Life Is Funny

I know I have issues. My children tell me this all the time. It’s not that I’m a control freak, exactly. I just want things to be done a certain way – my way, to be precise. What’s so wrong with that? Doesn’t everyone have strongly held opinions about which way the forks should go in the dishwasher , whether fruit should be stored in the same drawer as vegetables, and how many times to fold the thinly sliced lunch meat before laying it diagonally on the 7-grain bread? Of course they do.
I was watching my son make a web page for his computer class the other day. I got closer and closer to the screen, watching him work, until I was literally breathing down his neck. I gave him so many helpful tips and (very precise) suggestions that he finally asked me to go away. But I know I was right; the 9pt font was the way to go. And when I was sitting in the car with my other son and he threw his fast food trash into the car’s trash can, I think it was perfectly reasonable to ask him to take it out, put it in the fast food bag, and then put the bag in the trash can. And I know my daughter is always grateful for my many and varied fashion and grooming tips.
In spite of these small foibles, I think I can claim to be fairly laid back. (Shut up, kids!) In fact, compared to some people, I’m so relaxed I’m practically comatose. Let me explain.
My sister is in a book club. You know how book clubs work. A group of people read a book, then they have a meeting to discuss the book. It’s like English class for adults, except no grades, no term papers, and very few detentions. You may think that these meetings are just an excuse for a bunch of women to get together and drink wine spritzers and trash talk their husbands/their neighbors/anyone who was late for the meeting. And you’re probably right, except for the wine spritzers part. People stopped drinking those in the 80s. I’m pretty sure that they serve stronger stuff at these meetings, and I have a suspicion that they even manage to mention the book once or twice.
This particular book club is into themes. Every month they make food and drinks with a theme, that theme being determined by that months’ book selection. “What a great idea!” you might say. “How fun! How clever!”, but that’s only because you still have free will.
There is one special person in the book club who loves to organize, and this theme stuff is right up her alley. She started small, emailing out innocent- seeming suggestions.
Since the book this month is Cooking with Lemons, I thought we might do a theme of Cooking With Lemons. Can everyone bring something that involves lemons in some way, or at least something that is yellow? Great! And maybe you could wear yellow, too! Whee!
As the months passed and everyone was lulled into a false sense of security, she tightened her web. The next time she hosted the meeting, her emailed instructions were a little more explicit, a little less friendly.
Let’s see, everyone. This month we’re reading the Bible, so let’s bring only food and drinks that were available 2000 years ago. Susan, you’re quite the baker, how about bringing some unleavened bread? Mandy, we all know how you love to drink, so would you be a dear and bring unfiltered kosher wine? Great. Oh, and Barbara, you’re in charge of olives and grapes. I’ll whip up some unpasteurized goat’s milk yogurt. We’ll have so much fun!
A few months went by and her turn came around again. By then the other book clubbers had an inkling that something might be up, given that this person had tried to arrange all the other meetings as well, but it was not confirmed until they receive their emailed orders.
Listen up, women. We just read “Like Water For Chocolate” and so chocolate is our theme. Lulu, you will make a semisweet chocolate torte. Make it in a large glass mixing bowl and use the pink spatula you got for your 42nd birthday. Stir the batter clockwise 173 times with your left hand and then bake it in a 9.2” aluminum pan. Finish it 17 hours and 3 minutes before our meeting and store it in your garage refrigerator; your kitchen one is not cold enough. When you arrive at my house, put it on an 11” oval platter decorated with kittens. Sprinkle 2.1 teaspoons of powdered sugar – not the store brand – over the top in a decorative cloverleaf pattern. Wear clogs.
Mary, you make a wedding cake just like the one in the movie. You must weep bitter tears as you make it and wear the costume the character wore. I’ve already contacted the props department and it will be sized to fit you by Tuesday. Garnish the cake with sprigs of Chilean mint from aisle 13C at the whole foods market on 5th and Broadway. Two leaves per layer, and cut the stems to a length of 1/8” using a wood-handled carving knife. Keep the TV off while you do this.
Tamara, your job is water. I want you to head out to the glacier on Mt. Rainier and pick up 13.45 kg of ice. Melt it in a stainless steel pot on the front left burner of your stove and then store it in the cut crystal decanter I saw at your house last Easter.
We’ll sit around the table in age order, with the youngest at my right hand and moving up from there. Remember, if you are older than another person, you should be to her right, not her left.
I just love this! So much fun!
This went on far longer than it should have. Finally, though, the other book clubbers had had enough. When this woman asked them to use fresh fennel picked by a blue-eyed man named Henry for one of the dishes, and suggested that they all wear matching underwear, they tossed her out along with the hand monogrammed cocktail napkins she always carried in her purse. The last I heard, she was teaching kindergarten.
“No, Johnny, when you make a lowercase ‘a’, you should hold the pencil in your right hand at a 37 degree angle and press on the paper with 1.3 newtons of force. Use a blue #2 pencil and make the first part of the letter moving in a counterclockwise direction. The letter should be 4mm wide and the line should be 0.39 mm thick. No, use your right hand. I don’t care if you are left handed, dammit!”
So you see, I am not a control freak. Not at all.

For all those brave souls who are following up on their new year’s resolutions to get in shape or to try something new or to learn a little bit of Sanskrit by attending a Yoga class, I have some practical advice. These dos and don’ts can help guarantee a happy, successful class for you instead of a nightmare of embarrassment, injury, and regret.
Don’t eat a heavy meal before yoga class. You might think that this advice is strictly for your own benefit, so that you do not have to deal with stretching your body into intricate and slightly suggestive positions with a heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach. You would be wrong. This advice is for the benefit every other person in your yoga class. You see, when a human being, which is what I assume you are, consumes large quantities of food, or even medium or smallish quantities, or really any quantity, something magical happens. Through the wondrous chemical reaction known as ‘digestion’, the food is turned into tiny, tiny bits so that your body can shove nutrients through your bloodstream. You must remember, however, that there are a few byproducts to this process, and the ones you want to worry about in yoga class involve, how can I be tactful here, “wind” and “sound.” Save the Mexican buffet for after class, that’s all I’m saying.
Don’t put your hair in a ponytail. I realize that if you have long hair you will probably find it hanging in your eyes when you get into the Crouching Locust pose. It may even block your view of your mat-neighbor’s butt, which could be a good thing, or a bad thing. It’s not up to me to say. But the price of non-dangly hair is fairly steep. If you pull your hair back into a ‘high’, or ‘sassy’ ponytail, you’ll find that as soon as you lay on your back, whether for the Small Rusty Trowel pose or because you’re really tired and even Child’s pose is too hard right now, you have a big knot drilling into the back of your head, which really makes it hard to stay in the moment and enjoy the flow and whatnot. If you pull your hair back into a ‘low’ or ‘manly’ ponytail, you’ll find that it quickly becomes so disarranged that you look like you just enjoyed some of the poses not included in the Bikram manual, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge, wink, wink.) Best to wear the hair down, or just shave your head. Then you can do even the trickiest upside-down poses without worrying about scalp/mat slippage.
Don’t wear shorts. I know some die-hard gym-goers won’t understand this. “It’s a workout,” you whimper in a puzzled tone. “What else would you wear?” The answer is, apparently, short pants. No, not shorts. Short. Pants. Like capris, or last year’s cotton sweats that went through the dryer too many times. I don’t know who invented this rule, or why, but whenever I go to yoga I am the only one there with pants shorter than knee-length. I feel like I’m wearing a thong next to all the yoga-capri-wearing people; it’s embarrassing. Plus, I can’t help but think that somewhere out there is a pose that will cause my shorts to ride up to the point that they might as well be a thong. I’m going to get some of those short pants which are not shorts before the next class.
While I’m on the subject of Short Pants, I feel compelled to mention that not only should they be sort of long, they should be somewhat stretchy, much like your muscles. The last thing you want to hear in the middle of your Kneeling Turtle is your pants ripping. At that point you might hope that people think you ate a large meal rather than know that you have a big a**.
Do listen to the instructor. Always listen. And I mean everything she says, not just which pose you’re heading into next. Not only does she know the cool animal/vehicle names of all the poses, she usually knows the Sanskrit names as well, like “Frustrated Orangutan” also known as “cyclosporin” or “Large Yacht Which Clearly Indicates that Someone is Compensating for Something”, also known as “tutti-frutti”. There’s an even better reason to listen closely, though. Immediately after asking you to wrap one arm around the other like kudzu on a mobile home in Alabama, she’s going to add, “If you want to. If you feel up to it. If that won’t cause your shoulders to simultaneously dislocate. If you want to, you can just lie down and wait for us to finish our twisting and grunting, unless you have a sassy ponytail, in which case sit up.” That part makes it all okay. Can’t manage the pose? No problem. But if you weren’t listening, and you try a pose you should have avoided the way kids avoid broccoli, you may injure yourself. That will totally interrupt class, and people in Short Pants will glare at you, in a peaceful and centered way of course.
Do take care of your feet. In case you are not aware, most yoga classes happen to barefoot people, so at some point you’ll be expected to take your shoes off and show your tootsies. You’ve got ‘em, I’ve got ‘em, in class everyone is gonna see ‘em, so keep them tidy. But not during class! I don’t want to see your toenail fungus or athlete’s foot, really I don’t, and I really really really don’t want to see you staring, studying, and maybe even poking or picking at the offending digits. Wear socks if you can’t keep your hands off your feet (hands on feet = Sprawling Pudding = hartiwojillo.)
Don’t work out immediately prior to yoga class. If you come in to class hot and sweaty, you may find that during the Tipsy Giraffe (shivasofawarma) your hands and feet are sliding inexorably apart, causing the instructor to think that you’ve achieved incredible flexibility, when really all you’ve done is given yourself a reason to appreciate the makers of Advil. Or worse, you’ll find that your sticky mat is really, really sticky. Every time you move from one pose to the next there will be a loud sucking sound as the mat clings to your extremities. Stay cool and dry, and you’ll have a good class.
Well, I’ve done all I can. I applaud you for venturing into unknown territory. If you have any questions, please ask your yoga instructor, because despite all evidence to the contrary, I really don’t know what I’m talking about. But trust me on the pants thing.

My sister is no longer permitted to travel to Mexico. Now, your first thought upon reading that might be, “Wow, what did she do to piss off an entire country?” You might think that she’s some kind of criminal, like those animals that help people illegally immigrate to the US – what are they? Weasels? Ferrets? Coyotes!
Or, you might think that she has committed some sort of tourist-related infraction, such as excessive parasailing or too many drinks out of coconuts. The truth is much less sordid and yet more tragic, at least to me. She can’t go to Mexico anymore because whenever she goes there, I have to watch her house. And that never goes well.
We won’t even talk about the last time, when her burglar alarm went off, scaring her Japanese exchange student, her sump pump stopped working, her sink leaked, and her cat died.
I want to talk about this time.
She asked me to water her tomatoes. She showed me which faucet to use; she was very specific, demonstrated how far to turn the knob, and made sure I was clear on the concept. She asked me to come by and water every couple of days, maybe pick a snap bean or two, and check on the cats, and then she went on her merry way. How selfish! She didn’t even leave me beer.
I went over there yesterday for the first time. Confident that I knew how to water plants, I turned on the faucet she had indicated, and walked over to the other side of the house where the tomatoes were growing to check that I’d gotten the water pressure right. My sister had cautioned me that if I turned the water up too high, I’d irritate the extremely large dog next door. And I’d make the vegetables afraid to come out. And I’d waste water.
When I got to the vegetable garden, I was puzzled to see that there was no spray at all. I walked back to the faucet; I was sure I had heard running water when I turned the tap on. Then I realized I was indeed hearing water, but it was coming out of the hose without the sprinkler – I had turned on the wrong faucet, for which I blame my sister, because otherwise I just look stupid.
This would have been a minor mishap, trivial really, not worth mentioning, if that hose had not been left outside the door leading to the storage room at the back of the garage. You see, the entire time I was staring at the tomatoes in all their dry glory, baffled at the lack of sprinklage, the hose I’d turned on was pouring water into the garage. I didn’t realize this immediately, of course. I’d stepped away from the tap to find the end of the hose and seen its unfortunate location. I then noted that some of the water gushing from the hose seemed to have leaked under the door. Acting fast, I swore a little bit and then turned off the water. Knowing my sister’s pack-rat tendencies, I figured I’d better take a few minutes to check out the storage room to see if anything had gotten wet. Ha Ha! Did I just say If?
Confidently opening the door, I stepped in to more water than I would have thought possible. My shoes made ripples in the storage room lake. Due to some mystery of floor slant, don’t ask me as I am not a floor engineer, if there is such a thing, all the water had gone into the storage room, and none had gone into the actual garage. Cursing a bit more than before, I grabbed a broom and began sweeping water out toward the back yard, where there was a convenient drain, although if it was really convenient the hose water would have gone directly into it, but there it is. The more I swept, the more water appeared from under things. Finally I had to give and admit that I was going to have to move stuff. And that this storage room had quite a large spider population.
First I moved the pink bicycle to the garage. Then I moved the black bicycle, but its kickstand didn’t work right, so even though I tried to stand it up and the kickstand was down, it rolled of its own volition into the trash cans, then toppled over with a crash. That suited my mood perfectly so I left it there. At this point my sandals were getting quite soggy and slippery, so kicked them off, not wanting to add any extra hazards to this particular job.
Next I had to move the fertilizer spreader, the footstool, and the dining room chair with the circular saw perched on it. By now I had cleared a 4’ x 4’ area, and found 19 large spider webs, but still more water appeared. And the spiders were getting antsy. (I cannot resist puns. So sue me.) I moved the scrap wood, the barbeque tools, the empty charcoal bag, and then the full one. More water. I swept and swept and finally seemed to be getting ahead of the tide. I ran upstairs for some towels to begin drying things off, and to check for spiders in my hair.
As soon as I bent down to dry the floor, I saw that there was much, much more water to deal with, and I used the towels as skates instead, to safely get to where I could move still more stuff. I pulled a metal shelving unit away from the wall, which turned out to be a mistake, as the wall had been a major and necessary source of support for the shelves. The thing twisted around like a giant slinky, threatening to drop a hedge trimmer onto my head (no, I didn’t empty the shelves first. I just wanted the job to be done.) I found several morelarge spider webs behind the shelves, and a couple of spiders that could have taken on a mouse in hand-to-hand combat, except neither mice nor spiders have hands.
Next to go was the stroller (my niece is 16, mind you), the Halloween decorations, two large tarps (in case my sister needed to wrap a body?), and a computer monitor and keyboard.
The room was almost cleared out now, except for the exercise bike, the dresser, a computer box with a printer box on top of it and a monitor perched on top of that, and the large steamer trunk with a wardrobe on top of it. The floor around the bike looked dry so I left it alone. The dresser’s feet were wet so I knelt beside it and lifted one foot at a time, quickly drying the floor underneath and the foot itself. I felt like one of those cartoon characters who can lift heavy things like safes, anvils, and locomotives by one tiny corner, usually with just one finger, except that I needed my shoulder and both hands and a lot of swearing. By this time I was making up new curse words because the old ones weren’t doing the job.
Once the dresser was dry enough, by which I don’t mean dry, but that I was tired of holding it, I looked at the trunk hopefully. Dry? Hell, no. The water still lapping up against the edge of it made it clear that I’d have to pull it out and dry off the bottom. So I laboriously lifted the empty wardrobe off of the trunk and put it in the garage with everything else. Of course I was extremely gentle with it, and I don’t have any idea how it got that nasty scratch. And I’m pretty sure the car was already dented. Whatever.
I tried to lift up the edge the trunk without moving it so I could dry the underneath, the way I had with the dresser, but no luck. Because, of course, it was full, and very heavy. And it was wedged in between the wall and dresser. So, I dragged it out as best I could (I’m sorry about the scratch on the dresser. And the one on the wall. But it’s just the garage, right?) And I opened it up (fearing I actually would find a body) and checked the inside for dampness. Lucky me (first break that day) it was still dry inside. So I toweled off the bottom (sorry about those stains on the towel) and dried the floor, then left the trunk sitting on top of a dry towel instead of the wet floor.
I stood back to survey the fruits of my labor, covered in sweat and spider webs, and that’s when I noticed the unmistakable signs of water seepage on the bottom of the computer box. I peeked inside the box, hoping it was really not a computer but something useless, like old socks, or something that would appreciate the water, like moss or more spiders, but it was actually a computer. Apparently I’d found the Secret Computer Graveyard.
Of course, in order to get to the computer, I had to move the printer box sitting on top of it. In order to move the printer box (which indeed held a printer) I had to move the monitor stacked on top of that. When I picked up the monitor, I quickly was alerted to the fact that the keyboard and mouse were still connected by the fact that they were both swinging freely through the air, nearly smacking me in the face. Perhaps I picked up the monitor with too much gusto. I had plenty of gusto by then, let me tell you. After corralling the computer parts, I piled everything on top of the trunk, looked in the computer box, and was relieved to discover that the actual machine was packed in Styrofoam, so that no part of it had touched the floor or the water.
I hastily stacked everything back on top of the box and headed for home. Well, I wanted to head for home. Trouble was, I couldn’t find my shoes. Seems I’d buried them somewhere between the third and seventh loads of stuff, and they were nowhere to be seen. Exhausted, I drove home barefoot, asked my husband to check me for spiders, and went out to dinner.
I had to go back the next day to put everything back in order, and to find my shoes, but fortunately no more mishaps occurred, unless you count the very large hurricane that headed for Mexico later that week.
I’m telling you, she should just stay home.

I’m sure you will agree with me when I say that yoga is absolutely marvelous. Okay, I wouldn’t bet my life on it, or even $10, especially if there are a lot of people reading this; that could get expensive. But really, how can you not agree?
I mean, yoga has all these amazing health benefits. Your flexibility increases, sure, and your posture improves, who didn’t know that, but I read on the internet (so it must be true, right?) that people who practice yoga also can enjoy a lower heart rate, increased dexterity and breath-holding (certainly an important skill), and improved excretory functions. Wow. I don’t really want to think about that.
I have also heard (and why wouldn’t I believe it; I have no evidence to the contrary. I think) that yoga improves memory, attention, and memory. I mean learning efficiency. And the added flexibility means that if you drop your cell phone while you’re driving, you can reach under the seat to get it while still keeping an eye on the road! Who wouldn’t like improved automotive safety?
Benefits for your sex life weren’t mentioned specifically in the article I read, but I’m pretty sure the author was hinting at it – what else could ‘self-actualization’, ‘social skills’ and ‘flicker fusion frequency’ mean?
Here’s the really cool part – people who practice yoga get a special name! Not like the special name your siblings gave you when you were six, either (you know I’m talking to you, peewee and scooter.) If you go to step class, they call you a ‘participant’ or maybe ‘clumsy.’ If you go to cycling class, you’re a ‘cyclist’ or ‘that dork in funny pants.’ But if you go to yoga class, you are a ‘yogi’ (not like the bear, he’s an idiot) or ‘yogini’.
Yoga wear is pretty fun, too. Who hasn’t browsed that section of the sporting goods store, longing for an excuse to wear those groovy low-rise pants or cute little tanks? I know they look merely decorative, but I can assure you they are quite functional. Don’t believe me? Wait until you try your first downward dog in a baggy t shirt, and end up showing the entire class just how old your sports bra is. Or, try a child’s pose in shorts that don’t have as much spandex as you thought. Unless you enjoy the fresh air coming in through that split seam, cooling your backside, you’ll be shopping for stretchy yet clingy yoga clothes the very next day.
Of course, it’s not all beer and skittles at yoga class. In fact, there’s rarely even beer. You have to work pretty hard to get into some of the poses, and even harder to get out of them. You have to learn a new language, with words like ‘chaturanga’, ‘namaste’, or ‘firefly.’ Sure, you’ve heard the word ‘firefly’ before, but in this context it refers to a pose I won’t be accomplishing in this lifetime. I think I’d be better off with ‘pigeon’ or ‘cat’ or ‘couch potato’ (which is, I believe, strictly an American pose.) Anyway, you’d better pay attention or you’ll end up doing a boat when everyone else is in eagle – a huge yoga faux pas which will cause everyone else to snicker at you (quietly of course.)
Along with buying new clothes and learning new words and poses, you’ll find yourself growing in other ways, too. For instance, it won’t take many sessions of yoga before you find yourself taking any anti-flatulence measures necessary to ensure that your corner of the room, at least, is quiet. And the first time you head to the window for ‘sun salutations’ while everyone else is standing, reaching, folding, and turning into animals, will be the last. Can you say ‘Google yoga poses’? Can you say it three times, fast? How about if you’ve been drinking?
Having given a lot of thought and considerable internet research to the ins and outs of yoga, I thought I was prepared to attend my first class. I made sure someone was home with the kids, my chores were done, and I had on reasonably stretchy clothes. Unfortunately, I was running a little behind, and I didn’t want to be late, so the entire drive to class was a nightmarish trek full of tension, traffic, speeding, requiring my cursing heartily at any driver who got in my way. I arrived at class sweaty and wild-eyed, and it took the instructor some time to calm me down. I staggered into class and took a spot in the back with my sticky mat, trying to slow my breathing. I was there, I was on time, and I was in the back. All was well.
And then class began, and with it, an annoying internal monologue that I simply could not shut off. “Hey! I’m actually doing yoga! Yoga is cool! Am I a yogini now? Maybe I should not wear such a baggy t shirt to yoga! What if I fall over when I am in the one-handed, drag the t-shirt off your face and back down to your stomach where it belongs, why didn’t I buy a tank, downward dog pose? Is the blood rushing to everyone else’s head too? How straight is my leg? How long will we be upside down? Does this pose make my butt look big? Wow! I’m actually in a yoga class! What was that noise?” It just goes on and on and on. Even the gentle, relaxing, not-meant-to-be-noticed background music distracts me. “What nice, peaceful music. I think I hear birds chirping. Are the birds outside, or on the CD? Oh! Did I just hear a monkey? That was definitely not outside, unless someone who lives nearby had a pet monkey who escaped, in which case we should go out and find it, but what if it bites?”
Despite the vexing monologue, I went to several more yoga classes. I really enjoyed them, so much so that I went even when I was injured. The teacher was very understanding when I told her I couldn’t do the bouncing flamingo because of a nose-picking injury, or would be skipping the kneeling marmoset due to some residual soreness from tripping over the dog.
That’s why it was so puzzling to me when I didn’t go for several months. My busy schedule, coupled with inherent laziness (apparently yoga does not make that go away, although it will cure warts, irritability and whooping cough) caused me to miss quite a few classes. Of course, when I ran into the instructor at the gym (which I did, a lot, because we both work there) I felt compelled to make excuses for my absence: “Oh! Hi! Looks like you’re about to start yoga! And I’m here, in exercise clothes! But I’m not coming to class! But I really, really, love yoga, and I love your class! I’m just not coming to it today! Because… uh, !” It was not pretty.
But I’m ready to go back. It’s a new month, and I have a new attitude, and also I gained a couple of pounds, but more importantly, I went shopping at Bob’s Yoga Pants Emporium and Mat Repair Shop and now I have the Right Outfit. Bring on the monkeys!

Sometimes the voice of the universe speaks so loudly that you can’t help but hear it. Unfortunately, sometimes it’s only clear in retrospect what the message was. In this case, it was “Janet, stay away from Las Vegas. And stay away from festive Star Trek-themed beverages, as well.”
Wait, that second message was for me.
It was clear early on that the fates had it in for Janet on our getaway weekend. When we landed at the airport in Las Vegas, she wanted to enjoy a margarita while we waited for our friend Diane to arrive, so we went to a Mexican restaurant at the airport. There we were dumbfounded to discover that we’d found the only Mexican restaurant in America that didn’t serve margaritas. Disgruntled but thirsty, we chose to order beer, although not Mexican beer, because they probably didn’t have that either. Shortly after our drinks arrived, we were treated to the sight of the couple at a nearby table enjoying OUR margaritas!
Once we had collected Diane and enjoyed (by which I mean, “did not enjoy, because the driver was a little creepy”) the taxi ride to our hotel, Janet was able to procure her longed-for margarita in a large souvenir cup shaped like the Eiffel Tower. Shortly thereafter, she learned that that (a) the top of the Eiffel Tower doesn’t stay on very well, (b) large souvenir cups hold a surprising amount of liquid, which will splatter far and wide if it happens to fall, say, onto cheap hotel carpet, and (c) it’s hard to get margaritas off the ceiling when you have nothing to stand on but your suitcase or your girlfriends. That drink is probably still a part of the hotel room décor.
The next morning, when we searched for breakfast, we discovered that all the nearby restaurants had a 1 ½ hour wait. Deciding we could do better elsewhere, we hit the streets. Finally, we found a restaurant with no line at all, which should have been a clue that all was not right with the world, but we hadn’t had any coffee and were not thinking clearly. We sat down and waited, and waited, and waited, only to realize that we’d found a restaurant with four stars in the Monumentally Bad Service guidebook.
Desperate, we cornered a waitress and begged for coffee. After she brought us a brown, coffee-like liquid, she permitted us to order our breakfasts. The service continued to be ‘remarkable’, which gave us plenty of time to savor our beverages before being served vaguely synthetic substances masquerading as eggs and hash browns. We were actually afraid to eat the food, and afterwards agreed that astronaut food, fast food, or even dog food would have been better. We’re not sure anyone noticed when we left.
When we dressed to go out for the evening, Janet found she had packed the left shoe from one pair, and the right shoe from another. Faced with a choice of shoes that didn’t match her outfit or shoes that didn’t match each other, she chose the former, thinking that she could avoid the potential injury inherent in walking around in different-height shoes.(Ha ha! Nice try! said the universe, but we weren’t listening.) After reassuring her that she looked just fine wearing those shoes with that outfit, assuming she wanted to look like a prom queen with bunions, we went out to dinner, and had a meal we could actually recognize as food. Unfortunately, Janet left her purse in the restaurant and we had to go back for it, which made us late for the comedy club, where we were heckled.
After dinner and the comedy club we spent some time at a dueling piano bar, where two pianists played and sang a variety of popular songs while everyone sang along. (Everyone except me. At the request of my loved ones, as well as complete strangers in nearby counties, I don’t sing.) This was fun until we noticed the Elvis impersonator near the stage, holding a hobby-horse. Okay, it’s Vegas, we thought. Let the man ride his pony. But as the evening progressed, his antics with his steed began to alarm and then appall us, and we left the building. I’ll never think of “Love Me Tender” the same way again.
The next morning, still game in spite of our minor difficulties, we all headed for the hotel spa. We enjoyed relaxing massages, after which we felt compelled to shower to get the massage oil out of our hair and our nostrils (these were really thorough masseuses), and then we spent some time in the steam room. After a while we felt like crawfish probably feel just before you pull their legs off and eat them, so we had to get out.
I got into the Jacuzzi while Diane lounged on a chair. Janet decided to join me in the Jacuzzi. Because she was holding her water bottle in one hand and her towel in the other, she couldn’t hold the stair rail, so when she missed her footing on the step, naturally she fell. I saw her fall toward me and I reached out to catch her, or at least break her fall, when a little voice in my head suddenly piped up with, “Warning! Warning! That person is NAKED! “, and I unthinkingly pulled my hands back. Janet hit the water with a spectacular splash, which I found highly amusing, but I didn’t actually start laughing aloud until her water bottle gracefully bobbed to the surface, followed by her towel, spreading out on the water like a terrycloth jellyfish. I quickly stopped laughing when Janet herself emerged, cursing with gusto. Seems she’d hit her leg on the edge of the cement step as she went down, and the rapidly rising goose egg on that leg was causing her some dismay, by which I mean severe pain. By the afternoon she looked like she was smuggling an eggplant under the skin on her thigh.
The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully. The highlight was a delightful drink at lunch called a Warp Core Breach, which is a smoking purple rum concoction served in a glass the shape and size of a fishbowl. But I’m sure that had no bearing on what happened next.
Near our hotel there was a moving walkway which led to an escalator. As soon as we got off the walkway, we sprinted toward the escalator. Racing up the escalator (tricky, since it was going down), Janet and I quickly passed Diane (who was handicapped by having shorter legs and quite a bit more sense than us) and, urged on by the cheers of those riding the other escalator in the correct direction, we headed toward the top. Of course the universe was not through with Janet, and she fell only a few steps from the summit. Having failed to catch her in the Jacuzzi, I could have used that moment to redeem myself and pick her up, but instead my competitive nature kicked in and I tried to pass her. That’s when my own karma caught up with me and I fell, too. I rammed my knee into the edge of the step as I collapsed next to Janet (actually, Janet claims I fell directly on her, but it serves her right for tripping me anyway), and we both lay sprawled on the steps, slowly and inexorably being carried back down. We got to our feet and managed to make it to the top, although with considerably less enthusiasm than before.
As we staggered off the escalator, I noticed a copious amount of blood running down my leg, so we put our evening plans on hold and went back to the hotel room. Despite the fact that we are all moms and have spent years dragging around purses full of sippy cups and crackers and cardboard books and yes, bandages, we discovered that none of us had thought to pack a first aid kit. Janet and Diane, who should get some sort of honorary Girl Scout award for resourcefulness, wrapped toilet paper around my bleeding knee and secured it with the plastic tie from the hotel laundry bag. We headed down to the lobby to purchase a $5 band-aid, which was considerably less bulky than my toilet-paper tourniquet. Thankfully, it was our last night there, so no more mishaps had time to occur. And the next time I travel, I’m going to be listening a little more closely. Especially if the Universe says, “Bring a band-aid.”

It sounds like some kind of foreign festival or extinct reptile, doesn’t it? But, no, it stands for national novel writer’s month, and it’s the best thing since sliced cheese. I like to write and I will come up with a 1000 word essay every few weeks. It’s fun and it amuses my family and friends (unless they’re all lying to me to make me feel good, in which case, thanks!) but my daughter told me about nanowrimo, which is a sort of online writing contest where each participant is challenged to write 50,000 words in one month – specifically, the month of November . 50,000 words is a lot, but thankfully there are no standards beyond high word count. So you can compose your short novel outline and let fly, without fear of ridicule. No one actually reads the novel, unless you cruelly subject your family to repeated requests for input – “Is this good? How about this? Did that make you laugh or cry? Why?” Really, all the nanowrimo people care about is word count. Well, that sounded like a great challenge, and not too difficult, since we didn’t have to produce Pulitzer-winning material, so I signed up when my daughter did. I quickly learned that the best way to up the word count was to write reeeallly long sentences with plenty of descriptions and side notes.
Instead of saying “she went to the barn” I would write “she trippingly flitted out to the old red barn, the one that used to be painted blue until the barn association committee complained, and once her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, which took a while, as she was suffering from a vitamin A deficiency brought about by a tragic carrot shortage, she saw an extraordinary thing. “ Then I could probably wring 50 or 60 more words out of describing the thing itself. This was really fun and I enjoyed my run-on sentences so much that the habit slipped into my everyday speech. “Nikki, I was going to go to karate today at 5 but then there was this project in class that I had to work on, actually my partner and I did, and although it’s not due for another two weeks my partner, Mark, gets really nervous about the deadlines in class, and so I have to go to the school, which is a pain, because it’s a half hour drive, but I don’t want to make the guy come all the way here to work on it, plus that would be weird, and we still wouldn’t be done in time for me to go to karate, but if you go, would you please tell Kimberly that I need her to watch my cats when I go away next weekend to see my in-laws in California?”
Suddenly I was not very popular, and people stopped answering the phone when they saw it was me calling. Darn that caller id! But that was okay because I had to spend all my spare time writing anyway, when I could wrest the computer keyboard away from my daughter. Then – horror- I had to go away on a fun weekend trip, right in the middle of November! I couldn’t take my desktop computer, obviously, because the monitor would not fit in my duffle bag. I had to take a notebook and pen to work on my story. I wrote and wrote until I had writer’s cramp, which is the old-fashioned version of carpal tunnel syndrome, and almost made my daily word count each day between fitness classes and massages and walks in the woods and really fabulous meals and salsa dancing. It was really rough, I can tell you. When I got home I had to type it all in the computer which gave me the opportunity to re-read what I’d written, something I swear I will never do again. “Turn off your internal editor” the nano guidelines say… Mine must have been dead and buried, because the drivel that came from my fingers was beneath monkey-flingage standards. But there was a lot of it!
As I struggled to make my 2,000 words per day, writing pretty much anything that came into my head, my daughter was coolly producing an excellent novel with an actual story line. She is amazing but she will be quick to tell you that what she wrote was drivel, too. I think she’s just trying to make me feel better.
Anyway, we both got to 50,000 words by November 26 and my sons baked us a cake to celebrate! It was really fun and we’re both planning to do it again this year, although I’m going to have to come up with a new story line and new characters but that will be hard because I never even named my old characters, in fact I haven’t quite finished that story so maybe I should do that before I begin a new one so I’ll have closure but then again, it was more of a writing exercise than anything else so maybe it doesn’t matter, however, I don’t know what to write yet anyway for this year, so maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go back to last year’s story and take a look, but on the other hand…..

I am thrilled to report that my new roof is complete. It was an exciting time and I took many pictures of the roofers’ progress, and inadvertently, of the roofers’ butts. Of course, it was not all fun and games.
The first morning, I was awakened by the doorbell. I staggered out in my pajamas, rubbing my bleary eyes, to be greeted by a friendly man who said he was here to tear off my roof, and could I please move my car so they wouldn’t hit it with debris as they flung my roof to the ground. Well, that was certainly reasonable, so I moved my car and stumbled back in to make coffee. Later in the day, when my brain was functioning, it occurred to me that working on a black roof in 95 degree heat might be a bit taxing, so I put out a cooler full of ice and drinks for the roofers. I periodically checked the lawn to make sure no one had fallen off the roof, suffering from heatstroke.
The loud scraping of the shovels as they removed the old shingles was unpleasant but it was music compared to the noise made by the air compressor. Seems the compressor has to keep charging itself up to keep that air, well, compressed. Every few minutes it would erupt with a loud growl, and this went on all day, every day. The cats were disgruntled by the noise and spent a lot of time under my bed. (I think Sparky was more embarrassed than scared, because the first time the compressor roared to life, he ran away so fast that he slid several yards across the kitchen floor.)
The second day was even hotter. I put out a bigger cooler, with more ice and more drinks, for those poor souls toiling away on my roof. The roofers started putting on the shingles, and maybe some other roof bits, which, it seems, required a lot of pounding and power tool usage. So the growl of the air compressor (regular as clockwork, silence then GUGRGH) was augmented by the pounding of what seemed like a thousand hammers, and the “PSH PSH” of the nail gun. The cats were once again in hiding.
At some point during this ordeal (yeah, I know, new roof, be grateful, blah blah blah), I came to question the wisdom of having a skylight in the bathroom. You just can’t get comfortable on the potty, or in the shower, or dyeing your hair, or picking your nose, when there are people strolling around on the roof and maybe, just maybe, peeking into the skylight. Needless to say, we all began using the downstairs bathroom. I sure wish I’d gotten around to putting up the curtains down there.
I was feeling a little guilty that the roofers were out there working in the heat while we all hid in the cool basement, so I decided to assuage my guilt by cleaning out the garage. I made great progress and, by the end of the day, smelled very bad. Also, there was a lot of roofing material in my hair, since it sprinkled down between the rafters over the garage as the roofers GUGRGHed, pounded, and PSH PSHed above me. Fortunately, I finished in the garage after the roofers had gone for the day, so I could take my shower without hiding in the corner of the bathroom farthest from the skylight.
On the third day, only one guy came. He finished the garage roof, and went home. I couldn’t help thinking he must have had one heck of a fight with his wife to want to work alone, in the heat, on a Sunday.
The fourth day, the pounding and hissing didn’t start until 8 am. How lovely to get some extra sleep! They worked on the back half of the house, so the noises began right over my bed. Then someone put up a ladder right outside my window. Taking a hint, I got up. As I was brushing my teeth, a shadow passed over the skylight, and I quickly retreated to the downstairs bathroom.
It was much cooler, so I no longer had to scan the lawn for roofers’ bodies. And I’d almost gotten used to the noise. This meant, of course, that they had to introduce a new noise. Seems that to put in a ridge vent (some important air flow control configuration, keeps your attic from turning into a mold farm), they had to use a power saw to cut into the shingles they had attached the day before. Now there was GUGRGHing, pounding, PSH Pshing, and BZZRAWing. The cats had not been seen in days. I was getting headaches earlier and earlier.
Then, miraculously, the noise stopped. They were finished! I took more pictures (roof, not butts this time) and celebrated. The roof is absolutely beautiful, and I don’t mind at all that I can’t walk barefoot in the lawn until I finish picking up shingle shards, bent roofing nails, and tattered bits of roofing felt.