guilty as charged

1 03 2011

 

Started yoga teacher training in January. Found a site with loads of observations, some gave me a giggle — and I added to it a bit too:

  • Not wearing body lotion because it messes up your grip.
  • Barely recognizing your classmates fully clothed, or dry, or with hair/makeup coiffed.
  • Freezing in any environment that’s less than 80 degrees.
  • Realizing that Sanskrit no longer sounds foreign.
  • Buying underwear based on how quickly it dries, and if it will peek out whilst in a full forward fold.
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100 mile “practice”

11 02 2011

You’ve heard of marathons. Of course you have, those 26.2 oval stickers are breeding like wildfire on the backs of SUV’s everywhere these days, but have you noticed the stickers with numbers bigger than 26.2? Those are “Ultra” marathons, the new badge of honor. They’re typically 50K’s, or even 50 miles, or the grand poobah: 100 milers. (Although I bet there’s someone somewhere who’s hosted a race longer than 100 mi.) 

Mr Geauxgirl and I have worked an aid station for a 100 miler in the past. We used to “run” (term used loosely– much beer involved— and Delightful was there too) with a fella who actually set the course record for one of these jobbies seven or eight years running. He also had legs that were up to about my armpits, and kinda just loped along– his one step was about 3 or 4 of mine, and I’m about 5′ 6″. The majority of folks coming through at mile 85 were just brok-ted. As in likely causing irreparable harm.

Enter into the fray another friend of ours – we’ll call him “This Guy”. This Guy started “running” with us (the beer variety), then somehow he caught the Running bug that we managed to successfully avoid. (Well, “we” meaning me. I still don’t run unless I’m chased. Hubby has done 2 marathons, but his training regimine to get to 26.2 miles consists of about a month’s worth, where training for a month means I can go twice around the block without stopping instead of once around.) He also worked this overnighter aid station, and we together tsk-tsk’d (and awed) at the extremity of how much people voluntarily will put themselves through.

So my point?

Our friend, This Guy, a fellow scant 5′ 6″-er with legs to match, just completed a 100 miler over superbowl weekend.

He posted about it here, including a short video.

While I did read Born to Run recently (fascinating), plus I confess to owning 3 pair of Vibram Five Finger shoes (new jayas!), at the same time we’ve already established that I’m no runner. But I am a yogini. And part of what we yammer about (sometimes endlessly!) is that ours is a “practice”. As in, you get to “practice” managing your body and mind’s reactions to putting your body and mind through a self-induced stressful situtation in a safe place, so that your “practice” in dealing with stresses comes in handy when you step off your mat too.

Well lo and behold, watching his video during the run itself, he’s doing the same damn thing. Hmph. Looks to me like runners are closeted yogi’s, only with tighter hamstrings.

Rock on, friend. Now sit down and eat a bag o’ chips already, will ya? (Beer highly recommended too.) And next time you come for a visit, I’ll lend you my mat so you can work on those hamstrings.

yup! this guy....





cover your bits, clown nose optional

9 11 2010

My dog wears a tu-tu. Everyone thinks it’s “cute”. We have her wearing it because it makes her no-licky-the-hoohah collar more effective, rather than for cute factor, but the cuteness is a nice gravy benefit.

But who cares? Why should a piece of fabric cause a reaction anyway? If it were someone’s 5-year old son, there’d be the well meaning but ultimately clueless and judgmental crass asses to deal with, and the potential for a sweet shiny eyed big hearted kid to learn way too soon that Being Yourself sometimes has consequences from people whose hearts haven’t grown as big as his has yet. What a harsh lesson so early, but what a neat person this kid has the potential to become with the support he’s got around him.

My man knows how to wear a dress. Frankly, he can rock one. And he’s manly, PLUS sweet, sensitive, and funny– a damned fine catch that I won the lottery by finding. (And dammit, he’s got nice gams too.)

In an ideal world, clothes’ function is simple: cover your naughty bits, protect you from the elements, and be comfortable for the task at hand. But we all know it’s more than that. It’s a brand. It’s a statement of YOU and how you view yourself, or want others to view you.

Every day, you put on a costume. Seriously. No, you don’t put on ONE outfit for each place, but you do have a set range of “acceptable” wear for each situation. My friend Delightful made a good point the other day that even the Goth kids have a “uniform” of sorts. Goth kid: I dress this way because it’s different. Reply: Yeah. But why do you look just like your other goth friends? (Disclaimer: I adore goths, and I confess to having a recessive goth gene myself– it’s the teen angst logic mismatch that gives me a giggle.) 

Some costuming examples for your amusement:

  • Church/Office/Nursing Home visit: Conservative suit or dress, yes. Hoochie sequins, fishnets, and the pink wig? No.
  • Susan Komen Run: Running shorts/etc, yes. Last year’s thrift store bubble-gum pink prom dress customized with grommets & ribbon up the back, with feather boa, YES. Conservative suit or dress, no.
  • Evening out on the town: Little black dress, flowy pants, hot designer jeans, heels, YES. Paint stained & holey old unshapen flannel sweatshirt, hubby’s jeans, hiking boots, No.
  • A day picking strawberries & flying kites: Paint stained & holey old unshapen flannel sweatshirt, hubby’s jeans, hiking boots, Yes. Little black dress, flowy pants, hot designer jeans, heels, No.

But somehow, no one needs to be told that it’s not a good idea to show up to the office in an elvis cape or a clown costume.

Even if a clown is THE most ironically appropriate thing. Rubber nose optional.

Elvis is thumbs up for Saving Hooters. Clearly this is promotion worthy attire, no?





what makes a favorite a favorite?

4 11 2010

There’s a local watering hole bar, perched on the lake. It’s really NOT our favorite spot, but somehow we always end up drawn there, and always have a great time. Usually we’re there pre or post boating, but this particular day was a crisp fall day. Too gorgeous not to get out and enjoy the view of the water. We sure seem to be at this spot often enough that it could easily be moniker’d as one of our favorites. But yet we still don’t label it that way ourselves.

Hmm. Why IS that? The places/things that are NOT your favorites, somehow you’re still drawn to. Heh?

Like that ratty-ass sweatshirt you really (REALLY) should let go of, that you’re not so fond of either for that matter, that still gets way more wear than your absolute mostest favoritest that sits unused and lonely in the closet. By the time you do get around to wearing the favorite one, somewhere along the way it changed on you (gasp!) and now doesn’t fit quite the way you remember, and were the sleeves always like that? In the meantime, you missed out on it when it WAS your favorite, and for what? A crowded closet, and a neglected pristine shirt that is no longer your favorite afterall and is well past its expiration date.

Doesn’t have a dang thing to do with olives, but there ya have it. We enjoyed the day and the maybe-it-is-your-favorite-afterall-but-you-don’t-realize-it bar so much we created a little friend to enjoy it with us. It appears he eventually had a little too much to drink though. Must’ve been tipsy from marinating in the bloody mary for too long, I guess.

Get out there with your favorite (whatever), and wear/use/love the hell out of it. While it still IS your favorite!

PS—Olives are my favoritest garnish on a bloody mary. Who wants one?

mmm, tasty

THANK you, Delightful, for documenting our little friend.
And to EastOfTheWest for getting us out of the house to begin with.
(Both of whom I’m honored to call favorites, and to wear/use/love the hell out of!)




coming soon to a screen near you

29 09 2010

Yeah, still here. Where’d I go? Nowhere in particular. Nothing unusually noteworthy to write home about, other than the usual cadre of many wonderful and exciting tiny details of everydayness.

I just went *poof* for a while. No reason.

Very moved and overwhelmed by some terribly kind words here. 🙂 *sniff* (The feeling’s mutual, Izzie Dahling…) And this WILL be passed on.

But not right this minute.  Right this minute off to the vet, for more meds for Leeloominai. (I can’t believe she’s tolerating a diaper for her ouchie coochie so well, I doubt I’d be so accommodating.)

Soon though. As in “coming soon to a screen near you”.





one last thing

18 08 2010

It may not appear so at first glance, but this is the best funeral song, EVER.

All my life, she always said she wanted to go out with a brass band. Those aren’t easy to come by in the middle of a rice field, so the best we could come up with was an impromptu boombox, graveside, with a little Gladys Knight & the Pips.

Why, you ask?

Every spring cleaning, she’d hard-wax the wood floors, put me on an old wool army blanket, and sping me around on the floors to buff ’em, with old Motown blaring.

So last year, this came on in a random shuffle, and the dam broke. And there it was.

Holy hell, she would’ve LOVED the boombox-funeral bit. Use your imagination, and you can see her grinnin and swinging me around. Shiniest floors, ever.

Anyone else wanna wax some floors?





just another lap around the sun…

18 08 2010

me and momma - circa 1976-ish

… makes the sky a little brighter.

And no, it’s not my birthday. 🙂

(Yeah, I know, I know. I disappeared again. 😦 But only for a little while.)

It was all coming to a head one year ago. One year ago this past Saturday, One Tough Lady passed away. And one year ago today, we buried her.

Last year on my birthday is when she “spilled the beans” that she was sick, so between 7/15 this year and now, I’ve somehwat been reliving all of it, day by day. Even though I knew I was, I’ve been burrowed deeper into the fog than I realized I guess.

Earlier today, that fog that I was mostly unaware of this past month… lifted. In what seemed like an instant. I stopped dead in my tracks, for no reason. Not upset, just ginormous Pause button. And wouldn’t ya know it, it was about 2p, which is about exactly one year later, to the minute, of when we buried her.

I’m beyond awed of the quiet a swarm of friends stealthily surrounding me this month. I’m not sure I noticed it at the individual moments, but I’m so full of gratitude to have found such fantastic people– everywhere. From the nice stranger in Office Depot’s parking lot, to friends old and shiny-new, and to my poor taken-for-granted hubby this past month– there’s been a lot of love goin’ around. I tried to find the words to express my gratitude for that last year, but they still fall short of doing it any justice.  

No big reveal, or pithy moments, or dialog. So I feel… well, I dunno. Maybe it’s just that: I FEEL.

That’ll hafta do. (And I’m good with that.)