Politics

I won't go into detail, because we are all entitled to our political beliefs, and we all have our reasons for voting the way we do. And those reasons are all valid and respectable.

But it seems to me that most politicians spend more time and energy campaigning than doing their job.

Argh.

Obsessed with Thinness

There is a very interesting article on the cover of USA Today (I would link it but they don't believe in free content, so you'll have to just read about it here on my blog!).

The title: "Women: Staying skinny beats sex."

Wow, talk about an attention grabber. Even though this article is below the fold on the front page, the fact that it's even there at all is meaningful.

Apparently, 52 percent of women would prefer a sex-less summer to gaining 10 pounds. In comparison, only 25 percent of men feel the same.

More statistics from the article:

More people would rather lose 10-20 pounds over the summer than get a promotion.

Weight loss would make 66 percent of Americans feel sexier, and an average loss of 23 pounds would make them feel "hotter."

More than half of adults would rather lose their jobs than get fat.

63 percent of women and 55 percent of men would rather be poor and skinny than rich and fat.

54 percent would give up TV for the summer in exchange for a flat stomach.
54 percent would give up shopping for the same.
42 percent would give up using their cell phone, 36 percent would stop using their computer, 21 percent would stop having sex and six percent would stop showering!

The article quotes genius Bruce Daggy, VP of research and development for Nutrisystem as saying, "what this shows is that people are highly motivated to not gain weight."

Quite profound.

It also shows a lot of other things:

1. Women value their looks and having a "hot" body over a lot of things, including sex. I can say for myself that up until recently, I've spent the majority of my waking hours concerned with how I look. I don't know how many other women can say the same thing, but I have a feeling it's at least 52 percent, the same number who value being thin over having sex. And I'll bet that substantially less men worry about how they look. Perhaps 25 percent?

Why? I think our culture has placed such a high value on women being thin. Basically, a woman's worth is solely based on how "hot" she is, while a man's worth is a mixture of things: his looks, success, confidence, etc.

From practically birth, many girls are taught to value looks over all else. The females we see on TV and in movies, magazines and books are all thin and pretty. Little girls are told, "You're so pretty!"

2. People need to feel sexy in order to get into sex, right? I think this is more important for women than men. It's sad that we can't enjoy ourselves because we are obsessing about how we look. Wouldn't it be nice to enjoy the emotional and physical feeling of sex instead of being incessantly in your head, imagining how you look?

3. Anyone who values being thin over having a job is an idiot. Remember, this article is not talking about people wanting to be healthier. It's talking about people wanting to be thinner. We are seriously motivated by the wrong thing here.

To those people who would give up their TVs, phones and computers to get a flat stomach; do it! Put those things aside and do some crunches.

And to those people who would rather be poor and skinny: You are a fool. Try being poor for a week and see what it's like. And stop being so superficial.

The Center for Disease Control and Prevention says that 68 percent of Americans are overweight.

I know I'm one of those. But I'm not about to give up on the things I enjoy, like my computer, TV, talking on the phone and sex. I'm trying to make it a habit to eat healthier and move more, because it feels good to be healthy and strong, and, yes, because I want to feel pretty and sexy. But it's not as important anymore. And I'm trying (and succeeding) to like my body just the way it is and to not be obsessed with the way I look.

And I'm furious about the way things are! Are you?

Yay!

Check out this wonderful video by filmmaker, Andrea Dorfman and poet Tanya Davis.



It makes me happy.

Women Relegated to Inanimate-Object Pronouns

Or: Why am I not surprised that women are referred to as things?

Ok, I admit it. I like Country music. Don’t stop reading! I use to be one of those people who said, “I listen to everything except Country and rap.” Which basically meant I listened to KROQ, KIIS and KRTH – top 40.

Now I try to be a little more open minded and appreciate what each song sounds like instead of making such broad generalizations.

Josh Turner is one Country artist I’ve discovered who I like. His big hit “Why Don’t We Just Dance” is the perfect mix of dance-able, romantic, social commentary, insight into a good relationship and Turner’s signature, amazingly-deep voice. It really does make me want to dance.

(aaah, look at that smile.)

So let me get to the point. I downloaded the entire album, and there are a couple other gems. But there is one huge, unforgivable flaw!

One song, “I Wouldn’t Be a Man,” had me at first. It’s sexy: deep voice, sexy melody, slow twang, sweet lyrics....except for the freakin’ chorus:

I wouldn’t be a man

iIf I didn’t feel like this.

I wouldn’t be a man

iIf a woman like you was anything I could resist.

I’d have to be from another planet,

Where love doesn’t exist,

I wouldn’t be a man

If I didn’t feel like this.

Sounds pretty sweet, right? On the surface! But read a little deeper and you see that it has two major problems:

1. In the fourth line he says she's irresistible, right? Wrong! He basically says she is a “thing.” An object. He can’t resist her body. Not her. Why use “anything,” when he could easily say “anyone” or “someone”? It doesn’t throw off the rhythm. Argh. Am I missing something here?

I’m sure the writer didn’t do this intentionally. He (I assume the song was written by a man. Sorry.) is either clueless, or subconsciously revealed his true opinion of women.

2. Apparently, if this song is to be believed, men and women are different when it comes to desire. A man’s desire is much stronger than a woman’s. It’s ok for a man to be unable to resist a certain type of woman (or “thing”): “I wouldn’t be a man / if I didn’t feel like this. / I wouldn’t be a man / if a woman like you was anything I could resist.”

In fact, this song is saying rape must be ok, because that’s how men are. Not women, though. They are definitely able to resist desire. Later he sings that the only way he could resist would be if he was “from another planet / where love doesn’t exist.” So why not say, “I wouldn’t be a human”?

Ok, that doesn’t flow. Let’s just trash this one, K, Josh?

Scorn@regan.com

Michael Reagan, the eldest son of the late President Ronald Regan is saving the country, one email account at a time.

For $39.95 per year (instead of free), you can get your very own anti-democratic-handle@Reagan.com, and "put your name next to the name of the Greatest Conservative of all, my father Ronald Reagan," says Michael.

According to Michael, our country is faced with many problems, including the horrible truth that “People who believe in true Reagan Conservative Values are unwittingly supporting the Obama, Pelosi and Reid liberal agenda! What do I mean? Well, every time you use your email from companies like Google, AOL, Yahoo, Hotmail, Apple and others, you are helping the liberals. These companies are, and will continue, to be huge supporters financially and with technology of those that are hurting our country.”

I can’t say it better than that.

Is it very Republican to capitalize on your dead father’s name?

Buying Local and In Season

(Oatmeal: Breakfast of champions and regular people.)

It occurred to me this morning, as I made my oatmeal, that I’ve been eating a lot of strawberries lately. Then it dawned on me: it’s summer. Strawberry is a summer fruit. Duh. And then it hit me (lots of “eureka!” moments this morning – must be the oatmeal), I don’t even know what fruits are seasonal around here, let alone try to eat them. I am completely out of tune with nature. Instead I eat bananas flown in from Ecuador, oranges from Florida and perfumed cardboard from McDonald's.

Everybody’s always talking about eating locally because it’s healthier for the body and the planet, and because it’s cheaper. So I did some research and found this website, which shows what grows in your area and when:

click here

And then I found this one, which searches local farmers markets and even family farms where you can buy produce:

click here

I think going to a farm to pick up your eggs, milk and produce could be a fun activity, and it will definitely keep you healthy and in tune with the planet and your environment.

Our "Jersey Shore" Viewed From International Shores

The August 2 Newsweek contains an article about “Jersey Shore,” which I thought was just another inane reality show about bloated “babes” with nothing on their minds but money, men, partying and status. And it sounds like it is. Plus this time their are bloated guys too.

But according to the article, it’s not “just” another stupid show.

I didn’t think about this before, but shows like these tell people in other countries a lot about us. Yes, there really are people like the stars of the show. And yes, there are people who waste their time watching it. Of course there are people in those other countries who waste their time watching it too. (Apparently there’s a large cult following in Italy.)

So not only do these shows harm us on a personal level, teaching young people a very backwards idea of what is important in life; they also harm us on a global level, showing the world what we as a country think is important.

I’ll admit I’ve never watched the show. Maybe it has a moral lesson every episode, like being a strong woman or being true to yourself. If it does, I think it’s drowned out by “look how big and unnaturally tan my boobs are in this tight designer dress, and who will I make out with next in the jacuzzi in a drunken haze, and isn’t my hair shinier than yours?”

At least we have the freedom in this country to make ourselves look like idiots and to indulge in and glorify stupidity while our minds turn to mush.

But not everyone in the United States acts like that or watches “Jersey Shore.” Some people strive to rise above this mundane and base reality. So I really hope they don’t think we’re all that way.

Who do you write like?

Apparently I write like Cory Doctorow.

This is according to the Web site I Write Like, which analyzes your writing and tells you what famous author your writing is like.

I guess being compared to any famous author is flattering, and since I was consistently compared to Mr. Doctorow, maybe there's some truth there. (Or maybe this is another ego trip.)

I was also compared to Stephenie Meyer, author of Twilight. I'm not sure how I feel about that.

It's fun, even if it's not entirely accurate. Apparently "Norwegian Wood," written by John Lennon, sounds like Raymond Chandler. Really?

"I didn't ask to see you. You sent for me.

I don't mind your ritzing me or drinking

your lunch out of a Scotch bottle. I don't mind

your showing me your legs. They're very

swell legs and it's a pleasure to make their

acquaintance. I don't mind if you don't like

my manners. They're pretty bad. I grieve over

them during the long winter evenings.

But don't waste your time trying to cross-examine me."

-The Big Sleep

Ok, maybe. They both sound like women haters. And I always knew that song was about burning her place down!

And apparently Walt Whitman sounds like James Joyce. Maybe Joyce sounds like Whitman? And why can't Whitman sound like Whitman?

Anyway, now I'm going to have to read something by Doctorow to see if it's true.

And BTW, according to I Write Like, this post is like Stephen King.

Hmmm.

It's funny; but it's not.

Census Discoveries:

1) There exist motion-detecting sprinklers.

2) People suck.

Ok, something positive

“A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,

Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?”

From Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself"

(Isn't this exactly what you imagined he looked like?)

Can you imagine that the grass and leaves swaying and dancing in the wind is a conscious celebration of god?

Photo is Grass in A Minor by Drew

The Census: A Rant

I can’t say much, what with the confidentiality thing. But I will say this: some of you people are rude!

I’ve been yelled at and had the door slammed in my face too many times. I’ve had people ignore my genuine “thanks” and “goodbyes” and pretend like I don’t exist anymore. Worse, I’ve had people yell and then sarcastically say “thank you” before slamming the door in my face. WTF?

People, can you try to separate your negative feelings towards the government or whatever, and realize that I am a regular person like you. And I’m just trying to do my job while being polite and cheerful. And you should be embarrassed at how you treat me.

That’s all I can hope for, I guess: realization on your part. I get the urge to egg your house or write you a really mean note. But that passes. When I first started, I would replay the conversation over and over and tell you exactly how I felt. Now I fume for a few minutes and then move on to the next house. It's not my fault you're a jerk.

And not all of you are jerks. I appreciate all you kind people who go out of your way to help me. And who commiserate with me over having to work evenings and weekends in this freakish heat and humidity.

And I guess I should be glad I have a job at all. I only wish I’d run into some of you (Especially you, lady. You know who you are.) at the grocery store or church. I would say, oh yeah, I remember you. You were really rude.

Almost Summer

I wish I could bottle this cool breeze and save it for later. Because I know we’re going to need it.

I don’t want it to go to waste, so I’m going to close my eyes and enjoy it. It’s like cool caresses on my skin.

(Lower Castaic Lake, CA)

“The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the distillation, it is odorless,

It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,

I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,

I am mad for it to be in contact with me.”

From Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself.

To my family and friends who think I don’t love them because I don’t interact with them on facebook

I’m not sure how I feel about Facebook. On the one hand, I can see the value in being connected to people – people you haven’t seen in a while and people you see everyday, but connected in a different way. You pick and choose what part of your (somewhat narcissistic) reality to put out there and they can pick and choose what to see.

On the other hand, though, I’m tired!

81. That’s how many unread messages are in my gmail inbox. I’ve actually read them already, but I marked them as unread because I need to respond to them.

122. Number of unread blogs in my reader. I’ve skimmed these, but kept them unread because I want to read them later. Each morning, when I open reader, it’s easier for me to just go through the ones I don’t want to read. By the time I’ve done that and saved the good ones for later, I’m too tired to read any of them.

The same with the emails. It’s satisfying to delete unimportant emails, but that number in parenthesis next to “inbox” keeps growing and mocking me. Yesterday I made myself get it down into the 80s. It was over a hundred. On my to-do list I always write “emails.”

(There are also a ton of other, more important things on my to-do list, like, run, laundry, vacuum, iron, mend clothes, call the VA, haircut, shoes for wedding, and FIND A JOB!...so forgive me!)

So can you understand why I avoid facebook? I get email messages from facebook: “So and so wants to be your friend...” I usually delete these (feeling good getting that inbox number down).

Sometimes it’s someone I’m genuinely happy to see there in my inbox, and I make a rare trip to facebook to accept them, ignoring the many (I can tell there are a lot because the scroll bar is so small) other friend requests, friend suggestions, event requests, event invitations, cause invitations, requests for farm equipment, mob weapons, hearts, drinks, food, etc...oh, please stop! Exit! Exit facebook before someone sees that I’m here!

I’m not saying I’m so popular that I can just ignore potential friends. I'm saying, I don't know how you do it – get all the things done you need to get done and still have energy to talk to people on facebook. I’m saying I don’t want to be haunted by someone I knew 10 years ago and didn’t really like anyway, who had a late night wandering the facebook universe, looking for people he knew. He was probably drunk too.

So I just hit delete. Sorry, you are not intruding on my morning like that, making me feel guilty that I don’t get on facebook enough. I have 209 facebook friends who can do that just fine.

And I'm sorry I'm never on facebook! Can't we just go get a cup of coffee? Or you can help me pick out shoes for the wedding...?

My boyfriend and I are fighting right now. Of course, in this modern, technological day, we are going back and forth over emails, Google chat and texts – not actually talking to each other.

Last night at 3 a.m., my resolve dissolved. I needed to talk to him! I texted him, but he was already asleep. I paced my room, not knowing what to do with myself. The agony of missing him and wondering about how he felt for me was excruciating. I felt like the only thing that would ease it was sleeping pills, several shots of something strong or going for a 2-mile sprint.

So this morning, I checked my phone. Nothing. I checked my email. Nothing. I initiated a video chat. Nothing. After 10 minutes of nothing, of waiting for some response from out there in the ether, I was about to succumb to my craziness.

Then it dawned on me: how in the world did people managed in the days before the internet and telephone? I imagine Elizabeth Bennet, pacing her room for days...weeks...going on walks through the countryside, the questions unanswered, the worries eating away at her soul...as she waits for a return letter from Mr. Darcy.

(The BBC version is by far the best. Watch it all on YouTube.)

And I thought, maybe I’m being a little bit of a baby.

I realize this more and more...

The best thing about traveling is coming home.

To my soft, clean bed. To my clean, bug-free home. To stacks of mail all for me, mostly junk.

No more living out of my suitcase. I can unpack and do all my laundry.

Give the gifts I bought, and see how much people like them. Eat the candy I bought.

Get back into a routine. Feel refreshed. Appreciate the good things, and have a new view of the bad.

Take the things I've learned about how different people act in different places and look at the world with a new perspective.

Daniel Suzuki. My boyfriend and Apple Store employee.

He can.

And he does.

Donating Plasma, Part II

I drank a lot of water...just like Biomat said.

I passed out and peed my pants.

They probably had to sanitize the chair after I left.

I'm never going back.

(After it happened, I went online to see if I was a freak, or if this kind of thing happens all the time. There was not one word anywhere about anyone passing out donating blood and peeing. One girl passed out after a belly button piercing and peed. I found solace with her. This article is dedicated to all those who have been betrayed by their bladders and become completely mortified. You are not alone.)

Me vs. High School: My First Day Subbing

Or

The Day I let Teenagers Defeat Me

I was exhausted.

Seriously. Think about it...it's a constant battle against 30 kids, all day. I think teachers should get paid way more. I know people always say that, but I experienced it first hand.

I subbed for Ms. Ibraham, a math teacher at Corona High. This was the only info I had that morning, as I parked my car (in faculty parking! Yeah!) and walked onto the quiet, dewy campus.

The secretary gave me a folder, the classroom key and a bathroom key (teacher's restroom! Yeah!)

When I got to the class, I couldn't find any lesson plans. I was terrified. At the sub orientation (3 hours of filling out paperwork and 30 minutes of training), we were told to just follow the lesson plan, and we would be OK. I panicked, realizing the crosswords and mazes I had brought were not going to be enough.

While I was frantically searching, a student walked into the room. She turned out to be Ms. Ibraham. I was so happy that she was there, I got over how young she looked.

"This is my first day," I told her.

"Don't worry, it's so easy! Just have them do a page in their workbooks, and then give them these handouts. That will keep them busy all period. I usually let them talk quietly while they work. If anyone gives you any trouble, write their name down, and I'll take care of them tomorrow," she said.

"What if someone is really bad?" I asked.

"Dial this number," she wrote it down, "and just ask for security to come to class."

Ok, I thought, more relaxed. Give them busy work, and school security has my back.

She left, and I mentally prepared myself for the students...I.e., I prayed:

"Give me the strength to not be afraid of these guys. I mean, they're only kids! And I'm an adult. But I was a kid once too, so I should just remember what it was like, and treat them like people. And if it doesn't work out, I'll get to start over the next period. And after five periods, I get to go home. And I'm making $100! Well, more like $80, after taxes..."

It went on, as I tried to psyche myself up.

I prayed a lot that day.

First period was geometry. It was soon apparent that Ms. Ibraham also lets her students listen to iPods. Or maybe they were testing me.

When I handed out the Halloween word search (isn't it a little early for Halloween?), one of the students asked another, "Why are we doing this?"

"Busy work," the other replied.

So cynical! But true. I responded with, "It's so I don't have to actually teach you anything." Hey, they're people, right? I was just being real.

With ten minutes left of class, the students somehow silently, yet unanimously, agreed to stop working.

They talked, and I sat there, not sure what to do, and honestly, afraid to say anything.

A new period, and a more-brave me. This was the fundamentals of geometry class. I actually spoke with the students, walking around and helping with the assignment (trying to, at least). Halfway through, I pulled out the "Would You Rather" cards I had brought, and asked them questions like, "Would you rather be a great singer in a really bad band, or a bad singer in a really great band?" and "Would you rather change color with your emotions, or have your arms flail around wildly whenever you walk?"

That was fun.

There was one girl in the class who scared me. I felt like I was back in high school, and she was so loud and tough. But I think I won her over with the "Would You Rather" cards.

She asked me if they could watch the school's student-run news channel, and I wanted her to like me, so I said ok.

Next period was geometry again. They were unruly from the beginning, so I decided to bribe them:

"As soon as you guys finish your workbook assignment, I'll turn on the TV."

I didn't realize the student news channel only broadcasted once a day.

And when I turned on the TV and didn't see it, I knew I couldn't go back on my word.

"C-SPAN?" I tried.

"No," they shouted in unison. "Jerry Springer!"

I could just picture it. An administrator checking in on me and finding us all chanting, "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry!"

"No Jerry Springer. It has to be somewhat educational."

"Jerry Springer is educational. It shows you how not to be a dumb ass," someone said.

Such language!

I settled on "The Price is Right," with the volume turned all the way down.

And I pulled out the "Would You Rather" cards, but this class was too cool. So I walked up and down the aisles, telling kids to put away their cell phones, trying to help with the geometry, and trying to keep the terror that was slowly mounting inside of me from being evident to the students.

Finally, lunch. Relief. Daniel came by and picked me up, and we went to get a Slurpee. But halfway there, I realized I didn't have time and we had to go back.

I was late to fourth period, and running up to the class, saw a man with a walkie-talkie, holding the door open for students. I ran up to him. "Am I late?" I asked, ridiculously. Of course I was.

Fourth period was pre-calculus. How could I tell these kids what to do when I couldn't even do the math myself? I sat at Ms. Ibraham's desk, trying to remember what I had learned more than ten years ago. I could only do half the problems.

Every ten minutes, I would get up and walk around the room.

Then I'd sit back down.

I felt like a fraud.

And I was seriously bored out of my mind.

Fifth period was a break period. I sat in the teacher's lounge wondering, "What is wrong with me? Why am I so timid?" I vowed to be better.

I went back to the classroom, ready for my last class. Fundamentals of geometry again. This was the period Ms. Ibraham had warned me about.

"Hello guys, I'm Ms. Marquez. Today we are doing a page out of your workbooks and a worksheet. Let's just get through this so we can all go home."

I walked around, talking to students, confiscating graffiti-covered paper, returning stolen notebooks, urging, cajoling, and even arguing with students to get them to do the work.

One guy, who had been out of his seat the entire period flirting with a girl, felt like he should defend her when I told her to do her work. "Why should she start the word search? She's not going to finish and then she'll be bummed." He looked like he was my age. He was probably use to teachers leaving him alone.

"Because we're in class, so we should just do the work," I tried. "Is that a good enough reason?"

"I guess..." he said, muttering something else under his breath.

I didn't think to ask him where his assignment was. I didn't dare tell him to go back to his seat. I realized I was being a wimp. I'm not in high school, I told myself. I'm the teacher!

At one point I told another kid that he was really making me earn my money. Where did that come from? At least it shut him up.

It was around that time I noticed my phone was missing.

Maybe I left it in Daniel's car, I thought, as I search under Ms. Ibraham's desk and in all the drawers. Maybe someone took it, I considered, as I search (again) through my lunch bag.

Finally, the last bell buzzed, and I was free. I gathered my things, looking one last time for my phone, and locked the door.

When I got home, ready to ask Daniel if he had my phone, the first thing my mom said was, "Your phone was stolen."

How did she know?

"We got test messaging on our plan today, and I tried to text you with 'We have text messaging,'" she said, "and I got this text back: 'You had it.'"

"So I texted you again: 'What do you mean?' And I got this message back: 'Cuz this phone got jaked.'"

Can you believe that jerk said that to my mom?

And "jaked"? You mean, "jacked"? You can't even spell right, you little punk! (I looked up jaked in the urban dictionary to make sure it wasn't some new, high school lingo. It is, but a different usage. Little thief can't even spell. What a high school.)

Daniel even called my phone to talk the kid into turning the phone into the lost and found the next day at school.

The kid asked if he would get a reward.

WTF!?

I went through many emotions that day. Incredulousness, rage, self-pity, amusement, and finally, annoyance. With myself. I had let those kids walk all over me.

I wanted them to like me. I wanted to be the popular sub. So pathetic.

It took a while, but now I want another chance to do it right.

I don't have to be Sergeant Marquez, but I will not be a pushover. And I don't have to be completely open with them. I will be Ms. Marquez. I can teach, or, in some cases, I can just supervise. I can influence a few and keep the rest in line.

Ding, ding. Ready for round two.

Yay for Yoga!

Tonight was my first Yoga class at UCR Extension. It's the first class in a two-year Iyengar Yoga program. At the end of the program, I'll have down the "Fundamentals of Yoga" and certificates in "Theory and Practice" and "Teacher Training."

Tonight's class is called Iyengar Yoga, Part I.

Iyengar Yoga was created by B.K.S. Iyengar. I don't know too much about it yet.

Here's what I do know:

It focuses on proper posture, and instead of forcing our bodies into poses, we use props like folded blankets, wood blocks and straps to help our bodies get into poses.

So, in my experience, classes are slower and more thoughtful. Students take their time getting into a pose, with lots of demonstration and explanation from the teacher. Students get into a pose several times. The teacher explains what's happening with the muscles and stuff, and the students try to feel it and do it.

This fosters a mind that is aware and thoughtful.

In an Iyengar class, I don't push myself too hard. I "listen" to my body. I feel like I am treating it right. When I leave classes I'm more aware of my posture, thoughts and actions in everyday life. I focus on what I'm doing and do it well. I am happy. My mind isn't running crazy.

It's been a while since I've done any Yoga, so I'm really excited to get back into a regular practice.

My teacher is really cool. He wears these crazy shorts that look like a diaper but must be incredibly comfortable. His response to everything is "right on." Like when he was calling role:

"Eui-jo?"

"That's me."

"Right on."

I felt like he really meant it. He made me happy to be Eui-jo and to be there.

We only did about 13 poses. But we did them a few times with several demonstrations from the teacher. I don't even know his name. I was late to class...but I refused to get stressed out about it! It's Yoga, right? No stress! Right on!

The first was Mountain Pose. I missed that one, so I came home to read about it in my "Light on Yoga," by B.K.S. Iyengar.

The Sanskrit name of Mountain Pose is "Tadasana."

Here's Mr. Iyengar. He's right on.

To be properly in Mountain...

Stand with your feet together, heels and big toes touching. Lift your toes off the ground and stretch them out, but keep the big toes touching. Try to have the left and right sides of the ball of your foot and the left and right sides of your heel grounded. You are standing firmly and evenly on four points on each foot.

Tighten your knees and pull your kneecaps up. Tighten the backs of your thighs and draw the fronts of your thighs up. Draw your butt down and tighten your abs. Imagine that your pelvis is full of water...you don't want any to slosh out.

Pull your shoulder blades in towards each other and down. This will lift your stomach and propel your chest out and up. But keep the bottom of your body the same.

You can lift your arms up or keep them at your sides.

Now imagine yourself tall and strong, like a mountain.

Tada! (sana)

The reason this pose is so important is because pretty much every pose after this will use the same posture. In fact, if you notice your posture right now, you're probably slouched forward, with your chest collapsed and your heart closed off.

Open up your heart!

Review of "In the Heart of the Canyon"

Elisabeth Hyde's "In the Heart of the Canyon" is the fabulous story about a group of folks from all over the country who set off on a river rafting trip in the Grand Canyon.


They don't know each other, or the guides. The character development is incredible.

The novel is completely engrossing. I read until 2 last night and finished it this afternoon. I'm devastated that it's over!

It is a moving and motivating story. Rafting companies should use it as advertising. I am already planning my river rafting trip for next summer! Who's coming with me?

Read it!