Woof!

Well, now I apparently get enough of blogging.

So, crisis averted, I had a friend who lives close by pick up the keys to the studio for me. I, of course, haven't had a second to actually take class recently but I am, as we speak, facilitating the mental and physical health of some hard core yogis desperate to practice on Christmas Eve.

In truly top form, the Universe heard my whingeing this morning and has sent me a sign that there is Truth and Beauty in the world. One of the participants of class tonight has introduced me to an amazing website. I'm not sure how I lived without it before now.

My Third Eye Itches is a site dedicated to the true practice of yoga...making sure you never become such an obnoxious practicioner that your pretention creates a kill zone with a radius of 10 feet (if only there were a similar site for the Jovan Musk wearers of the world).

From Yoga Dawg's Yogatude:
"As you walk into the practice area, do not acknowledge or say anything to any student if one happens to be there. Additionally, don’t talk or look around while setting your mat up. Keep a centered look as if you possess great Yogic knowledge. With your “Yogatude” and a top of the line Yoga mat from the GreatTranscendentalYoga Superstore, you might even have some of the students fooled into thinking that you indeed, possess great Yogic knowledge. "

Not since hearing Bryan Kest say, "notice how your matching yoga outfit doesn't help you with this pose" and "as you slowly lower down into chaturangha, engage your pectorals...those are the muscles underneath the implants" has the gong of truth rung so clearly in my head.

Please, please, please take the Yoga Quiz. Any multiple choice quiz that has "F'in-A!!" as an option on almost every question is close to my heart.

And, had I not been gifted this URL, I never would have seen the ad or clicked on the link to Yahweh Yoga! Now, listen, y'all know I'm a Christian...a super liberal one...and if you think I'm not buying one of these DVDs yer crazy. It may be just to see how on EARTH they do yoga with that amount of hair, mascara, and nail polish (scroll down for pix)...but check out the guns, yo, sign me UP. I told you JC was a great skiier, did you think it stopped there? Come. On.

Thanks to The Dawg himself, who fought his way through the drifts of snow and hordes of shoppers (okay, it's 40 degrees out and a ghost town here in Hell's Kitchen but...ya know), to take class.

Ladeez and Gentlemen...

(and I use those terms loosely)

Having a hard time motivating yourself to clean? Or just anxious to support the objectification of some fine, fine beefcake?

Git yerself to the model home of Xtra-Pine to visit Brian, Jason and the Original Cleaning Hunk.

Don't say I didn't get you anything for Christmas, yo.

Uncle Jimmy

Those of you reading this who know me are quite aware of my allergic reaction to the news and political debate. My empathetic gifts make it very hard for me to watch or read the news without taking to bed (or drink) for days in depression and sadness. The limited capacity I have for wading through jargon to get to a political candidate’s actual platform causes me to rely on a few select, patient friends to help me make a voting decision.

One thing I do know, however, is that I love Jimmy Carter. Until today he was simply President Jimmy Carter, who:

• was the 39^th President in the years preceding my descent into the hell of middle school (’77-’81).
• being a peanut farmer from Georgia, put the state we had moved from on the map for my Montana classmates.
• was a champion for ecological issues, racial equality, and civil rights in addition to being a strong Baptist who witnessed to several world leaders while in office (oh, those traits aren’t mutually exclusive, hmmm?).
• started The Carter Center in 1982.
• joined forces with Habitat For Humanity in 1986.
• Removed himself from the Southern Baptist Convention in 2002 when they changed their doctrine to something he thought was too rigid and disturbing. Can I get an ‘Amen’?
• along with his wife, Rosalynn, continues to raise gazillions of dollars a year for civil rights all over the world.

Today he became Uncle Jimmy. My parents (two of the most intelligent, compassionate, generous people I know) give as much time and suppoort to charities as possible. For the past umpteen years, I want to say 15, they have been donating an annual sum to The Carter Center. Today, my mother got a phone call.

“Is this Maybelle Stone?” [*not real name, ahem]

“Yes it is.”

“Please hold for Jimmy Carter.”

Um…

“Maybelle? This is Jimmy Carter.”

(Without skipping a beat) “Why, President Carter, how nice to hear from you.”

“Maybelle, I just wanted to call and thank you and Homer* for your continuous contribution to The Carter Center. It’s made such a difference.”

“Well President Carter, you’re so welcome. We truly believe you are doing wonderful work and are so happy we can help in some way. Now we just have to get someone like you back in the White House!”

“We’re working on that…”

3-4 minutes of polite chat ensued, which culminated in him asking her to tell Dad he called and to have a wonderful Christmas. The personally autographed copy of Beyond The Whitehouse that had been in the mail the day before now made a lot more sense.

First of all, please understand that my mother is also from Georgia. So, if you had overheard this conversation, it would have sounded like two old friends catching up or someone from the church calling to thank for the donation of clothes for the bazaar that weekend.

Second, o.m.g. !!!!!!! My mother is the only person I know (besides my father) who would be able to have this conversation and say exactly what she wished to in a completely intelligent, gracious fashion without peeing herself.

What a brilliant thing. This is an amazing example of the combination of global and personal thinking this man has. No wonder he’s so successful getting things done. He was totally genuine, took time out of his day to personally connect with a consistent giver, and made her day. They sure ain’t gonna stop giving to that foundation any time soon.

My parents receive a lot of recognition from their various communities (and should). I’m really glad that she had that experience.

I’m so proud of them both. I’m trying hard to live up to their example.

Yay!

My friend Julie and I talk continuously about how hard it is to run an errand in New York City (or any of the Burroughs). You can leave the house at 9 am (ok, 10:30, let's be honest here) in need of 60-watt bulbs and Glide dental floss and come back 4 hours later, having gone to 5 drugstores and 4 hardware stores with absolutely nothing but a low blood sugar headache to show for it.

I went to Home Depot in Chelsea to get my (2nd) tree yesterday. It took 10 minutes for the inventory guy to discern they had none left and another 10 for him to find out I couldn't by the floor model. This is Chelsea, yo, they're not messing with the display. Riots would ensue.

They called the other Manhattan location and they didn't have them in stock either. I called the Queens store and they had, lo and behold, 16 in stock. Dreamy. Easy, right? I would just pick one of the plethora up and coast into the season.

Nowhere to be found. The helpful gentleman who wandered around the store with me looking for the particular, 4.5' tree I wanted was matter of fact about it. "What the computer says and what's what is not always the same story." He asked if I would take the display and I said yes! Of course, no box. He emptied out a big box of sparkly ornaments in tubes and we stuffed the dang thing in there.

Mission accomplished.

Capitalists R Us

The tree I got at the Manhattan Mall on a whim turned out to be not quite what I wanted. Although the built in lights had eight settings (from seasick to epileptic frenzy), they only stayed on in this weird bluish pink. There was no option to have them just green or blue or red. It was a dream to set up and equally easy to take down, but a no go.

When I first bought this thang, it took the woman 10 minutes to check me out. This is a holiday storefront at the only mall on the island, she'd been working there for 2 weeks and not made a sale. Who buys a Christmas tree on Halloween, I ask you? She was a sweet, sweet girl, and couldn't key the right dollar amount into the machine. When I returned it, she couldn't figure out how to refund me.

Now, I've waited tables, so I know a credit card machine like the back of my hand but I was very patient both times. She'll never learn unless she figures it out on her own. She charged me again by mistake and she and her manager were convinced it was a refund, but the glaring lack of the minus sign before the amount kept me convinced...I was right.

Since I'm looking for a tree with just white lights, I got on Home Depot's website; there are two in Manhattan and another close by in Queens. They have plenty to choose from, but one of the first few choices is this:
That's right, folks, the whimsical upside down Christmas tree that you've been looking for. Um, quoi? Or, more accurately, pourquoi? I'm glad there aren't children starving in, oh, our own towns, or people without houses, this makes everything all right! Which forces me to look at my own consumerist issues in relationship to looking for a tree in general. Gah.

I will buy a tree and, in addition to the normal amount I give to charity monthly, I'm going to write an effing check to the NY Food Bank in the exact amount the tree ends up being.

A girl's gotta sleep at night...in the sweet light of her prelit, fake Christmas tree.

Wheeeeeeee!

It’s Christmas time! I am so in love with Christmas. I grew up in the mountains, with feet and feet of snow (when global warming was just a gleam in the Industrial Revolution’s eye), with a big family who tromped into the forest (clad in our down coats made by my mother. Actually, these weren't those coats but I'll get a hold of that photo at some point) [oops, one of my sisters just told me she and her counterpart are wearing The Coats. So the bookends are the real deal.] and selected a tree for my dad to chop down. Seriously, how cute were we?

We spent many hours cross country and downhill skiing, sledding, building snow forts and snowmen, and getting serious cabin fever and driving our parents crazy.

I remember staring for hours outside the big picture window in our living room into a winter wonderland. Street lamps shined triangles of soft light amid a steady flow of big fat snowflakes floating down to join already fluffy mounds of untouched, glittering powder. On a clear night, the night sky gradually darkened from a royal blue to total blackness.

One thing I miss greatly and long for in the city is true darkness - the deep blackness that comes from being far from the steady, ambient yellowish-grey of city lights. There’s also nothing like the silence of a snowy landscape. It can feel strangely comforting in its pillowy, insulating hush. Even as your insignificant mortality is reinforced by the vast beauty, that same magnificence can’t help but reassure you that there is a grander plan and force at work. To clarify, I refer to the one NOT fueling your search for the perfect pair of snowpants to showcase your hard earned, size 8 ass. I’ve never felt less alone than cross country skiing by myself for hours without another soul in sight; just me and the big JC. He’s a great skier, btw.

So, for the first time, I’m allowing myself to enjoy the season. I bought a 4-foot tall fake tree for my apartment (which I’m exchanging tomorrow because the built in lights are the wrong color). My friend Julie came over and gave me some lovely holiday cheer in the form of ornaments that are currently gracing my entryway and living room. I’m all over it.

My next post may address how the holidays seem to be synonymous with getting engaged or celebrating anniversaries. Thanks Zales. Thank God for Tivo.