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The furious mind of a serial mom

I by chance found a blog that I started in February. It goes like this:

This years resolution!

I will not have more babies. (I have four)
I will sell my movie script.
I will buy a house.
I will learn to make perfect profiteroles.
I will loose 10 pounds. (on a strict diet of profiteroles)
I will turn 40.

So far nothing has come to fruition apart from the fact that I have not become pregnant this year and the fact that I lost 10 pounds, but that was purely coincidental. Or possibly due to the strict diet of wine and cigarettes and juicing and and my new found love of Auyrvedics.

So, no, this is not going to be a diet blog and my obese readers will have to turn to other media outlets for literary liposuction. Not that I have any readers as of yet. And maybe never! This summer has been spent in utter solitude. Not on a remote island meditating, reading Eat, Prey, Love, but within the walls of my home along with my three out of four children. And by solitude I would like to state that conversing with a one year old boy and a two year old girl all day is far from inspiring even though most parents would not confess to that even under water board pressure.

And being an adult one feels quite alone even if “There’s nothing like the smell of diapers in the morning!” I also have a eight year old girl in the house who luckily has found refuge from her mad mother in the dreadful Twilight series and spends most of her time filing her fangs in her upstairs bedroom.

My mornings usually start by me staring at the ceiling thinking to my self: ” I’t can’t be morning yet” Who says?”

I have the privilege of waking up with little people in my bed.(Not dwarfs even if they like to be referred to as little people) but my children and a cat named Thriller.

The name explains it self. The “guy” just died and we just got the kitten. I got the little bastard through an ad on craigslist after I, a mother of four, had been considered unfit to keep a cat by the Pet Humane Society personnel. A stark raving mad employee informed me that they would have to see each of my four children personally, which I refused to do, as I think my one year old boy will have nothing to do with the cats upbringing and I think it would be harming for him to enter the grounds of PHS. After the PHS rejection I hastily went for craigslist , a place where you can even at times buy children and opted for a cheap Persian kitty. A Persian for 250 bucks seemed like a deal!

It was weeks late when I had to take the kitty to the vet and pay 375 bucks for ex-rays and medicine that I discovered the awful truth. It had crossed my mind that he did not have the characteristic features of Mickey Rourke, but as I visited the sellers home, a tacky humongous villa with over-sized palm trees I had no time to miss. The eight year old, eighth birthday was coming up so I candidly came into the house, saw the cat, tried to act pet humanly, bought it and left.

It turned out that the cat was in fact a domestic long hair, a fancy name for a regular hairy house cat. Thus a fraud!  I called the seller, who truthfully is Persian and told him kindly but firmly that  Iwould forgive him his lying tics if he agreed to pay me back, lets say 170 bucks. And he did with out a stutter. The bloody criminal.

I did sell a play though, I must say…wrote the first two acts in a weekend, well received, but the third act is stuck in my throat…why three acts? Who cares about the Greeks?

Kitchen makeover courtesy of Jackson Pollock

It was not without remorse that my husband threw out the Spaghetti that he cooked three days ago. I asked gently as I shoved it to him on  the kitchen counter: “Any reason to hold on to this any longer?”

“No” He said sadly. Not that he ever touches leftovers. I actually think he would rather starve to death than eat leftovers. He is the kind of person that needs to open a new pack of butter every time he butters a toast.  I guess the open ones, look kind of second hand, even violated, to him!

It’s quite remarkable that when he cooks, which is relatively seldom, I can remember one occasion in the last twelve months, that being three days ago, he makes a great fuss about it.

Not only does he inform us, his family, kind of announcement style like he is addressing a crowd, that he is going to cook, he also demands audience while he’s at it. And he is not exactly humble about it.

“Dad is going to make the best dinner you have ever had” “This is not going to be any restaurant shit, this is real food for real people!” ” Come here kids, and see how daddy cooks the best Spaghetti in the world”

I was fortunate enough to have caught the flu of the little transmitters, so I stayed in bed on the top floor, reading a brilliant Swedish thriller “Men that hate women”.  Even though my mind was walking the streets of Stockholm, I could not, but hear the rantings and self praise of Top Chef in the kitchen below. My teenage daughter came upstairs and sat her self on the bed giggling.

“Mom, it’s so funny how dad, makes such a big deal out of it when he cooks!”

I replied. ” I know dear, it is pathetic really, but let’s just grin and bare with it”

“Mom, I mean, you cook every day, but when he cooks he talks about it like it’s some kind of great achievement?”

“It is!”

“Well, he told me to tell you to come down, dinner is ready”

I thought about dressing up for the occasion. A skirt and a blouse, perhaps? But decided to stick with patient look as I did not want to risque that the family thought I was recovering. I had 200 pages to go, I needed a least one more day in solitary confinement to finish it. I walked down with a slight limp to emphasize my suffering and entered the kitchen. All four children were seated, quiet as mice, which is unusual, or more like unheard of, and the table was set. To please my husband I  added a lilt of anticipation to my tone of voice, which is not unlike the lilt of Hawaiian music and said: “This smells wonderful” To which he replied, sighing :”I know”. There was a strange silence. Then I dared to ask:

“Is dinner ready?”.

My husband smiled and said: ” I just put the Spaghetti in the water, it won’t be long now!”

I dipped my fingers into the boiling water (fingers of steel) to pick some up to try. It was still hard as rock. I noticed drizzles of spaghetti sauce all over the stove and nearby walls and cabinets. The kitchen looked like Jackson Pollock had paid us a visit. Bless his soul.

“This is not nearly ready!” I was really pissed that I had been called down to the kitchen far to early.

“Don’t you tell me anything about that, I know exactly how to cook the perfect Spaghetti” Why don’t you just take a seat and let me finish this?”

His mission was accomplished. We were all seated at the dinner table, watching him cook the Spaghetti to perfection. How boring! Compared to this, watching golf on TV is like joining a Circus with a handsome gypsy.

He gave each and one of us enormous portions. The kind that would suit a full grown man who’d been working in a mine, twelve hours straight.

If anything kills my appetite, it is overfilled plates. Not to mention the interrogation that followed. He sat him self, table centre and asked sternly again and again: “Isn’t this good?” Don’t you like daddy’s dinner?” To which we all replied, or those of us who talk : “Yes, very good”. It was. I mean nothing spectacular, but truly a decent meal.

The one and two year old did not do a good job of getting this down. The two year old tried to suck up the spaghetti with her nose and when that failed she tried to turn a strand of spaghetti into a bracelet. Very becoming. Her little brother an accomplice of Mr. Pollock, threw bits of meat on the floor and artistically expressed himself by smearing meat sauce over his face and hair. Also very fetching.

Husband was surprised that they didn’t seem to like to eat the food, after all this was the world’s best Spaghetti! And then he said to me: “We really need to figure out what to feed them?” Like he was raising some weird, newly discovered species.

I tried not to loose my cool,  just nodded and tried to look concerned. After all it could not be that they just didn’t like his cooking. There was obviously something wrong with the children. Seriously wrong.

Ménage à trois on Skid row.

It is surprising how the Internet works. In my last blog I mentioned Jennifer Aniston,(I am doing so again for obvious reasons), and found out that over 100 people unwillingly read my blog looking for juicy gossip on their favorite celebrity. And few of them even signed up as my readers, so the scoop of the day is, mention someone famous in your blog and it will attract accidental traffic and even readers.

The wee ones are still suffering flu and look out of the window every morning, like prisoners of war and ask me, consistently: ” Go out”? Park? and I keep saying :” No, tomorrow, tomorrow!”

Kids have no concept of time, so it is so hard to explain things to them that are  not in the present, they have no capacity for the future, or the past for that matter, well, it might just be my family’s DNA. I have very selective memory for things that happened in the past, I don’t miss anything and I shamelessly don’t regret anything. I always find it liberating to loose things and I just hope that someone finds use for the stuff that I have lost in the past. Especially when I loose something of material value.

“Tomorrow” is now the favorite word of the two year old. 

:”Do you wanna cookie?” and she answers “Tomorrow!” Very advanced.

: “Shall we watch, Barney the purple perverted dinosaur?” and she answers somewhat mysteriously and puts one finger up in the air : ” Tomorrow!”

I think she is grasping the concept of delay, of something that is quite not here yet. The story of my life.  I find myself consistently waiting for something that is quite not there yet!

But waking up this morning was different, it was all there, and so real, I did not have to wait!  The moths were here!  I have seen a couple of them flying around, but I have been ignoring them out of fear,  like I feared the title of Erica Young’s, book, “Fear of Flying”, in my mother´s library. As a kid I thought this book was intended for hysterical frequent flyers who suffered sick-bag-o-phobia. I knew my mom didn’t like to fly, as she would sedate her self on Bloody Mary’s before entering aircrafts, and somewhat exit them like she had unknowingly been brought to foreign soil.

My mom also had a habit of throwing tantrums before she would clean the house, a trait that I have cherished and is of great use. It is very simple and anyone can do it. The method is to scare the entire family.  To cry over spilled milk, literally, dirty laundry, whatever you can think of and manipulate your family members to help you, or else risk they will have to put you in to a mental institution.

My sudden outburst this morning, when I realized that something had to be done about the moth infested kitchen cabinets, was quite a show stopper. When the older girls were out the door, running to school like refugees, from the cries of their mad mother, husband arrived like Mad Max, shaking his head, and with out a word, pulled up his sleeves, Clorox in hand, and started cleaning the pantry.

The one year old walked around with a mob in one hand, to please mommy and the two year old kept asking: ” Are you alright, mom?” To which I replied: “No!” 

She then looked at me sternly and said loudly: “Tomorrow…(and even louder) Tomorrow, mom!” And I responded: ” Yes, tomorrow!” and threw her a cloth and told her to clean her toys. Which she did!

This was a most romantic morning, husband and I, swearing loudly, attacked the kitchen cabinets and it’s inhabitants with water, soap, clorox,old toothbrushes and what not. I am not sure PETA would have agreed with our methods. We threw everything out of  the cabinets, because all was infested with pantry tenants.

How can moths enter a closed bag of rice? An unopened box of Oreo’s?  This is a mystery. These were no regular moths, these were Houdini moths!  I even found, strangely, an unopened CD in one of the cabinets, one of my favorites that I keep buying and loosing.  Academy of St. Martin in the Fields  playing Mozart’s 24th, 25th, and 26th Symphony conducted by Sir Neville Marriner. A little moth rascal had made its way under the plastic! A musical moth! And CD’s are impossible to brake into!

Talking about packaging, what’s up with the way dolls are packaged? I bought the two year old a nurse doll, as she is an aspiring health care professional and keeps putting band-aid on everything she finds. The doll was like a victim of some weird BDSM serial killer. A a wire snare a round her neck, and tightly fastened on hands, waist and feet to a piece of cardboard! Quite a sickening sight!

When the kitchen looked like nobody had ever entered it, I took husband out for a ride. We went to IKEA, where I bought new flatware, new glasses(all plastic) as a big portion of this family is not stable enough to conduct themselves around stemware. Then I begged to go to the Salvation Army. Begged! My wish was granted on the condition that I would go with him to a Golf store, first.

Going to Golf stores is a sacrifice for me, because I find nothing more exhausting than watching my husband try out the different irons and listen to him explain their qualities. My husband completely ignores the fact that I have no interest in Golf. But I have found a way of dealing with that. When we started dating, some 100 years ago, I would  try to look  interested.  I even watched golf on TV with him and pretend it was fun! Can you imagine! I never watch Golf on TV nowadays. We are married.  But now I have a way of dealing with trips to the Golf store by nodding my head in agreement, when I think it’s appropriate and he seems to be happy with that.

In the golf store a huge male mannequin caught my attention, at least eight feet tall and so muscular that it was quite hilarious. The biceps were  the size of my waist and it’s buttocks were like two humongous genetically altered watermelons, seedless of course. I asked a wimpish male staff member, if he didn’t feel intimidated or threatened by the size of the mannequin.  I wanted to show him my support.  He was quick to answer but somewhat densely: ” He’s not THAT big!” Right!  If my husband had not, at this point in time already finished trying all the clubs in the store, I would have asked to speak to the supervisor. Males have image issues too. People tend to forget that!

At last we were on our way to the Salvation Army. The Salvation Army is in the middle of my city’s Skid row, a truly appropriate setting where Heaven and Hell meet. I love going there scouting for junk, and have found incredible things there. Today was my lucky day. They had three new pianos in. One was already taken as an elderly drunkard sat snoring on the keyboard, contemplating how to fit it into a shopping cart, so I didn’t dare to even look at it further.

But in the middle of the “show room” was a beautiful black upright piano, a 1902 Decker and Sons, so rugged on the outside but, oh, so beautiful! It looked like an persistent old bar singer, that just won’t stop performing. I touched the keyboard and played “Mary had a little lamb” from my extended repertoire , and it sounded wonderfully. So smooth and charming and miraculously in tune. I played every note to see if it was intact and it responded beautifully. The sustain pedal was there, but the other two were lying on top of the piano. Well, that can be fixed.

I shouted my husbands name.  I love that you can shout in the Salvation Army and nobody thinks it’s strange, and shouted again, very  resonantly. In the distance, I could see, that a pair of Gary Glitter boots had absorbed my husbands attention.  He is a closet Glam Rocker. I shouted once more, so effectively that the old drunkard sitting by the already taken piano, moved his head down an octave. 

Finally my husband came along and I forced him to try the instrument. He played, and played and played, and was surprised how wonderfully it sounded. An old teary eyed hooker walked by and applauded him. The price tag was equally wonderful. $300. We talked about how we would restore it, clean up the wood, strings etc. This was a mesmerizing moment. We were both in love. This was a  passionate ménage á trois, in the making.

We are bringing it home on Friday. An endearing toothless shop assistant came to us and explained that we should not buy it until Friday because on Fridays, he whispered, everything goes half-price!  Even better. 150 bucks for a Decker and Sons 1902 upright piano with an experienced look and heart of gold. No question!

On writing, Jennifer Aniston and man-boobs!

I am sure that my more intelligent female readers have noticed how flattering a man shirt can be on the female body. Every good movie ever made has the heroine running around, in one or more scenes, depending on the naffness of the script , in buttoned down mans shirt, tanned legs and sexually assaulted mane-do!

Jennifer Aniston apparently has this as a mandatory in her movie contracts and interviews.

“I will only do the movie/interview if I get to wear a buttoned down mans shirt, fucked up hair and can show off my exercised legs and my flat flat flat, (sorry Jen), concave mid-riff!”

I sometimes fall into this trap of dressing in the above mentioned attire at night when my husbands shirts just by accident happen to be there and last night was one of those evenings. I swear, I was not trying to imitate  Jennifer Aniston, it just happened!

I am not going to tell my husband that while he was a way I used his shirts mercilessly like nurses scrubs, and he has some really nice ones. I use them as nightwear, to clean the house, to tidy up in the garden and just to slip into something more comfortable, when my own clothes just seem, too old, too boring or frankly too tight!

Anyway waking up at 6 am this morning, the heat in the room was crazy, as my husband would not have the balcony doors open during the night as the two year old suffers runny nose. The husband has been away for ten weeks and he thinks I am very irresponsible having the babies sleep only in diapers in the summer heat.

I don´t remember marrying a pediatrician? He was an actor last time I checked, but actors have a thing about believing they can be anyone and everyone, right?

Male actors even think they can play women, still to this day, think Dustin Hoffman in Tootsie.  I am not saying he wasn´t good, within the world of the movie, but sincerely, Dustin Hoffman would never, ever, pass for a woman in the real world!  Maybe in The Valley of the Blind?  Ok, I take it back, in a world where everyone was blind, Dustin Hoffman could pass as a woman, women even, as he is an accomplished impersonator.

I know that where we come from, Iceland, anyone, just by sticking their nose out of a window, has a good chance of catching severe flu, but a breeze in our second floor bedroom in our house in California  is unheard of this time of year and could only be caused by poltergeists.  And needless to say they have not granted us a visit yet!

So I thought it was acceptable to let the babies sleep in their diapers and nothing else. My husband on the contrary thinks that everyone with a slight flu should wrap up in thermal cat-suits and sip cod-liver oil and sweat it out.

I reminded my husband stearnly, that if he thought I was not capable of raising our children, to make sure he would not have to go on those long work trips again. Ever.

It would be irresponsible of him to leave his children in the hands of an unfit mother. Even life threatening!

My husband did not respond to those remarks and just gave me a very strange look.  In response to his bizarre stare I hurried into the bathroom and almost vomited at the sight of my image in the mirror. Not only am I a little sunburned from the desert sun but my eyes were bulging in honor of  the late beloved Marty Feldman.

This look along with the man-shirt made me look like a turtle with man-boobs suffering thyroid condition.

Anyway now both babies have a cold and a temperature. I am not sure if it is because of my reckless open balcony door act, which it probably is, but now I am doomed to watch re-runs of Barney as he seems to be the only “person” that can console the little sniveling ones. I hate Barney with all my heart and the producers of the show and all the adorable creepy little child actors they have on board.

I can’t work, third act  lingering in my mind, still something is brewing, somewhere. Fractions are coming alive, I play out my characters conversations in my mind, while watching Barney, something no male writer could do, and I seem to think that as soon as I get a chance to sit down I will be able to get this bloody third act going. I am calm, even though there might be a few days until I can start actually writing, because I think I know by now, how my play will resolve, sort of. That’s something!

Excerpts in English from my first novel puplished in Iceland in the fall of 2005!

In the Company of Adults -email file

The juvenile chest in the black swimsuit!

Checked in to a beautiful desert spa resort on friday night. Husband and I listened to eighties music in the car on our way up there. A lot of forlorn one hit wonders. One sung struck a chord in me, performed by Loverboy, the song Turn me loose. At the tender age of 14 I remember myself listening to this song and feeling the urge to be turned loose and to do things my way!

A Duran Duran song also brought back memories. The band performing in Reykjavik and me skydiving from the balcony of the auditorium in sheer joy which resulted in a broken tailbone and a sprained shoulder. That did not stop me from going back the following night and thoroughly enjoying myself even if I refrained from further skydiving.

I love the desert, the soaring heat and the crickets singing. This 5 star resort is a gem in middle of nowhere, at this time of year nobody wants to be here because the heat is so devastating, or so I thought. I was very wrong. A group of party goers where celebrating in the hotel bar, a jolly crowd!

I hoped and prayed as I gobbled down a glass of complimentary champagne in the lobby that we would not have to share pool with them so I was both happy and insulted when we got a room in the oxygenarian wing . I might be tired and a little run down but I hadn’t realized that I looked like I was about to kick the bucket.

Our neighbors are probably close to ninety. A lovely couple. He walks cane in hand to the pool and does rejuvenating leg exercises in the water. I should probably start doing them too. She is a stunner! A black swimsuit with a red belt and  a supermodel figure. Her chest looks disturbingly juvenile and so does her face. She reads to him up loud. I wonder if they are still in love and by the looks of them, they are. As she, Bo Derek style glides out of the pool, I can see the look in his eyes, which reads: 

“My broad is still hot as hell!”

And she is! Hair in a bun, pink lipstick,gold earrings and a ninety year old body to die for!

The resort offers a variety of activities, star gazing, rock climbing and archery to name a few. All things that I have been contemplating taking up, so I’ve got to run, bow and arrow in hand and search for the stars…

Love is in the air! Sponsored by Clorox!

My husband returned home last night along with my oldest child. He has been away for over ten weeks so the last week has been almost unbearable. Also I stupidly mentioned  to my two year old girl that dad would be coming home far too soon so she has been running up to strangers, crawling into their arms and greeting them. Very embarrassing. I even tried to explain:

“I am so sorry, get off him!  She actually has a father!”

Yesterday is most likely the longest day I have endured. The earth stood still. No birds sang. The news anchors even spoke slower than usual, they had a strange drawl in their speech.

I woke up with the thought that I should clean the entire house before husband´s return, but quickly came to my senses. I could have scattered mud around the house and he would not have noticed. I could have painted murals of seahorses riding on green waves and frolicking mermaids across the living room ceiling, and he would still not have noticed.

Still out of homecoming cleaning-guilt, I cleaned. I didn’t have the patience to prepare a homemade organic cleaning solution, a recipe from my former lovely Mexican nanny, (not to mixed with the “evil nanny”) who “Bruja” style would make these potent cleaning potions out of vinegar,lemon and lavender while chanting some ancient rites.

Instead I somewhat compromised, by using toxic Clorox wipes to touch up the house and will no doubt suffer eczema and arthritis as a result. And of course increase the likely-hood of my children getting respiratory diseases and even developing behavioral problems.

Husband preparation was exhausting. After cleaning and stuffing things out of sight, that I will greet in a few months  like lost relatives, I ran from liquor store to liquor store to find husbands favorite scotch, pushing the double stroller. My neighborhood is not the connoisseur kind of hood, so this was far from easy. Tequila in gallons, no problem!

I thought about wrapping my self in cellophane, like Kathy Bates did in the film Green Fried Tomatoes and arrange myself neatly in the driveway, but was too scared that I would resemble a roadkill so I refrained from the idea.

I just applied more mascara, again and again and again until the weight of the black was making it hard for me to keep my eyes open.  I lit some candles so I would not trip and also to give the home a romantic glow.  I have been told lighting is  everything!

I also changed clothes ten times and tried on at least five pares of shoes. As he would be staring at my feet?

:Girl, have I missed seeing you wearing those shoes!”

My eight year old acting as my stylist and making fashion fascist comments straight out of E news, I am surprised that I did not hang myself, because by the end of her relentless criticism I found myself  in a pair of white pants and a black fitted shirt, up side down waiter outfit,  with a self esteem the size of an almond.

I tracked their flight on flight-tracker, the number one spot for in air terrorism info. I mean, anyone with a missile could easily target a plane in mid air, as they provide you with accurate logistics and everything!  This thought made me kind of nervous and almost tearful. All the planes that have gone down in recent months! I could also hear my oldest daughter´s voice in my head. She has a habit of raising really impossible questions before she boards a plane:

“Mom, do you promise that the plane won´t crash?”

What kind of question is that? If it does crash,is she then going to turn around and say:

“You were SO wrong mom!”

So I was very happy to observe on flight-tracker that the plane had landed and seconds later I got the phone call

:”We are here!”

At that moment I wished I had one of those polygamist/Little house on the prairie outfits to slip into and that the house smelled of hot chocolate and cookies and not Clorox.

Me and the two year old sat out on the porch waiting, she kind of like lunatic style chanting: “Dad is coming! Dad is coming! Dad is coming” for about 20 minutes. I thought about reaching for my ipod.

The rest is just to beautiful for words….very “Little house on the Prairie/Fatal Attraction evening. And spending the morning with five people in my bed, drinking coffee, chatting and laughing till noon. What fun!

Husband is putting the babies to sleep, something I have done night after night for ten weeks straight. I feel like I am on vacation. With my feet up on a stool and biting my Pinot stained lips, I see the lights in Tijuana across the border, where the cartels are undoubtedly chopping each other up in consumer friendly packages. A perfectly peaceful Agust evening.

Wing like nostrils!

I have been taking Yoga in my neighborhood studio for six weeks now. It is actually a very nice facility, a little under- ventilated but clean. Which is good, because I can be sure that if I suffocate to death while saluting the sun, I´ll do so in a clean environment.

I am usually a sucker for work-out outfits, but this recession has played me hard, so I am wearing old Puma T-shirts and a pair of black pants that looked equally becoming while I was nine months pregnant. It is not a lie that because of my lousy outfit I feel somewhat an outcast in those classes. People  take their outfits very seriously. I also wear my fully supporting bra to class, which is a no no, and apparently a crime against Shiva. But I have trouble enough keeping up with the teachers, so having my eyesight frequently restricted while doing the Asanas is not an option.

I usually slip my cheap yoga mat on the floor the minute the class starts, among the last to attend. My guilt-ridden heart beating nervously as I have just left my two adorable babies crying their hearts out and throwing their little arms towards me, begging me with their agonizing stare, NOT to leave them with the evil nanny. But I do every morning, five days a week.

So when the teachers start ranting about, leaving all worries, anger, fear, frustration ,pain, suffering, behind(whatever that means), it is quite a task for me.

One of the teachers is a very ethereal being that seems to be made out of very expensive fabric, she has a kind of lace curtain feel about her. She folds her self into the most extraordinary poses. It would be no task to bag her up and take her places. She also has that desirable “Yoga glow” that I am striving for.

She starts each and every class with a series of Pranayama exercises or breathing exercises. They are actually very hard and I feel light-headed and giggly, which is a bad thing, every time I do them. But I am slowly getting to know my left and right nostrils quite well which is good because I have somewhat neglected them in the past. Not given them much thought, really. The teacher flares her nostrils gloriously, it is almost as if she has wings in the middle of her fragile, doll like face.

Did I mention that she speaks fluent Sanskrit, which makes it very hard to follow her instructions as Sanskrit is a bit, well “Sanskrit” to me, still. It is truly very hard when your understanding of Sanskrit is limited, as she has a way of gliding through the room and sotto voce giving instructions in Sanskrit and not actually demonstrating! How the fuck am I supposed to understand Sanskrit! And why does everybody in the room understand Sanskrit? Where am I?

I had come to think she was Sanskritian, when I in triangle pose, imitating the person in front of me,  heard a patronizing voice saying loudly behind my back: “Where is your block!”

It was the teacher! She had mutated into an all Californian bitch. Her walk changed and she kind of military style walked across the room and picked up a block for me to use and half-threw it to me. It was very humiliating. A little later as I was trying to bind my arms in the most awkward position she came again: ” I don’t think we are quite there yet!”

She really has a touch for teaching this gal, to make her students feel comfortable and at easy.

I’ll stick it through, Puma, bra and all.  I want to gain that nostril control, whatever it takes. I might need it, if lets say, I loose one nostril accidentally.

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