there is no “i” in yoga

it’s true, that there is no “i” in yoga…but there is a “yo”, and i would like you to remember that.

a few years ago, when hubs and i lived in an apartment in another part of the city, we belonged to a super awesome crunch fitness that had the best fitness classes and was never more than 20% full of people working out…which is probably why it closed its doors shortly after we joined.

at the time i would go to yoga at crunch maybe twice a week.  it was a big room, everybody could spread out, and it was quiet and peaceful, but also a good workout.  when they transferred our memberships to a nearby la fitness without asking us, i came to find that the yoga classes were packed all the time.  by the way, so were the treadmills.  there were 30 treadmills (not exaggerating) and they were all taken, all the time.

when we bought our house we joined a nearby 24 hour fitness, which has no classes.  i miss my crunch yoga classes.  one of our neighbors urged me to look into the class schedule at our local rec center, and finally, this spring, i signed up for rec center yoga.  i was stoked.

this yoga class is very different from the other ones i have taken.  i am the youngest person by a solid 20 years.  the room is tiny, has low ceilings, and does not provide a lot of space between you and your yogi neighbor.  the instructor is bubbly and talkative, and people ask questions.  oh they ask questions!

“what is this supposed to feel like in my hip joint?” “i have weak knees, do you think i can do this pose?” “can you personally tailor this class to my needs and my needs only?” (i made that last one up.) we spend probably 30% of the class talking about yoga, and not actually doing any yoga.

interactive yoga seems kind of like the opposite of how yoga is supposed to go, right?

the first 3 classes were normal, and i could tell i was becoming much more flexible, especially in my hamstrings.  i have also been complimented by the instructor on my “very open hips”, so take that for what you will.

but then in week 4, our instructor surprised us with partner poses.  partner poses, i tell you!  putting your body on another stranger’s body!  my worst nightmare, probably!

that week, a stranger got very hands-on with my lower-lower back.  on week 5, i had to put my bare feet against the bare feet of a sheepish but sweaty older man.  then we held hands and pulled our faces towards each other.  week 6 involved putting my hands on someone else’s lower back and gently rocking their body back and forth.  YOU GUYS.  I DID NOT SIGN UP FOR THIS.

week 7 offer a sweet respite from stranger touching, and i was thrilled.  but this week, week 8, when it came time to get dressed for yoga, i just didn’t have it in me to sit in a dark room and touch somebody else.  could not do it again.

so i stayed home and vowed to do a yoga video alone in my basement.  oh, my beloved yoga video.  the one that asks that you “soften the belly” and “breath into your kidneys” and “relax your palate”.  i will take you over creepy and uncomfortable partners yoga any day.

though sometimes it is difficult to concentrate on the video, thanks to a certain someone who does a very convincing downward-facing dog.


Repentance for Pendants

For the past 2 years, I have been eyeing the pendant lights above our kitchen sink, lusting after the idea of taking them down and replacing them with something sleek, industrial, and that doesn’t remind me of the secret vine in Super Mario Brothers.

You know what I’m talking about.

I bought some cheap but stylish pendants from Home Depot a few weeks ago, and they arrived, and the finish was hideous, but nothing a little oil rubbed bronze spray paint couldn’t fix.  One of the pendants was missing an important piece, so I actually had to order a third one, but that’s okay, worse things have happened.

So tonight, as hubs sat on the couch working away because his company was not satisfied with the 12 hours he had already put in today, I decided to replace the light fixtures.

By myself.

I’m not dumb, I’ve done it before.  Seems simple enough.

I took down one vine light.  There were two but I got excited and took one down before I remember to take a picture.

It took about 20 seconds to take down both lights, so I was all, pfffft this is so easy I’ll be done in 20 minutes.

Except the previous owner of our house was the MacGruber of home improvement.  There is paint INSIDE the junction box.  THERE IS PAINT EVERYWHERE IN OUR HOUSE.  No hinge, knob or light fixture was left unblemished when the previous owner painted the house before putting it on the market.  Also, his name is Dick.  So it’s super fun to yell “Dammit, Dick!” whenever we find an issue.

I mean our house was built in 1977 and wasn’t wired for cable until we moved in in 2010.

I realized I would have to replace the existing hanging hardware, which was super fun to do with 35 year old screws that had been painted over (they’re probably newer than that, I’m just being dramatic).  This is when the sweating started, because I spent a lot of time directly underneath a recessed light.

Then I had to strip some wires.  Cue the preemptive feelings of badassness.

Then I summoned hubs and he was the brawn while I was the tiny-fingered wire assembler. All was going swell.

Ta da!

But wait, there’s more!  Look closer…

OH YES, the screws that came with the pendant are about 1/8″ too long.  Because OF COURSE.  Why would I think that a $15 light fixture, which I had to return one of in the first place, would come with the perfect parts?  Maybe because I live in the South and that would be the polite thing to do?

Why is it that every project I think will be a quick wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am of DIY splendor turns into a multiple day crapfest?  Is it just me or does everybody else have the same shitty luck?  Is Dick haunting us?  (He’s not dead, but according to our neighbors he does drive by our house “all the time”, so…eew)

On a more whimsical note, I used this super cute elephant bowl to hold my spare nuts and bolts while I worked.  He looked on smugly as I sweated under the glistening recessed CFLs.

And Buster watched skeptically from the couch in the living room.  Some support system I have.

Dammit, Dick.

To be continued…

How Is It Only Wednesday?!

Is this week moving slow as molasses for anybody else?  It feels endlesssssssss.

A friend of mine posted this on Facebook last night, and it made me guffaw out loud, while hubs sat in silence reading the PAPER VERSION of the Wall Street Journal.  There’s no mistaking who the old soul is in our house.

Also, after yesterday’s lackluster reaction to the Lana Del Rey album courtesy of yours truly, it appears that the rock gods were not in agreement as I awoke today to this tweet from Chris Martin of Coldplay:


I haven’t run in a week and a half, due to the bruise on my ankle.  I can’t even walk around in running shoes yet.  I’ve biked barefoot in my basement a few times while trying to decipher the plot of Pretty Little Liars/the meaning of life, but it’s not the same.  There was so much progress, and now I’ll be lucky if I break 40 minutes on our upcoming 5k, which is in…4 weeks.  FML.

This VW commercial from the Super Bowl makes me feel a little bit better.  I think it was my favorite.  What was yours?

Thursday Is Just A Means To Get To Friday

Today I’m just going to whine about stuff.  Ready?  GO.

The other day at work, I tried to go to my favorite furniture blog, and a screen popped up that said the website was blocked because it was prawn.  And now IT thinks I tried to look at prawn while at work!  a) I’m not THAT dumb, and b) it’s a furniture blog!  What is this world coming to?

I have not slept AT ALL this week.  Each night, I’ve woken up sometime between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m. wide awake, and once I realized that it was going to stay that way, I read my iPhone and petted my dog until the alarm finally went off.  Sleep FAIL.  I remedied this with a dose of Nyquil at 9:30 last night, and now I feel all foggy, kinda like…

The weather.  It’s been foggy and misty-rainy here for what feels like weeks.  Just effing RAIN already!  Get it over with!  In reality, it’s probably been a day or two here or there.  But it’s so depressingly dank outside, all I want to do is curl up into a ball and sleep it off, except see #1.  That’s not happening.

Picnik is closing.  How am I supposed to edit pictures and make them hilarious now?  Will someone please buy Picnik, keep it free, and allow me to still use it?  I’m going to have to go Perez Hilton style and draw on all of my photos in MS Paint.  Nobody likes Paint.

My body is falling apart.  Recently I started doing a new yoga video in the privacy of my basement, as it should be, and last week I pulled a muscle in my back.  My back!  I’m only 28.  Why is this already happening to meeee?!?  I think on Tuesday I also strained my groin muscle but I’m trying to ignore it.

And in conclusion, this goes out to all of my friends: no more moving away and/or dying.  We’ve had enough.  Please be safe.  And if you’re in Georgia, then please stay here, and if you’re not, then come back immediately.  Thanks!

Foster Failure

In the dog fostering world, there is a term called “foster failure”, where you take in a dog temporarily, but you love it sooooooo much that you decide to adopt it and keep it forever.  Last week, I brought home our 2nd foster dog, and it was an almost-immediate foster failure.  But not that kind.  The what-the-cluck-was-I-thinking kind.

The new dog was promising.  She was quiet and sweet, but also about twice as big as I thought she would be.  And she was supposedly housetrained.  NOT SO MUCH.

Less than an hour after bringing her home, hubs and I sat down for a brief dinner together, and in my attempt to convince him that foster dogs could be awesome and low maintenance, I let her roam the downstairs unattended for approximately 180 seconds.

Upon returning to the living room, I realized that THERE WAS DOG PISS EVERYWHERE.  On the hardwoods.  On Buster’s doggie bed.  The foster dog was mid-squat behind an armchair when I dragged her outside to do her business, the whole time thinking shitshitshit, hubs is going to kill me.

When I brought the dog back in, I started to tidy up, when I noticed a giant, splattery puddle on our couch.  Panic struck.

The couch in our living room is the ONLY piece of furniture that hubs and I have bought together.  It is holy.  It is sacred.  And it has NEVER been soiled.  Not by Buster, not by a rogue glass of red wine, not even by a chocolate chip cookie that my little brother left for dead directly on the cream-colored upholstery.

Knowing full well that a dog peeing on the couch is a dealbreaker, I started to cry as I walked back into the kitchen to tell hubs about the disaster area in the next room.  I prefaced it with, “please don’t yell at me,” and he didn’t.  I think he could sense my devastation, so he non-judgmentally helped me clean up as I cursed myself for bringing the damn dog into our house in the first place.  Before we could make much progress, she jumped up on the other end of the couch and peed a second time.  Insert F-bombs here.

It sucked.  So.  Badly.  We stuck the dog in her crate and started to blot away.  Luckily, my neat-freak friend has one of those steam vacs that is perfect for such occasions, so we borrowed it the next day, and all appeared right with the world.

Except for the foster dog.  I took her back to the vet the next morning.  And then I wrote myself an email reminding myself how much she sucked and how terrible of an idea it was to foster a dog at our house.  I copied hubs, so he could forward it back to me in case I come down with puppy amnesia and mention fostering a dog again anytime in the future.  He immediately sent it back to me, with the subject, “Too soon?”  It wasn’t.

Don’t get me wrong, I still think that fostering dogs is a wonderful thing to do for all of the poor animals that are given a rough start in life and need the helping hand of a human to find their way again.  It just won’t be a hand from this human.