yogravation

yogravation - the feeling you get when you rearrange your week's schedule to attend a particular yoga class, only to show up, mat in hand, and find it was cancelled.

fortunately, there is help. everydaypeoplecartoons by cathy thorne.

telephone bust

This post by Blue Yak got me thinking about one of my most embarrassing on-the-phone moments.

I was maybe a junior in college. I was kinda seeing, kinda dating but mostly just wanting to be friends with this guy who I will call Thomas.

I really liked Thomas. He was a kind, smart, shy, poetic stoner with twinkly brown eyes and some of the most awesome, sexy hair. I think he had gone to my school but maybe dropped out, partly due to his extra curriculars but mostly due to finances.

Thinking back, and this could be a complete fabrication at this point, he was a mix between Jim Morrison and Seth Rogen.

The hair was Seth, only a lot longer. The eyes, definitely Jim.

Thomas also made one of the best omelettes I had ever eaten. To this day, I add a little bit of water to my eggs in his honor. Makes the omelette light and fluffy. He might have been wifty but he made an amazing omelette.

Back to the phone story. Thomas hung around my apartment a lot. It was one of those Saturday mornings where he was acting a little too comfortable, like he might just stay around for life the whole weekend. But I had other plans. I was trying to figure out a way to ditch him kindly get him to go home.

What I came up with was pathetic this:

I had my roommate knock and tell me that so-and-so had called while I was out and asked that I call her back.

This was in prehistoric times, by the way, before answering machines, let alone cell phones. (Really, though? How did we manage to date without answering machines and cell phones? I'll tell you how. We stupid stupid women sat at home by the phone. And it really really sucked.)

So I picked up the phone but pressed on the disconnect button and pretended to have a conversation with so-and-so. Where the gist was, "Oh hey, that's right, so-and-so. I forgot we were going to go there this afternoo----"

At this very moment the phone chose to ring. The phone I was holding in my hand and having a pretend conversation, rang.

Busted.

Thomas was lying on the floor, I remember, watching me the whole time. Because that's what he did, mostly.

I quickly released the button then hung up on the true caller. I tried to play it off. Badly. To Thomas I said,

"Huh? What just happened? That was weird. Wasn't it?!"

With an ever growing confused look on his face he tilted his head as if to say, Huh is right?

"I guess we got disconnected somehow while I was ... uh ... you know ... talking to her."

I don't remember too much after that. I do remember then, and now, being grateful, that he was a stoner. Thinking he might have just thought, "That was weird, dude." Nothing more. Feelings spared. But I doubt even he was that clueless.

Any embarrassing dating phone moments out there?

empty lip balm appreciation day

I'm one of those people who needs to join Lip Balm Anonymous. I keep a tube of lip balm (or three) in my car, a tube (or two) in my purse, a tube in my desk, a tube in my jeans pocket, and an ever-changing number of tubes in my kitchen medicine cabinet depending on how many of my kids nab one as they leave for school.

The tube in car door well is nearly empty. Or empty to the point where I can no longer swipe my lips across the top and get comfortably balmed. Instead I have to use the tip of my pinky finger to dip, swipe and wipe. This isn't a very satisfying experience but it beats scraping my lips across the top of the plastic rim to the point of chafing my already chapped lips.

You might think an empty tube of lip balm is something to feel sad about. Or bereft, depending on the state of your chapped lips. But not for me.

I am thrilled.

Damn close to deliriously happy.

Why?

Because it means

Same goes for an empty container of

This past summer I emptied one. I'm pretty sure it was the first bottle of sunscreen I managed to hang onto the entire summer and not lose it to someone else's beach bag.

Here are a few more things I haven't emptied but look forward to celebrating when I do:

Because it dries up to a petrified crust after the fourth use.

Because I mainly keep this around for my Louisiana native friends.

And,

Because when I change purses, I always manage to leave a few loose pennies, a wadded up tissue, a stick of gum that's dried-stuck to it's foil wrapper, and a stray tube of

This post is dedicated to the real Aunt Bee in my life. Love you Aunt Bee!

e-bayte my ass

You know when you have been watching an ebatty item for several days and you wait until the last few seconds to bid, I believe this is called sniping, and then you see that you are currently the winner with barely 3 seconds left?

Your heart is all pounding and you feel all triumphant because the item you won at $54 is actually worth $179? And you have $20 left in the bid kitty? You know that feeling?

But then you refresh the page and see that no, at the very last millisecond, some sneaky, snarky, sniper came in and stole won with $1 more than your top bid? You know that feeling?

So then you content yourself on some primordial level of pettiness with the malicious satisfaction that at least the thief sniper had to fork over an extra twenty bucks at the last second? What is that feeling called?

Schnipenfreude?

doc spelled backwards is cod not god

We really like our family doc. He's willing to offer homeopathic suggestions, for one. He's down to earth and friendly, for two., i.e., his ego is not the size of the heavenly firmaments.

So we've been going to our family doc for ten years now. A couple years ago he moved into a brand new building, a condomininum setup, so he now owns his office. Or the bank does. Within his office suite he has established a lab testing unit.

So my husband, Sam, takes an Rx that requires regular lab tests. Over the years, he's been going to one of those large, chain labs. No cost with his insurance card. Lab sends in results to the doc. Doc checks and notifies if there is a problem. All part of the regular check up.

Until recently.

Family doc's office staff instructed Sam to get his blood work done in the on site lab. Requires that Sam set an appointment, return to get blood drawn. Sam gets there, his weight and BP are taken (even though he was just there a few days ago), gets his blood drawn, does not see a physician, but is charged a copay for a "short office visit." In Sam's case, $35 copay. Ouch.

Sam protested to the office staff and the doc came out. Sam told him "I want to go to my usual lab." Doc insisted he get the lab work done on site.

Does this ring of a conflict of interest to anyone besides me? Might this be an ethical violation? We think he's funding his new office. Or has this "short office visit" become prevalent out there in family practice medicine?

trouble on american idol

This week, two of my favoriteist American Idol contestants sang two of my awesomely favoriteist songs.

Alex (Not-to-be-confused-with-Adam) Lambert, the cutest boy in a blonde mullet EVER, sang Ray LaMontagne's "Trouble." You can see and hear Alex here. He's got this amazing raspy voice with incredible tone.

Lilly Scott, the cutest girl in a blonde mopsy-top, sang Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces." You can see and hear Lilly here. And if you want to hear a more soulful song, Lilly's version of Sam Cooke's, A Change is Gonna Come, can be heard here. Either way, you can't help but fall in love with her unique sound.

But tonight, American voting fans gave these same two contestants the giant Idol finger pointing them off the stage. WTF, Idol viewers? Do I need to whip out my wireless phone and slip out of my Idol voting apathy?

One consolation, Alex lambert is from the DFW area, which I hope means he'll find his way to the Austin music scene one day.

Second consolation, American Idol will no longer be a factor in my evening exercise sabotage. But don't worry, I've got plenty more where those came from.

Like, for instance, if Crystal Bowersox makes it to the Top Ten, in which case I might have to sacrifice my get-skinny-quick-scheme for yet another ten weeks.

Now, if all that isn't enough trouble for you, check out Ray LaMontagne's original version.

cold sung blues

I'm down with a cold. Or at least I'm pretty sure it's a cold, as opposed to an acute case of allergies.

Did I catch it from my husband, who had laryngitis two weeks ago, followed by persistent stuffy nose and cough?

Did I catch it from my neighbor, who had an upper respiratory infection, coughing next to me in my car, reassuring me she was no longer infectious?

Did I catch it from my client, who, just last week, wondered aloud if her symptoms were due to allergies or a cold?

No matter, right? It's got me, whatever it is. Whomever it's from.

I opted to cancel several appointments. Today was a long, full day of too many clients back-to-back. I kept three appointments in the middle of the day. And then, as luck would have it, one of the three kept appointments called to cancel, leaving a voice message, "I've got a cold." Of course, it had to be the middle appointment.

So I ended up seeing two patients. One who was kind enough to come in early. I headed to the office with relief. Two appointments sounded entirely doable. Or so I thought.

Everyone knows my job involves listening. But it also involves talking, in between listening. It was in the middle of one of these, my-turn-to-talk turns, that I found out that my cold is much easier to abide when I keep my mouth shut.

Talking brought on fierce bouts of coughing, sputtering, eye-watering and nose running. Where the intake of breath between coughs brought on even more severe fits of coughing. Undignified and unprofessional slobberring attacks.

Do you know the kind of hacking, tickling, choking cough I mean? The only thing that prevents these cough attacks is to (1) drink one cup of hot tea after another, or (2) continously suck on Moutain Herb Reeeeee-Co-Laaaas.

Fortunately, the cough attacks occurred during my second appointment. Meaning, soon after, I was able to pack up and head home. Very relieved that I hadn't pressed my luck.

So now I'm home, alone in my room, comfortably blogging and blowing my nose and puffing,

gleefully allowing the husband to deal with dinner prep and the kids: their homework, after school pick-ups, their squabbles.

All was well and good until Sam was off playing Taxi-Cab Dad. When I heard this urgent shout,

"Mo-Ommmmmmmmmmm!"

I jumped up, heart racing, laptop-sy-turvy,

"What is it?!" I yelled back.

"Oh, nothing. I just wondered where you were."

Argh.

But other than the one panic inducing interruption? I have to say?

I rather like my quiet exile.

Cold or no.

"Leave Mom alone," I hear Sam telling one of the kids.

(Who among us doesn't liken these words to the sound of heavenly choirs of angels singing?)

"Leave Mom alone. She's not feeling good."

Ahhhhhhhh.

Little do they know my well-kept secret.

That right now?

I'm feeling damned good.

attemption sleezy, foreign spammers!

Note to your sleezy, foreign, scamming, spamming self: If you're going to send out mass emails to recipients without benefit of a a formal introduction, let alone a shared language, you might want to study the vocabulary of your recipients a little more carefully, i.e., don't rely so heavily on Google Translator.*

Case in point. This was waiting for me in my personal, private (use only for communicating with friends, family, and teachers so how the hell did you find me?) email box this morning:

Second Attemption: Your Credit Card PreApproval inside

Your Prepaid Credit Card will be shipped soon!

Prepaid Credit Card Approval Enclosed

Poor credit? Instant Approval for Credit Cards!

We have a Credit Card card invitation for you

Enclosed: Cards for people with Bad Credit...

So while I have your rapturous attemption, Sir Spams Alot, I have a few questions:

A. Is this an offer for credit or a last-chance opportunity to save my soul? Because, while in the lives of some the end result may feel similar, for most people money and soul suffer from irreconcilable differences.

B. Prepaid credit? Let me see if I understand. I send a thousand dollars to some unknown destination on the other side of the continent so you can issue me a credit card in the amount of a thousand dollars minus your most generous fee offer?

C. And why would I want to take that risk when I can go to my local grocery store, spin the metal kiosk and prepay in person? Am I not comprensating something here?

*Please don't take this personally, Google. You most definitely rank right up there at the very top of my list of favorite internets friends tools. But for language translation? Needs a little work.

Here's what I mean: I once used you to compose a note for my, then, non-English speaking house cleaner. I wanted her to change the sheets on my son's spare bed. I came home to find her looking at me very strangely. At the end of a confusing exchange, I deciphered her question: Should she cover his bed in notebook, printer, or wrapping paper?

deceived no more

I'm onto you, my little golden bar of soap. You can't fool me: Your sleek size. Your shrinking weight. Your newly slenderized waistline.

Your same price.

You used to be 4.5 oz. You are now 4 oz. And I am not the only one who has noticed.

At the end of each of our relationships, I used to cherish your remains. Take your soap slivers and lovingly place them flat along the inside of the rounded contour of your replacement bar. In the soap divot, if you will. A sliver pit for soap shavings. A token remembrance of all those showers we used to share.

In fact, your carved out cavity seems designed for the express purpose of holding my leftover slivers, doesn't it? Aiding we spurned lovers in our quest to slide you close along our nekkid bodies ever longer, until the inevitable end.

But in doing so, I see that I am covering your logo. Your crafty product designers wouldn't let that happen, would they? And break their cardinal rule of marketing? Thou shalt not cover thy product's trademark?

So no. I will not suffer fools gladly. Your cored out concavity isn't there for my convenience. It isn't there so I can scrimp and save and get an extra two showers out of your incredibly shrinking bar-hood.

It isn't there for my ease or protection either, so that the soap fits more precisely in my hand, preventing those potentially embarrassing and increasingly dangerous drop-soap-reach maneuvers.

Come back, Heath-soap, come back!

It isn't about me at all, is it?

No, the concave hollow is merely a way for your makers, the manufacturers, to fool me, the loyal customer, into thinking the price remains the same. So that they can continue selling more, but smaller, bars of soap. So that they can keep their jobs. So that their stockholders, your pimps, can continue to maintain their lavish lifestyles.

Make me the cuckhold, will you?

Think a-gain.

So, dear soap, no more recycling for me. No more lingering last moments of lucious lathering. No indeed.

I've hatched a plan. I'm saving your golden slivers in a plastic pouch, otherwise known as a baggie. I'm also saving my empty breath mint dispensers. Because it's only a matter of time before your personal size bar of soap will shrink to the size of a Tic Tac. When that day comes, I shall be ready.

So look for me in the back alley ways. I'll be the woman with the wig and the fake moustache, with the look of spurned longing on her face, frantically waving to get your attention, standing behind her car with the trunk open to reveal thousands of candy sized slivers of soap, encased in plastic dispensers, disguised as orange breath mints.

And on that day? Fear not. I shall no longer be your fool. Your cuckhold. Your spurned latherer.

I shall be free.

But the soap won't be.

$1.09 plus tax, please.

edward swooners, hearken

If you are, or ever were, a fan of Edward, of Twilight fame, and are in need of a fix, pay heed.

Just recently we joined Netflix. ('bout time, right?)

My son quickly put in his picks:

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 1

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 2

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 3

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 4

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 5

Survivor: Season Two, Disc 6

Not a big Survivor fan, I realized I'd better get in queue or throttle my son, one.

Going through the ratings, Netflix generated Mira Nair's film adaptation of Vanity Fair. Reese Witherspoon as the formidable Becky Sharp.

There's nothing I love more in life on screen than classic period films.

Vanity Fair arrived in my mailbox two days later.

Only after it was playing did I realize I had already seen it. Argh. This middle-aged memory loss is a mo-fo. But I enjoyed every minute of it. Watched most of it Friday night. Turned it off midway due to a camping trip next day. Watched the remainder Sunday evening.

Yeah, that's right. A camping trip bookended by Vanity Fair. Life is fucking awesome good.

So fucking awesome good was the movie, this second time around, I didn't want it to end. I closed my bedroom door and indulged in post movie play the director-narrated version. All the way baby through.

And when that wasn't enough, I selected Deleted Scenes.

The Alternate Ending clip delivered quite the unexpected denouement: Master Edward.

And here it is. (I just love youtube, don't you?)

Potential spoiler alert, sort of, if you haven't seen Vanity Fair. This scene reveals previous plot developments.

For the sad lot those of you looking for a quickie, fast forward to 48 seconds; 3:07; 4:27.

protozoa in your piehole

I read this in my local paper a few days ago: Study finds dangerous bacteria lurks in shower heads. Warns: Do not stand directly under shower spray when first turned on.

Wait. Do people really have to be instructed to stand away from the shower head when they turn on the jets? Isn't the blast of icy cold on warm body deterrent enough?

But to my point. As if we don't have enough to worry about with drug cartels across our borders, economic forecasts dependent on Asia, and nuclear threat in the Middle East, do we really need news outlets publishing one unreplicated study story after another that warn us of the dangers lurking right in our own homes? Cancer from barbeque, radiation from cell phones, hormone additives in our dairy, BPA in the baby bottles, pesticides on our produce, salmonella in the salad. Is there no safe harbor from unseen domestic dangers?

Yet, last I heard, people are living longer than ever. Nursing homes are crowded. No room at the Sunset Inn for grandma. How can this be?

And if is there a better example of toxicological irony, please share in the comments: After everyone but me traded in their BPA laced Nalgene bottles for SIGG containers, SIGG

revealed that their proprietary ‘water-based epoxy liner’ which coated the inside of every SIGG reusable bottle made before August 2008, contained trace amounts of BPA.

So given all of this fear driven news, I sincerely expect to see an article that reads,

Scientists Warn: Kissing is Dangerous

Research microbiologists report findings from a study indicating hundreds of millions of bacteria are found in human saliva. Six hundred different microbial species of bacteria are waiting to spring from that red and white cavity behind your lips.

Stand back, study warns. There's fungi on your face. Cooties on your kisser. Protozoa in your piehole.

What can we do to protect ourselves from this bacterial quagmire?

Dr. Hal I.Tosis of U of OCD recommends donning protective head gear:

H1N1, Anyone?

Sunday night. Started feeling bad, like a fever was coming on. Took my temperature. Not because I thought I had Swine Flu Mexican Flu H1N1, but because I had a tennis match in the morning and wanted to call my teammates, if need be, and find a sub. But no temperature.

Monday morning. Wake with a sore throat. Lymph nodes feel swollen. Still no fever. Play tennis, only to get rained out, silently cursing the powers that be who ignored the meteriorologist's 60% chance of thunderstorm and tornado warnings.

On the way home, get the heroic idea of stopping by the grocery. Full throttle rain now. Get nearly soaked as I make my way across the giant parking lot. In my tennis skirt I shop, crocs and soggy socks, wet head, chilled by the air conditioning. (In cenral Texas, no matter what the weather, the air conditioning is on to near freezing. It was no different on this rainy Monday.) Load my rain soaked groceries into trunk. Proceed home to feel still worse. Take an allergy pill.

Tuesday morning. Still feeling bad. Take temperature again.

Brief aside: Getting ones hands on a thermometer, in my house, is no small feat. Not unlike wrestling The Ring from the hands of Gollum. My husband being Gollum, tired of tracking down the thermometer because "Nobody puts it back where it belongs!" "Nobody" meaning me. Gollum keeps it hidden in the high cliffs of his cave-closet. Each time I must climb those cliffs and snatch Gollum's preciousssssss.

But again, no temperature. Now assume a sinus infection is brewing and am not contagious. Fortunately, and uncharacteristically, a light day is scheduled at the office.

Wednesday morning. Still feeling bad. Full day scheduled, including evening appointments. Take a decongestant, an ibuprofen, and an allergy pill. By the time my 3rd-from-last client arrives, full symptom onset: head hurts, stuffy nose, watery eyes, coughing, and sucking down one throat lozenge after another.

Call to husband Gollum. Tells me the local news said mold spores are super high. Am allergic to mold spores. So here is my answer.

Wednesday night. Make mistake of opening email written by a Texas physician, forwarded to me by a friend who is a school administrator. The M.D. warns that he is hearing "privately" from the "CDC" and "Health Department" that this strain of flu is worse than "the media" is letting on. I won't go into the email's dire details, of which Gollum is ultra-cynical because of the homeopathic remedies suggested at the end of the email.

My eyes lock on the line which says this flu produces "a distinctive 'hoarseness'" in its "victims."

Attempt to clear throat and speak. Believe my voice has gotten distinctively "hoarse."

Mind races. Think back on relatively quiet weekend. Was I exposed to anyone who might have been carrying the flu?

Remember that Gollum and I went to a small Mexican restaurant for dinner on Saturday night. The wait staff were speaking Spanish.

Gollum now insists they were "Mexican Nationals" because of the familliar way they "pull their hair back in a tight pony tail" and "wear their shirts really, really tight across their stomaches." (WTF? Where does he get this?) I argue that they looked quite Americanized to me.

Uncertainty festering, I head to bed. Take an allergy pill, an ibuprofen, a decongestant, and two benadryls (to combat the decongestant's incomnia side effects).

Thursday morning. Wake from long night of stuffy nose, scratchy throat. Had strange and frustrating dreams that involved deciphering between deviated septums and non-deviated septums (I am confused, too. This is all I remember.) Get up and decide to cancel appointments for the day. The "hoarseness" in my voice is obvious to my clients. Am grateful for this validation of my need for a sick day.

Thursday afternoon. Here I lie on my sick-sofa, as our country waits on the verge of a flu-pandemic, wondering if I am the first and unknown case of an Anglo-American woman with H1N1 Influenza.

The link provided on the CDC website "Is it a Cold of the Flu" is not working (argh!) so no help there. I won't go to the doctor. I refuse to subject myself to "the look" from the receptionist and "the nod" between LPN and nurse practitioner which says, "another paranoid fool with too much time on her hands who thinks she has the swine flu."

So for now, cool heads will prevail. I am convinced, despite my hoarseness, and every flu symptom listed by the CDC except a fever, that I have a monster sized simple cold.

I will not send Gollum to the drugstore to buy a stash of face masks as recommended by the CDC. I did send him for Ricola throat lozenges, however, hoping he would remember that I like cherry flavor. But no, he brings lemon. I open one and feel as though I am sucking on lemon flavored amonia tablet. I will, however, wash my hands frequently, throw away my used tissues, drink a lot of water, and follow common sense guidelines.

And I will enjoy an unexpected afternoon of blogging.

UPDATE: If anyone wants to check the number of H1N1 flu cases verified by state, check at the CDC website, here.

Bikini Pig Tissue Box can be found, here.

rebate madness

I was dazzled by the promise of the rebate high. Yes, I'll take it, I told the cocky, condescending little (he weighed less than me) salesman. Yes, I'll copy my receipt right away. I'll mail in the rebate form without delay. All of the promises of redemption solemnly made by the rebate addict.

Of course, I didn't copy the receipt right away. It sat in my appointment book where the dreaded smudge occurred.

What is it with today's receipts? Printed on soft, shiny paper, the fragile figures smear and fade, so that come tax time all the important numbers have disappeared. Its a conspiracy, but by whom? And for what purpose, exactly?

The store logo is there, however. Indelible, for the world to see. How is that? They've somehow figured out how to leave their permanently legible, fireproof, will survive in a nuclear holocaust advertisement.

But I digress. The rebate form, also printed on this shiny paper, has two critically smudged numbers: the rebate number and the P.O. Box number where the form gets mailed for processing. I've heard it said, if one tiny number is incorrectly copied, NO REBATE FOR YOU, SUCK-UH!

So I spent the better part of my Saturday afternoon with my strongest reading glasses on, under the brightest reading lamp, trying unsuccessfully to deciper the smudged numbers. Got my son involved in the investigation with his perfect vision. Together we pieced together a few more numbers with a bit more clarity but not the whole series.

Panic rising, I then follow the "What to do if you have questions" portion of the form. It directs me to to the Office Despot website. Click on the supciously cheery link, "If you're looking for a mail-in savings form, you're in the right place."

More hard-to-read numbers are required: Product SKU, Model Number and Offer Number, none of which are labeled as such on the receipt. But I make a determined effort, tentatively plugging in scads of alpha-numerics. Press "SUBMIT" and .... The webmaster's reply: "No records were found that matched your request." Again and again, failed attempts to deliver the website generated mail in form. Arghghgh.

"This is exactly why they offer these %$^#$! rebates!" Says SAM.

"That and the corporate powers intend to keep consumers confused and sleep deprived so we'll hand over our credit cards without hesitation." Say I.

This image lifted from Tobiasly’s Blog, a fellow cynic who thinks Office Despot has a scam going.

So I've given up for now. Will follow SAM's advice to call the store and demand assistance from the rebate pusher.

And when I recover from yet another hangover? Rebates Anonymous for me. This time I really mean it.