Emily Post Hates Peacocks

Saturday Dean and I donned our special clothing and made our way to the local high school to usher at the last symphony of the season. I didn’t really want to go. It had been a beautiful and warm (finally!) day. I’d opened all the windows to try and switch out the old, stale winter air with the new, fresh spring air. I didn’t want to spend my evening in an old stuffy auditorium while birds were singing their own symphony in my yard. I couldn’t imagine anybody else would leave their yards to show up either and expected the attendance to be poor, but I put on my black usher clothes and off we went.

Have you ever wondered why black is the color designated for usher clothing? I guess it could be because it might make it easier to get volunteers. The odds of a person not owning black pants, shirt and shoes are pretty low--probably about the same as my cat not finding and eating a free range rubber band and then throwing it up. So, yeah, I suppose already having the clothing would make it harder to refuse a person on bloody knees begging you to usher. However, after last weekend, I now think the real reason usher clothing is black is because it makes them invisible when they need to slink down the aisles, in the dark, with late arrivers. This last symphony not only proved me wrong in my predicted low attendance, but unfortunately, it was also attended by an incredibly large number of thoughtless concert goers.

Our conductor is very laid back as far as conductors go. He doesn’t get upset if people clap when they shouldn’t; he’s cheerful and friendly and genuinely happy people are sitting in the audience. He’s nothing like the guy who conducted a symphony we attended in Rock Springs once. I still feel bad for the woman who forgot to inform her baby of the proper conduct at a symphony. If only she would have said, “Baby, do not squeak, gurgle, or coo at any time during the concert. Not once.” Soon after the music began, the baby made a small sound. The conductor stopped the orchestra, turned around, and shot daggers from his eyes straight into the mother’s eyes until she slunk out of the auditorium clutching her baby, never to be seen again. But even a laid back maestro deserves better than the proliferation of unforgivably rude concert goers that crawled out from under rocks for the final concert. The lights were dimmed, the symphony had begun and people were still sauntering in. I’m not talking about slipping in just before the doors closed (although there were plenty of those folks). I’m talking about unapologetic, shameless people who showed up five or ten or even 15 minutes after the musicians had been playing.

I have never figured out why it is so hard for some people to be on time. Do their watches not work? Do they not own a clock? Are they so busy and important they just can’t leave whatever oh-so-important thing they’re busy doing and get to the concert on time? It’s not like they jumped up from planting their spring onions, threw down the trowel, gasped “I’m late for the concert!” and showed up at the door out of breath, covered in compost and apologizing profusely. No, these people were strolling in decked out in their best symphony duds. Is their genetic makeup part peacock? “Oh, look at me. I’m walking to my seat. I’ve fluffed up my feathers and puffed up my chest. Look at my big peacock feather butt.” Do they think they are more important than a stage full of musicians? They’re not only rude but they’re stupid. It’s dark. Nobody can see them anyway.

And as long as I’m on the topic of rude, I’m a bit annoyed at the other ushers who seem to feel they can carry on loudly whispered conversations at the back of the auditorium, during the concert, while sitting in the (albeit very uncomfortable) folding chairs. Isn’t that what intermission is for? Tell each other about your bunions and how your son can’t get a job while you’re in the VIP room eating cookies and drinking punch. Come on…..you who complained about the late-arrivers and their rudeness. Get a clue. Or next season I might feel compelled to stab you with a peacock feather.◦

Emily Post Hates Peacocks

The art of whoopins

Friday night we went to the yearly local art museum fundraiser. Dean once again contributed a piece for the auction so he could get in free.   I paid $35.00.  I know, it's a fundraiser, but $35.00 for the opportunity to eat $5.00 worth of meatballs, chicken teriyaki on a stick and a ½-inch square piece of cheesecake? This year’s event garnered  fewer attendees than last year.  Maybe the bad economy finally hit Wyoming.  Who knows.  All I know is I took advantage of the extra food to make the most of my “donation” and went through the line twice. The second time the teriyaki chicken was gone, but, okay, maybe two times through made it $8.00 worth of food.  At least it was much better than the cheese cubes and bowls of chips we had last year.

 I wandered through the rooms placing my bids on the artwork I thought I might like to take home with me. It could have been the competitive spirit which rose up in me when I saw someone write a bid higher than mine just before the bidding ended. Or it could have been those hot yoga classes had altered my karma. But I suspect the two glasses of wine I bought (which negated my extra “free” food gain) was the real reason I went home with one piece of art even though earlier I had admonished Dean not to bid any more for it because I “didn't like it that much.”

The next day there was artwork at our house. Creativity was going full tilt ...

Artists use all kinds of surfaces

until Myra realized that Emerson had drawn on the one, the only part of the driveway that she needed to produce the perfect sidewalk art. Her artistic TEMPERment poured forth.

She informed the whole neighborhood, and every car that happened to drive by, that she needed THAT part of the driveway. That was the part she HAD TO HAVE, but Emerson had already drawn on it. The artist in her was horrified to think that anyone would take HER piece of the driveway and thwart her artistic brilliance. She stomped and cried and yelled, all the time clutching her piece of chalk, pointing at HER section of the driveway. “Emerson drew on my spot and I am SO angry! This is my WORST day EVER! I don’t want to be here!”

In the midst of this emotional trauma and artistic angst, the other chalk artists, hopscotchers, tic-tac-toe’ers, and woodworkers continued nonplussed.

Myra was inconsolable ...

until Dean said in his Papa voice, “okay. I can see I’m just going to have to whoop somebody’s butt” and chased three giggling artists around the yard with a piece of wood.

Prepare to be whooped!

When Leslie arrived in the midst of this “whooping”, Myra ran full-tilt for the backyard and refused to get in the van. Dean found her and said, “but Myra, I thought this was the very worst day of your life.”  She said, “not anymore.” So whoopins do work….as long as they’re done with artistic flair.◦

The art of whoopins

Barkeep Make It A Stiff One

Remember back when I was listening to salsa music, lost control of my senses and said I was going to sign Dean and I up for salsa lessons? Well, I did it. And then I got scared. I just wasn’t sure if we could do it. I was scared Dean was unteachable. What if, no matter how hard Dean tried, he would always be half a beat off? What if I never learned to let him lead? But then again ... what if I found out we’re awesome salsa dancers? We went so we could find out.

Salsa Week One
Eight of us lined up in front of our instructor, Machelle, who said, “I’ve been teaching dance for 30 years, yeah? And it’s important for you to have fun. Yeah? If you aren’t having fun I’m not doing my job, yeah? You are all going to be sore tomorrow, yeah? You’re going to want to take Tylenol and Ibuprophen tonight, yeah? Dean.....is she looking at us? Because we’re going to be moving some hips tonight, yeah? And remember, when you crawl out of bed in the morning and your body hurts, my name is Sheila. Yeah? You’re going to want to curse Sheila. Now let’s learn some salsa, yeah?”

First we stood and lifted our feet one at a time like we were marching. “Just a little bit, yeah? Just barely off the floor.” And we had to bend our knees at the same time. “The deeper you bend your knees, the more your hips will sway, yeah?” Left, right, left, hold. Left, right, left, hold. "The upper body is not supposed to move. Just move your feet and your hips will move, yeah? Don’t look down.” I looked over to my right, and with every step, Dean is pushing his corresponding shoulder forward. He was trying hard but the poor guy just wasn’t getting it. Pssstt......you’re moving your shoulders. Don’t move your shoulders. Am not. Yes. You are.

Then we practiced the same three steps only we moved forward, then backwards, then side to side. We kept practicing those steps standing in a line. Facing her. Watching her and trying to copy her. I tried to give Dean pointers but I discovered I can’t whisper and count at the same time. And anyway it was hard to see what he was doing when I was looking at my feet.  "Everybody learns at their own pace." she said.  Dean......is she looking at us again?  "If you can only manage the first step tonight that is perfectly fine, yeah? Just have fun with it, yeah?” Then we had to dance with each other. With music playing.

We faced each other, straight backs, arms up. Left, right, left, hold. “For you ladies, that will be right, left, right, hold, yeah?” Say, what? You just taught us to start with the left foot. Now I have to start with the right? What the heck? “And men. Lean over from the waist, just a little. See how that makes your tush stick out a bit? Men don’t wiggle like we women do so you need to stick your little tushes out. See how you wiggle when you bend your knees? (snickering women noises) It’s the man’s job to lead, yeah? He’s the boss. In this class anyway, right ladies? heh heh heh. The man will tell you where he wants you to go by pushing you. You’ll feel his push and you’ll know where he’s leading you, yeah?” Yeah, right.

Dean and I have danced together before.  We even took a ballroom dance class about 20 years ago.  But that whole rhythm, keeping time and letting the man lead stuff just makes dancing difficult for us.  I was really hopeful before we came to the first salsa class. I thought we might actually learn to take more than four steps without losing our place. I thought this time we might actually both go in the same direction at the same time. I wasn’t expecting miracles. I didn’t think we’d be Fred and Ginger. I just I thought this time we might be able to dance a little less like the tin man and the scarecrow. In reality, it went something like this:

Me: You keep forgetting to hold after the third step. You need to hold. Count to four. Four is the hold. I’m always going the opposite way because you forget to hold.

Dean: You’re not looking at me. You’re looking at your feet. You’re supposed to be looking at me.

Me: I lost count. We have to start over. Okay. Start now. No, wait. You started the wrong direction.

Dean: Did not.

Me: Yes, you did. Wait….wait….okay. Start now. Why are you going that direction? We’re not going the same way. I wasn’t ready. Start again. My arm is getting tired. You’re supposed to be bracing my arm. What are you doing? I’m not going anywhere and you’re going sideways. You’re supposed to be leading.

Dean: I was leading.

Me: No you weren’t. I couldn’t feel any pushing. Don’t bend your arms. You need to hold the frame. I can’t follow if I can’t feel you pushing. I’m lost again. We have to start over. Okay. Left, right, left, … wait….I wasn’t ready….

Both: Looks like we’ll be practicing salsa dancing at home.

Did we practice at home before we went to the next class? Of course we did! Twice. For five minutes. And of those five minutes, approximately two minutes was spent dancing and the rest, as is our way, was spent standing and discussing and starting over.

Salsa Week Two
My favorite part of the salsa class was arriving early enough to watch the country swing class ahead of us. Nothing improves your confidence more than watching people dance who are as bad (I know, hard to believe) as you are. Look at that couple. snicker They look just like us. See? They keep standing and talking. Look. Now they’re starting over. See? Just like us! No, I think we’re more like that couple over there. Don’t point. See how stiff they are? See, she’s looking at the floor….

A gentleman of approximately 60-something stayed after the country swing class just because he wanted to increase his repertoire in order to impress the ladies at the local cowboy bar.  I thought Dean and I were getting better but Mr. Cowboy felt the need to keep helping us.  At one point he said “dancing just isn’t fun when you argue." I smiled sweetly and thanked him for his help. Get a clue, buddy. This is us discussing. You have no idea what real arguing is. Go away and help somebody else. We’re trying to have fun here.

Salsa Week Three
The country dance class ahead of us had no people show up so there were no whispered comments to entertain ourselves.  But there was, once again, 100% participation in the salsa class. We were all ready to kick (or I should say wiggle) some salsa butt. Things finally clicked for Dean and me. We did a whole series of steps without stopping to count, discussing the next move, or starting over. We felt like cheering. Okay. We did cheer. A little. Quietly.

Salsa Week Four---The Final Class
I didn’t want to go. It happened to be one of those exceptionally rare days when I was cranky. "What else is she going to teach us?" I said. "We just need to practice what we’ve learned." Dean said, “we’re going”, and we went. Later, when he was talking on the phone to Abby, I heard “your mom has a great time dancing.  She doesn't even need to drink first. She just has fun----even though she doesn’t know what she’s doing. And it makes her less cranky.” I wasn’t sure what impressed me more---the fact that he would subject himself to 1½ hours of dancing in order to make life with me easier, or that he had figured out it would work.

A professional ballroom dancer (male) came to this class.  The instructor thought we should all dance one song with him. (The women, that is. You know men. They won’t sleep in the same bed together even if they’re both wearing armor; there’s no way they’d dance with another man.) I was feeling pretty dang good about my improved dancing skill until it was my turn to dance with him. I was the only woman who spent more time receiving instruction from him than actually dancing. And I didn’t hear him tell anybody else that they “are stiff.”  Well excuuuuuuuse me, Mr. Ballroom. Your job is dancing.  I spend all day pounding a keyboard and playing with a mouse. And then I come here and try to dance with a husband who doesn’t believe in any semblance of a dance routine because he “gets bored.” It’s bad enough I’m not allowed to lead, but I have to follow a rebel. YOU try dancing with him and we’ll see how “stiff” YOU are. 

No, I didn’t really say, or even think that. I’m such a wimp. I thought this-----in a feel sorry for me voice. “Really? I’ve been trying so hard. I’m stiff? Are you sure? Because I’ve been wiggling my hips all over the place… I didn’t even try and lead ….. I thought I was ….…. almost …… good….."

A little bit later Dean and I just couldn’t get the hang of another variation of the dance.  Our instructor came over and danced the man’s part with me and then she danced the woman’s part with Dean. After she danced with Dean he said, “So...................it’s Cathy that has been doing it wrong?” There are no words to adequately describe the ecstasy on Dean’s face when she nodded yes so I’m not even going to try.

So ends the Saga of the Salsa.  (I know.  It was a long one.  Is anybody still out there?)  There is no more unknown. We know we aren’t great. We aren’t even good. But we are better than when we started. And we had fun. My dream of Dean and I tearing up the dance floor at Abby’s wedding reception will be a nightmare for those watching but that’s okay. Abby tells me whiskey is the preferred drink at Ecuadorian wedding receptions so we’ll just make sure there’s plenty of it to ease the pain of anyone watching us.

You know what they say--Practice Makes Perfect and Hope Springs Eternal.  In six months this could be us.  Get ready Ecuador.  Here we come!◦

Barkeep Make It A Stiff One

You Choose

POST ONE

I’m Even Scaring Myself

Tonight I came home from work and began cleaning the house. I admit it needed it. I’m not an idiot. I didn’t need Dean silently dust mopping dirt into a corner each night for the past three nights for me to know it was time to clean.

Cleaning on a Friday might not sound like a big deal, but Friday evenings are sacrosanct to me. I don’t work out on Fridays. I don’t clean on Fridays. I don’t do anything unpleasant on Friday evenings. Fridays are for coming home from work, putting my feet up, and pouring a glass of wine. (Well…... I pour a glass of wine every night…..but I don’t always put my feet up).
However, tomorrow afternoon is hot yoga, plus I have my regular yoga/pilates class in the morning and I know there is no way I can physically survive two yoga classes and a day of house cleaning. I would need to be put on life support afterwards…..if there was even any life left in me. So tonight on my way home from work I thought, “I’ll start cleaning when I get home. (I don’t have a maid like one cough tropical resident I know.) I’ll clean until Dean has dinner ready and then I’ll relax. That way I’ll have a small portion of this gargantuan house cleaned and maybe tomorrow I will be able to finish cleaning AND go to both yoga classes. And if I’m lucky, I will even be able to walk without a cane on Sunday".

So….home I go. I switch into my cleaning outfit----dirty clothes from the floor near the hamper, and hair pulled up in an ugly, tiny ponytail. Before Dean gets home from work and gets dinner ready I have cleaned two bathrooms, our bedroom and I’m close to finishing the hall and entryway. (And this was after my 30 minutes of Spanish!) I would have been further along but he insists on using the “guest” bathroom. We have a perfectly good bathroom in our bedroom. It’s called a Master Bath, but no. He insists on using the “guest” bathroom. Why? Why can’t he soak in the Master bathtub? What’s wrong with scooting down and resting your feet halfway up the wall? If I would have known he planned to actually use that deep tub we installed when we remodeled the guest bathroom I might have had a stronger opinion about the tub choice. And then there’s the toilet. Really? He can’t use the Master Bath toilet? Men are … um … you know … messy. Why do I have to clean two toilets? Doesn’t he hear the heavy sighs and mumbling when I’m in there?

No matter. I was happy to do my part to create a clean and healthy environment for all of us. I was willing to do whatever it took to make it easier for me to attend two yoga classes tomorrow because that will increase my longevity (so I can clean even more toilets).

We had dinner and as I was cleaning up the dishes I innocently asked, “when I’m finished do you want to watch the Netflix movie we have or do you want to catch up on programs we have DVR’d”?

"Movie."


POST TWO


Why HOW Have We Stay Married This Long?

Tonight I came home from work ... blah, blah, blah ... "or do you want to catch up on programs we have DVR’d”?

“Well……(long pause) I thought maybe you’d come with me to an art opening for just half an hour or so."

“No. I don’t want to go. Look at me. I’ve been cleaning. I look like crap. (whiney voice). You should have told me earlier.”

“I didn’t think you’d be cleaning. You never clean on Fridays.” (Dang! Point in his favor.)

“If you would have warned me I wouldn’t have started cleaning. Why didn’t you say something? (long pause) O.K. I’ll go but I’m going to stink. I’ll smell like Mr. Clean”.

Off I go to change clothes. I pull off my now even dirtier and stinkier cleaning garb and pull out my most hated, uncomfortable, constricting and torturous piece of clothing; the first thing I remove after I walk in the door at night…..after my shoes. You know what I mean. The over-the-shoulder-boulder-holder. Or, in my case, the over-the-shoulder-grape raisin-holder. The brassiere. The bra. The thing men don’t have to wear. Second only to giving birth in the “if only you had to…” phrase chanted by women the world over. I have finally learned that no matter how small your girls are, it’s just expected that you wear one. Expected by whom, I’m still not sure…..um, well, that’s not completely true. I know one person.  My sister likes to remind me that my mom had to tell me I was “not walking down that aisle without wearing a bra". I don’t remember that, but I was probably distracted by trying to listen as my friend explained to me how to apply mascara.

Anyway, that’s how serious I was about going to the art opening tonight. Even though I wasn’t warned. And, okay. I didn’t really want to go. But, you don’t stay married 37 years without learning the fine art of compromise. So I strapped on the bra and put on clothing appropriate for an art opening…………cords and a sweater. I pulled the rubber band out of my pony tail. I considered misting my hair to bring back the curl but decided against it. I didn’t want to give the impression that I cared enough to want to attend more of these events after all. And anyway, when you smell like Mr. Clean, who’s really going to be noticing your hair? I slipped into my shoes, walked out to Dean and announced, “okay. I’m ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To go to the art opening. I said I’d go.”

“You said you'd stink IF you went. I don’t need you to go. I can go by myself.”

So...........now Dean is off looking at art and I am wearing my stinky, dirty, cleaning clothes that I once again picked up from the floor.  I am not at an art opening.  And best of all, I am unencumbered......in more ways than one.◦

You Choose

Flower or Skunk?

Back when I got all excited and ambitious and convinced I could learn Spanish, I pictured my future self stepping off the plane in Ecuador and chatting with the local people as we waited to get through customs. We’d carry on simple, but enjoyable conversations (in Spanish, of course). I’d tell them how happy I was to be able to actually use this beautiful language I had just recently learned and humbly apologize for my accent. They would get a surprised look on their faces and say, “no, no, no, senora. Your Spanish is truly lovely. We detect no accent at all. If the dazzling light bouncing off your skin wasn’t nearly blinding us we would never have suspected you weren’t one of us.” In my mind I saw Abby and I chatting away in Spanish as we waited for my bags to appear. Everyone around us would comment on how fluent I was. “Oh…..your mother…….she speaks our language perfectly. You must be so proud.”

Okay, deep in my heart I probably know it’s not going to go quite like that, but for the past nine weeks and three days I have truly believed that when my countdown clock reached zero, I’d be able to speak enough Spanish that people would be able to get the gist of what I was saying. And I thought I would be able to understand most of what they were saying to me. Really. I did.

I’ve been following the rules I set for myself even when I didn’t really feel like it. I even bought a special notebook to write words and phrases in but never read. (In case any of you feel the overpowering urge to suffer along with me you can access these very same lessons on your very own home computer here and they're free!) Not only am I spending five nights per week with Roland and Maria (except for that one week I messed up and only managed four, for which I am still feeling major guilt) I’ve also started spending time with Kara and Mark.  Where else can I can learn Spanish in 15-minute doses and get my Scottish accent fix all at the same time? You laddies and lassies can also listen online or download the podcasts to your iPod. Or in my case, the stupid little mp3 player that I inherited from Dean. Sure. I’m the one who initially purchased the worthless piece of junk for him, but now he has a nice new iPod and I have this.

It has a ridiculously little display window with ridiculously poor light and scrolls ridiculously tiny, tiny words.  If I'm lucky I get one hour of play time before the battery dies. To top it off, no matter what I do, the lessons play in random order which means I have to listen while I'm wearing my reading glasses so I can scroll through to find the correct lesson. And as if that wasn’t enough for any poor struggling Spanish-learner to put up with, apparently I am earbud challenged.

You might think popping little buds into your ears is a simple procedure but you would be wrong. First I push my hair out of the way, then I swivel the little ear hook around until I think it’s in the right position, carefully hold the earbud next to my ear and then try to slide the little ear hook over my ear like a pair of glasses. This is difficult because of aforementioned reading glasses getting in the way. It usually doesn’t work the first time. So I take the whole thing off, and try sliding the hook over my ear first and then pushing in the earbud. Sometimes that works, sometimes it doesn’t. When I finally get one ear all set up, I move to the next. As I am placing the ear bud in the other ear, I notice that I have hair caught in the first ear bud. It tickles. So I carefully begin to pull the hair out, the bud falls out, the ear hook moves and starts coming off my ear and I have do the whole process again. Inevitably, as soon as I get the little buds pushed in, the ear hooks in place on top of my ears, and the correct lesson playing on the worthless little mp3 player, somebody wants to talk to me and I have to pull one out so I can hear them. Then I have to start all over. Again.

I didn’t buy the little beasties. Dean found them on the ground somewhere and left them lying on the kitchen table. He knows I’m cheap and I would choose torturing myself with difficult earbuds before I’d go out and buy another pair when there's a free set staring me in the face.  I think he tempted me with them to get back at me for making him put up with the stupid little mp3 player.  I know. I probably should have disinfected them. Or at least scraped off the biggest chunks of wax. (Go ahead. I’ll wait while you make gagging noises .............. Feel better?) Estoy bromeando!.........maybe....... Anyway, even though I don’t really like the little hook that is supposed to go over and around your ear, it does come in handy when I’m banging my head on a hard object after I’ve gotten the answers in the Spanish quizzes wrong.

So, other than my inability to use earbuds, how’s that Spanish learning been goin’ for me, you say? Am I still excited? Am I fluent? How close am I to my vision of babbling away in Spanish in Ecuador? Well…….......…..I’ve plugged along, lesson after lesson.  Each lesson has gotten a bit harder and more involved but I still felt pretty good about my progress. Til last week. After I finished Lesson Six (of 13) last week, I said to myself, "well, heck, Cathy.  Maybe before you go on, you should go back and retake the quizes from all the lessons you've completed. It’ll be a good review and just think how good you're going to feel when you get all the answers right and can boast that you are almost sorta, kinda fluent."

By the middle of this week my vision of walking off the plane in Ecuador and babbling away in Spanish had changed somewhat. In my current vision, the people around me are still surprised when they hear me speak and they are still commenting on my fluency, but the comments are more like this: “your mother…….she said she wants to eat the taxi and the swimming pool lives in her mouth.”

“Como se dice 'I stink it up big' en espanol”? Get it? Yeah. I stink. Big time.

Tonight I began Lesson One.  Again.◦

Flower or Skunk?

It's Hot But It Ain't Salsa

Saturday Dean and I went to our first red hot yoga class. I’ll admit I was a little nervous. I’d heard the room would be really hot (duh.......hot yoga), and even though I do have experience with heat, I was a little worried I might not be able to get through this class without throwing up or passing out. I think Dean was having second thoughts himself because about an hour before it was time to go he said, “my neck is sore. I’m not sure I can go.” I gave him “the look”, told him a hot room would help ease the pain in my his neck, and he wasn’t getting out of going that easily.

We walked into the yoga room which was at 85 degrees. I know, because there was a big thermometer on the wall. There were three rows of yoga mats all lined up. Most were already taken with people sitting in the yoga position, on their own special sweat soaking towels, patiently waiting.  Dean found a spot and laid out his own yoga mat and I sat on one of the vacant mats. I tried to get him to bring his mat over and sit by me “in case I pass out” but he preferred to be by the wall and the furthest from any of the four lights heating the room.  I, unwittingly, had sat on a mat directly under one of the lights, which my yogi neighbor told me, with a big grin, “is one of the hottest places in the room.”

As I looked around, all I saw were young people. Young people in organic yoga outfits who looked like they had just walked out of the pages of a yoga magazine. Of the approximately 20 or so people in the room, the average age (if you don’t count Dean and I) was probably around 28. I’m not kidding when I say there might have been three people who were a bit too old to have been our children.  By now I had progressed from being a little nervous to “what the hell did I get myself into? What if I DO pass out? Or, holy crap, what if I throw up?! I wondered if anybody would notice if I walked out while I had the chance. Would those young, fit, seriously intense-looking, color coordinated yogis talk about me?  ...  "hey, did you see that old fossil who was too scared to try?" As it turned out, I wasted so much time trying to decide what to do that the class started while I was still in mid-debate and I lost my chance for escape.

But guess what?  I did it. We did it. Dean and I did it! The old geezers. The geriatrics. The ancient folks. The AARP members. Yes. We. Did. We held those poses. We sweat and sweat and sweat. And I did not pass out or throw up, even though by the time the class ended ONE HOUR and FIFTEEN MINUTES later, the room was nearing 100 degrees. We kicked butt! Take that you buff, young, pretty yogis.

And you know what else? Dean liked it a lot but I loved it. I absolutely loved it! I am going back for more. And one of these days I am going to be able to do this!

Or.......Maybe not.◦

It's Hot But It Ain't Salsa

Spring Update

48 hours later these harbingers of spring returned (a bit later than planned).  They mentioned something about keys and OnStar and dead zones.

Hmmmmmm…..the anchor entry in Wikipedia doesn’t mention anything about glass…..…. No matter. They were still grinning from ear to ear because those visions of fishies swimming in their heads had become a reality.◦

Spring Update

Appearances Can Be Deceiving

If you're a blog reader, this is the time of year alot of bloggers like to post about the wonders of spring.  Oh, how they love the first hints of spring.  They post pictures of their first sightings of robins and carry on about the beauty and awesomeness of nature.  I have those photos too.  I got this one by leaning over the counter in my tiny work cubicle, stretching my arms toward the window until I thought my shoulders would pop, and then holding my breath so I could hold the camera steady enough to snap this guy.  Yeah, it was a breathtaking experience.

In our neck of the woods the deer have gotten tired of fighting the traffic and have decided it's time to get the heck out of Dodge. I snapped these guys on their way up the mountain after we had skiied in sticky, wet snow.  It was two hours of slipping when I tried to glide, or starting to glide, hitting a sticky spot, stopping dead and almost falling on my face.  Either way my body was jerked backward or forward.  My back was aching and my brain was telling me, well, I can't say what my brain was telling me.  As it was, I wasn't feeling the joy of spring when these deer crossed in front of us.

People also like to post about the hope new life brings and the joy they experience when they observe it.  I was just hoping I wouldn't step in any of the gifts Shadow left in the yard when I wandered around to take these photos.  However, I was filled with joy by the knowledge that Shadow left those gifts for Dean.  Not me.  Nope.  Not me.

Of course the down side of spring arriving is that summer will soon follow. Not that I don’t love summer.  I do.  I love summer.  Until I get sick of mowing the lawn, or all my evenings and weekends are eaten up by unmentionable building projects.  It's just that I sleep so much better in the winter with the window open and I can see my breath in the bedroom.  Sleeping won't be as pleasant for Shadow either because that down comforter that I gently throw off multiple times a night won't be gradually sliding onto the floor where she sleeps and filling her bed.  And since it's warmer in the summer I am forced to sleep with not just one, but every window open as wide as possible.  I think those annoying, early morning chattering, cheery, chirpy birds sit just outside my bedroom windows just so they can wake me up way too early on purpose.

So, as you can see, I have the same photos everybody else has showing the hope that spring is here.  And I am sure I will not be alone when I don a pair of shorts, hoping it means old man winter is on its way out.  Even though the reflection from my legs will cause an epidemic of blindness in the general public.  But I have something that the rest of the blogland announcers of spring don't have.  I have definitive proof that spring is not just a hope but a reality.  I have this.

When two men (some might say crazy men) are grinning ear to ear, scraping snow off their drift boat while visions of fishies swim in their heads, winter is over. Spring has arrived.

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Appearances Can Be Deceiving