Jesus! Jesus Camp

Yeah that's right - I watched Jesus Camp today. And may we all just join hands, bow our heads, and say together, "HOLY SHIT!" Amen. Because that is some fucked up shit.

Highlights:

We should not worry about silly things like global warming and pollution, since Jesus is coming back soon and we won't be here by the time it's a problem, so we should continue driving SUV's.

Harry Potter is not okay to enjoy, because warlocks are the devil.

Rachael is a holy roller 8 year old, who very awkwardly tries to proselytize to perfect strangers sitting on park benches. When they won't take her bait (yes, they're sure they'll go to heaven when they die) she tells her friend she thinks they were Muslim.

Rachael also told us that God is not at all churches. According to her, he only comes to the fun ones, where everyone's jumping around singing, but he skips the ones where people speak in monotone. Hey Rachael? As a three year-old I babysat for in Florida told me, "God is everywhere; even in your underwear."

I went to hebrew school for over six years, and to temple on a weekly basis for over a dozen years. I never cried from the services. What kind of service makes KIDS cry? How can that be right?

Even the wacko religious radio DJ thought the head of Jesus Camp (Becki) was wacko. That tells you how wacko her program is.

My roommate who is Indian and I sat with our jaws on the floor as we watched this movie, and wondered why Levi, the boy the movie focused on, didn't hear Jesus telling him to get rid of his mullet, since Jesus talks to him all the time.

Home-schooling is fine in and of itself. But when you homeschool to keep your kids from finding out there are other people who believe different things, how does that teach your kids to accept all kinds of people?

It blows my mind that these people think I need to be saved. Okay, I need to be saved from my compulsion to buy vases and pajamas, but not saved religiously. The idea that some eight year old kid thinks she "knows" better than I do just blows my mind.

In one scene, the preachers are showing the kids 7 week-old plastic fetuses, encouraging them to see the fetuses as human beings, lives "worth" saving. In what fucking world is it appropriate to teach this stuff to KIDS in a public setting? There were kids under the age of six there!

One of the girls (Tori) was ten, and told the camera that when she dances, she dances to christian heavy metal, and is careful to not flaunt the flesh and looks down on Brit-Brit. First of all, the camera panned the entire bedroom, and I just want to say that if I were a parent, I would not let a camera crew in my ten year old daughter's bedroom with the door CLOSED. I'm sure nothing inappropriate happened, but still. Second, why is Tori even thinking of her "flesh" at all? I danced all the time when I was ten, and I assure you, it was completely age appropriate, and I was not flaunting my flesh (even if I was dancing to Madonna and the Bangles).

People, I gotta say, it blows my mind that there are whole slews of people out there who think this way. And I'm not even talking about the kids - what about the parents raising them, and sending them off to Jesus Camp? It scares me, in a way that makes me think about how brain-washing is a form of abuse. Because that's what goes on there.

Did my parents try to raise me to believe certain things? Yes. When you drive through the Bronx you lock the car doors. But they also raised me to question things, and didn't mind if I disagreed with them, or took my time coming around to their points of view when it came to religion.

Jesus Christ. In Florida I worked with a group of really fun girls who were very into their church. They taught bible study and stuff. But they were cool with hearing the jewish side of things, and open to hearing other ideas, and with me in general, and tried to be "Good Christians" in general. You know the types - who'll do someone a favor because "it's the Christian thing to do"? Those are the Christians I like - the ones just going around, trying to be a good person. And if they have to believe in concepts I don't, in order to be good people, then so be it.

But these Jesus Camp people. Religion is their whole life, and I don't think they'd rest until they recruited me. I hope they follow up with these kids in ten years, because I'd be really interested in finding out if they're still believing the hype.

The Day I Went Crazy (and Volunteered For a Meme)

I don't know what came over me. Boredom at work? Or perhaps, boredom at work? Whatever the reason, here we are. (Hi!) So before I dash out for my two hour lunch to meet a friend from high school that I've only seen once since we parted ways in 1994, back when we both rocked plaid flannel shirts like nobody's business, let's see if I can bang out these questions Kristy gave me.

1. Uh oh! Unexpected company's coming. If you only have time to do ONE thing (including hiding something unsightly), what's it gonna be?

The options are overwhelming. Clorox Wipe every horizontal surface? Windex the mirrors? Empty the garbages? But no. I'll go with the all-inclusive Hide All Messes. Messes are compiled of mail, magazines, books and dirty clothes for the most part, with some ATM receipts thrown in for good luck.

2. Is there an episode of a television show, or a scene in a movie that, no matter how many times you've seen it, makes you cry? If so, which? If not...how come?

Cry with laughter, yes. Think Will & Grace. Okay, now think hard and tell me if you ever saw their blooper reel that they did once. There's a scene where Grace has to give blood, and the person taking the blood looks very young. Grace says something to the doctor like, "Are you sure she's old enough to be a nurse? She barely looks old enough to ride a Big Wheel!"

And the nurse chimes in, complete with a lisp (ask me to do this in person, I do it really well, you'll laugh) by replying, "Oh, I don't drive. I keep taking the teths over and over again, but then I'm all, 'Thith ith hard!" (Sorry, I'm not sure how to write lisps. And we won't even discuss the cruely of the word 'lisp' having an 'S' in it.)

Debra Messing kept cracking up after the nurse delivered those lines. So did I.

The other scene that brings tears to my eyes is from your favorite show and mine, My So-Called Life. It's early morning, and Angela is getting ready for school. She had music on, and the song was Blister In the Sun. Angela danced around her room to the music, happy as can be, before leaving her room wearing plaid boxer shorts over leggings with a navy blue shirt that had orange on it (I seem to have a photographic memory for images). She arrived at the kitchen table for breakfast, sullen and all wrapped in Angry Teenager. That was exactly how I felt then.

3. What's your favorite pasta dish?

Hands down, baked ziti. I cook it well. Come on over.

4. I say I'm a morning person, because I feel like that's when I'm most alert and productive. It doesn't mean it's my favorite time of day, though. (Often it is, but I think that's coincidental.) What time of day person are you, and what does it mean to you to say that?

I seem to be substituting "productive" with "creative" which the part of me that psychoanalyzes myself prompts me to wonder if perhaps I only feel productive when I'm being creative. But no, that's not true, there are lots of other ways I'm productive.

I used to be a night person. Being a night person made me an anti-morning person. But, being a depressed person, I realized in order to fight the depression, I had to get up in the mornings.
Then I started having trouble sleeping and became a morning person for a while. Now I've evened out a bit, and am kind of a middle of the day person. Maybe I'm simply a situational person - I'll get up early to hit the Farmer's Market on a Saturday just as easily as I'll stay up past midnight if I'm on a roll writing something.

5. I remember reading that you're more likely to gravitate toward dog people than cat people (I'm probably paraphrasing). Do you think that goes for all dogs, though? I mean, what about someone who has HUGE dogs, or someone who has a couple tiny, hairless yappy things? Does that change it up for you? :)

In a word, yes. People who own dogs score a point for that, it's just that simple. I'm probably more wary of the tiny, hairless yappers than I am of big dogs. I equate yappers with biters, for no good reason (I've never been bitten by a dog). To my readers who are cat people, please don't think I don't like you, because I do. I've met some great cat people (and cats).

Okay, so that was fun. If you want to have fun too, tell me that in the comments and I'll come up with five questions specifically for YOU. (Yes, I know, not exactly following the rules, but ... yeah I've got no good excuses, I'm just not.)

Enough

The whole firm knows about the new office that's opening soon. Everyone has questions.

Who's going?Can I go?
Are you going?
What are you going to doooooo?
Are you going to take the boxes of files in the empty office where Labor & Employment used to be?
What will you do about office supplies?
Can you work remotely?
Do you have a car?
Are you going to commute?
Do they need a secretary? Remember that copy room girl who left when she had her baby? She'd kill to work out there.
Are they taking a word processor?
Will you come into the city for the breakfasts and other parties?When you go, can I have Tuna's office/your chair?

I am not exaggerating when I say that two to three times each day people are coming up to me to talk and ask me about it. Really, I'm sure you can understand why I don't want to talk about this. It's bad enough I have to talk to my roommate and my family about it (no offense guys). Thank you, but I don't need suggestions, I don't need links to jobs, I don't need reminders to look for a new job (I just accidentally typed 'jew job' - perhaps on a deep level I've been uncomfortable working in such a Christian-centric place all this time?) and I don't want to be reminded forty times a day that the clock is ticking.

Nobody EVER needs to point out anything negative about me or my life to me. Please trust me when I assure you I've thought of it. Whatever it is, I've thought of it and worried about it already. Way ahead of you. Now you don't have to wonder what I've been doing awake since 2:30 a.m. - you know. I've been staring into my pillow thinking about how exactly being homeless will work for me now that I don't own a car anymore. Really, if you've thought something negative of me, I've already taken that thought to the tenth power at a minimum.

Why Cat Lady came up to me THREE TIMES yesterday to talk about The Move is beyond me. Especially since the very first time I looked her straight in the eye and said, "I really don't know, and can't talk about it anymore." Cat Lady coming to talk to you is nothing you want to experience. She's the one who had the gastric-bypass surgery. When a person has that, they're supposed to change their dietary habits. Significantly. Cat Lady didn't. Which is why she has all sorts of OTC drugs spread along her desk to treat various digestive issues. I'm not sure if that's why her breath is awful, but it is. Of course she's prone to standing too close to people when she talks with them.

Have I ever really discussed Cat Lady here? Maybe I haven't. Maybe since I won't be dealing with her soon, I should. Cat Lady is an older woman who rents a house and has a male roommate, and some cats, one of whom is named Romeo (LEL came up with the name). Cat Lady thinks everything about herself is fascinating, and doesn't notice when people's eyes glaze over as she blabs on and on about her cat's antics. Cat Lady is President of some Secretary Association or some shit like that.

Cat Lady says very harsh things about people. She told me that the receptionist is very jealous of her because she had a decades-long relationship with a man years ago. That another secretary wears black suits all the time because she thinks it makes her look thin, but it doesn't.

She likes to be viewed as an authority on ... well, anything. Cat Lady presents her opinions as facts. She thinks any joke she makes is incredibly witty, and anything she says is deep. Cat Lady's favorite game is to walk by my ponywall and push any papers up there over the edge, so they fall onto my desk. Her second favorite game is to walk by and tell me, "Clean up that mess!" She thinks she's hilarious. I think a swift smack to the back of her head with a frying pan would make me feel very good.
I would love to sit down (with many feet between us so I didn't pass out from her halitosis) and psychoanalyze Cat Lady. People whose self-confidence crosses the line to arrogance always fascinate me. How do they get that way? Do they realize they're like that? Are they happy being that way? Do they look down on anyone around them who isn't that way? Would they aim to raise their children to be that way?

But that won't happen. Instead, I'm putting out the word here, because this is the only place I feel I can do it. Don't call me, I'll call you. You know I have a big mouth. You know I won't be able to resist blabbing to the world once I have a new job. I know your asking is your way of showing you care. And I truly appreciate your caring, more than I can express. But I am a green and yogurty person, who feels your asking as pressure on me. And as I said above, I put tons of that on myself already.

Hey Green, How's Work Going?

Thank you so much for asking! It's going well, but it won't be for much longer. Here's the breakdown. I work in a specific department, that has a grand total of three attorneys in the San Francisco office of the firm. The Cowboy is the head of the department, and is moving it closer to his house. He is taking the other two attorneys with him. The names of those attorneys? Tuna and Nice Partner. Thus, I am out of a job. But wait, you work for Name Partner too, what about him? Well, yes, thank you for paying attention. The truth is I don't do much work for Name Partner at all, and he can be absorbed by someone else. Thus I am left for nobody to work for and am being axed.

But wait, can't you go to the new office? Or work for some other attorney at your current office? Can't they just pull a position out of their asses?

One at a time, shall we?
1. I live in the city, the new office will be in the 'burbs. I do not own a car and currently have no intention of buying one. I am not willing to do a reverse commute. I would spend at LEAST three hours commuting if I went to the new office. I already have a hard enough time in the winters, leaving work when it's dark out. Getting home even later would drive me to an unsafe level of depression.
2. Gay HR Guy said the corporate attorney they were trying to hire (who they were thinking of throwing me to) fell through. He doesn't know why (bullshit), but that guy isn't coming. There was talk of one of the grandmas retiring this summer, but that's not materializing either. Basically, no grandmas are leaving (unless one kicks the bucket unexpectedly), and no new lawyers are coming in.
3. As much as they like me, and Gay HR Guy assured me they do and I believe him, no, they simply can't pull a position out of their asses. The firm doesn't use floaters, and no, there just simply isn't anywhere they can stick me.

You may be wondering when exactly this happens. I am too. Gay HR Guy spoke with me last Wednesday and he didn't know either. But he did suggest I start looking, said I can use him as a reference, and that I can take off whatever time I need for interviews. Anyone want to meet me for a two hour lunch?! My prediction, based on the dates I saw on the lease for the new office, are late May/early June. Here's the dick move Tuna pulled on me. A while ago, we had a conversation about the new office that went a little like this:

Tuna: Have you heard anything?Green: No, have you?
Tuna: No, but when I do, I'll let you know.

::three weeks later::

Green: Tuna, I heard a lease was signed; do you know what's supposed to happen to me?
Tuna: We're having a conference call on Monday to discuss support staff so I'll find out for you.

::two days later::

Green: Tuna, I'm going to lunch ... unless you want to chat now about Monday's phone call...?
Tuna: No, go ahead, this isn't a good time.

::two days after that::

Green: Tuna will you have time to talk with me about Monday's conference call?
Tuna: Yeah absolutely. Let's just get through this filing and talk later this afternoon.

Yeah, we didn't talk. Clearly Tuna didn't want to be the bearer of bad news. He really should have just never said he'd tell me if he heard anything. This pissed me off, and I was a bit cold to him. Then his daughter had a medical emergency, my mom was in the hospital again, and I forgot to be angry at him. I've really got to start writing these things down. Here's what pisses me off though: after I talked with Gay HR Guy, Tuna kept asking if I'd spoken with him. He was clearly trying to feel me out, and gauge how angry I was. I knew that, and purposely was vague and didn't answer his questions the way he wanted me too (damn, I'm vindictive!). Finally Tuna asked me to come into his office and talk with him.

Tuna: So, how'd it go with Gay HR Guy?
Green: Pretty much the way you'd expect it to go when one person tells another they're out of a job they really liked.

Yeah, I was being bitchy. I'm like that sometimes. Okay, most of the time. (Hmm, maybe that's why I'm not just my own best friend, but my only friend...) Then Tuna goes on to tell me that Gay HR Guy will give me a good reference, and I should feel free to take off whatever time I need for interviews, as if he's doing me a favor out of the goodness of his heart. No fucking way. Green: Yeah, Gay HR Guy mentioned that.

Tuna was off his rocker if he thought I was going to thank him for something he hadn't given me. I'm disappointed in Tuna - I really liked him. Granted, I hold people up to very high expectations, so of course they are destined to fall. But really. Don't shoot off your mouth and tell somebody you'll keep them in the loop, then shut them out, then act like you're doing them a favor when you're really not. Maybe I just need to adjust my assessment of Tuna - he's got good character when it's easy. Maybe that's all its realistic to expect of people.

Fucking Yoga: You Are Your Own Best Friend

Aside from my private lesson, this was the first time I went to yoga on a weekend. I was running a little late, which means I got there right on time, and I was surprised that close to half a dozen people came in after me.

The teacher was somebody I'd never met before, but she has one of those faces that make you think you went to camp or college with her, and I liked her right away. I liked how she ran the class, although once again, I felt like I was going to pass out. I've felt that way in the last three classes I've gone to, since my time-out on Tuesday. Maybe I'm not drinking enough water beforehand? I don't know. Whatever the reason, it's very unsettling.

It's clear that I could never be a yoga guru - I'm the only participant in every class who never breathes or OMs.

Today was a monumental yoga day. No, I did not open up my heart center. But I was able to do the push-up thing and the sitting-while-balancing-on-the-tailbone thing, both of which are new for me. In the past when doing the balancing-on-the-tailbone thing, I couldn't do it at all, then I graduated to holding my knees while balancing. Today, I had stomach muscles. And I USED THEM. It took every ounce of restraint to not yell, "Hey guys! Look at me! I'm doing it!"

I was really pleased about these new abilities. On Thursday I noticed indentations under my cheekbones. For all my bitching and moaning, this yoga shit is paying off. Less than a month and it's paying off. I have more than two months left of my 90 days and I'm already worrying about what I'll do when that ends.

Today during nap-time the yogi came over, gently took my ankles, and kind of pulled my legs out. Normally I have a really hard time during nap-time, because laying on the floor hurts my lower back; I get muscles spasms. Not today.

Being at yoga makes me feel like I have ADD - my mind literally RACES and I can not for the life of me calm down and focus on breathing or heart centers or whatever I'm supposed to think about. I amused myself today by wondering what a class of ADD and ADHD grade-school boys would look like doing yoga. Which led me to think of the opposite extreme and made me wonder if autistic kids would dig yoga, because there's such an inward focus.

Here are the things I thought about while doing tree pose and nap-time:

1. I should re-polish my toenails.
2. Remember to put soap in the shower before getting IN the shower when you get home.
3. This guy next to me needs a longer jaw.
4. Hey! Is that Calvin, wearing a pimp coat?!
5. I am so excited for my dog-sitting to begin.
6. It IS! The guy next to me has a tattoo of Calvin as a pimp!
7. Who just coughed? There is no coughing during nap-time! BE QUIET! YOU ARE RUINING EVERYTHING!
8. Maybe I'll have matzah ball soup for lunch.
9. I should update my resume today.
10. Remember to add Workshare and DeltaView and whatever the hell else that new icon on my desk top is all about.

Hard to Find the Words

With everything going on in Virginia, you may have missed this little tidbit slipping through.

Do I go to med school and focus on learning how to do abortions? Because you know I'd totally do them illegally, happy to save the health of women. Do I move to Canada? Do I donate all my savings to Planned Parenthood?

Because twice now, I've rocked the vote against Bush, and quite frankly, I'm feeling like voting simply isn't enough.

Nothing Profound

Whenever something "big" happens in the world, good or bad, I look to see what the bloggers I consider smart and/or entertaining have to say on the subject. I rarely comment myself, as I don't think I'll have anything to say that hasn't been said already, usually by somebody more articulate than I am. However, here I am, writing about this VA Tech shooting. Feel free to skip if you're feeling oversaturated on the subject, and feel free to come back tomorrow (I have yoga tonight).

There's no disputing that what happened Monday was absolutely terrible. No disputing that. However. A couple of things are bothering me. I mean, aside from a slew of people being dead and others, many, many others being traumatized.

1. Why am I reading that Koreans are feeling ashamed or guilty? Well, I know why, but they shouldn't. And they shouldn't be treated as guilty. This is not something THEY, as a group, as a race, did. This was something one person made a decision to do. It's horrid that a Korean-American father called into a Korean talk show asking for advice about his son, who is being spit at. (Obviously not horrid he called, but that his son was being spit at, for the slow people.)

Who ARE these people who think if you are the same in ANY way as someone who did something wrong, you should be treated like shit? Kids. That's your answer, right? That they're kids, they don't know any better. That's not good enough. Somebody is teaching those kids, either directly or indirectly that one equals all, and that's wrong. Korean-Americans should NOT feel guilty. Should all MEN feel guilty since the person who did this was male? Of course not. Should all college students feel guilty because this was a college student? Or everyone majoring in English, or taking a creative writing class? No.

2. This guy was an English major and one of his teachers was so uncomfortable with him that she had him removed from her class. Nikki Giovanni, one of his professors, told CNN she found him intimidating. She said, "There was something mean about this boy. It was the meanness -- I've taught troubled youngsters and crazy people -- it was the meanness that bothered me. It was a really mean streak." Giovanni said her students were so unnerved by Cho's behavior, including taking pictures of them with his cell phone, that some stopped coming to class and she had security check on her room. She eventually had him taken out of her class, saying she would quit if he wasn't removed.

A co-director at the college tutored Cho after that. She supposedly tried to get him into counseling in late 2005 but he always refused. Roy also described using a code word with her assistant to call police if she ever felt threatened by Cho, but she said she never used it.

Okay, if you have a class, and you're SO uncomfortable with someone on a core level that you threaten to QUIT YOUR JOB if you're forced to continue dealing with them, that's a warning sign. If you have a class and students won't attend because they're scared of another student, THAT'S a warning sign. And if you're so timid about your gut reactions as to not trust them, but then find out a SECOND faculty member is so uncomfortable with that SAME student you had removed from your class that she has an emergency plan in place for dealing with him, that's another warning sign! COME ON! People need to trust their gut when it comes to trusting other people. When someone makes you uncomfortable on a core level, in a way you can't articulate, you should trust yourself that there's something wrong with them.

People are so afraid of offending someone, of not being viewed as politically correct, that everyone would rather look the other way, not say anything, not be the whistle-blower. My brother has traditionally been the Good Child, hence, my calling him Golden Boy on this blog. He's the child my mother could trust to make her feel good, to always protect her feelings. I have been the child who could be trusted to tell you the truth, even if it hurts.

Sure, I do my best to deliver harsh truths gently, but I was the kid who told her parents she hated their new house. When my grandpa shacked up with his granny girlfriend and my cousins asked about her, I said I didn't like her, while my brother said she seemed to make our grandpa happy. Such the diplomat, the Golden Boy. I suppose if he ever ran for office, I'd be the loose cannon he'd worry about (GB, I know you won't, but if you did, I promise I'd keep my mouth shut.)

My mother loves us both, and appreciates each of our approaches. Granted, I make her cry more, but she goes to whichever of us will give her what she wants/needs in the moment, and sometimes people need the truth.

I think it's more offensive to walk around intimidating everyone you spend time with, than to be un-PC by saying, "I think this guy has a screw loose, and here's why." It's scary to call someone out and say "Hey, I think you may have a problem." But to me, it's even more upsetting to think something like this might have been prevented.

People want to know what happened. Not that people were shot, that people jumped from classrooms, but the WHY of what happened. What happened before it happened.

3. The creative-writing aspect of it. Lots of perfectly (mentally) healthy people are creative. May I introduce you to Steven and M. Night? Creativity is good. It's interesting. Some people think it's a waste of time. But fuck them. I took a composition class in college, and wrote many a paper that was not true. I hate to think people's creativity will be stifled now because of this. Isn't it more important to be safe, than be creative? Yes, absolutely. But, if you have a perfectly normally sociable person writing really fucked up stuff, you'll know that. This guy was NOT normal. He had a documented history of being abnormal.

In chatting about this the other day, someone raised the issue of whether or not it's fair to subject a class to an upsetting (violent/disturbing) paper. I'm going to say yes, it's fair. Firstly because when you sign up for a class you can read the description (or most professors will announce on the first day) that says students will share their writing with the class. Secondly, people should be allowed to walk out for a few minutes if a particular subject upsets them, as long as it's not happening all the time.

4. Gun laws, anyone? Why is someone who was involuntarily placed in a mental health facility allowed to buy a gun? Should that be? Nobody should "need" a gun right away - isn't there a waiting period? Fuck the law, if people are mentally unstable, they shouldn't be allowed to buy firearms. You could argue that going to target practice can be soothing or some crap, but still. You could argue about Second Amendment, but fuck that too. Is it more important for a drunk guy from Texas to be able to shoot his gun if somebody walks on his front lawn, more than it's important to prevent crazy people from getting guns and killing innocent people? I think not.

Maybe everybody followed the procedures in place. Teachers reported unsettling behavior, people encouraged the shooter to go to therapy, etc. But clearly we need new procedures. Or maybe those procedures needed to be broken. Something certainly needed to be different.

I Got a Time-Out at (Fucking) Yoga Tonight

No, not for inappropriate laughter. Before launching into the story, let me first just tell you that I hadn't been to yoga since last Tuesday. I meant to go on Thursday, but got invited to do something. Then over the weekend I meant to go to yoga, do laundry, and get together with a friend. All I managed to do was the third thing. Sometimes I have trouble forcing myself to do things. I don't know exactly why I didn't go to yoga last night, but I knew I was falling off the yoga track and had to get back on, so tonight it was.

In the past, I've chugged some water or had some fruit about an hour before class, and then chugged water upon arriving home from yoga. Tonight I ate some crackers beforehand and forgot about the water.

Upon arriving at yoga I was immediately complimented very enthusiastically on my scarf. By a guy. Smile and say thank you.

Tuesday is my favorite night to go to yoga, because I like the person who teaches on Tuesdays best. I don't know her name - maybe it's Maria or Amy or something else, but she knows mine, and she's a warm person. (Monday is when my second-favorite teacher teaches, but I'm not up to going every day yet.)

So we're all yoga-ing, and I'm downward dogging or whatever, and I look out at the floor, and notice it's not flat. It's rippling as I look at it, like waves. I hear a noise in the back of my head. It's a rushing sound, like being underwater, but it's far away, as if I'm hearing my future that's steadily approaching. At the start of class Maria/Amy commented on the room being extra-warm tonight. Quick to overheat, I never trust my own feelings on this, because to me it's always too warm.

Now we're doing some hamstring stretches, and the rushing sound is coming closer. I'm sweating much more than is normal. If I have to put my head down one more time, I'm going to puke. I back up against the wall - it feels cold against my back and that feels good. At some point, I'm sitting down, but I don't remember making the decision to sit, or making myself sit. Maria/Amy appears in front of me. "Are you okay? Your face is very white."

"I think I may throw up or pass out." I'm embarrassed to have stopping yoga-ing; we're whispering to each other.

"Why don't you take a time-out? Go get a drink and get some air," Maria/Amy tells me. Somehow I come to be standing, and I stay still for a moment, to make sure I can walk without crashing into the wall. Maria/Amy follows me out to the lobby and asks another Yogi to give me some water. I chug half the bottle. The water is warm which I hate, but I know this will help me not pass out, so I keep drinking. Looking through the door into the classroom I focus on the floor - the ripples are gone and the floor is flat like it should be now.

I just walked out of a class. How do I walk back in? Nike knows, so I just do it. It's not as bad as I feared. I missed half of Tree Poses, my favorite part of the class, but jump back into it without a problem. During nap time, I wonder if not having yogged for a week is a contributing factor to my earlier overheating. I listen to the sirens outside and wonder why that sound calms me and makes me feel good. I keep peeking at the people around me, to see what everyone else looks like laying down (they look like people laying down).

Nothing was particularly funny at yoga tonight. I'll go back Thursday - hopefully something will be funny in two days.

Mind the Gap

In the late 90's I used to take a dance class at the local Y with a teacher named Jennifer. She was bitchy and funny and I liked her. She once told us some story about when she'd been in London, and by the time class ended the only thing I remembered about it was that there are recordings saying, "Mind the gap" all around the Tube stations. Even then, when I was 20, I thought the Gap should take that phrase and market the hell out of it. It seemed brilliant to me, and to be perfectly honest, it still does.

My last apartment in San Francisco was a close to Gap headquarters and on walks past the building I'd look up at the windows and wonder if the marketing department had already considered and rejected the "Mind the gap" idea - maybe the phrase is taken or there was some negative connotation I wasn't thinking of. But really, if Calvin Klein can do an ad campaign with Brooke Shields saying "Nothing comes between me and my Calvin's" I hardly think it's too risqué to say "Mind the Gap."

Anyway, here's what made me think of all this gap talk. Good looking out stepping onto those trains, people. Mind the gap, indeed.

Steady Hatred of Yoga

You may wonder why I continue to go if I hate yoga so much. Do not think yourself alone, young grasshopper, for I often wonder the same thing also. Let's review together. Yoga is supposed to be good for arthritis, which I have. It's also something that fits my unbending work schedule. Plus, it's the least expensive class I can take that's also closest to my home. Thus, yoga.

When I got home from work yesterday and checked my e-mail, I found my roommate's invitation/suggestion that we go to yoga together. The idea of going with her sounded terrible to me, and I managed to sneak out without her. Not that I don't like The New and Improved Steamroller*, because I do, very much. Having a good roommate is like having a fun friend sleep over every night! (What's that? That's how it's supposed to be? I had no idea. Anyway.) Yoga is not something I consider myself to be good at, and that's why I don't want company.

Although yoga's supposed to be a non-competitive thing, there was a guy across from me who kept checking what I was doing. You could see it as clearly as if it was stamped on his forehead: I MUST do better than the fat girl!

You know I'm a bitch (why do people think fatties are jolly?), but what you may not know is that I'm very competitive and (for a regular person, not a yoga person) pretty flexible, so you better believe I totally played his game. Because I had the disastrous first yoga class that took me over four days to recover from, I don't push my body as far as it can go these days in yoga. Well actually I do, because it's the only way I know. But then I relax and pull back anywhere from 2-4 inches.

So I'd watch the guy watch me, I'd stop 2-4 inches before I was killing myself, see him get comfortable going one inch further than I'd gone, and then put my hands flat on the floor AND bend my elbows. He didn't know how I was doing it and was very frustrated. It was one of the first times I was having fun at yoga.

I got a case of the giggles during the "tree" portion of the class last night - everyone is balacing on one leg, and I thought about how much fun it would be if somebody just ran up and body-slammed the first person, making everyone down the line fall over, like a row of dominoes.

Nap time was boring and I wanted to leave. No change there. Embracing the breathing doesn't seem like it's going to happen.

Last night's teacher was really nice and I liked her a lot. Super friendly, but not so hippy-dippy that I found her corny. She started the class by talking about American Idol, and insisted everyone keep up to date so that we could discuss in more detail next Tuesday. I'd meant to go on Monday because I like the Monday night teacher, but was too tired. Plus, that would have set me up to go back Wednesday, and not only don't I like the Wednesday teacher, but that would also mean missing Friday Night Lights.

By the way, for any guys reading who may be considering going to yoga but worrying it's too girly or whatever, I counted last night, and it was an even split of guys and girls.

*Coming soon: a more in-depth look at The New and Improved Steamroller, who will transition into her own name.

Not Quite So Powerful

Nice Partner and I have been very busy lately. We have the Case From Hell, where we fire letters and pleadings back and forth with the opposing counsel rapid-fire style. They do sleazy things, like trying to set up ex parte hearings, and we go running to the Judge's secretary, getting her to agree her courtroom doesn't do ex parte. There are threats. There are accusations of lack of professional courtesy. There's Nice Partner yelling to me not to pick up calls from that law firm. There's waiting until 4:55 p.m. to fax letters. It's war.

Today, Nice Partner gives me a pleading for the Case From Hell to revise, telling me it's a rush. I start working on it, when NP comes back and tells me to put it aside. There's a new priority in town. There's a hearing tomorrow on another case. There's no Courtcall set up. Whoops. NP wanted to appear by telephone. He has another Courtcall an hour before this one isn't scheduled. The hearing tomorrow is far from the office. This is a problem. I call Courtcall. No dice - had to be set up at least five days prior.

Nice Partner is pissed. At me, at himself, he doesn't care. His ego cares though - he's a PARTNER and nothing is ever his fault. If a mistake is made, it's on someone else's head, because he didn't make partner by making mistakes. I can see where his mind is going here, and compliment myself for having created a Courtcall file in my Outlook Inbox. Quickly I run a search to see if NP sent me an e-mail telling me to set up a Courtcall. If I dropped the ball that will SUCK. No e-mail. This one wasn't my fault. NP is informed that he last talked to me in February about setting up a March appearance, but there's nothing past then.

I call Courtcall back to ask if they think it's worth calling the Courtroom Clerk. You can do that sometimes - basically ask special permission, see if they'll bend the rules. Generally, I have very good luck when I make these phone calls. In New York, you have to be super duper extra polite when talking to Court personnel, and they're not shy about hanging up on you if you don't have all the information, or you're stupid. In California it's different - they view themselves as there to help YOU, the Person. They thank me when I call for their help. They offer to transfer me AND give me the phone number "just in case."

When I started dealing with the courts here, I kept my same New York attitude - a little nice goes a long way, and that's what I attribute my good luck to in these situations. Before calling the Court, I pull together all my information, gather my thoughts, and wait for LEL to stop squawking. She's so loud that other people can hear her when I'm on the phone, and I feel unprofessional asking people to repeat what they just told me.

I call the Court, and after being transferred twice, get the Courtroom Clerk. I carefully plead my case, making sure to speak quickly but not slur my words. "Sorry, it's five days" the guy tells me. He doesn't sound like he'll be changing his mind. I again explain that my boss has accidentally found himself practically double-booked, and ask if there are any solutions. Yes, I just asked the Court for legal advice, which is not exactly the most perfect thing to do.

But I haven't given any proper nouns except my first name, so it's okay. Plus, you know, we're kind of desperate. "I can't advise you on that. You could have another attorney do a special appearance." I thank him, and hang up. He just contradicted himself, but that's okay.

Nice Partner is a very organized guy - the idea that he dropped the ball flusters him, and he's so upset that I know it's not the time to tell him he's being a big pussy about this. That attorneys CAN be in two places at once. Three is tricky, but two is totally doable.

I slowly walk into his office and tell him we were told no on the waiver of the five-day thing, but I can check around to see if another attorney at our firm is available. Nice Partner curses, and his ego has taken over for his brain now. Of course we were told no because of my incompetence. He demands the phone number, claiming he'll call and get this all straightened out. Okay then, Big Guy. Good luck with that.

Fetching the phone number, I wonder if I can get away with staying in his office to listen to this call, but decide it would fluster Nice Partner, and it's best that I try to listen from my desk. I get distracted by work and can't hear what's going on. Damn LEL for being so loud.

Now it's 4:30 p.m., and NP tells me he doesn't know what he's going to do about tomorrow. Yeah, so he got told no also. Dumbass, ask one of your buddies down the hall to cover for you! I even went so far as to already tell you this!

It takes 45 more minutes for Nice Partner to ask another partner to cover for him. On my way out of the office, I drop the file on the covering partner's chair. An ego can be a dangerous thing.

Still Fucking Hating Yoga

Tonight there was a different yogi teacher. Last time it was a short man, today it was a tall woman. She spoke like a valley girl. I disliked her on sight (why yes, I do judge books by their covers, why do you ask?).

I was in a better headspace today and less prone to crying than I was on Monday night. I didn't need to call my friend for a pep-talk before going today.

Again, no wedgie - I think the key is wearing the right underwear. However, now I'm having a different clothing problem - pants! I stopped at Old Navy on Monday and bought a pair of black yoga pants. But I'm 5'4" (and a half), and the pants were about five feet long, so they dragged on the ground as I walked to and from yoga, and I was constantly stepping on them AT yoga. No good. Tonight I wore a pair of stretchy pants I've had since living in Florida and they're too short on me. I feel all Goldilocks with the pants issue. Anyway, moving on.

I'm prone to headaches, and two things that can inspire them are smells and overheating. Kinda sucks that you can smell the incense burning non-stop in the yoga place from the street. There are fans on the ceilings in the yoga room, but today is the third time I've been there and I've yet to see the fans turned on.

By chance, I happened to pick a spot on the floor right in front of some huge air thing (not a ceiling fan, but some square machine that pushed out air) and I got all excited when it kicked on... until the air hit me and it was WARM! This is not bikram yoga and I did not sign up for warm air. So gross.

This yogi chick didn't run the class the way the short guy did at all. First of all, I think any time you're teaching a class, if you see just ONE person who looks new or you don't recognize them, it'd be nice to throw your name out there. Just an idea, from me to you. YOGI LADY, I'M TALKIN' TO YOU! Second of all Yogi Lady, have you ever taken an acting class? In the most basic acting class you will be taught to never put your back to the audience. Now, especially since you were BARELY doing any of the poses you were throwing out, you really should not have kept walking to the back of the room. Never mind that we were all spread out in the front and middle of the room, okay? Thirdly, your special yoga/rasta music was too loud, and it'd have helped me out if I could hear you talk. Fourthly, talk a little slower, hmm? I can't say I've ever heard a Valley Girl talking at New York speed before, and coming from a teacher was not the right time to experience it. What would happen, between the music and the facing away from us and the talking too fast is we'd hear "Putyourlefthandaroundyourinnercalfofyourright ____________ and really FEEEEEEEL your inner thigh." Feel my inner thigh do what? Put my left hand where? WHAT'S GOING ON?! There were too many times when we were all looking around at each other, hoping somebody was doing something that looked right enough that we could copy them.

So Yogi Lady, let's review: face the people you're talking to, make sure you can be heard over whatever music you put on, speak slowly so people have time to follow your instructions, and tell your class what your name is, lest they name you YOGI LADY in their heads.

I was still hurting from Monday night's class when I got to yoga tonight, and right now I'm feeling fine. We'll see how well I can move tomorrow morning though. This downward dog / upward dog shit is hell on my wrists. They feel okay as soon as I stop yoga-ing (yogging?), but I don't see other people making "My wrists hurt" faces in class.

Last time, the laying on the floor thing towards the end of class annoyed me. This time, I kind of liked it - it lets me know the end is near. I still don't get the group nap though, nor do I like it. It really hurts my lower back to lay on the floor that way. Plus, I'm one of those people who should never be allowed to get bored - my imagination runs wild. So when we're all laying there, breathing, with the lights out, and Yogi Lady tells the class to move our arms over our heads and feel the power, all of a sudden I'm picturing Sheera, Princess of Power, standing on top of a mountain doing yoga. This not laughing thing is so hard.

Another time when I had to put effort into not laughing? When it was nap time and some guy was doing his own "closing poses" and he fell down.

At the end of the class, after we all bowed our heads and thanked each other for the compassion we transferred around, Yogi Lady said that her name was Lila, if anyone wanted to come up and talk with her. What if we didn't want to talk with her? Then was her name Julie?

I folded up my mat and tried to zoom out of there, and as I turned around from putting my mat away (I borrow theirs; I'm not buying a damn yoga mat), Yogi Lady is standing in front of me. I think she meant to encourage me, for being the fattest and least flexible person in there, but what came out was her telling me she understand that it's hard for me because she has mutations on her back. Huh? I thanked her and she told me to just keep coming three times a week and I was doing great. Okay, if you say so.

Still fucking hate yoga even if I did great though.

UPDATE: I hurt much less today than I did the morning after my last class. Maybe I'm getting better? (And this is why I will suffer through three months of yoga.)

First Grade

I'm almost positive that on my first day of first grade, I wore my white turtleneck with ladybugs on it with the corduroy red skirt and my hated blue buckle shoes. Alana was in my class. Laurie was across the hall in another class, and I was sad I wasn't there with her. Her teacher seemed nicer than mine. A very nice girl named Nancy (not Nancy the Druggie from high school) was in my class, and she used to wear dark blue Jordache jeans almost every day. Nancy was not Jewish, had an older brother named James, and was very skinny with stick straight brown hair and bangs. I loved her hair. I wanted to be skinny like she was.

I felt like I didn't do very well in first grade. We were given seven or eight dittos every day, which I found boring, plus one of which was ALWAYS a cut-and-paste. I didn't have good eye-hand coordination when it came to the Elmer's, and hated to be dirty. Thus, I was always one of the last people still at their desks working, while everyone else was playing. My mother told me they actually pulled me out of class to find out if I got in trouble if I went home dirty in an "Is this kid being beaten at home" kind of way, because I was so anti-glue. I still hate glue. Even Gluesticks.

The desks in first grade were set up in a horseshoe, and inside the horseshoe there were three rows of desks. I sat on the outside of the horseshoe, near the door. I had a crush on a boy named Matthew. A very, very big crush. My love was unrequited however, because he liked Alana.

The summer before kindergarten started, my mother taught me how to read. We didn't quite go to the library every day, but it felt close. I have clear memories of sitting on the couch in the living room yelling into the kitchen where my parents were, "Daddy, what does T-H-E spell, again?"

All in all, first grade kind of sucked. My teacher was angry and mean and yelled a lot. I was scared of her and hated her.

It was a very big deal who we sat next to at lunch. I always wanted to sit next to Alana. So did a girl named Lisa. I think Alana liked Lisa better than she liked me, but I still liked Lisa just fine.

There was a boy named Chris who sat at our lunch table, and nobody liked him. All I remember about him was that I thought of him as being messy and dirty, in a shirt-untucked, dirty fingernails, messy hair kind of way. We used to chase each other around in the lunchroom a lot, and one day Alana ran past me, tapping me on the arm, yelling, 'Chris-touch!" At first I didn't even understand what she was saying. I just knew it was bad to have and I should get rid of it.

Then it became clear. Chris, or something of his, had touched Alana. She could only get rid of his "contamination" by passing on The Touch. If your fingers were crossed when someone tried to pass you Chris-touch, you were immune. Now, I can see how cruel that game was, and how horrible Chris must have felt. Then, as a five and six-year old, I just wanted to give away the Chris-touch to somebody else, lest I get lumped in as being as undesirable as he was. Long Island is a cruel place to grow up.

Every day after we got back to the classroom from recess, we had "rest time" and were supposed to put our heads on our desks and stay quiet. One by one, we were allowed to go to the back of the classroom to get a drink from the water fountain. There was a girl named Lynne who would fall asleep during rest time, and people would laugh at her.If we were good throughout the week, on Fridays our teacher would make popcorn for the class. We NEVER got it.

I can't remember if it was every day or once a week, but a different kid was allowed to go to the front of the room and read to the class. That kid was also allowed to pick another kid as a "helper" in case they got stuck on any hard words. The day it was my turn to read to the class, my teacher reminded me about picking a helper, and I told her I didn't need one. Which was true - I really DID know how to read. I think she thought I was being obnoxious, and I felt she disliked me even more after that day.

One day after school I went to Alana's house, which I thought was much bigger and fancier than my house. Her older brother Michael also had a friend over - Jill's older brother Jared. Alana and I went into the basement and played with a machine that spun paper around while we poured different colored paints onto it. As we went upstairs to Alana's bedroom, her mother called out from somewhere that Alana's silver was drying on her bathroom counter. Huh? A first grader has silver? And her own bathroom? Anyway.

Alana and I got in an argument while we were in her room, and she called me an asshole and said she was locking me in her bedroom. It was the first time I'd heard the word asshole. I told her she couldn't lock me in from the outside, she insisted she could, and Alana closed the door from the outside. When I opened the unlocked-from-the-outside door and looked down the hallway, Alana was nowhere to be found. I wandered downstairs to the den and sat on the ottoman, where Michael and Jared were playing Atari. Michael was nice and made me feel comfortable, and I told him Alana had called me an asshole and I wanted to go home.

When my father came to pick me up, Alana and I pretended nothing had gone wrong - I don't know why. We went down to the basement to get my paper with the paints on it, and it was still wet. With our fathers standing in the entryway, I accidentally dropped the paper face-down on the polished floors. I was MORTIFIED. One of the fathers suggested I leave my painting there to dry and Alana could bring it to school for me. I wanted to apologize about the floor, but couldn't get the words out, and we left. Alana never gave me that painting.

At some point that year, I got in a fight with Alana, got very VERY angry at her, and near the back of our classroom I scratched her down her arm. VERY hard. To be honest, I shocked myself a little bit with how deep that scratch went. Alana's arm bled. I don't remember what our fight was about, but think it had something to do with Jennifer - the girl who lived around the block from me. Of course I was forced to apologize, and Alana was told to accept my apology, but nothing was ever the same after that. We'd eventually be friendly, but never friends again.

Another thing that happened in first grade was that on the day before a week's vacation started, I got nauseous. It was right before we were supposed to go to gym, and the whole class was standing in line in the hallway. I said to Alana, "I think I'm going to throw up" right before puking right there in line. After being sent to the nurse, my mother came and picked me up. When my father got home from work I was laying on the loveseat in the den watching The Young and the Restless with my mother. We were leaving that day for New Hampshire (or maybe MA) and I thought I might have ruined the trip by getting sick. But it was determined my puke was a fluke and we left on time.

In first grade I was very involved in gymnastics after school. I didn't feel like I was very good at it, but maybe I just had gymnastics coaches with high expectations and I picked up on that. At the very least, I was averagely good for my age. Oh screw it, my roundoffs were perfect. So you can imagine my mother's surprise when she got a call from the school saying they wanted to put me in Special Gym. It wasn't the gym class for the retarded kids, but just one step above that - an extra gym class for the kids who were just ... less than coordinated, shall we say.

My mother's response was a very polite Whatchu talkin' bout, Willis? They claimed I couldn't even walk on a balance beam. My mother assured them I could. There was a bit more back and forth I wasn't aware of at the time, and my mother finally figured out the problem. Apparently all first graders got tested for Special Gym. Apparently the gym teachers presented the test as a game of playing Circus. Apparently I was not down with playing Circus.

My mother came to the school, told me I had to prove to the gym teachers I was capable of walking on the balance beam, and so I hopped on up, and danced my way from one end to the other. Maybe I threw in a cartwheel or something. My mother, giving her best "Told ya so!" look, confirmed that I would NOT be going to Special Gym, and left the school.

These days it's called Shoprite, but back then it was at Foodtown that I had the horrifying and unfortunate experience of running into my teacher. At the supermarket. Food shopping. Outside of school, where she belonged at all times, whether or not school was in session. My mother was so nice to my teacher, and it bothered me - didn't she understand that I hated this woman? That she screamed at kids and made them cry? But of course, I couldn't say anything in front of her. Plus, the sheer shock at seeing her in a place where regular people go - it blew me away. My mother claimed that "teachers are people too" but in my six-year-old brain that did NOT mean they should be shopping at the supermarket!

I Fucking Hate Yoga

Tonight I went to my second yoga class of my entire life, at the same place I went to the first one. Overall, I'd still rather be dancing.

A few quick things:

• I didn't get a wedgie this time
• I took a class that was beginner/intermediate this time instead of advanced like last time
• I was able to take what I learned two years ago and apply it to this class, which was to not push myself as hard, as I'd do in a dance class
• I will be in much less pain tomorrow than I was the last time I took a yoga class
• I didn't laugh
• But I also didn't cry, which counts for a LOT (had a really bad day and might be PMSing)

It's noteworthy that I didn't laugh because the urge hit when the yogi (yogi?) said, "Breathe in compassion for yourself ... breathe out compassion for others..."

Yoga is frustrating for me. I'm not a hippy dippy type at ALL. Laying on the floor and being at one with myself is not something I'm capable of. While I was laying on the floor, here are some of the thoughts that ran through my head:

• I could come again on Wednesday. But if I do that, I'll miss Friday Night Lights
• My back hurts; I should pop some Advil before I go to sleep
• Is it almost over?
• Why don't they turn the fans on? They're just sitting there, doing nothing
• I wonder where the closest dance class is and how much that costs
• I wish I'd brought my Vitamin Water into the room with me
• I hope nobody steals my bag
• THIS is what I'm doing on the first night of Passover?

In talking to TNS (The New Steamroller) about it, I've realized I need to approach yoga the same way I approached the biology class I needed to get my college degree - just get through it without crying in public, and any learning will be considered a bonus. I signed up for a slew of classes, and I will force myself to complete them.

Somebody please e-mail me Thursday morning to tell me how Friday Night Lights was. Thank you.

Gratis

Today was a good day for reasons other than not having to use my A-K.

1. When signing up for yoga today, the woman told me she had students graduating and offered me a free one-on-one yoga class. You know I'm all over the free shit.

2. I'd never ask, but I always wonder if stores allocate money for the random loose fruit that people take to "taste" before buying (or not buying). Thus, I'm always hesitant to take from a little dish of blueberries or strawberries or whatever. Never mind the whole "wash before eating" issue. While at Whole Paycheck tonight, there was a table that had a chocolate fountain dripping chocolate and flats of strawberries.

The sign said strawberries were $2.99, but there was a guy standing there clearly finishing one. I was confused. Free, or not? Luckily a woman working at the bakery came over and saw me hesitating.

"Go ahead," she said, gesturing to the chocolate fountain. I looked again at the price sign. "If you want one take it, because I'm taking the fountain down now."

That was all I needed to hear, and even though I hadn't had time to think about whether or not I would like the taste of a strawberry with chocolate on it, I grabbed a 'berry and stuck it underneath some dripping chocolate.

What are the odds? I liked it. A lot. Screw those zen fountains, I should get a chocolate fountain!