Then you see families staying in emergency shelters and you feel stupid for contemplating your comparatively lame concerns.

Honestly, the scariest element was the loss of control. There was absolutely nothing we could do to get electricity back on. To ensure that our cabin wasn't swallowed by the lake. To make sure that we had water or light or food.

Which lead me to consider this: It seems that we modern day folks spend an awful lot of time feeling in control of our lives--or suffering anxiety due to a loss of control. Then nature comes along and smacks us down.

"You think YOU'RE in control?!" Booms an omniscient voice "THINK AGAIN!!!"

My cousin reminded me that we still had a gas grill outside. And suddenly a summer BBQ treat was a priceless necessity. My aunt reminded me that we could scoop buckets of water from the lake and manually "force flush" the toilets. We had candles and matches and our cabin wasn't underwater. We would be OK. And we were.

But that feeling of loss of control, of loss of independence...the feeling of complete and utter helplessness...that will stay with me for awhile.

The Worst Smell in the World

Here is my latest entry for Courtney Miller-Callihan's super fun, summer-long writing prompt contest.

You may remember that she challenged folks to share their craziest re-imagining of their summer vacations a few weeks back (and this inadvertent yogini composed a modest Haiku an an entry). Earlier this week, I attempted to double the fun with a dual writing prompt contest entry. It seemed to be the perfect end to the writing fun.

But who can resist the challenge to write about the worst smell in the world?

Not this girl. That's for sure. :)

***

The worst smell in the world wasn’t the acrid aroma of alcohol and vomit as my boss lay on the floor of the public restroom purging after her latest bender. Nor was it the industrial cleaners that seem to be an innate fixture of any public restroom. 

No, the worst smell in the world was, in fact, the stench of failure that clung to every fiber of my Ann Taylor aspirational suit and soaked slowly into every cell of my being. Of knowing that working my way through college and killing myself over the past ten years in a series of entry level positions had led only and entirely to this undeniable fact: I worked for an alcoholic, pill-popping lunatic who actively loathed me. There was no silver cloud in sight.

 

A Dual Entry for Agent Courtney's Writing Prompt Contest

Here is my latest entry for Courtney Miller-Callihan's super fun, summer-long writing prompt contest.

You may remember that she challenged folks to share their craziest re-imagining of their summer vacations a few weeks back (and this inadvertent yogini composed a modest Haiku an an entry). 

This is my second try and I thought I'd step it up a notch by going for a dual entry for her #6 and #8 writing prompts: "Three things you'd bring with you to a deserted island. Assume food and water are not an issue, and that you will be stuck on the island, Gilligan-style, for an unknown period of time. Defend your choices." AND "This was the first thing Anna had ever won." (Listed respectively.) 

***

This was the first thing Anna had ever won and she could not believe that this was where it had led: Stuck, Gilligan-style, on a deserted island. 

“Thank you! THANK YOU, oh benevolent reality TV gods!” She yelled toward the heavens, throwing her arms outward in the universal gesture of all-encompassing joy.

Finally, after nine weeks without a shower, no bathroom, no phone, no family, no friends, and the joys of social media a very distant memory, Anna’s dream of winning “Last One Standing”—CNC’s hit “Survivor” series spin off—was within reach. Only one other competitor stood between her and one million dollars. It was so close she could taste it.

Unfortunately, the other remaining competitor—who insisted on being called Axl even though Anna was 99% sure that could not possibly be his given name—was a bearded barbarian who made the off-screen life choice to live as veritable ruffian in rural Appalachia. No bathroom? No phone? No family or friends? These were non-issues for Appalachian Axl. Thus, he was a formidable opponent. And formidable opponents were a concerning hurdle for Anna on her path to victory.

But surely, the tangled path of near-misses, physical injury, and the last-minute salvation that had brought Anna to being one of the last two standing, would now carry her over the finish line and into that glorious seven-figure bounty that tantalized her with its nearness.

Anna had come so far since the day she’d won a spot on the show in the wildcard round after entering a contest online. Since she’d never won anything before and this boon had come in the wake of a very bad breakup, she had told everyone that it was meant to be. The chance to escape to an exotic, unspoiled location had seemed to be exactly what she needed to jolt her out of her post-break-up depression. The chance to win her favorite reality series—bragging rights for the rest of her life, not to mention who knew what kind of attendant opportunities—and an inordinate amount of money were mere bonuses.

Anna crouched low and slowly coaxed the small fire she’d started into a more-respectable blaze. Wisely, she had chosen matches as one of the three things she could bring with her. It was a choice that had served her well as two of her competitors bit the dust within the first week. Her other choices of sunscreen and a sleeping bag had also been well-researched lifesavers. While former contestants had suffered severe, health-impairing sunburns that prevented them from performing crucial daytime survival activities and insomnia-induced limited mental functioning that had led to poor choices and missed opportunities, Anna had steadily plodded onward, the end each day heralding another small step toward winning.

Anna watched the yellow flames lick the driftwood and dried seaweed that she carefully fed the fire. She focused carefully on taking slow deep breaths, on grounding herself mentally. The key to getting this far was staying intensely present on every task, allowing their natural progression to lead her toward her goal.

“Never look ahead and never look back.” She repeated her mantra, aware that it would make a perfect last shot before cutting to commercial.

The fire glowed calmly in front of her, warding off the evening’s chill and providing a comforting light that cut a swatch into the too-near forest and its lively population of wildlife. For the first time since she’d been dumped, she felt strong and capable. That alone was worth a million dollars.

Writing Prompt Contest Entry

Got inspired by Courtney Miller-Callihan's writing prompt and was surprised where the story took me. Love when that happens!!

***

I opened the last box, and inside found a slim stack of photos. Tired and sweaty, I blew the bangs off my forehead and slowly straightened in the hot attic. The over-bright Technicolor shades of the photos told me they were from the early ‘70s even before the bell bottoms and embroidered peasant tops did. My mother—young, beautiful, and sporting the era’s trademark shag cut—stood smiling in a backyard. She held a toddler on her cocked hip. Blond and chubby-cheeked, the baby bore a striking resemblance to my young mother…and to me.

The fine hair on my forearms rose. The certain chill of dread that precedes any cataclysmic finding that you later wished you didn’t know, ran through my belly.

I flipped it over and read my mother’s handwriting: “Serena. First visitation. 1972.”

I slowly replaced it at the back of the stack and flipped through the rest which ran sequentially, annually, through the next three years. At the bottom, there was a well-aged envelope whose seal no longer held. Centered above the flap was the name, “Greater New York City Adoption Agency” in a cobalt blue print that had faded over the decades.

Hands shaking slightly, I removed the folded stack of papers and numbly read the words that confirmed that my mother had given a baby up for adoption when she was 18. This baby—Serena?—now an adult, was my sister. My sister that I’d never met, and until moments ago, hadn’t even known existed.

Confusion and chaos washed over me. A flood of questions cascaded into my brain, faster than I could catalogue them. Foremost I wondered why my mother had never told me. Realization crystallized: My mother had intentionally never told me—yet she had left this information for me to discover, certainly knowing that the task of cleaning out her house after her death would fall to me. With her gone, I could never ask her why…how…what the circumstances were…who the father was…how she knew him…why…why…why…

It was then that another emotion rose—rough and raw and unexpected, it crowded the others out: anger.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation

This is my entry for Courtney Miller-Callihan's super fun contest challenging folks to share their craziest re-imagining of their summer vacations.


What I Did on My Summer Vacation
A Haiku re-imagining by this inadvertent yogini

Conquered Voldemort!

Vanquished bridesmaids, Smurfs, bad boss!

Sigh. Just saw movies.

Dog Park Etiquette: Another Brush with Crazy

You may remember that I'm a bit of a crazy-magnet. I accept that as my lot in life. Sometimes, however, I forget that it's my lot in life. Well, this morning, I was reminded. Le sigh.

I took Pelu for an early-morning outing to the dog park before an editing session with my crit partner. For those unfamiliar with dogs, dog parks, and dog park etiquette, it goes something like this. There's a "any-size/big dog" area for the...(wait for it)...big dogs or any brave little dogs that don't mind mixed big-dog company. And a separate "little dog" area for...little dogs. Each one is fenced in with three-foot tall fences, intentionally separate, and gated.

Lest there be any confusion, there is a painted sign of a little dog with "<#25"spelled out for the little dog portion.

Pelu--all ten pounds of her--was in the little dog park alone when a monster-sized, garantuan, astoundingly huge, mind-blowingly large dog leapt--yes, leapt--over the three-foot-tall fence into the little dog area. This alone was kind of amazing.

What was more amazing, however, was that the owner simply stood there and watched as little dogs began running around in terror and little-dog owners began scooping them protectively. It was practically akin to a post-bomb scene in a movie with people running for cover, screaming.

Meanwhile, the giant dog--let's call him Brutus--then began relieving himself all around our area. And in case you're thinking it was only "number one," well, you'd be wrong. After he left three separate piles around the little dog sanctuary, he then began tearing around in victorious loops. (I imagine this is the doggie equivilent of "Take that, b^tches! Your park is mine now!")

Still in the general/big dog area, Brutus's owner, let's call him Oblivious A-hole Owner (OAHO for short), yelled, "You got the sh^ts or something?" as he continued to simply stand, stare, and do absolutely nothing.

Yeah, he's got 'the sh^ts' from the little dog he ate on his walk here, I thought sarcastically.

Finally, one small-dog owner approached him and asked if he needed an extra bag to pick up after Brutus (aka hint-hint).

OAHO stared angrily, silently before finally pushing off the fence he'd been leaning on and ambling over, snapping "I've GOT it."

Walking past me, he said (as though we were having a conversation), "So, let me get this straight, my dog can't come in the little dog park but little dogs can come over to general area."

"Yep--those are the rules alright," I agreed cheerily. "Because big dogs can really hurt little dogs, so it's at the little dog owner's discretion if they want to take that risk."

"Oh that's it, is it?" He taunted, his voice a nasty sneer. "Well how am I supposed to know?"

I pointed to the sign.

"Yeah...too bad my dog can't read," he sneered derisively.

"Good thing his owner can...and that's the owner's responsibility, to control the dog and stick to the rules." I volleyed back.

Sensing that he wasn't going to win this one, he decided to make it personal. "Wow. You're a real happy person, aren't you? You're just in a GREAT mood today, huh?" The sarcasm in his voice could've peeled paint off walls.

"I was," I agreed, "until about 5 minutes ago."

By this point, my tiny Pelu broke free of her frozen state of fear and ran to the gate, pawing frantically to get out.

As we walked home, I remembered again that I have a bit of a crazy-magnet and that next time I need to resist engaging with crazy. Perhaps this sign on the pick-up bag dispenser said it best.

Thoughts? Etiquette violations (dog-park or otherwise)?

India: Land of Stark Contrast and Amazing Sights

As I reflect on my trip to India, I try to wrap my brain around what I saw and experienced. I try to find words that accurately describe that world--colorful, chaotic, crowded, hot, amazing come to mind.

But I think that the most accurate and illustrative summary of India that I can come up with is actually the word contrast. As in, India is a place of dramatic disparity and striking contrasts.

The contrast between the rich and the poor. A holy man asking for money to bless me. A cow holding up two lanes of traffic. An ox-cart/cow-cart/camel-cart on a highway alongside buses, cars, and trucks. Women in beautiful saris sitting side-saddle on the backs of motorcycles. Delhi—India’s third-largest city—with a population of 16 million people (double the size of New York!) not having basic infrastructure like trash removal. Wild monkeys everywhere…including major cities that are twice the size of New York. Families of five on one motorcycle. Families of five on one motorcycle and only the father (who’s driving) wears a helmet. Monks buying ice cream. Flies covering fresh food. Rishikesh’s city government hiring people to empty dumpsters (into the sacred Ganges River) and simultaneously hiring a “Green the Ganges” team to…fish trash out of the sacred Ganges River. People purifying themselves in a river polluted by trash and toxic waste. Women purifying themselves in the Ganges only ever fully clothed in their saris. Men purifying themselves in the Ganges wearing only ever small, skin-tight bathing suits (shorts). Most men wearing western clothes. Absolutely no women wearing western clothes. 110-degree weather and yet everyone very covered (men in long-sleeves, long pants; women in saris or salwar kameezs). Food being sold/consumed in the filth of the streets. McDonald’s being a really nice restaurant. Electricity being unreliable (at best!) and yet only the really nice hotels having back-up generators. (Think of the ramifications of that—all the food that spoils and then is sold anyway.)

My own internal contrast of being so fascinated and drawn to this crazy, amazing, and difficult place.

Can I get that with a side of flies, please?

Street scene

Mama and Baby Monkey

Yoga & Exhibitionism: Strange Bedfellows

When we moved to the South End six years ago, we learned that an unanticipated perk of the place was that it happened to overlook the starting line of the Pride Parade. This year, over mimosas, we stood in the rain and clapped and cheered for all manner of marchers. Spanning the gamut were everyone from church groups to cross-dressers, the “Old and Bold” to the young and scantily clad. Nothing shocks me anymore. Or so I thought...

But this year, my not-so-delicate sensibilities were scandalized by one float in particular. No, it wasn’t the woman with the duct-taped breasts. Nor was it the leather-mask-clad people dressed in some sort of equine-theme, pulling Roman-chariot-looking carts carrying another leather-clad person wielding a whip. (Wow! Apparently, six years of watching the parade has really jaded me. I didn’t even blink an eye at this).

No. What really shocked me this year was the yoga float. Yes, the yoga float. It sounds innocent enough. But it was carrying what can only be described as a Cirque du Soleil-esque display of attention-seeking contortionism. The shirtless guy in full handstand (undeniably an accomplishment on a moving float) was the tamest. (Note: One of the studios where I teach requires men wear shirts due to the exhibitionist-curbing theme.) (Further note: it was a cold that day--jeans and sweatshirt-wearing-cold. These yogis must’ve been freezing!) There was a shirtless guy in full paddotanasana (wide-legged forward bend) who then snaked his arms under and around his inner thighs and into a full-bind at his lower back—and the fact that I couldn’t even find an image of this during a google search says something. Then there was all sorts of skin-tight, barely-there yoga outfitted women executing all sorts of writhing, snake-y, twisty-pretzel, Gumby-ish poses. Bodies weren’t the only thing contorting—faces, too, were twisting and squinching in the exquisite delight of performers pandering to an audience.

I know that the opposite argument will be to let yoga be what it is to different people, and that’s fine. But I think it was the attention-seeking, pandering aspect that made this one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. And bear in mind, I’m a strangeness magnet.

Call me naive, but I was actually shocked that there was a yoga float at all. Isn’t that the polar opposite of every tenet of the practice? Isn’t the very nature of a pose-flaunting parade float in opposition to the deeply personal, inwardly focusing, mind-stilling, non-competitive, non-exhibitionist nature of yoga??

I’m all about providing yoga to the masses. But this inadvertent yogini’s two cents is that it would have been far more in line with the true mission of yoga—not to mention more business and marketing efficient (hey, ten years in the corporate world yields thought patterns that die hard!)—if the studio had simply walked in normal clothes, handing out vouchers for a free class.

I think one comment that I overheard sums it up best: “You know, I’ve always wanted to try yoga...but if that’s what it’s like, forget it. I could never do any of that." And surely that’s not what the studio was going for.

Love it? Hate it? Don’t mind either way?

(click to enlarge pics)

The Big Plunge

Throughout my twenties, my Italian grandmother lamented my single status. As all her other grandchildren married and reproduced, she was wont to introduce me as her "granddaughter...the unmarried one."

Finally, at the ripe old age of 30, I too got married. This meant that she could stop saying Hail Marys to that effect and I could feel relieved that she'd now stop asking if I'd met any "special friends" during our daily conversations.

I'd earned a blessed reprieve. Or so I'd thought.

Until...she started asking when she'd see great-grandchildren. Ah, le sigh. It seems marriage is not enough for a little Italian nonni.

In much the same way I resisted marriage, I've stubbornly resisted the kid pressure. Maybe it has something to do with all that getting up every three hours for round the clock feedings. And cleaning up someone else's poop. And the whole 18 years (minimum) of undue responsibility--the idea of another (utterly helpless!) little being depending on you for their food and safety and care. I couldn't just go away for the weekend with friends or hubby anymore.  I couldn't have wine with dinner, mimosas with brunch, or vodka...ever?! (OK fine - not "ever," but at least for a year or two given pregnancy and breastfeeding).

That level of commitment is so very intense and overwhelming. And I'm kind of a wimp and definitely a commitment-phobe. Which basically boils down to...fuhgeddaboudit.


So here I am, nearly 34, and my biggest responsibilities are my indoor plants year-round, and my garden in the summer. No fish. No cats. No big burden of responsibility.

Until I decided I was ready for at least a little more responsibility. And suddenly, getting up every three hours for the first few months and cleaning up someone else's poop didn't sound quite as bad.

Which is how I knew I was ready for the big plunge: a puppy!

Enter: Pelu. An adorable mutt from MacAllen, Tx. Her mom was a cockapoo (half cocker spaniel, half poodle and trust me, that sounds better than the alternative "poodlecock") and the dad is a mystery. My vet says she looks like a border terrier. And given that, at five months, she's only growing longer and not taller, I think she may be part long-haired dachshund as well.

I got up every few hours to let her out for the first few days of housetraining. Then I realized this tiny puppy and I were soulmates: she could hold it for at least eight hours. Heaven! Mama can sleep!

Yes, she is utterly dependent on me for her care, food, safety, and well-being. But surprisingly, that isn't as terrifying as I'd feared. I can actually handle it. She loves to snuggle. She can entertain herself for hours while I work. She naps like a champ. And she has a sassy, loving, irrascible personality that is entirely endearing.

Which makes her just about the most perfect little creature in the world and exactly the right amount of responsibility.

Still not ready for kids though! :)

Napping...like a boss

Another Brush with Crazy at the Coffee Shop

Just had an utterly lovely week at a yoga retreat. Yoga everyday, walks outside in the snow, yoga everyday...amazing, organic, nutritious food that you don't have to plan, shop for, or clean up after...yoga everyday...ah, le sigh.

And now, back to reality. Stopped at a coffee shop on the way home. After several hours in the car, I'm stretching while I wait for my tea.

Deceptively sane-looking man in his 40s-50s approaches.

Him: What are you doing?

Me: (mid side-bend) Um...stretching?

Him: The universe punishes those who drive in poetic ways.


Me:  Ok.

Him: Drivers poison our planet with their driving...And their cars...And now the planet...and the universe are punishing you in poetic ways for your driving.

Me: Ok.

He leaves. I'm still waiting for my tea, still stretching. He comes back and says - NO JOKE - "I forgot my crayons." Grabs a box of crayons from the table near me, returns to his seat at the counter, and proceeds to start coloring.

I did not dare to look to see if he was coloring outside the lines.

Does this stuff happen only to me?

A Gift From the Gardening Gods

Just in time to get the weekend started off on a good note! I got my organic produce delivery. And there, nestled among the butternut squash, bananas, lemons, and various other veg, was this magnificent example of just how awesome nature can be...

 And just in case you missed it...

And in case you need the close-up in order to see the naughty...

Happy Friday!