Yoga Instructors Are People Too. Take 2 (crossed out words didn’t show up in first blog. Try this one).

I joined a yoga studio this summer because I didn’t feel inadequate enough. It worked! The last time I took a yoga class, my instructor wore baggy cotton pants, a friendship bracelet, and a bra. Today’s brand is quite different. They are toned, flexible and all of 20 years old. At first, I resented their taut, perfect bodies but the deeper I looked, I found a kinship with them. In fact, we have a lot in common:

• We both have a head.
• We both paid 2 million dollars for our stainless steel, non- toxic, organic, sustainable, lightweight, non-flammable, edible water bottle.
• We both look at ourselves in the mirror a lot. Me in horror. She in awe.
• We both have an exotic edge. For instance, she got her yoga certification in Mexico. I drink Corona. Samers.
• We are both dancers. My kind requires a pole tequila but a dancer’s a dancer right?
• We both listen to our bodies, as she frequently reminds us to do. Her body tells her to stretch more deeply. Mine tells me to go get a latte.
• We both have amazing posture. Wait. That’s not true. She doesn’t.
• We both speak English, though our vocabulary differs slightly. She uses words like ‘core’ ‘neutral spine, and ‘Namaste’. I use words like ‘Ow!’, ‘Help’, and ‘I think I’m bleeding.’

Despite our similarites, I’ll admit there are a few things she has on me:

• She can do Downward Facing Dog and talk at the same time. I just talk. Easier.
• She has a sexy tattoo that rings around her toned midriff. I have enormous, polyester Granny panties that ring around my fleshy, dimply overhang midriff.
• She wears a funky toe ring. I hope it cuts into her flesh and gets infected don’t.
• Her yoga pants are made of recycled bottles. The kind I drink water from and discard.
• She understands how to work the iPod to change up the music. My record player works just fine thank you very much.
• She can touch her knee to her buttocks while standing on her baby toe. I can touch my breasts to my knees. Without moving. Same diff.
• She knows the difference between left and right. I struggle with this at times because the stupid mirror reflects the opposite image.

So there you have it. Yoga instructors are people too. The next time you find yourself in front of a scantily clad, ridiculously toned, and highly condescending flexible yogi, simply give thanks for the body you have and say ‘Just you wait, honey’ ‘Namaste’.

Yoga Instructors Are People Too

I joined a yoga studio this summer because I didn’t feel inadequate enough. It worked! The last time I took a yoga class, my instructor wore baggy cotton pants, a friendship bracelet, and a bra. Today’s brand is quite different. They are toned, flexible and all of 20 years old. At first, I resented their taut, perfect bodies but the deeper I looked, I found a kindship with them. In fact, we have a lot in common:

• We both have a head.
• We both paid 2 million dollars for our stainless steel, non- toxic, organic, sustainable, lightweight, non-flammable, edible water bottle.
• We both look at ourselves in the mirror a lot. Me in horror. She in awe.
• We both have an exotic edge. For instance, she got her yoga certification in Mexico. I drink Corona. Samers.
• We are both dancers. My kind requires a pole tequila but a dancer’s a dancer right?
• We both listen to our bodies, as she frequently reminds us to do. Her body tells her to stretch more deeply. Mine tells me to go get a latte.
• We both have amazing posture. Wait. That’s not true. She doesn’t.
• We both speak English, though our vocabulary differs slightly. She uses words like ‘core’ ‘neutral spine, and ‘Namaste’. I use words like ‘Ow!’, ‘Help’, and ‘I think I’m bleeding.’

Despite our similarites, I’ll admit there are a few things she has on me:

• She can do Downward Facing Dog and talk at the same time. I just talk. Easier.
• She has a sexy tattoo that rings around her toned midriff. I have enormous, polyester Granny panties that ring around my fleshy, dimply overhang midriff.
• She wears a funky toe ring. I hope it cuts into her flesh and gets infected don’t.
• Her yoga pants are made of recycled bottles. The kind I drink water from and discard.
• She understands how to work the iPod to change up the music. My record player works just fine thank you very much.
• She can touch her knee to her buttocks while standing on her baby toe. I can touch my breasts to my knees. Without moving. Same diff.
• She knows the difference between left and right. I struggle with this at times because the stupid mirror reflects the opposite image.

So there you have it. Yoga instructors are people too. The next time you find yourself in front of a scantily clad, ridiculously toned, and highly condescending flexible yogi, simply give thanks for the body you have and say ‘Just you wait, honey’ ‘Namaste’.

Happy Father’s Day! Karma’s A Bitch.

When our two boys were younger, Father’s Day was right up there with Diwali Christmas! It was marked with sparkle-laced homemade cards; thoughtful presents like duct tape; and feverishly-practiced live musical performances from Usher them to Dad. We sure brought out the big guns. Now that they are 17 and 18, they show their excitement for Father’s Day with a quiet kind of reverence, which is equally as touching:

 

  • To celebrate properly, they need to be well-rested. To that end, Father’s Day begins at 3 pm sharp when they come to. They take it slow and easy and say things like, “Chill” when I ask them to hurry the hell up and eat their seventh bowl of Froot Loops so we can have a family dinner before nightfall.

     

  • Gushiness is so yesterday. To protect themselves from feeling vulnerable and emotional, they pretend like it’s not even Father’s Day. Until I send them a text saying, “Wish your father a Happy Father’s Day you idiots.

     

  • They still love the element of surprise. It’s evident on their vacant faces when my husband opens the gifts from the boys that I purchased for them. They slide me their contribution under the table and say, “Thanks, Mom. You are literally the glue that holds this family together. This means I never have to put gas in the car again right? I’m friggin’ broke.”

     

  • They lie through their $6000 perfectly aligned teeth promise their dad they will mow the lawn and wash the car when hell freezes over.

     

  • When we sit down to supper, my husband is clearly the main attraction; our sons finally show their real feelings: “Dad, you are the wind beneath my wings. Is this all the steak there is?”

     

  • Besides pouring their hearts out to their father, supper is also an opportunity to savor and reflect. We do this by watching our boys bury their heads in their plates and make loud farm animal noises while they chew. It’s pretty horrifying beautiful and awesome.

     

  • Photo-ops capture these poignant moments. Back when they were little, the boys used to hug my husband and sing, “Cheeeeese!!” when I took the Father’s Day photo. Now they cradle their iPhones and bark,” Pleeeaase do NOT put this on Facebook, Mom. That’s so lame. Gawd.”

     

  • Funny banter keeps us tight too. Wait. Never mind. That’s the family across the street.

     

  • To end the non-verbal celebration, we retire to the family room to play a game and by that I mean zone out on our personal devices, careful not to make eye contact. If Norman Rockwell were alive, he’d be all over it with his easel.

 

So yea, I guess you could say things have changed but not that much. It’s true there are no more sparkles or cards or thoughtful presents or eye contact or music or affection of any kind but it’s still really meaningful and stuff. I’d like to think when they are fathers themselves one day, the boys will look back on these celebrations and think, “What is Diwali anyway?? Karma’s a bitch.”

‘Twas the Night Before Mother’s Day

 

‘Twas the night before Mother’s Day and all through the house

Not a teenager was shopping for books, bling or blouse

Instead they were nestled and snug in their beds

While visions of SFA danced in their heads

 

Their hoodies were strewn on the floor with no care

With sneakers and book bags and crap everywhere

And I intoxicated my jammies and Pa watching COPS

I wondered aloud: WTF is the point? Is it time for more Schnapps?

 

The moon on my new fallen breasts caused alarm

OMF Good Lord!  They are droopy and so are my arms!

And look at this muffin top.  What’s with this girth?

And then I remembered: Oh right. I gave birth!

 

To those slumbering sloth teens who were once little guys

That would plan for a month for an M-Day surprise

Bye bye happy days.  Hello bed. Screw it I don’t care

Twelve hours of labour? Pfft. Didn’t even tear…much (22 stitches give or take)

 

I awoke the next day to my naked husband with a rose between his teeth and a pot of coffee for me an unpleasant clatter

And a smell that could only be burnt pancake batter

I pulled off the sheets and I threw up my Schnapps on my robe

To witness the teens as they wrecked my abode

 

Their eyes how they deadened.  Their mouths did not move

Save for the odd mumble like: Whereizthefood? (Where is the food?)

Their iPhones were beeping and clutched in their palm

And into their screens they did mutter: Heymom

 

They spoke not a word and went straight to their task

And by that I mean stood there til one of them asked

“Wherzthepan?” (Where’s the pan?) “Werrstrved” (We are starved) “Canuhlp” (Can you help?) “Whasastov?” (What’s a stove?)

I’d never been prouder. They embodied love

 

The bustle began and I just couldn’t watch

I scurried and muttered to no one: Cook much?

They chopped and they splashed and they ruined my life zen

I took off, not wanting to see how it ends

 

Pa cursed and he shouted and called to the guys:

Quit texting! Get back here! Or somebody dies!

The chaos was mounting. My stomach did churn

I heard someone yelp “Stupdstovedamnimburnd”(Stupid stove. Damn! I’m burned!)

 

I soon heard the shout from my safe place in bed:

Heymomcomneeatcomchkoutwtwedid (Hey Mom! Come and eat. Come check out what we did).

I entered the kitchen and muffled a gasp

Looks lovely, I said as I reached for my flask

 

I gobbled it down and it tasted quite good

The teens were so pleased. They said: Wemadsmfood! (We made some food!)

As the last strip of bacon was hoovered and chewed

The teens mumbled: SeeyaIgotstufftodo (See ya! I got stuff to do)

 

With that they were gone to the top of the stair

They dashed away! Dashed away! Had not a care.

But I heard them exclaim: Happemothrsdaywishes (Happy Mother’s Day wishes!)

Heymomwudumindifwelftuthsdishz? (Hey mom would you mind if we left you those dishes?)

Being Stunning Is Gruelling

I received the nicest compliment the other day: an acquaintance twelve years my junior thought we were the same age!  She’s very friendly, and so is her Seeing Eye Dog. To thank her for making me feel like living again good I bought her a car coffee, sent her a Facebook friend request, and helped her find her life’s purpose cane.  She wondered what I did to hide my age.  I responded, “Nothing really” and batted my false eyelashes. The truth is, being stunning is gruelling.  Trust me; trying to look younger requires time, effort and plastic surgery money:

 

  • Nothing says youth like a soft beardless face.  Go for waxing on a regular basis and don’t overlook nose jobs hair!
  • White teeth take years off your appearance.  Whitening strips work but in time the results fade.  For permanently white teeth, have your Merlot-stained chompers capped to resemble Jennifer Aniston’s smile (Veneer # 29, Page 15 in the Celeb Smiles catalogue found in any respectable oral surgeon’s waiting room. Just sayin’).
  • Dress like a skank woman in her forties by choosing fitted and classic pieces.  The idea is to accentuate your rack best attributes.
  • Every woman of a certain age deserves a good spanking pair of Spanx.  They squeeze everything into place, making your clothes unnecessary smooth and flawless.
  • Use an anti-ageing exfoliant.   A good exfoliant should leave your skin raw, bloody and infected refreshed and glowing.
  • Drink lots of water and vodka gimlets green tea for supple skin and good times circulation.
  • Watch your diet.  Avoid dairy, wheat and anything that tastes good contains sugar. Fill up on anti-depressants oxidants.
  • Use a rich, moisturising night cream.  It should contain Vitamin C, collagen, and caulking rose oil for youthful -looking results.
  • Go on a bender cleanse. It eliminates stress toxins and promotes denial glowing skin.
  • Cover your face grey hair with the help of a paper bag good hairdresser.

 

I like to think the face lift beauty regime is paying off.  I dunno. You be the judge:

 

BEFORE:

  1.   
     
    AFTER:
     

Mommy’s On Her Way

Some people say I over- parent and that I have a hard time cutting the umbilical cord. To those people I say, “Shut your pie hole!” “I prefer to call it ‘nurturing’, thank you very much”.  Case in point:  Last week, our new first born texted me from university to say he was sick and coming home for a few days.  I responded as any normal mother would: Mommy’s on her way.  I’ll be there shortly.

When I called my husband to tell him our son was sick and coming home, he tried to contain his excitement concern and said, “I’m renting a helicopter.”  While he flew 32 km across the sky to airlift our flu-riddled boy, I raced to the pharmacy and stocked up on one million dollars worth of Sinutab, Neo-Citron, and wrinkle-softening serum Advil to discover we had them in spades at home. Next, I sold my body car to offset the helicopter and drug fees. It happens.

 

The minute our boy dragged himself through the front door, I grabbed a stepladder so I could reach his forehead to check for a fever.   Sure enough, he was burning up and that could only mean one thing: for the next few days I was going to be in my element!  I set to work fluffing pillows, administering narcotics, and warming up his ba-ba (bottle) room.  He seemed a little hungry so I made his favourite comfort food: strained peaches grilled cheese. While he dozed off I read Good Night, Moon to him about homeopathic decongestants on the Internet. There was no doubt I needed to seek professional help nurture.  Sue me.

I knew after a few days he’d be leaving when finally he slept all night, hacked up a mucous ball, and said, “See ya”.  I sent him off with a suitcase full of pharmaceuticals, clean clothes, and a framed photo of me some vitamins.  After he left without a backward glance, I disinfected the place, changed his sheets, and lay down in the driveway screaming “You need me!” texted him eight times.  Nothing unusual so far…

I’m sick of people setting up interventions for me judging me. They need to look at themselves for a change.  I mean, if their idea of over- parenting is nursing your teenager back to health; getting extra air bags installed in his car; and worrying he’ll trip on his laces about him then by all means sign me up for Over-Parenters Anonymous.  Honestly!! There. Rant over.  I have bibs to fold things to do.

 

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Bleach is Yummy

Look, I know it’s been a tough winter but being homicidal and demented frustrated about another storm that is apparently approaching doesn’t help anyone.  There’s always a liquor cabinet silver lining so think of winter’s 529 488th last snowfall as an opportunity to enjoy it. It’s all in the attitude, folks:

 

  • Make naked snow angels while screaming, “F@$# you, winter!!”
  • Thank the snow plow driver for his insistence on blocking you in yet again hard work this season with a friendly pellet gun wound to the forehead ‘thumbs-up’ from your front window.
  • Drink bleach hot chocolate until you die get that warm glow in your stomach.
  • Watch raptly as the BBQ fluffy snow whips around your back yard.
  • Build a snowman and then smash it to #$%ing smithereens with a 2×4.
  • Go for a long walk off a short pier wearing cement boots in the snow.
  • Grab your snowshoes and set them on fire out for some trails.
  • Mull the benefits of a toxic pharmaceutical cocktail some cider.

 Yes sirree it’s been a doozy of a winter!  Staying unconscious young at heart seems to be the secret to enjoying it. Good luck!

 

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