…d’ere’s poo in there

11 09 2010

Hurt my foot a couple weeks back, doing some team building silly adventures on the cape (woo! It sounds so worldly “on the cape”) The team building adventures were of the tennis-ball meets scuba-fins meets make-an-ass-of-yourself-with-your-teammates variety. So I haven’t been able to practice much. Yoga that is.

Take the resulting +/-10 bruises (we won 1st!), throw in a holy trinity of crapdom (big zit, cramps, and a lovely fever blister – as in “say hello to my little *friend*”) and maybe that’s attributing to my inexplicably morose world view of late. Sorry kids. Back soon in earnest, I promise. Kinda feel like I’ve been “mailing it in”, all around. Don’t sweat though, because I ain’t brokted down quite yet. Proof in point: Here’s a belly laugh from this morning to share for your own enjoyment:

Just cracked a new book Neal Pollack’s Stretch: The Unlikely Making of a Yoga Dude. Yeah, yeah, I have an unreasonable affinity for memoirs, akin to other strange affinities found in the world, like Funyuns, discoballs and the nation’s still ongoing obsession with various and sundry reality shows. (Stopping here, lest this become a whole ‘nuther flavor of post entirely.)

But yet again, I disgress. Focus, dear. (Pronounce this in your head as “fuckus”. It’s much funner that way, and I promise to explain why someday. But not today.)

Sheesh. Again. FUCKUS!

So. Yeah. The Yogi dude book thing. Barely in the first chapter, which includes such literary gems as these, both of which are clearly destined for the literary quote Hall of Fame, if such a thing exists:

  • “…. bending forward over my knees, I caught the faint and unpleasant whiff of my own ass…”
  • “….I’d expected poses with flouncy names, like laughing daisy, or bejeweled vagina….”

(Thanks for the giggle Neal. Funny as shit thus far, but I won’t be next to you in class, no offense dahlin’.)

But the kicker (still with me?) is this’n:

“Like a freshly made vampire, I’d only just begun to test the limits of my thirst. Yoga was about to become the organizing principle of my existence. Also, much to the chagrin of non-yogis I knew, it became pretty much the only thing about which I ever wanted to talk. In the walk of life, I’d stepped in a big pile of yoga doo, and nothing could get it off my sole. Or my soul.”

Um, yup. But at least this kind of poo doesn’t stain the carpet.

Holy shit. Where’s the Tylenol?

Hey, anyone else craving funyuns?





get your own highlighter, whydontcha?

17 06 2010

My deliciously quirky Mema had a *thing* for self-help books. Of all kinds. From Nostradomus (sp) stuff, to the pre-Martha (godforbid, insert her trademark here) domestic goddesses of the 50’s, to even a how to please your man pamphlet from the 40’s that I ran across while going through everything before Mother’s Estate sale. (Now THAT, is worthy of a post of it’s own. HI-LAR-ious, I tell you. And kinda creepy. The pamphlet, I mean.  But I digress.)

In any case, combine her self-help fetish with a slight passive-aggressive streak, and you’d come home to find various and sundry books, with bookmarks and highlights strategically placed on your bed, car, etc.

Gee, Mema. Trying to tell me somethin’, are ya? *sigh*

The best had to be the little late 80’s Nancy Reagan era Just-Say-No propaganda number she’d scavenged up somewhere. Finding that bugger had to be no easy feat, being that we lived in a town whose population is still to this day smaller than my now current subdivision. (A great place to be, but at the same time it’s a little like living on an island– since everything has to be “brought in” from elsewhere. Except rice.)

It took me about a month to figure out why she thought I needed THAT particular missive. It wasn’t until mother came to me gingerly, wringing her hands, all concerned about some razor blade they’d found in my car.

Um, heh? OHHHH…. Sheesh. Settle down. I scraped the AARP sticker that Mema had on the car window before it became mine. (Tip: An AARP sticker doth not attract the eye of young squires. And if it does, then I’m skeered of dem boyz. Talk about Cubs after some Cougars, yowsa.)

The point of this little trip down memory lane, is that I just fired off a few copies of books to a couple far flung friends.

They weren’t self-help books, nor were any passages highlighted. Each reader can find their own bits that stand out for themselves. The book was merely a choice I enjoyed the hell out of, and I thought they might too– so I wanted to share. I’m cognizant enough to be super grateful that I don’t have to choose between doing that, and buying groceries or paying the light bill.

I even threw in a summer CD mix (confession: or TWO. There were too many good songs, I couldn’t cut back to fit on one CD.), just for grins. Why the hell not?

So I guess I’m channelling Mema a bit.

Minus the passive aggressive streak.

I hope.