My old Lotte Berk class essay from 2005 ... Lordy, that was a long time ago!

There are two places in the Boston area that offer Lotte Berk classes, one of which was brought here by two former Lotte Berk instructors who opened a luxury spa and have tweaked the method to develop what they call Core Fusion. That is the class I had planned to attend on Friday but was waylaid by an injury.

This morning I travelled to a little suburb about 5 miles away. It is an enclave of fou-fou ladies-who-lunch and one-of-a-kind boutiques. There is a Starbucks on each corner.

So the class began at 9, I left a bit after 8. As I'm following the mapquest directions, I see suddenly that the area isn't so serene and the cars have gone from Volvos and Range Rovers to pimped out, tricked out, low riding Hondas. I know Lotte Berk Method is not taught amidst graffiti tagged walls and debris littered streets. I turn around, realizing the difference between "St" and "Ave" is tremendous.

Driving slowly, ticking off the impatient latte deprived occupants of the Mercedes behind me, I see the studio. It is early enough to snag parking. As I'm about to make a U-y, a bone-thin, no-fat-in-her-diet woman on a bicycle suddenly appeared and I had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting her. She never turned around. Dumb gal.

I park and as I'm approaching the studio, I see a small group of women gathered on the sidewalk and lo and behold, Miss Starving Bicyclist is now walking her bike towards the small gathering. I walk up to the group just as another woman approaches from a parked ultra sleek Volvo wagon. She is as sleek as her Volvo: long, lean lines and elegantly muscled. A bit on the thin side but beautiful. She is wearing a platinum necklace with a diamond circle pendant, gargantuan diamond studs in her ears and a diamond and pearl ring on her right ring finger. Her left ring finger is weighed down by a boulder shaped into a marquise diamond wedding ring. She is pulling her hair back into a ponytail and smiling brightly as she greets the women on the street.

She looks directly at me, not recognizing me and chirps brightly, "Hi there! Are you here for class?"

Mesmerized, I said, "Yes!" To which she responded, "Wonderful! What's your name? I'm Sarah and I'm the instructor."

She has pulled out a key and opened the studio. The other women are staring at me curiously. Miss Starving Bicyclist is a bit older than I initially thought, probably in her late 40s. There is another older woman, very skinny with very little muscle tone, a woman about my age who looks supple and strong and two women in their 50s who are short and very squat. They appeared to be doyennes of The Ladies-who-lunch.

We walk upstairs to the Yoga studio, Sarah chattering away the entire time, explaining that she hopes I like it enough to return and that should I join for the customary 10 visit rate, I should make sure they credit me for today. We all remove our shoes and socks then enter the studio. The room is large enough to accomodate us and there is a mirrored wall with a high barre and a brick wall with a lower barre. The room is unbelievably and unbearably hot. There is an air conditioner but the heat of the morning and the previous evening had done it's jobe. Panting already, I grab a mat, a strap and get a little "block."

"What's the block for?" I ask. The other women laugh knowingly.

"You'll see." Sarah looks at me and says, "It's a surprise."



Sarah introduces me as her "new student" to the class and introduces the other women to me who wave happily.

We begin with the traditional high steps, opposite arm and knees, warming up. Then we stretch the left and right arms. We immediately move into push-ups.

Not your usual push-ups. We begin in The Plank. Then we lower down to about an inch from the ground (The Hover in Yoga), then pulling in tightly on the abs, push up. This is agonizing. I am already sweating more than you can possibly imagine and my arms are shaking and trembling. Sarah has her eye on me in the mirror. She is not pleased with my form.

She gets up and comes over to me, giving me very detailed and gentle instructions. When I am in the proper form, it has now taken on a torturous dimension. I am shaking so hard I can't possibly remain upright. Sarah smiles with satisfaction. "That's much better, B" We do three sets of 10 sloooooooooly.

We immediately move to tricep work. Lying flat on the mat with our hands very close to our chests, we bring the elbows way up and imagine trying to press them together. WE ARE GRASSHOPPERS. We then raise all the way up, extending through the length of the arms. By the end of the first set, Sarah has bestowed upon me her mark of approval: "EXCELLENT, B."

We complete a few MORE tricep exercises then get off the mat for stretches. Sarah instructs us to move to the barre. I immediately head towards the end of the barre on the brick wall, nearest the glorious a/c unit. Sarah foils me.

"B! Come up here next to me! Come on, I don't want you hiding in the rear."

She is dead center in front of the mirror.

It is time for seat work. Gals, what we thought was challenging on the DVDs and the Bonus Blasts? A stroll through the park those DVDs are. A. casual. stroll. through. a. child's. park. Thought I was gonna die. Sweat was pouring from my face and dripping down to my shoulders. My arms and back were slick. I glanced over at Sarah and she was also dripping sweat but not trembling although she was grimacing and grunting. She said grunting makes it better. I really thought at one time, when we went all the way down until our bums skimmed the floor whilst still high up on our toes that I would reach over and slap Sarah, but I just had no energy. Besides which, if I removed one hand from the barre, I'd collapse.

We do so many variations of glute, quad, hip and waist work, I am jelly. Nope, I am liquified jelly. But no. We're not done. We get the "blocks." We perch on the blocks, just under the barre and let our heels dangle from the back. We do work for the calf.

We work the calves to death then we push the mats under the barre and press out backs firmly against the wall. I gasp, "Oh God. We get to sit down."

Sarah laughs and says, "Don't even think about relaxing, B!" because we are now ready to move on to ab work. At this point, I am and am now blindly following directions with no resistance. I have no fight left and I can now barely blink. The ab work is as intense as the seat work. I want to clutch the bar that is over my head just to keep myself upright but I have no energy in my arms so I end up doing the exercises in proper form by default.

I am satisfied to see that even the super toned woman my age is struggling and sweating and looking as if someone has beaten her to within an inch of consciousness. Her poor hair is a wet and matted mess around her face, the elastic thing-y skewed off to one side of her head. Yes, I am the devil for taking such pleasure in her misery.

We take a blessed break for water and Sarah goes to collect towels for those of us who have forgotten them. She tells us she expects us to be in full plank upon her return.

She wasn't kidding. The women were getting down into position. I want to go into plank but my arms are quivering and throbbing, my abs are screaming and my legs are shaking and trembling. I'm going to cause an earthquake with all my twitching.

Sarah returns with the towels and I mop myself gratefully. We are now into The Plank again, then up to Downward Dog and she travels around the room, getting us to stretch farther and extend more. We do this endlessly before go BACK TO PUSH-UPS!

We are gradually cooling down now, going into stretches with the strap. Sarah makes us get the "block" again and we hold them between our feet and squeeze tightly for 25 seconds. Then we hold them whilst crunching upwards for three sets. Then she sneaks in more ab work while we're hysterical with pain. She hops up and forces us to reach up another inch to touch her hands and then she grabs our arms from behind and asks us to stretch even more to grab HER arms in turn.

Finally, finally, finally, we are in full cool down and stretch mode and suddenly, mercifully and wondrously, we have completed the class and we're all smiling widely and applauding. It was wonderful! I wanted to kill her, sure but my body felt amazing afterwards and I felt as if I'd pushed myself to the brink in spite of myself.

Sarah said she herself could not be motivated at home when she works out. She asked how many of us would have done that final set of push-ups at home? Uhm, I wouldn't have done the second set, who am I kidding?

But there is definitely something about the community and warmth of kindred souls together in solidarity that does force you to pull out more than you thought possible. It was amazing to see and feel it.

I hadn't even THOUGHT about that ...

... and now that you've made me think about it ... :sick:

I was going to heat a cup of oatmeal in the microwave this morning. I put in the cup and since I only zap it for 10 seconds, I did not cover it. It would not spill over anyway since I was standing there watching it.

One my co-workers screeeeeeeeeeched from across the kitchen, "B, noooo!" and she raced over to the microwave, opened the door and turned to me.

"You need to cover that!"

:annoyed:

Calmly, I responded (and since she was delaying my breakfast I have to admit I probably would have snapped at her but I've been working on calm responses rather than B*tchIwillcutyou reactions :p ), "I'm standing right here, I won't let it overflow."

She said, "Oh, I know! You're OCD like me."

:annoyed:

So what is your issue?

She told me that if I didn't cover what I was heating, whatever nasty particles are on the "ceiling" will soften and drop down in whatever you're heating.


*collective heebyjeeby shudder*

I told her I thought she was going to chastise me for not using a cover for a different reason. :o

So. Maybe nasty things will soften and drop into your stuff and maybe they won't but I'm using a cover from this moment forward.

Something for all of you to think about, especially if you're not inclined to wipe it down BEFORE you use it.

Hey, I was in a parade!!

... an unwilling participant in a "Hey-it's-Saturday-let's-not-even-get-up-to-the-speed-limit-'cos-we're-tapping-our-breaks-every-10-seconds-in-fear-we-may-actually-reach-15-mph!" weekend parade

Other paraders include, but in no way are limited to:

* The Sit & Wonder What A Green Light Means
* The OMG The Light Is Yellow Let's Slam Our Brakes
* The I Have No Where To Be So I'll Let Every Driver In Front Of Me So The People Behind Me Will Never GET WHERE THEY NEED TO BE
* The Cluster Around The Police Car And Travel 5 MPH
* Block The Intersection Even Though I knew There Was No Way In Hell I'd Make That Light


:annoyed:

A texting mommy = a bored, chunky kid

Image via Wikipedia

So. In the nail salon tonight, a woman comes in with her two kids. One about 5 or 6; the other asleep in a stroller, about 4.

The older boy is ador. able. He was looking at his mommy with

Mommy is preoccupied texting and receiving texts.

Mr. Adorable is super chunky. He is starting to not have a neck. Did I mention he is very young?

She sets up Mr. Adorable across the room in a chair with an iPod and tells him to keep an eye on his brother. She turns the chair around and the stroller around so that they are facing her when she sits in the pedicure chair.

She is waiting for the nail gal so she is texting then holding the phone, staring off into space, waiting for a response. Mr. Adorable is not listening to the iPod; he is playing with the earbuds and looking over at Mommy with

Mommy is jolted by the alert signaling a new message. She's super animated as she texts. When she puts the phone down, she goes back into staring off into space. Mr. Adorable comes over and says, "Mommy ..." and she says, "Hector. Can you go over there and sit down, please?"

Mr. Adorable Hector looks sadly at Mommy. Granted, he can't stand there indefinitely because he will be in the way but until the nail tech comes, there is lots of time for Mommy and Mr. Adorable Hector to chit chat. He is resistant to going back to the chair. Mommy tells him to go on. She looks off into space again.

Mommy gets a text and she is animated again, her thumbs flying across the keyboard. Mr. Adorable Hector shuffles over to his chair and sits down.

He looks over at Mommy with and says, "Mommy." Mommy looks up after a second and raises her eyebrows. He says something about the iPod. She says, "Did you turn it off?" Mr. Adorable Hector says, "Yes, Mommy." Mommy says, "You sure?" He says, "Yes, Mommy." He looks at her again with adoration.

Mommy goes back to the phone. Mr. Adorable Hector comes over again. He is sent back to his chair. He comes over 10 or 15 minutes later and says something about chips. Mommy looks up and says, "Did you look in the stroller?" He says no. Mommy tells him to go back to his seat and look in the stroller.

Mr. Adorable Hector does as he is told. He can't find the chips. Mommy says without looking up, "We will go to the store and get you more chips later."

Mr. Adorable Hector rummages around more and finds a bag of chips.

I know good and bloody well he is not hungry but finding that bag got Mommy's attention. She smiles and tells him to bring it over. He practically runs over to Mommy and gives her the bag to open.

She hands the bag back and tells him to go sit down. He goes back to the chair, sits and just starts stuffing in the chips. He is barely chewing. When he is done, Mommy is now getting her toes done and can't talk to him because she is now talking on the phone, laughing.

Mr. Adorable Hector goes back to the stroller and finds something else in a package. He brings it over, Mommy tucks the phone between her shoulder and ear, opens the bag, gives it back to him and goes back to her conversation. He sits in his chair and throws the crackers into his mouth while staring at Mommy.

Food for Mr. Adorable Hector = LOVE

Friendly Drama

This is one of many columns I wrote a few years ago for an online magazine. I had just started online dating and was asked to write a column around being single, searching and finally finding who we are and what matters.

*** *** ***

When the relationship is over, some people stumble away with extreme sorrow and bitter memories. The ground upon which the two once stood is now scorched and cursed. The former object of desire is declared an enemy. Lines are drawn and mutual friends, now in the midst of a war they didn't wage, realize there is no neutral ground and are forced to choose sides.

For the more evolved, "friendship" is offered as a consolation prize. To ensure the demotion is clear, cleanly separating friendship from relationship, we use the phrase: "We're just (only, merely) friends." This sly, clever new relationship keeps your ex- close, within your circle, but paradoxically at arms length, stripped of any significance.

When you meet someone else, this new person will have trouble absorbing the friendship between you and your ex-. You cannot expect your ex- to be helpful in this regard. That would require genuine interest and well wishes from the former partner, which is not very likely in this codependent friendship. For one of you in this friendship, it's a win-win situation. For the other, who may be less prepared to let go, the setup keeps the river of denial flowing.

Serena, a galpal with a steady boyfriend (as well as a married friend she met and strings along), is constantly tripping over the remnants of her boyfriend's prior relationships. One unseasonably warm evening, he asked her to get a pair of shorts for him from his bureau. What she found among the shorts was a thong that did not belong to her. He insisted the underwear had been there since his last girlfriend. A later clandestine search revealed more thongs. Because he is a slob with items in his bedroom dating back to eighth grade, she believed his explanation that he simply never got around to throwing the underwear out. He told her that not every relationship ended badly so he has no hard feelings towards his exes.

His house is a graveyard, haunted by the ghosts of his past. The ghosts lurk in drawers and cabinets, waiting to spring out at her at any moment. He tells her that she reads too much into these items. "I don't spring clean after a relationship ends," he told her. "I'm not keeping them, I just never threw them out. Doesn't mean I don't love you." This sore spot in her relationship led her to pick at it like a scab until she began to ask the point of no return questions ("Do I not turn you on? Am I too fat? Am I not attractive enough? Why do you not enjoy sex with me?"). Her boyfriend answered her questions with such brute force and cruelty that she fled his house and wandered the streets of New York, emotionally shattered at 3A.M.

She knows that the friendship with her hot married guy is Avoidance 101. She tells me they are just friends and that they have not slept together but what they have done would make her guilty in any courtroom of cheating but she can't seem to break things off with either him or her boyfriend. The only thing about which she is certain is that she doesn't want her boyfriend
as a friend when it's over. Searing emotional and psychic pain can sometimes run too deep for social niceties.

Bob and I were just friends. I was not sexually attracted to him and had never seen him as a potential partner. We were the poster children for platonic relationships. He's positive about life and the future and he's hysterically funny. He's also an intellectual snob with a love of language and a penchant for writing pornography. He's married with two teen-aged
daughters. We had a perfectly safe relationship, playing off each other supremely well. He was the master of the double entendre and I would foil him neatly, redirecting the game back to safe and neutral territory.

He was the perfect straight gay companion. We were a less neurotic Will & Grace. He was my first base coach during the initial stages of my online dating adventures. He helped me to understand male behavior and his translations of manspeak into Modern Women's English should be a manual for women everywhere. For someone so enamored of language and communication, words have suddenly failed him.

Anita has an obsessive personality and is deeply insecure. She is one of those people both madly jealous and deeply resentful of the fortunes and earned successes of others. It's as though she feels there is only so much happiness to go around and every person who has it leaves less for her. She takes personally compliments given to others, as if those compliments are a message to her, "And you're NOT," e.g. "Wow, she's really talented. (… and you're NOT!)" I've come to understand that Anita sees the joys of life as a pie, with a set number of slices. She's bought into a belief system of negativity and scarcity while I see the joys of life as an ocean, endless and infinite.

Now unhappily married again, she has more than once expressed her wish that she could be single and childless with the choices I have: the opportunity to start a new life in a new place with little baggage. She longed for the opportunity to correct all of her past mistakes, the chance to start all over and make better choices. She wanted what she saw as one last chance at a pie slice.

Our friendship was quite complex and largely revolved around me building her up against the rest of the world, yet tearing each other down. She had no male friends and three female friends. She could never quite understand my platonic relationships with men and would go to great lengths to point out to me how each man she'd ever met wanted to possess her so that being just friends was never a possibility. I understood her passive aggressiveness.

Years ago, she insinuated herself into one of my platonic friendships, creating a sexual relationship with the man. Oddly, his name was Rob, rhyming with Bob and basically being from the same root: Robert (the name of another man I later became involved with and she desperately wanted to insinuate herself between us, begging for his e-mail address so she could find out from him what his intentions were with me. Yeah. Here you go: here's his e-mail. Eff off, dudette)

She obsessed over Rob years and years ago, called him incessantly, finally driving him to beg me to call her off, help him escape her. He extricated himself from her but our friendship was never the same, a casualty of her supreme and unmatched self-involvement.

It's ironic that, as a result of my online dating adventures, an online relationship developed between Bob and Anita, which led to a physical relationship, effectively ending my friendship with both.

Looking back with the clarity of 20/20 vision, I should have seen the pattern emerging once again when she began asking how Bob and I could have a friendship in which we could discuss sex but not have it. She was wildly curious about the sexual bantering and wanted to know everything about our friendship. When she began working at Bob's company, forty miles separated their offices but the immediacy of e-mail closed the distance.

She began to quiz me about Bob's relationship with his wife and his views about sex. She wanted to know everything he had ever told me. His wife was diagnosed with a malignant tumor and had chosen a radical course of surgery and treatment. Bob naturally retreated, asking for time to cope and regroup. Anita bombarded me with e-mails, demanding to know what Bob had told me about his wife's condition and when he'd told me. I wondered if she even cared about his wife's cancer. I was willing to trade my kingdom for a mallet big enough to knock some sense into Anita. I made it clear to both of them I wanted to remain neutral and that being
in the middle was not an option. I reiterated this desire many times.

What about the coupling bothered me so much? Was it because Anita declared open season on Bob when his wife has a life threatening illness? Or was it because Bob was taking moments away from his wife to be with Anita? Was it the fact that Anita glommed onto the friendship in the way she had done previously? Or was it that she lied to me, used me in order to collect information about Bob? Was I so angry with Bob because his provocative e-mails weren't intended as banter but signals to me that he was open for more?

The internet offers the power of instant communication and instant familiarity. We can chat online for hours with people we've never met, believing we're getting to know them so well. Bob and Anita and I chatted through e-mail and IM daily. I began to notice that whenever I visited Anita at her home, she would stand guard over me while I checked my Yahoo e-mail account. It was how I discovered her affair with Bob: I realized she was hovering over me because she was obviously waiting for something and what else could it be but an IM?

She knew I would recognize his screen name. Neither of them saw any reason to create a new screen name while carrying on their affair. One night, I saw that Bob was online and I IM him. No response. I emailed Bob then I saw that Anita was online, too and had been on for as long as Bob. So they were meeting, cloak and dagger style, on AIM.

Bob e-mailed me at my office the next day to tell me he hadn't been online the night before and he was sorry he'd missed me. Lies. I e-mailed him back, informing him that I'd seen his AIM screen name actively online. There was silence from his end. The silence of unanswered e-mails and unreturned phone calls are a testament to his resentment and the knowledge that he really is an ass.

Had it not been for the connection between Anita and I, he would not have been so forward. He certainly would not have approached her at work since he is a corporate trainer and she is in a field office. The relationship would have remained professional. But the e-mails he and I exchanged gave Anita a feeling of connectedness with him. It wasn't long before the e-mails progressed to IM and from there to a real life, real time affair.

Sex changes the dynamics of a friendship, even indirectly. It was tricky with Bob since we were never "involved" but in re-reading his e-mails to me, I can see that he would not have been resistant had I suggested a more intimate connection. He could very well have been waiting for just that suggestion.

He once asked me years after we took a business trip together if I would have been open for a romantic entanglement if he weren't married. I was shocked. I'd never thought of him in that way ever and could not imagine such a thing.

But what could I have answered? The truth? A horrified, "Are you insane? I don't even find you remotely attractive!" I looked back at him, blinked and while closing my eyes in that split second, nodded and gulped while saying "Sure" and he walked away, happy and satisfied that it could have happened ... if only.

Eve, my therapist friend, explains the codependent theorists' steps to reducing drama: first (and easiest) is to stop throwing bombs. The second (and far more difficult) is not responding when they're thrown at us. So, at the core, we stay on our side of the street and take responsibility when we screw up. Resist digging in our heels. This much we owe ourselves, not just our friends and lovers.

It's tempting to analyze what makes people do things, but in the end, what do the reasons matter? The reasons won't help me to have a better life. There comes a point at which the very analysis becomes what is holding me back and victimizing me - not Bob, not Anita. Their actions are not my fault but my responses to them are my responsibility. So there is a need to stop wallowing in what happened, make up my mind to accept it and make peace with them or accept it and move on.

The simple questions remain: are the friendships worth the effort and do I want to continue making that effort?

We know that it's deeply unacceptable socially to discard people - especially those with whom we have a history - but letting go may be the only way to have peace, to permanently close the door on unnecessary drama. Even when you've done the right things, it often just doesn't work.

But sometimes things do work and things just fall together in the most satisfying and amazing way. It works for reasons you do not understand and you are touched in ways you never thought possible. When it works and you have a happy and fulfilling relationship with someone who is a friend, then you're supremely blessed and not just lucky.

Jambalaya

Image by fataetoile/ Cinzia Rizzo via Flickr

It's what I'm making tonight. It just hit me while sitting at my desk in my office that I really need jambalaya. Of course, so did the completely out-of-the-blue idea to have lemon tea w/smirnoff's lemonade vodka so maybe I'm working the jambalaya around the drink. Whatever works, I tell ya. The drink is yummy and the jumbalaya is simmering, I'm making myself get up now and go add the shrimp ... then again, I just may skip the j and stay with the v. *lol*

Ultimate Irony

For someone with an unholy fear of water (add height and I'm almost in tears), it's fairly comical that I thought seriously about having a header picturing not just water but ocean water. And the ocean has a floor so deep, it worries me to consider it.

Speaking of water, I just have to watch Deadly Catch because there is something perversely fascinating about watching those fishing boats riding hellish waves that look as if they'd take out Manhattan. I'd never go deep sea fishing; I'd never even go on a boat smaller than Royal Caribbean but here I will sit, rapt and warm and dry and on terra firma.

I'm afraid to get married but I'll subject myself to untold madness in the dating world in search of Him. Lord God, that's another entry or two or ten. The men out here with us single gals ... and they're not always available (emotionally, literally, figuratively) yet here they come, grinning and bearing bad tidings for those of us thinking it isn't wrong to hope.

It's cold out here in the dating world. If you're inside where it's warm and safe and satisfyingly "we" then count your blessings and quit bitching about the dirty socks funking up your bedroom or the gurliness taking over your manly man rooms and be happy you're not shivering out here in Single City with the rest of us.

Hmph.

Rachel Souza Entwhistle

Rachel in the vegetable stand in York - UK, October 1999

I knew her in 1999 when she was 19 years old and a summer intern at my company. She was a bundle of energy and she had a mischievous smile and when talking to her, you could feel a tug at the corners of your lips.

She was funny and silly and smart and just happy, wonderfully happy almost all the time. She was so chirpy that I asked her one day if she drank before she came in to work. She was adventurous and full of life and always had at least 2 guys clamoring for her attention.

She told me that she was going to York that year on exchange to the University of York and I was going to London that October of 1999. We said the usual things when coincidence like that arose: "We should hook up when you get there!" and I responded, "Of course, you can show me around and we'll have dinner."

Usually, those well intentioned ideas never come to fruition but Rachel always did what she said she'd do. It was something I remembered about her. When she left, the next month, she e-mailed me to give me her phone number in York and to remind me that we had a dinner date.

As the date of departure grew closer, I still didn't really think I'd see her in England but when I arrived at our hotel in Weybridge, there was a message waiting for me from Rachel. When I called her back the next day, she already had train schedules ready for me. There was no escaping the Rachel once she had her mind set on something.

I boarded a train in London and rode through gorgeous countryside to York. I saw her as the train pulled onto the platform and when she caught sight of me, her smile grew wider and suddenly she was in tears because there I was, someone from home in this unfamiliar yet beautiful country.

Rachel's life in York was taking shape: she was on crew as the coxswain (of course, what else for Rachel?), she'd already met a wonderful guy who was also in the rowing club (Neil, her future husband as it turns out), she was ringing the bells in the abbey and she was growing more and more independent. I took a photo of the photos a few years ago.

The Abbey - Rachel was so proud to have been the bell ringer

The brick walkway that stretches around the town

I love the photograph of her at the vegetable stand in York. I never got to see her again after that day in York. She is wearing her trademark stunning smile and she was so proud of her new bob and make-up and stylish cream colored sweater and trousers. She looks so young and hopeful and innocent in the photo and I hope she was always able to retain that innocence.

I lost track of her a few years after she was graduated from Holy Cross. The Rachel I remember would not have been involved in anything dishonest and would not have tolerated it because she had such a strong character. People change, I realize that, but Rachel was an honest, true blue soul. I will hold on to the memories of her and our day together from 1999 and the wonderful, vivacious woman who was taken from her friends and family far too soon.

Cat yak ... yuck, no yuks

Misty between yaks

It's the sound that can make you sit bolt upright in bed from the deepest sleep; the sound that has you dropping everything to frantically search for the yakking cat. The minute you leap to your feet, the yakking cat instantly sprints off, just out of reach while repulsively leaving a trail of yak in her wake.

My vet once asked me about the yak and I shuddered remembering. He asked if it was a long tube or a mushy pile. Ick. Can we get more descriptive? How about I scoop up a sample for you next time? *mad* The tubular yak is, illogically, a hairball. I am fighting the dry heaves as I remember.

I have two kitties, Misty and Eve. Eve is a long haired wonder, bullying, fearless, flirtatious, loud, obnoxious and the undisputed Alpha-ette. A trampy little feline who will roll around on her back for anyone who'll rub her ears. From the time she was a kitten, she vacuumed food and promptly tossed it back up. I remember thinking the first time I saw her do it, "Lord, please don't let that be her signature move." Sadly, it is. She also yaks hairballs.

Misty is more regal, snooty, elegant. She sits in contempt. She vanishes when anyone she doesn't know appears. She will venture out later once she's decided the newcomer is worthy. Sometimes she will condescend to allow herself to be petted. When she is feeling affectionate, she is very affectionate: she'll put a paw no each of your shoulders and "hug" you but if she isn't feeling it, don't bother trying to pick her up.

The vet gave me goop to apply to their paws and pills to give them every other day.

Ever give a cat a pill? Yeah. Good times, good times.

The first time, you can cram the pill down the first cat's throat before she knows what hit her. The second cat is pretty smugly looking on, not believing for a moment the same fate is in store for her. Grab her, hold the head back, stuff the pill in, close the mouth and rub the throat, forcing her to swallow.

Eve feigning innocence

You must make sure the pill goes directly down the middle. If it falls off to the side, you're screwed 'cos the cat will hold it in her mouth until you're satisfied she's swallowed it and the instant you release her, she spits out what is now a nasty, wet, disgustingly soddy mass that you must now again try to force in. It can be done but not before the cat is plotting shit on you.

The next time you have to give them a pill, they're on to you and you must decide which one you don't want to chase because once you grab one, the other one is history.

Eve routinely *glub*glub*glub* signalling the beginning of a yak tirade. It is horrendous made more horrendous if it is done while you aren't home or while you're in the shower. Nothing like stepping into a pile of cold cat yak.

Misty's is either clear liquid or wet grey clumps left around the loft and both are keenly aware of what happens when I discover it. They know they're getting a pill that later apparently makes them cry plaintively and they get a good comb out which doesn't bother either in the least.

So all of this to say there is nothing better to do about the yakking other than putting stones into their food (seriously. this slows them down so that they're forced to eat around the stones so that they're not vacuuming), elevating the food dish (can't remember why the vet said that was important but at this point, just tell me what to do and I'll pretty much do it if it means less yak to clean up), giving them anti-yak pills, sticking gunk on their paws that causes the hairballs to slide through them (double ick on that image), combing them out daily.

This is some high maintenance stuff. Pills, fur product, spa treatments and you think they appreciate it? They run like hell when they hear the pills rattling in the bottle. *snicker*

Finger Lickin'

When I print something in my office, I have to knock over chairs, crawl over desks and elbow anyone reaching out to pick up any documents from the printer.

Why?

Because so many people lick their fingers with enough saliva to actually dampen the pages of the documents as they flip through. I mean, stick your finger(s) wherever you want, just don't touch my documents with the same finger(s).

And why would you want to lick your fingers anyway after having pressed the elevator button, entered a key code, touched the door handle, typed on your keyboard, rubbed your nose and Gawd only knows what else ...

Lick on.
Hah. Some friends responded in this way:

1 - Ooh ick! That bugs me too.
DH does this when he reads the paper and magazines. A couple of weeks ago he was sick and sitting at the table at breakfast reading the Sunday paper, licking and turning away. I couldn't take it and finally WENT OFF on him. I don't remember exactly what I said, but it did make him laugh and make him aware of how gross he was being. Sheesh!
I think a nice big sign over the copier at work is in order for you: QUIT GETTING YOUR SPITTLE ON MY DOCUMENTS OR I'M GONNA HAVE TO KNOCK SOME HEADS TOGETHER! kthxbai (or something like that)

2. Just relax and try to think about how much it's strengthening your immune system.

3. My smart ass friend Dorth: I've probably just been *crunching really loudly* on salty snacks and I need to lick them clean so I don't get salt all over your papers. LMAO. *snort* XO.

4. Ohhhh gads if there's one thing I can't stomach it's watching people lick their fingers. For any reason. *hurl*

I was at a BBQ and this guy was gnawing his way through a rack of ribs, had BBQ sauce up to his knuckles - not the finger knuckles, his make a fist knuckles, KWIM? He SUCKED the sauce off each and every finger - stuck his WHOLE finger in his mouth and slurped. I had to leave the area, it just about did me in.
Never mind that he's a really noisy sloppy slurpy eater too. Ick.
I always had a printer in my office so NO ONE could touch my papers. People always read things that are none of their business too. It's like "beat it punk and mind your business"

My kitty once hated me ... *cry*

The vet and I determined the rash on her neck (which occurred this past summer and just a few days ago) is a result of hand cream that I purchased (this past summer) and just started using again (just a few days ago). Forgive the camera phone photo. (photo taken 1.6.2008)

Poor little Eve.

She gives me the sad face and the vet told me, "Don't give it in to it. She will try everything to get you to take the collar off."

The first collar was too big and she behaved as if there was a pile of bricks fastened to her head ... she dragged the bottom of it on the floor, slunk around down low to the floor while plaintively meowing and the worst ... she'd bump into things then turn to look at me with the sad eyes.

I went to Petco to get the Diva Collar (red!) and now she can jump up on the window sill before giving me the sad face.

I also had to give her pills twice a day and put an ointment on the rash ... It got to the point at which she'd hear my key in the door and I could hear her shuffling across the floor trying to escape.

Red Sox jersey bling - Mimi again

Mimi is da bomb. She can bling anything with Swarovski crystals. For a very small price, she paintakingly, beautifully, smashingly blinged my jersey and my Celtics hat. She rocks. She rolls. She makes these also for a very good cause - The Light Foundation. She donates them and they're auctioned off for a pretty penny. These photos do not do this jersey even the smallest amount of justice.

My blinged out Celtics hat courtesy of the lovely Mimi

My Celtics hat and Banana sweater in the perfect green

Mimi's gorgeous work

These items get a lot of attention at Fenway and the Garden, especially for evening games.

Ignoring red flags on the field

Yeah. Not a good idea that. A few years ago, (December 11, 2005, not that I'm bitter) I was over at my then new bf's house after a major New England fucking snowstorm and thought I was doing a great thing by helping to shovel.

I'm a transplanted Southern belle who lived in Amherst during college where plows were the order of the day and later moved to Boston where plows were the order of the day and so were boyfriends who never, ever would dream of expecting me to shovel, much less express out loud any desire or wish for me to shovel so I thought I was doing a good thing.

But maybe I made a big tadoo out of nothing. So. Let's say ... hypothetically, of course ...

... let's say you were helping out by shoveling a path from the driveway to the back stairs of a house.

You're shovelling along at a fairly good pace when suddenly you hear,

"Oh no! You've dug up the flower bed ... my poor perennials!"

After muttering under my breath, "Why you ungrateful little shit, shovel your own freaking driveway next time" I did feel horrible. What do I know about gardening? What do I know about perennials. WTF are perennials anyway, I wondered.

Besides, wouldn't you TELL someone there was a flower bed given the snow covered EVERYTHING in the yard? And wouldn't you just bite your tongue, given the person was helping you out and you DIDN'T give a warning about where the flower bed was?

Is the garden dead? Having been dug up a bit, is it salvageable or was this just a bit of drama? And why on this green earth would a man have a full scale meltdown like that. (of course, that was nothing compared to what was to come later but I was pretty shocked that day that a grown man was actually exclaiming "My poor perennials!")

My friends weighed in of course:

1. Sorry, don't know anything about gardening, but, no I would have kept my mouth shut - you were doing something nice for crying out loud. I HATE people like that!

2. Drama. Put the dirt back, it'll be fine. sheesh, some people...

3. I agree. They're dormante now and don't even know what hit them. So just put them back in the ground and whisper "you'll be OK" to the plants.

4. Well, that'd be the last time I ever did a favor for them...
You have to dig pretty deep to kill perennials. They come back year after year and in order to survive in areas where the ground freezes need to develop pretty deep roots. Any damage above the "freeze line" is meaningless and won't kill them. Put the dirt back, roll your eyes at the drama and don't worry.

5. You heartless, heartless woman, you! How dare you shovel snow for someone else!!! But the next time you do, would you mind shoveling it into my yard? I would love to play in some snow. Thank you!

6. Pfffffffffft. Tell him he needs to put up some of those yellow flag thingies next time, if it's that freakin' important. Oh, and tell you to have a nice time busting his ass on the ice, too.

7. oh pluh-eeze. Toss the dirt back on, they'll be fine sweetie. And I second telling him to have a nice time busting his butt out there!

And THIS GAL I should have taken out to dinner and sat at her feet because she NAILED the little shit right here: If anyone ever seriously said "my poor perennials" in front of me I think my reaction would be more along the lines of stomach-clutching laughter. That is hilarious! Sorry, even though I spent many of my formative years in Junior Garden Club I know nothing about plants. Could be why I find his horror humorous.

Well, he was a DRAMA QUEEN and I ignored the flags on the field and not only continued seeing him but MOVED IN. *duh* Big, huge, major mistake.

Honestly, the best thing out of the relationship was my relationship with his phenomenal daughter. I coulda skipped all the drama with him and just hung with her.

She was 12 at the time, hated all of his previous bimbo gurlfriends and loved me on sight. She is quite special, I tell you. Uhm, not cos she loves me but because she is unique and smart and irreverent and no nonsense and in-your-face and fearless and loves/hates her dad and doesn't understand him or why he hurts the people who most care for him including both of us but let me tell you, that day of the Snow Shovel Hurt Perennial Drama, she got into the car with me and said, "My dad isn't a very good communicator."

She later told me she knew it wouldn't be long before he created enough problems, issues, drama to push me away. Hey, I can be a bitch, don't let me fool you but he could be a bigger bitch. He was creative in the problems he created, I'll give him that. But she was dead to rights about him.

Absolutely, sadly right.