Tomorrow isn't promised

My wish is that you had a clue
a little twinge
that something wasn't right
and enjoyed just a bit extra
that final day week month
the souls
who shared with you
the gift of every normal day

It's not my place to grieve for you
Except you are woven into my story
and your footprints through my life
were formative
and timely and unique

The loss of you from this world means
I don't get to tell you
thank you
and sorry.
I loved you
naively and easily
but didn't know then
how to love myself

I was determined to escape
the shadow of a dismal childhood
You were in search of a loyal partner
dreams of following
the hedonism of the loft
with a home and tribe

I heard through the years
you found that partner
always together and present
for the family you made
on your own terms
living loudly, creating, giving
surrounded by community

I wished only that for you
And still, your early departure
knocked me sideways
because you've always shared
a piece of my heart
First there was you

And now you're gone
felled washing
the fucking dishes
I imagine the slightest smirk on your face
about that exit

And I always thought I'd meet you
somehow again in this life
because I owe you
more than a goodbye verse

You've taught me once more
and I will work hard to keep it close
Kindness matters
Live in the moment
Tomorrow is never promised

Random thoughts while drinking heavily post-election 2016.

In times of stress and sadness, I obsessively clean my personal spaces, donate or throw out my belongings, and WRITE.
So on this morning that we woke up to the reality of a Donald Trump presidency, a facebook post would be too long.  I decided to turn to my blog even though it's archaic. Plus there are six new boxes to donate and a full trash can at the curb...
So I might be extra affected by this loss of the White House and Congress because of my ongoing depression, who knows. It's been a long stretch of awfulness in my own personal life.
But that's beside the point of my political confusion.  Which is where I'll try to head with my stream of consciousness today.
What the hell happened last night?  In hindsight, it shouldn't be all that surprising.  But it is.
Let me start with my own present reality, and back it all up with history. I'm a super liberal married to a fiscal conservative. We just passed out 25 year anniversary (30 if you count the unmarried portion) and although we're not much like the people (babies) we were when we met, we have a shared past, present and future that keeps it all together.
My husband runs a very large piece of a very large successful global company based in NYC.  We live in Westchester County, NY.  It's one of the wealthiest counties in the country and IS the most heavily taxed county in the nation. Our personal property taxes alone are close to $50,000 per year. Compared to private school HS tuition in our neighborhood in Southern California, where we moved here from, it sounded like a great deal.  Less pricey AND I got to continue supporting (free) public education, something close to my heart...anyway we sound like 1%'ers. We are. I think. I'm not sure of the exact definition, but if I need to buy a plane ticket, at any price, at the last moment, I can.  So I think that qualifies.
But that's where we are in our lives now, not where we started.  Where we started and how we've lived in the different phases of our lives gives rise to my political leanings.
And I've lived in EVERY FUCKING CORNER of this country PLUS THE MIDDLE.
And I've lived in poverty with a single uneducated mom.
And we currently financially support our remaining living parents who still live in poverty.
And I've lived with wealth.
And I've lived on a military housing allowance.
And I've paid back student loans that were a bargain at 8%.
And I'm a woman who has both worked for pay and worked even harder for no pay as a stay at home parent.
And my husband grew up on military bases.
And when his dad left the Navy and couldn't find a job for several years, they had to sell all their furniture and move their family (four children) in with relatives and live off the charity of friends.
No joke.
Because of this, I believe that my vision for what our country should be for us and our children is broad and valid. I'm fighting for my children. Not only are they female, they both had speech and psychologial IEPs in elementary school.
I'm white and not an immigrant speaking a second language, but my mother-in-law and sister-in-law are not white and not very fluent in english, so my family encompasses every single facet of American life.
So I still don't understand.
We hit every fucking demographic other than racist homophobic white male, and are there really that many of those voting?  They couldn't find their ass with both hands if a spotlight was shining on it (a nod to my time living in the South) but still Trump reigns.
Did I mention that my father, father-in-law, three brother-in-laws, plus my husband were all military? Navy officers, navy enlisted, air force and army. Plus another brother-in-law was Peace Corps. Really, we are a family who has experienced it ALL. Every piece of the American Dream and Nightmare.
And not a single person I know from all of those past, present and future lives would vote for Trump.
Who the fuck voted for him?!
Less than a month ago I drove across country for the sixth time in my adult life.  We drove from NY to AZ through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, Indiana, Missouri, Oklahoma, Texas, and New Mexico.  The most memorable experiences from that three day drive were (visual) MASSIVE steel crosses erected by the interstate in both Indiana and Texas, (emotional) a city-wide freeway overpass memorial to fallen police officers in St. Louis, and (intellectual) the proliferation of right-wing/Trump election signs in the middle of NOTHING.  No hospitals, no schools, no fucking fresh food, not even strip malls.  Just Walmart and Pilot trucker stops with "adult entertainment" and laundry machines.
I hated being a woman in these places.  We were forced to be there by the need for gas and water and food, but I felt so out of place, not elitist, but LACKING in local experience to help me fit in...
And that wasn't my first "drive through" rodeo.
Steve and I drove from Washington to Florida in 1988. One car. We did it again from Virginia to San Diego in 1990 with two cars and one continuously screaming cat (my car). From San Diego to NYC in 1993.  From NYC to Phoenix in 1995. From Los Angeles to NYC (one car, two kids, two screaming cats) in 2012.
Every single drive across country in those years we've been at a different stage in our lives.
And never once have we had a conversation about stopping to live in those states where Trump outperformed, where most residents have  never crossed state lines, never applied for a passport, never aspired to anything other than what they've already EXPERIENCED.
So, I conclude with these broad thoughts.  An insulated society elected Trump. I'm baffled by this because of the whole global economy and internet thing, but personal experience tells me that the division in politics has a whole lot to do with economics and experience.
Get the fuck away from where you know it all and you'll be less ignorant, more empathetic, and much much more relatable.
But wait.  I'm not done.  We haven't talked yet about mental health care/addiction access (a HUGE piece of my life since the age of 8) big pharma, or reproductive rights.  Don't worry, they will be highlighted in future diatribes.  I don't see my need for writing away the stress going away anytime soon.

I'm pretty sure you can't read this, but I'll apologize anyway.

I lost my dad two years ago today.
When I first got the call that he had somewhat unexpectedly passed away, I felt mostly relief.
He had suffered for years with debilitating and progressive dementia. With his death, the burden of his lost mind yet functioning body was lifted from my step-mom as well as me and my brothers and sisters.
The timing was also just before Christmas and my family and I were in the process of selling our beloved Pasadena home and moving our lives across the country to New York.
I was busy trying to create a happy holiday, move away from everything familiar, still recovering from surgery complications from a year earlier, and ill with an undiagnosed autoimmune disease.
I didn't give myself time to mourn.
Flash forward to the present and I am struggling with a daughter who is making stupid teenager bad choices. I can't stop crying these last few days because of it, and I've felt somewhat confused at the depth of my sorrow.  I mean, we've all lived through those years, right?  It shouldn't be so difficult to parent them with the benefit of hindsight...
I realized this morning that my desperate sadness is tied in with my loss from two years ago that's never been examined.  My dad struggled with mental illness as well as the addictive disorders that come along with self medicating those issues.  His early decline was a result of those lifelong struggles and I never questioned or challenged his choices, or shared his life from an adult perspective.  Now all those issues, both genetic and learned, are tied up in my challenge of parenting a highly intelligent, but also highly anxious teen who seems to be trying out any and all recreational substances.
Sigh.
Sorry Dad, that I was glad that you died, I miss you.
I have so many questions I never got to ask.
And I don't think I apologized for my teen years.
And I'm sure I didn't say I love you enough.
Also, you forgot to say sorry to your kids.
I love you
That's all.

And so I cry.

Aren't you scared?
I stayed up all night
to check your breathing every hour.
And I cried
because you think it's cool
to drink
until you can't even sit or stand
and lose control of your speech and bladder
and unlock doors that allow your friends
to steal from us
so they can do the same thing.
So I cry.

Aren't you scared
that we are the enemy?
To be deceived
evaded and belittled
for our guidance.
In the light of your choices
I don't see normalcy
but shock
where no one is breathing or blinking
with Christmas wishes for cash
to fund your fun
and values tossed aside as childish
in favor of fitting in.
I can't stop crying.

Aren't you scared?
The choices we made to create for you a
memorable safe and meaningful
life are now
a burden to be
discarded in a quest for the
destruction of your intelligence
beauty and future.

I am scared
So instead of sleep
I cry.
And I think how stupid to provide things
I thought were special
when what you want is
freedom
to face plant on boulders
and into the fire with people who
abandon you in the dark and damage and
steal from you
And to take the money that you saved
for your future
and turn it all into
ashes and piss.

Love letter to my Bikram instructors.

Well. It's been a while. But I must vent. And there is no better spot.

I love my yoga. Bikram to be exact. It's been 31/2 years since I discovered the benefits. As I've posted earlier, yoga has kept me out of the operating room, away from physical therapy, and off the toxic drugs that western medicine has developed to treat the symptom, not the cause.

That being said, I am increasingly disillusioned with the brand "bikram" as developed by the person Bikram. I can pinpoint exactly when my disciple-hood started to falter. I took class from the Boss himself at headquarters this fall. One tenant of yoga is to make sure to take class from your master at least once. I knew we were moving away from Los Angeles and I made it a priority to attend.

What a shitty class. Packed in like cattle for the slaughter, belittled for our shortcomings, (women) told to fuck our husbands more often if we wanted good lives, inconsistent dialog and timing of the standard poses, and the unrelenting fear that the master himself would find fault with anything going down on your own personal mat. I paid twenty dollars to sweat through ninety minutes of a miserable human proclaiming his godliness over a room full of star-struck drones.

I now understand a bit better the controversy within the yoga community surrounding Bikram. His offensive comments, narcissism and aura of entitlement overshadowed the good personality traits that must have initiated the fame and devotion that he now takes for granted. I sympathize with those studios trying to teach this hatha series outside his realm of tight control. I am now more likely to support those unauthorized "hot yoga" studios and this was all inspired by only one ninety minute class with Bikram at his unwelcoming, nondescript "world headquarters." Blech.

Anyway, I came away from that class with a bigger appreciation for my beloved local teachers. They took the good from Bikram's teachings and made it even better with their willingness to share the healing benefits of a series while leaving their egos at the door.

So to my dearly missed instructors from Bikram La Canada, Bikram Pasadena and Bikram El Cajon:

Thank you Rose for teaching my first class and inspiring me to come back the next day, scared and sore and lonely.

Thank you Hobie for teaching my second class and having the experience to step away from dialog to inspire a struggling new yogi.

Thank you Jeff for being tough enough to force me to be good to myself before your class.

Thank you Shannon for having to courage to step in front of your peers and learn to lead.

Thank you Carolyn and Nancy for making class a joyful experience.

Thank you Bernadette for inspiring me to be healthy and beautiful even in my fourth decade.

Thank you Ken for sharing your life's ups and downs with us during savasana. I miss the updates!

Thank you Ziggy and Dave for being funny, funny, funny, and oh so tough when I least expected it. You haven't lived until you can say you've laughed your way through half moon and come away uninjured...

Even as my respect for Bikram dwindles, I love you all for your dedication to your students and the series.

I'm scared as hell to step into a new studio here in NY and I hate practicing in the morning, but tomorrow I will head back to Bikram (the class, not the man) at 9:30 am and hope for the best. Wish me luck, I look forward to meeting the next inspiring teacher while desperately missing all my old favorites.

My soft heart.

I have a new respect for Animal Rescue workers. I know this now because I can't get the image of one bloody, fear-ridden and still fighting opossum out of my mind.

Last night I was happily heading out to my 8pm class when my car was slowed, then stopped by a horrific scene. I don't know how he got there, but there was a large opossum frozen in the middle of a fairly busy street. He was still on his feet, but there was a pool of blood underneath him, as well as a bloody mess about five feet away, probably the scene of the initial injury.

As my headlights brought into focus the fact that the thing in my path was a living animal, not trash, I was sure that he'd scuttle the rest of the way across the road and into the woods surrounding us. Not so, he was standing, but couldn't move any further. All he had left in him was his voice, which he used bravely in an attempt to ward off my approaching car.

I didn't know what to do, I eventually drove around him, there was already another car freaking out behind me about my unexplained stop and a jeep pulled over to the curb keeping an eye on him. I left the opossum to his fate, but I was filled with an awful sense of sorrow for my inability to help and his obvious..aliveness. I wished for him that terror and pain and fight weren't the last things he knew.

So I called my husband at home and asked him to call animal rescue, you know, the trucks that pick up all the dead skunks, and hoped for the best. Maybe they would get there in time, maybe there's an off hours emergency vet who operates on unsuccessful roadkill, maybe he wasn't all that injured, despite the gallons of blood...

So that's my fantasy. But my reality tells me that animal rescue, if they found the opossum, probably euthanized him on the spot, then tossed the body in the truck with all the other victims of the day.

So I hope to never do that job. At least EMT's get to race their bloody, screaming, alive messes to the hospital...

Advice. Sorry, can't help myself.

Nothing funny here. Just a reminder about something important. I like the words I used to describe yoga to my brother-in-law so I'm going to repeat them here.

For me, Bikram yoga has replaced the operating room, physical therapy, medication and the gym. I can't say enough good about it. A healthy spine and strong core are gifts to myself that I don't know how I lived without. A dark, scary time in my life a year and a half ago, when I was scheduled for three level fusion surgery of my cervical spine, has turned into something beneficial that touches all areas of my life, mental as well as physical.

I don't want to go on and on because, just like blabbering to a mother-to-be about your labor and early parenting experiences, the uninitiated have no frame of reference in which to process the information.

Try a class if there is one near you. Go to www.bikramyoga.com. The class finder link is on the left. If not, at least try a hatha yoga class, the therapeutic benefits may take longer without the aid of the heat, but the postures in Bikram yoga are based on hatha yoga.

Happy strengthening and stretching and sweating. The end.

Rain.

So I head out today for a certain "salon" appointment. I tend to put this one off because it, well, HURTS. Anyway. I arrive at my appointment after driving through dust/ash/mud slicked streets that are enjoying their first soaking rain in almost a year. Whee. It turns out that the crappy-ass neighborhood my salon has recently relocated to has a minor issue with storms. I didn't make much notice of the three major intersections I passed through that had police directing traffic until I show up for my appointment and find out there's been no power to the area since 9pm last night. Hmmm. New appointment for next Monday. Now I've got to psych myself up all over again.

Upside: I'm offered a free skin-care product for my inconvenience. Yay.

Then, I get on the freeway to return home. Oops. ALL lanes blocked, probably due to some unseen tragedy up the hill and around the curve. I'm starting to wonder about this much needed storm.

Upside: It's not my car that caused the back-up.

So finally I arrive home, it took about an hour to creep to the next exit and wind my way through side streets, ala Steve Martin's commute in "L.A. Story." I hit the driveway, push the gate opener and find one more casualty of the rain. Yup, gate won't open. My car's ass is hanging out into the street while I grapple with the oily, dirty pin so I can open the gate manually, and I slip and fall flat on my face into the dust/ash/mud stream coming off our property.

Upside: Power isn't out to the house, so hopefully we only need a fuse, or mabye a new transformer. And, I was already doing laundry...

So I'm still thinking maybe this run of bad luck is the storm's fault when I remember that it was yesterday that I discovered, before all this rain started, that my AMEX card showed six fraudulent charges.

Upside: Whoever stole my credit card info. was smart enough to use a fake phone number and email, but overlooked the fact that all the weird crap they ordered online was still being delivered to my address.

Anyway, now that I've documented my string of bad luck, I hope it will leave me alone for a while. And rain, I'm sorry I doubted you, keep it coming.

A half acre ain't gonna be enough..

There have been many creature funerals at our house. Everything from the cat who came before the kids to a praying mantis that was killed with kindness. The mice are buried on the wild back hill, the fish went, um, down the toilet, and the lizards have their own well-populated rocky area near the cactus.

Today I discovered a private burial site for something I didn't even know ranked it's own funeral.

My youngest daughter's favorite plaything all weekend was a balloon with a gobstopper inside. Who knows the appeal? All I remember is it watched TV and slept with her for several days. I'm sure that I've mentioned in the past that she's a combination of immature for her age and also very nurturing?

Anyway, unfortunately, on Monday after school, it met the end the way most balloons do. It popped unexpectedly, scared the shit out of all living things within range, and the gobstopper disappeared under the dusty recesses of some (yet to be identified) piece of furniture.

I saw her tear up, but how much sympathy can I muster for a balloon that just about stopped my heart? I breezed over her disappointment and got on with whatever important Mom thing (facebook) I was doing.

My sweet little thing handled it in her own way...there are now two new headstones in the yard with fresh flowers scatted in front of them. One for "ballooney" and one for "gobbey". They even post the day and year (month excluded) of their demise and a RIP rounds out the epitaph. How touching in a strange little girl sort of way...Love ya Mads.

And, yes, like my sister-in-law suggested, I may need a bigger yard soon.

My favorite season.

OK, so my spawn have returned to school.
Fourth day now to be exact.
I can run around accomplishing the mundane tasks of "wife and mom" without any input from the peanut gallery about when we should leave Costco or just how many errands is too many in one outing.
Big sigh of relief.
I can browse the net without someone reading over my shoulder and, today, I turned the car stereo WAY up and listened to a whole damn song without interruption.
Another whew.
One problem.
I keep making comments out loud, like maybe someone is listening.
Is it possible that I..gasp..miss them!
That's crazy!
Have they evolved enough from the needy hell that is baby and toddler that I now might actually LIKE having them around?
Oh, shit, I just looked at the time, I only have an hour left before school pick-up.
That's nowhere near enough physical and mental space for one day.
I take it all back, thank god for school.

Summer

As an adult, I still look forward to summer with the anticipation of FREEDOM that those months brought to me as a child. Not only did the responsibility of school fall away, but so did the need for boots, mittens, sweaters, umbrellas, heck, clothing in general.

We would get up in the morning, throw on a swimsuit, succumb to the dousing of "OFF" (I grew up in Minnesota) and head out on our bikes to dig melted tar out of the street, skateboard down the spiral freeway pedestrian ramps, and plan the dreaded "can my friend sleepover" ambush on our parent(s). Pushing around those fluid filled blisters on our shoulders on a drive back from the day at the lake in the scorching sun was unending entertainment.

Church camp on a leech-filled lake four hours outside the city was our idea of heaven. The kids ran free for a week while the parents drank themselves into a boozier state of "holier-than-thou". There was nothing better than passing the swimming test to get your ankle bracelet that allowed unquestioned access to the raft 100 yards out into the lake.

You all know where this is going....Now I am the parent, when in the hell did that happen? I am surprised every year by the massive amount of responsibility and reduction of free time that summer rains on me.

WTF? My new favorite month is September, and NOT because both my girls made their entrance into this world then, or because I got married in that month, big deal. Whatever the date school starts on the first Thursday after Labor Day is my ticket back to sanity, order, and bedtimes in the single digits. The anticipation of freedom that I used to feel as a child at the beginning of summer has now shifted to fall.

Now...all I have to do is make sure my kids never get a whiff of the added work, the explosion of mess and NEED that this wondrous time of year creates. I want them to remember me buzzed on the beach with my boring friends while they run free on their scooters and bikes and boogie boards. They don't need to know how much effort and time is needed to produce these carefree memories.

So far this summer we have traveled to Portugal and Spain, blown up our own illegal fireworks, culitvated zucchini, tomatoes and beans, made paper, hung out at Venice Beach, ridden mechanical bulls, created underwater videos in the pool, and there have been no trips to the ER. Still in the works are trips to see family in the Northwest and a week camping at the beach.

I'm gonna pat myself on the back for a great first five weeks and hope my children come away with some lasting memories of fun and freedom. I'll ask them twenty years from now just how great it was...

Trading addictions.

So I'm a facebook whore. I can't stay away. At first, the draw was reconnecting with all the people I friended and lost in my many moves. Then it was Scrabble. Now it's Mafia Wars.

I barely even update my status anymore because any feedback I get on that might take away precious time better spent banking my money, robbing unsuspecting landlords and attacking other mafias. I won't even go into the shopping sprees where I acquire my many tools of violence.

I figured out today that my kids are suffering. Jos is begging for an email and a facebook page so she can join in on my obsession. Oops. Madeline has created a menagerie of clay sculptures in colors of clay we don't own, she's been "clay mixing" and forming friends while perched directly in front of the TV for hours on end. Double oops.

So I decided that I will only hit the internet when they are at school or asleep. Needless to say, I managed to wash a few dishes today, return some shoes, clean the cat box, and still spend about three hours buried in my make-believe world of crime and, uh, more crime.

My only hope now is for someone to take a hit out on Don Kempsey and end this obsessive nonsense. Ooh, ooh, I'm gonna go check to see if I'm still alive.

The Secret Lives of Cats

I have not written about the cats lately. They are as different from each other as my children.

Lilly is fluffy, clean, long-haired. She has a massive tail and tiny little crossed eyes that make her look sweet and a bit worried.

Bongo has short, wiry fur and a tiny body for such a fierce warrior. He's a bundle of muscles and curiosity and dirt.

We have been in and out of town a lot lately. The cats are allowed outside, but when we are gone, I just lock them in.

When we return, both run outside immediately to roll around on the driveway, because that's way better than rolling around on the wood floor. Then they follow us around for a while to say "we missed you", then it's business as usual.

For Lilly, she sits near a bush and watches the bugs fly around.

Bongo will rush around looking for something to kill and when it's dead he brings it back for Lilly to play with.

I often imagine what they do for days on end when we are away. Maybe something like this...

Lilly: "Bongo, there's no use trying to get outside, why don't you follow my lead and take a bath or something?"

Bongo: "Quiet! I see a squirrel. If I paw at this glass hard enough I think I'll get out.

Lilly: "If you really want to do something productive, see if you can get that bag of treats open."

Bongo: "Treats! My treat is that BIRD right outside, aaaahhh, must get BIRD!

Lilly: "Bongo, where are you going now? That's the family room, you can't get out that way either and the food, water, and couch are over here...OH, not again! I've told you a million times, the only thing that happens when you climb up the inside of the fireplace is you get more filthy!"

Bongo: "OK, I'm at the top, I can smell the outside, but you're right, and I'm stuck again. Can you talk me down? I keep forgetting how to climb backwards."

Lilly; "I'll help you out of the chimney, but you HAVE to promise to bathe once I get you out."

Bongo: (Claws crossed) "OK, I'll do it, now get me down so I can look for another escape route."

Lilly: "It's been two days, could you spare a moment to get the soot off the underside of your feet and maybe clean your ass while you are at it?"

Bongo: "Stop complaining, I licked my tail for a while yesterday, jeez. LIZARD! Oh god, my life sucks. Where ARE my humans?"

...and so on.

Tis birthday season.

The gift suggestion list my husband gave me for shopping with the girls for his birthday.

Running shoes.
Collar stays.
White work shirts.

Good God. My husband needs a hobby.

Other than Facebook Scrabble.

Memorial Day weekend will be a welcome infusion of NATURE at the beach. No internet access, lots of sand and surf and beer and campfires.

Maybe I'll even start a game of Scrabble with a real board.

Random thoughts II

Back to the tabula rasa thing...how can I have one child who returns from school missing all the skin from her knees and elbows and no adult there is the wiser, while the other child has her own chair at the nurse's office and my cell is on speed dial?


I'm going to start dropping hints to my daughters about eloping when the time comes..


I recently learned that porcupines don't have quills on their bellies in order to more comfortably give other porcupines "a big hug" at certain times of the year. I think that will be my new code phrase to hubs...The flip side of that, if I stop shaving, then do I get the bed to myself?


I'm relentlessly spinning Amos Lee, if I don't stop soon I'm going to slip into a self induced depression. I need happy music suggestions. Eric Hutchinson is all I've got.

Why is there a dive meet on Mother's Day weekend?

Whew.

So the wedding we attended last weekend went off without a hitch.

Looking back, I realize I was witness to a study in courage.

There was a multitude of children present. Every single one of them dressed to a tee. Tuxedos, ties, tights and heels abounded. For many, it was their first time in clothes somewhat less comfortable than pajamas. I didn't hear one peep of complaint. After a decade of parenthood, I claim the right to call that behavior surprisingly mature, if not brave. Especially when I had my heels off as soon as we hit the cocktail area.

I watched the bride's father hand off his beautiful young daughter to the groom without losing it. Even after several beers. Go Dave!

And last, but not least, I listened to high school sweethearts speak idyllic words of undying love, commitment and eternity. Their vows were taken in front of an audience filled with parents, step-parents, half-siblings, significant others of grandparents, and who knows who else in our culture of blended families built on failed relationships. Now that took some big brass ones.

I did the same thing almost two decades ago. My husband and I were the same age and my step-family filled half the church. We knew the odds were stacked against us. Through our moves and jobs and children, we have forged ahead.

Life isn't like those fairy tale words spoken at the altar, but if Jenny and Caleb stay true to the team they were on their wedding day, they'll do just fine.

Formal Wear

How to shop for wedding dresses for your beach-bum-comfort-addicted-accessory-challenged-school-uniform-wearing tween daughters.

1. Slug back a few drinks. Your husband can drive, he's coming along because he is incapable of spending time alone.

2. Hit the children's sections at Ross, TJ Maxx and Marshalls one week after Easter and hope for a clearance bonanza on badly made, highly flammable, pastel explosions of "unique" fabrics and cuts.

3. Watch your daughter's faces go ashen at the selection. Internally relive countless horrible "you have to wear this" moments from your own childhood.

4. Find one perfect match for the child who cares the least about what's on her body. Start praying to the dress gods that you will not have to commission a one-of-a-kind piece for what the other child has in mind.

5. While the oldest is trying on the trillionth ugly dress, ask how she would like to do her hair in an attempt to distract from the fact that her legs are exposed. Her legs are hairier than a testosterone soaked Greek man, and if she notices her lower extremities she'll again beg for the bleaching cream torture. That's FUN.

5. Realize that whatever the end product of all this shopping, chances are, flip-flops or Uggs will not be the appropriate shoe for the outfit and the shopping will start all over again tomorrow.

6. Wind up the first day by bribing everyone to let you shop alone the next day.

7. Remember that shopping alone means having to shop sober, have a change of heart and invite them all along for round two.

I love Bikram Yoga, but..

I have a love/hate relationship with my yoga. First a bit of history, then a story or two.

I have referred to yoga often in the first couple of months on this blog. The route that brought me to it is cluttered with greedy, self-serving doctors, prescription meds and boring ass physical therapy.

Last year, while wrestling for control of my own medical decisions regarding multiple issues in my cervical spine, I kept hearing well-meaning converts preach about yoga. I had closed my mind to three-level fusion surgery that the neurosurgeon said was "urgent." I was stagnating in PT, gaining strength but still medicating permanently knotted muscles with anti-inflammatories, narcotics and muscle relaxers. I decided yoga would be my next proactive step.

I had never done any yoga when I chose my class from the local community college bulletin. There were four or five styles to choose from, I read the minimal description for each one and blindly chose Bikram's Beginning Yoga. The postures themselves are a form of hatha yoga, widely practiced in the US. The difference with Bikram's style is the heat of the room-105 degrees-and the length of the class-ninety minutes.

I now know that "beginning" is a bit deceptive. Newbies are given the goal of "just remaining in the room" for the full ninety minutes of their first class. Unless you become a teacher, which is an intensive and sequestered nine week course, there are no advanced classes. Everyone always does the beginning class. Each class is the same series of twenty-six poses, done twice. You work only as far as your own body will go. The person next to you may have been practicing for ten minutes or ten years.

I don't remember much about my first class except that I hated it. At the end I collapsed on my puddle of a towel and tried to figure out how I was going to drag my ass off the floor. I hadn't sat out any poses. I survived, but barely.

I found myself back at the studio again the next night. Why? Now I knew what I was in for and I was terrified. At the same time, the sense of accomplishment that had buoyed me all day told me to get my scared, sore body back in there for another go-around. So I did.

That was last June. I had a bunch of fits and starts during my busy summer, and finally settled down into a regular three or four day a week practice last fall. I no longer take any medications. Not only that, my forty-year-old body, always small, always in shape, is healthier than it's ever been, inside and out.

What's not to like?

Well, some days are miserable in class, just like some days in life. If you don't master the delicate balance and timing of food and hydration you can be in for a tough(er) haul. Also, the teacher's personalities vary widely. I enjoy most of them for how each one brings out something different in my practice. There has never been an instructor that has motivated me to turn around, walk away and come back another day.

There is now.

Tuesday night I drew the short straw. I'd had the evening's teacher once before, but it was last summer. I remember him being confident, making personal corrections here and there, and having a good grasp on the heating system. Two nights ago he was much more than that. He was rock-star arrogant, the room was more oveny than usual-not enough humidity-and he was obviously frustrated with several of the students he knew well.

There I was, quietly sweating my way through class, happy that it wasn't too cold, and keeping to myself on one side of the room. I was at a sister-studio, not my usual one, so I was a bit out of my comfort zone but holding my own. We were getting close to the end of the standing series (the first hour of class) and out of the blue, Jeff looks over in my direction and says "You've done quite a number on MY MIRROR." Sure enough, I look to my right and the side mirror has a handful of sweat trails running from my head to the floor, displayed for all to see. It's nothing out of the ordinary, by the last class of the day most of the mirrors are coated in the exertions of the day. Not this mirror, it was spotless except for my location. He must have cleaned BEFORE class. What sense does that make?

I acknowledged his comment with some kind of shrug or nod, we're not really encouraged to talk in class, and continued on. About 20 minutes later, near the end of class and in the middle of dialog (a continuous set of timed verbal instructions that the teacher leads the class with...) he walks over to a utility closet, grabs a RAG and some WINDEX and, while still talking us through our pose, walks over to the mirror by me and CLEANS it!

Not only did the smell of the cleaner set me off my game (odors are tough to handle in that environment) but I suddenly grasped just how amazingly disrespectful he was being. The urge to kill the asshole didn't surface until after class ended. Fuck, thanks for the humiliation.

If he's at the front desk next time I walk into a studio, I have several things I imagine saying to him, but I won't. I'll walk away and save my energy for another class. I WILL gossip to my yoga friends about my experience, hoping for some outraged feedback, but that's all. I have no desire to hang on to those emotions and I highly doubt he'd give a shit what I think. Cest la vie...

The other yoga issue on my mind is an incident that happened two days before Mr. Asshole did his neat-freak number on me. It was last Sunday afternoon at my regular studio. The place was packed with beginners, a new community college session must have been starting. As long as I can get a good spot in the front I usually enjoy the classes full of new yogis. The instructor uses more descriptive dialog, the energy of the huge class is a positive, and I feel pretty good about how far I've come if I get pointed out as a good example.

So we start the class off full and expectant. I'm inspired because my FAVORITE instructor, who is leaving us for Vegas, then Australia (nice life those guest teaches have...) is practicing with us. The first few poses go well, no one has succumbed to heat or exhaustion yet, too early.

Along comes Eagle pose. (See the top of my post for a visual, I can't figure out the whole "add image" thing yet.) In Eagle, you are balancing all your weight on one bent leg, the other leg crosses over that knee and behind the leg with your toes hooked around the calf, and your elbows, forearms and wrists are wrapped up in each other. We are ending the second set of this pose when I HEAR a pop/crack followed by screaming, then another set of crack-crack. Oh god, the woman one row behind and two mats over has hit the ground in an odd collapsed arch, one knee bent in the air and is yelling "help me, help me!" Shit. The instructor for the evening immediately moves into action, she knows this is BAD.

While she soothes Miss Screamer and internally freaks, the other teacher runs for the phone. The paramedics are at the studio within about three minutes. The other forty odd people or so are in varying states of "help" or inertia. I decided not to help, there were plenty of chefs in the kitchen. It gave me plenty of time to listen. I learned that the yoga victim was twenty-nine years! old, had recently given birth and lived at least ten miles away. Crap, that's a lot of effort and planning to get to somewhere to injure yourself in front of an audience. I also learned from the paramedics that she had dislocated her knee and broken her ankle. Ewwww. The screeching and moaning continued as they tried to mobilize her leg for transport. I escaped into the bathroom at that point.

The whole incident only took about fifteen minutes. Once the ambulance left, class continued. To say the least, it wasn't my best class. We all soldiered on, but I'm willing to bet that no one got any kind of inner peace from class that day.

Those are my bitches for the month about my yoga. I'm on my fifth day in a row, two of them involving the incidents described above, so the love must still be outweighing the hate. Back I go tomorrow, a birthday present for myself. Here's hoping I'm the worst one in the class and the rock star is teaching somewhere else...

Gifting.

I'll be forty-one next week.

My husband is out shopping with the kids as I write. The kids get me gifts, but my husband and I, we do not exchange presents. I put the kibosh on that looong ago.

One year, still back in college when I lived in a studio with no kitchen, he bought me a deep fat fryer, a crock pot, a vacuum and a wok. All at once.

So no more gifts.

The kids have better ideas, but they are dependant on their father to help them secure the goods.

It doesn't always work out as planned.

I own a green yoga mat that I faithfully use several times a week. Green is unofficially banned in my style of yoga (long story) but I schlep the offending mat into class every time.

Although I wear only silver jewelry, I have a "mother's" charm in the shape of a little girl made out of gold and sapphire. I try to remember to switch over to a gold chain every once in a while.

I drink gallons of coffee out of huge mugs, but I use the tiny 6 ounce cup with frogs on it when my littlest is paying attention.

I can't wait to see what comes my way this year.

Even when the kids gifts don't actually hit the mark, they come much closer than any attempt by my husband...

Love ya, hon...don't worry, I already bought myself something from you.

Time.

There are not enough hours in a day. So cliche.

Many days there are more than enough hours. I just don't always use them efficiently.
My mother is super organized. She thinks I don't plan ahead just to annoy the shit out of her. Good thing we live several states apart.
I don't want to think about what's for dinner at 7am. Even when I don't my family gets fed. And not from bottles and boxes and jars.
There is not a specified time to clean the cat box, but it's rarely overflowing.
I don't have a laundry day. It's every day.

My job is my family. Organization and efficiency are all about the end game. Getting things DONE.
But this work I do, it's never done.
It's a good fit for me I think.
My husband always claims that if he were the one to stay home that the clothes would be folded and put away, the kids wouldn't know art supplies even existed outside of a classroom, and he and the vacuum would have a close personal relationship.
Have at it honey. I'll start looking for an empty padded cell for you...

So instead of focusing on a nonexistent finish line, I set priorities. Today they include ferrying my kids to and from school at the appropriate times, making something edible out of the rotten bananas on the counter, and battling scum in the shower. YAY.
Because I'm my own boss, I also get to "waste" a little time on the blog, in the yoga room, and doing the Thursday crossword.

My lost hours are really just pieces of myself I steal back from the unending circle of mundane busywork. It would be so easy to do my job "better" but then where would that leave me?

I propose that my unorganized life is a sign of maturity, not the opposite. That's my story and I'm sticking to it...