Where for art thou?

Where are my blogger friends? the writers of the blog? Hast thou forsaken me? Are we soooo busy that we cannot update? I know one of the bloggers is with child and likely busy eating. The other is likely buried under a wall because he tried to give his condo a more open look - without the help of a contractor. And me, my excuse is that I have been inundated with projects that had to be done yesterday, or maybe the day before that? And my child is leaving home and I will soon be a half-empty nester. And the angst, oh the angst.

Perhaps the other bloggers should really give their own excuses though...

Counting Crows

Does anyone think that crows might be the most irritating creatures on the planet? I was sitting at my desk this afternoon, trying to get some work done and was vaguely aware that some sound in the background was slightly distracting and annoying me. Subconsciously, I was running through a list in my mind of what it could be: cell phone low battery warning (no, not frequent enough); smoke alarm (no, still conscious and no firemen have appeared on the scene); phone off the hook (close, but phone is on the hook); co-workers relaying tale of difficulty in buying shoes that will work with orthopedic inserts (no, too monotonous and not punctuated by sounds of sympathetic clucking). Then I realized it was a crow, and that for the past hour, I had been listening to a crow outside squawking over and over. Really, do they not have anything better to do? Some garbage to eat or something?

Even better contest

Due to overwhelming response to our last contest, we're increasing the number of amazing prizes that could be yours (yours!) if you post a comment to our blog. They include:

• Stainless steel flatware dinner service for 6 (for 5 if everyone needs a fork; for 4 if everyone needs knives. Note: pattern may vary slightly among pieces) (Winner must pay a nominal fee for shipping and handling)
  
• 60 cents in Canadian Tire money
• Mini-screwdriver set
• 1 vinyl cartoon tiger placemat
• 1 pair of PVSS-issue gym shorts

We've held this amazing contest over far, far too long so enter now and enter often!

Contest!

Have you noticed that all the really cool blogs give things away to their readers? Our little blog would certainly love to emulate these blogs and give our dear readers a chance to win cool prizes. Unfortunately, we don't seem to have quite the same readership or advertising dollars.

However, I do have a credit for $14.56 at Canadian Tire and would love to give it to you, dear reader. To win this prize you must leave a comment telling us how you found our blog. The winner will be drawn randomly. Contest closes some time soon!

On your mark, get set, go!

Don't do drugs

The small city that I live in seems to have an overwhelming amount of new drug users. We even have 2 red zones - which means that if a crackhead gets arrested and then is seen in the zone again, they are automatically arrested. I steer clear of the red zone because getting arrested once is enough for me. Honestly, I am not even sure what crack is, but I really do avoid these scary areas.

What it means for our small town though, is that the shady folk have to move their crime around - which is terribly inconvenient for them - making it that more difficult to find those end buyers. We used to only have one red zone and have just recently just moved up to two - if they keep moving, maybe we can get the whole town declared.

Recently I started working in our community arts centre located in the city's biggest and nicest park - think Central Park and scale it down to about a block. This area seems to be the on its way to becoming the next red zone. Right now it is just a healthy shade of pink. A gentleman came into the centre the other day inquiring about woodworking courses and when he could sign up for them, leaving his name and address for us to contact him with the information. Then he wandered around the lobby looking at everything and asking very nicely if "anyone could buy a cup of coffee?" We keep a bowl in the lobby that all the artists drop a dollar in to pay for their coffee. We said of course he could buy a cup. The gentleman turned his back to us, coughed, and dumped the bowl of money into his bag. We didn't exactly see him but we knew what he had done. He did, however, put a dollar back in the bowl to pay for his coffee.

It was just me and another woman in the lobby so we didn't confront him about it, but we weren't very nice to him, and he left shortly after. We phoned the number he had given, thinking okay, really, could he be that dumb? But the number wasn't in service.

Around the same time the next day he comes rushing into the lobby with his girlfriend. They both went straight over to where the coffee bowl used to be - we had already moved it to the front desk - and about 4 of us surrounded them. We all had a lovely chat and then they left.

So drugs don't just make you stupid - they also make you think that everyone around you is stupid, too. Did he think we would leave the bowl out for him and his friends to partake in every day? Perhaps he should have maybe left a day or two in between his visits.

I like to think that by moving the bowl I did my part in fighting the war on drugs.

The people in your neighbourhood

I just moved onto a new street and the local wisdom is that the people who across the street from me are drug dealers. There seem to be a lot of expensive trucks and motorcycles that come and go on a frequent basis, but having bad taste doesn't necessarily incriminate a person. I think it's more likely that that rather than drug dealers, they're simply drug users. However, two weeks ago, they advertised a garage sale at their house, but when Saturday morning came, there was nary a fondue pot to be found. This week, they've listed another garage sale, so I now hold the theory is that the garage sale ad is really an encoded advertisement for a new shipment of drugs. They won't be able to keep up this sham very long because dedicated garage sale shoppers are a force to be reckoned with, and if they do a drive-by more than twice looking for a cut-rate crimping iron, they're liable to take matters into their own hands.

Yes, life in a small town really is this interesting. Today I learned through my staff weekly newsletter that my neighbours are splitting up. Because I live in a small town, I happen to live next door to a woman who works in my department and in the "welcomes and farewells" section, there was a farewell to my neighbour, who is moving back down south. I promptly tapped myself into the departmental grapevine and got the low-down on their short-lived romance. It really saved me the effort of having to befriend her, go out to lunch, get her relationship story, then see her off back to the big city. I'm all about efficiency.

More news from the suburbs next week, when I'll be reporting on the local federal PC candidate's fundraising barbecue. Our government: funded by your weenies.

Hello Drooling Reader

Many of you are probably wondering why posts on this blog are so sporadic and disjointed. That is because the three of us are amateur psychologists and this is a Pavlovian blog. Posts will be completely random, in order to increase the excitement you feel when a post is made.

You will probably need to buy a few new hankerchiefs.

Growing Up Young

My son graduates next week and there has been much discussion as to what he wants to be when he grows up. How is an 18-year-old supposed to decide such things? I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up. Wait, did I already grow up? Did I miss it?

Sometimes I still wonder if I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. I think having said 18-year-old when I was just 18 years old has given me much reason to ponder as of late. How the hell did I have a child at 18? There is no way I can see my son with a child. It makes me feel very sorry for my mom. Sorry, mom. If my child got someone pregnant at his age I think I would beat him. Thanks for not beating me, mom. I mean, really, you shouldn't beat a pregnant woman/girl. But thanks.

Having a son who is ready to "leave the nest" has really made my brain hurt - have I done all the right things? Is he ready? Was I a good mom? Did he do okay having a "teenage" mom? What would my life had been like if I hadn't gotten pregnant? Would I be that famous graphic designer that I wanted to be when I was in grade 12?

I look back at the last 18 years of my life and all these questions, and I think "nope, wouldn't change a damn thing." There is nothing better I could be doing in this world than raising this young, soon-to-be-a man.

9 Lives

We had several cats growing up, none of whom ever seemed to stay very long. Our first cat, Caru, a beautiful quiet and affectionate orange and white cat, disappeared on a camping trip when I was 7 years old. I was heartbroken. Her replacement, Jerry, was a huge, long-haired slightly cranky black and white cat. Three or four years later, he, too, vanished one day and did not return.

For several years after that, we had a revolving door of cats named Kitty. Black Kitty I hung around for a bit, then took off. Rumor had it she'd gone to Hollywood to purse an acting career. A tortoise-shell kitten found in the church parking lot lasted 3 days, before she too left. Her "allergies", she explained. She loved us, but was allergic to people. That and the dust in our house aggravated her sinuses. Black Kitty II we got from the Egg Lady, who lived on a farm near Enderby. Another beautiful cat, she had a silky black coat and was very friendly. She met her untimely demise after she walked through my brother's legs, just as he was swinging a baseball bat. Again, we lost one we loved far too soon. Our final cat, Black Kitty III, was also from a farm. She liked to be stroked but not held, curled up to sleep with both of our dogs when it was cold, and stayed with us for about 10 years. Then, she too, disappeared one day, suspiciously soon after our neighbor threatened to kill her. Perhaps she was scared off, or perhaps - well, let's just hope she too made it big in Hollywood.

I don't know why we had such bad luck with cats. They were well-loved and well-taken care of. I guess some people are cat people and some people are not.

The Cat Did Not Come Back

My cat went missing last Wednesday morning. She was an indoor and outdoor cat - going out all night (her choice) and then coming in the house in the morning and sleeping all day. Her name was Archie and she was almost wild when I got her 5 years ago. I had recently separated from a man that was allergic to cats and getting her was my way of saying, "ha, look what I can do as a single woman. I can get a cat!" I actually got 2 cats - one for each of my kids - but the boy cat went missing shortly after we got him - I like to think he is mousing in the orchard somewhere.

Archie was my younger son's cat and we called my son "The Cat Whisperer" because he seemed to be the only one she liked. She was not a very friendly cat for the first few years, which I attributed to her being wild and wondering why the heck these humans wanted to touch her so much. Also, when she was just little, she was laying behind my car and I ran over her tail. So maybe she resented me for her perpetual crooked tail. But in the last year she had become quite affectionate, allowing us to hold her for short periods, and even jumping up on your lap to sit with you.

When she didn't come in last Wednesday, I was concerned, but also just thought she might be stuck up a tree. She was fairly routine and always came in the house each morning to go sleep on my son's bed. When she still hadn't come back Thursday morning I made some "Lost" posters and put them up in the neighbourhood, hoping someone had just accidentally locked her in their garage.

Friday morning a woman called me to describe in great detail how she had found my cat - dead. Poor Archie. I am so sorry, kittie, I shouldn't have let you go out and about so close to a busy road. I always held firm that cats weren't made to live indoors using a litter box, and I know I said something dumb once that I would rather my cat "die happy" and be allowed outside than be a cat who looked wistfully out the window. I regret that now. Because now I have to tell my 10-year-old where his cat is.

And that sucks.

FIRST!!!

What the heck is with these "first" people? Have you seen them? They are everywhere. I read 2 or 3 blogs every morning and quite often I will read the comments that readers have left for the blogger.

"FIRST!" they write, presumably because they are so excited to be the first to comment. There must be a monetary reward for doing this, something that I am too naive to know about, because otherwise why would people do this? Does it make their day to write such a thing? Are they twelve years old?

Even more amusing is when a commenter writes "FIRST!", but they are actually the fourth or fifth to comment because they didn't push "Submit" fast enough.

Someone please explain this phenomena to me.

Who We Aren't

Recently the writers of this blog attended a “reunion of sorts”, to get to know each other again as adults. 6 of us, all friends from elementary school all the way through high school, spent the weekend in Vancouver, BC participating in all sorts of marvelous activities, none of which included bad Karaoke, eating dinner in a hall with dead animals on the wall, or drinking red wine out of a box. All are liable to happen at our “real” organized grad reunion.

For the masses reading this blog it might behoove you to know that this flourishing talent comes to you from three people who have been friends for nigh thirty years. And no, we are not aged or showing evidence of advanced erosion. We are not even close to forty yet – because 3 years away from forty is NOT even close.

After emailing back and forth on the details of the Vancouver reunion and laughing at our own hilarity, we decided we were geniuses and needed to display our talents to the Land of the Internet. It is a strange land to travel. What to say, what to write, who will care? What if we get dooced? Should we reveal our true identities?

The last question has kept me up too many nights and I decided we must tell the world who we are. Only then can we be free. This photo is from our recent reunion. Please be careful who you share it with, Internet.

Finding value in these hard times

With a recession looming over us, and food and gas prices spiralling ever upwards, stretching your dollar is once again fashionable. Today, we look at 3 outstanding deals that will help you tame the family budget.

The first comes to us courtesy of Lowe's Home Improvement, which I noticed is now offering free next-day delivery, free haul away and (unbelievable!) free hook-up on most major appliance purchases. Free delivery! ("Oooh, that is good," I said to myself.) Free haul away! ("Good-bye, ugly, noisy almond dishwasher - I will not be forced to lug you into the back of my small hatchback after all") Free hook-up! 

Well, free hook-up. They are now practically paying me for the appliance. (OK, for those of you who think that means casual sex with a stranger, you are both wrong and reading the wrong blog.) Then I noticed the fine print: Free hook-up excludes dishwashers, over-the-range microwaves, gas appliances, cooktops, wall ovens and range hoods. Ooohhhh, I get it. So "hook-up" means "plug-in". Well, who among us hasn't be stumped by what to do with the funny 3 pronged plug coming out of the refrigerator?

The second amazing deal was advertised on TV, the source of most reputable products these days, and the only place where you purchase Suzanne Somers jewellery. I speak, of course, of Scar-Zone, a scar-reducing cream that is now formulated with green tea. There's no mention of what the green tea does; just that it's formulated with green tea. Yes, good-bye to the days where I would wash my pennies down the drain by buying a scar cream and green tea separately. Good-bye messy tea bags and wasted electricity boiling water; hello savings steeped in value. Starting tomorrow I will scar-reduce, hydrate and anti-oxidate all in a simple twice-a-day application.

The last product offers true functionality, an attribute that has been lost in so many of today's products. It's the perfect gift for Mom, Dad, or really almost anyone with an iPod and irritable bowel syndrome. It is, as you have guessed by now, the iPod Stereo Dock and Toilet Paper Holder. I won't bother commenting on it, as most of you have probably already left this page and rushed to Amazon to get your own, but for those of you that haven't (and that can only be because you already own one), I remind you that the Karaoke Microphone is also available. 

Remember, saving is always style.

All a-clutter

The hoarding conversation reminds me of that woman on Oprah, whose house was so full of crap that it ended up filling a 10,000-square-foot warehouse. It seems so shocking and unbelievable, but then the experts on the show made all these comments about how any kind of clutter in your house is bad. They said that we all have to set limits - one junk drawer, one shelf, one section in the garage. Are we all just 10 egg cups away from filling three semi-trailers?

My mother is continually searching for her next big career and a few months ago she decided she was going to become a Feng Shui expert. I guess to be a Feng Shui expert you only have to read 2 books. Part of the Feng Shui philosophy is that you must free your home from all the clutter and because my mom has a lot of stuff, from all the garage sales and antique stores within a 50 mile radius - she purged a lot of junk. Being a hater of knickknacks I was all excited to see my parent's home emptying of all the unnecessary objects, but my glee was very short-lived. She soon started filling up the house with all things Feng Shui. Dragons, frogs, buddhas, and a water fountain that makes me have to pee, came into the home. I guess cluttering your house with mystical objects doesn't count in Feng Shui land - even if you have a heritage home where the decor fared much better with junky antiques.

People have been asking her to come to their homes and "Feng Shui" them. She tells me that these people's lives have improved, their wealth has increased, and their sex lives have been enriched. To totally prove how much it works my mom cleaned out her guest room, which, according to the Feng Shui handbook, was her "relationship" room.

Now my dad puts his own paper in the recycling bin.

Can you hoard wit?

I believe my secret TV watching (you know who you are, American Idol Season 6 and Project Runway Season 4, and you, too, made-for-SciFi-Channel-movie-about truck-sized alligators terrorizing-small-towns-in-Georgia) led to my loss of wit, irony and several brain cells. Now not only am I just plain short, I'm also short on wit, sarcasm and several other things, which I can't remember. (Note to self: add memory to list of things I'm short on. Wait, what was I going to note?) Now I'm only witty long after the fact, or in the middle of the night, when no one else is around and I'm half-asleep and too tired to remember my witty thought in the morning. If I could hoard all my witty thoughts somewhere, and just trot them out at the appropriate moment, I too could be on American Idol or perhaps the next big Fox show, American Wit.

Unfortunately, I already hoard alot of things. The extent of my hoarding was made clear when I realized I had 10 egg cups, when I live alone and rarely eat boiled eggs. (Note that I did not previously consider this to be hoarding; I had decided to keep all of my egg cups as part of my emergency planning, because when the Big Quake hits the Pacific Northwest, alot of people are going to lose their egg cups and then who'll be laughing?) At first, I thought my hoarding was a result of a chemical imbalance or a harbinger of an underlying psychological disorder. But two recent news stories have made me realize that hoarding must actually be a Pacific Northwest thing, like MS, avoiding eye contact and being mildly passive-aggressive.

The first story takes us to Rochester, WA, where a woman was found living with hundreds of healthy pet rats, 4 malnourished snakes and 1 malnourished cat. (Why were the snakes and cat malnourished when they were surrounded by rats? Don't they eat rats? Were these vegetarian snakes? Has the real story been missed here?) The second story takes us to Vancouver, WA, where a woman was found living with 42 malnourished cats. All I can say is I'm glad I don't have chickens.

Short on Wit

On the topic of wit and sarcasm, I'm a little low on both. I'm the person who laughs nervously at jokes that everyone else gets ("uh, ha, those aristocrats, aren't they a blast?"). I tried out sarcasm, but found it exhausting and alienating and I also briefly dabbled in irony. Unfortunately, irony by its nature is easy to misunderstand, which makes you look either weird or nerdy, such as wearing your former 7-eleven shirt as daytime casual wear. Which I never did, just for the record, but which I witnessed at university. Right now, I'm eating a family size package of real fruit gummies, which might be considered ironic because aside from the fact that they're about as close to real fruit as tennis balls are to apples, and excepting the fact that who's kidding who, it's not families that are eating them; it's overindulgent types like me who down them by the handful, no self-respecting parent would admit to feeding them to their children anyway. If they do, they're probably not their own children, in which case, the real fruits are the so-called families--no offense to any nutritionally-aware homosexuals intended.

Secret TV Watching

I hate the whole idea of television. I don't let my kids watch too tv because I think it is such a passive activity that really does nothing for firing any neurons. I hate that people have their "programs." Programs that they won't be out of the house on that night for. Ridiculous. And I have decided that tv has soul-sucking powers. If the tv does get turned on I have a hard time turning any show off mid-program, thus I end up watching crap that really does nothing to sway my belief that the world is going to hell-in-a-handbasket. But I think I am neurotic that way - I have to finish a book no matter how boring it might be because I have to know how it ends. I have to be the last person at a party because I am scared I might miss something.

I succumbed to my psychotic behaviour when American Idol was on one day. I have never really watched it before and I think this is around the 7th season? But the show doesn't end...So now I am stuck. I know when it airs, I know how many people are left, I know all their names, and I have my favourites. And my errant conduct must be contagious because Darc watches it with me.

We now have our "program."

Don't tell anyone.

Sitcoms

Is everyone a smartass now though? Is it a 1970's generational thing? Because I, too, am witty and sarcastic and neither of parents were particularly witty. Sometimes I sort of think it comes from TV. What if we're all actually part of a sitcom? Every so often, I think, "Wouldn't it be cool if my life was really part of a sitcom?" Except it would really be not so cool because if you weren't funny enough, then your show would get cancelled, or your character would end up with their own spin-off (which would tank after the first season because the network moved it to Saturday night after reruns of Golden Girls) or because the recurring guest star with big boobs all of a sudden made the ratings go up and she got first billing and you ended up getting sent to visit your parents in Toledo, so you're only on every third show.

One of my brothers spent a summer living at home with our mother, and sometimes to escape her (because she had an uncanny ability to drive us crazy), Owen would just hang out in the garage, sitting in an old recliner, listening to public radio and surreptitiously smoking pot and/or drinking beer. Every so often, Mom or a neighbor or a family friend or someone would just drop by to talk, kind of like on a sitcom where everyone has their front door unlocked and people just walk in, to strike up some incredibly funny conversation, or to accidentally overhear and misinterpret something. So my brothers and I pretended we were all in this sitcom called Owen's Garage. Every time, something happened, like when Owen got a job and moved back to the city, it was really the network execs tweaking the show for better ratings. A summer of hot forest fires! A tire blowing on the freeway! Buying a condo without telling his girlfriend because it meant he have to explain why he was moving out of her apartment and not taking her with him! All too funny and all designed to boost ratings. Of course, eventually, ratings must have really dropped, because at the end of the final season, his character was killed off. Ratings surged at this unexpected turn of events, but of course, once you kill a character off you can't bring them back. Unless you're a star in Dallas, which isn't a sitcom.

Smartassedness

I have got in a lot of trouble over the years for my sarcasm and general smartassedness. I don't know where it came from as my parents are not overly witty, although my father can be known to throw a barb here and there.

I have gone past the point of funny sometimes and have hurt friend's feelings so I try to be much more careful now - but I do find it difficult not to poke fun at all the idiosyncrasies of life. Life is funny, situations are funny, why be serious?

I think I am getting my own back now in the form of my sarcastic children. Who said they could talk like that? Where did they learn this rude behaviour from? Oh.

The other night at dinner we had fish. My son asked why we had to eat this? And I went on about the goodness of fish, how it is better for you than red meat, about all the omega-3 in it and so on. My son asked what omega-3s were and being the scientifically challenged person that I am told him they were good for his brain.

"Huh," he said, "well, my brain is telling me not to eat it."

Brat.

70's Party

This past weekend was Darc's birthday - and he is very old - like 8 years away from 50. We decided to celebrate with a 70's theme party. I thought this was a very open interpretation - I mean, there was hippie love, there was disco fever and someone told me that the punk rock era started at the tail end of the 70's.

Darc and I stuck to the disco theme and rented a disco ball and everything. We served very bad 70's food - devilled eggs, devilled ham with pickles on crackers, sweet and sour meatballs, bugles, cheezies, and all kinds of chips with french onion dip. We bought a zillion fudgicles but forgot to pass them out - so they will likely still be in the freezer next year on Darc's birthday.

I was surprised to see that everyone who came really embraced the theme - maybe it was because there were excellent prizes for best costumes. I mean, who doesn't need some incense and a candy necklace and a mood ring?

I think we look hot. No?

Saying no to cracks

My back also hurts - but I will not be visiting a chiropractor any time soon. We have a good friend who is a chiropractor in town and every time Murray sees me he asks when I am going to come in and get "adjusted."

I went to him last year when I could no longer stand that my head could only turn in one direction (it made it awkward to shoulder check). This was my very first time visiting a "cracker" and I hated the experience. I don't think it can really be good for your body to make those awful crunching noises. I found it more stressful than dealing with the chronic pain.

He gave me a teddy bear to hold - as if this would make it any better - than twisted my neck and said "relax." I found having my neck in someone else's hands unnerving - isn't your neck kind of important? All those vertebrae and stuff?

Murray also told me that someone farts on him every day.

I think I am discovering that it is my overwhelming fear of public flatulence that is preventing me from achieving a full and happy life.

Back again

Due to my overweening display of machismo at last week's yoga class, today I had to go to the chiropractor to have an adjustment of my fifth lumbar vertebrae, along with a bunch of other pokes and prods. I really like my chiropractor because she gives me all kinds of advice about self-care and lifting with my legs not my back, but every once in a while, she'll pass on a piece of information that sounds suspiciously like she may have read it in the Weekly World News. Like when I was pregnant, she told me about a woman in Africa who walked 90 miles, then gave birth, then walked another 10 miles and gave birth again, then finally made it to the hospital where yet a third baby was born. I assume that the moral of the story was that I should stop whining about pregnancy and do more Kegels but instead I just went home and thanked my lucky stars I live within a 10 minute walk of the hospital.

Yoga, enlightenment and inner calm

Speaking of yoga, enlightenment and inner calm, those of us in Seattle have just finished saying good-bye to the Dali Lama, the spiritual leader of camelids and Tibetan Buddhists, who arrived here last week to talk about compassion, which we apparently don't have enough of. As I headed home after work yesterday, past the stadium where the Dali Lama was getting his honorary degree, I was mulling whether we really needed more compassion or whether the world is just lacking in civility, but I didn't get a chance to think that through, because I was immediately trampled by the throngs of people exiting the stadium, who were now more compassionate, but no more polite.

Would we all be better off if we did yoga on a daily basis? Is it the suppressing of flatulence that makes people cranky and rude? And what's with the myth that only guys fart and pick their nose?

The Yoga Chronicles

Each time I go to yoga I feel a little anxiety before I get there. I always worry I won't be able to do the pose or maintain the pose and that everyone will think what is that lady doing here. I think I have not got to that higher realm where my mind, body, and spirit are one. This is a hard state to obtain when everyone warns you that you might fart - that flatulence is normal at yoga.

Um, if that happened to me then my significant other might find out that I was lying when I said "girls don't fart."

Also, I feel shy when everyone when says "ohhhmmmmmmmmmmmmm" and when the class is encouraged to let their sighs and groans out. Again, I obviously live in a much lower realm than the rest of society. Imagine my anxiety when attending a yoga class in the "big city" and everyone around me is making the correct sounds and noises.

I honestly thought that those were noises reserved for the privacy of your bedroom. Silly me.

Around and Around

My neighbours and I hold a weekly yoga class in my living room. We move the furniture into the kitchen and lie on the floor so that we can look at the dust horses underneath the dresser in the living room, which we used to store CDs, mittens, and protective gear (wrist braces, shin guards and knee pads. James also has a whole drawer just for band-aids). Tonight we did a posture called Wheel, which is called that because you're supposed to bend yourself backwards into the shape of a wheel and try to ignore the screaming muscles in your back by thinking about how much worse you would feel if you were lying on the side of the road and someone had just run over you with the wheel of their car. And then you're supposed to feel gratitude and thanks that you're able bodied and capable of inflicting pain on yourself instead of someone else doing it for you. This is what four weeks of yoga has taught me so far, which means I should be turning into a yogi any day now. I can't wait til we get to the flying part.