Funny Business

Hef and Nancy

If you want to turn back feminism about a hundred years and can stand dumbing yourself down, watch reality show "The Girls Next Door" for five minutes. It is so repulsive once you start watching it you can't stop, kind of like looking at roadkill, you can't help yourself.

Last night's episode they were in Jamaica without Hef and it showed Hef talking to his secretary, Nancy, who is his age (approaching 80).

That's when it struck me: Hef and Nancy belong together! They are the same age and seem to enjoy each other's company. I don't know what kind of arrangement he has with the 3 20-something bottle blondes he's, what, 'dating?', but it's not natural--I'm sure it's prostitution. They must be paid to stay there, instead of dating guys their own age. Whatever he's paying them, it can't be enough. Girls, it's time to run away from home! Scale the velvet fences of the Playboy Mansion and hit the road!

Instead of watching the pneumatic, fake girls go round the world with Hef squealing with their fake boobs spilling out and receiving his gummy kisses, and  exclaiming such deep things as: "I've always wanted to go to a beer hall!" he needs a new reality show, "Hef and Nancy," where he and Nancy just shuffle around in slippers and robes spending Hef's millions on charities.

Another Kiddie Post

These may be getting tedious but I can't help myself. The past 4.5 years--the entire span of Annika's life--I've had the pleasure of experiencing the kiddie dimension--a world of fun that without her I may never have known about. It also allows me to access my inner kid; admittedly she lurks not far beneath the surface. (Who am I kidding? I chose a creative life so I could pretty much be a kid 24/7.)

This Saturday is a fun open house at Weir Farm in Hingham. You get to see sheep being sheared. You get snacks. You get to be on a real working farm that's also a conservation area. You get to pet a giant pig. A horse. You get to see wool being spun. It's the kind of wholesome good time that may sound terribly pedestrian to some, but gives me a huge thrill. Last year I chased Annika around a wagon and launched myself from a small hill until I fell down. Then I galloped her up a hill while she smacked my butt to get the old nag to go faster. The working farm is also a work out. And I love it.

Yee haw!

Things that make you go huh?

Monday night meditation at Back Bay Yoga. I always thought the point of meditation was to stop thinking so you coud experience the world moment by moment without racing ahead or getting stuck in the past. 

Turns out it's ok to think during meditation, you're just supposed to be like a witness, not identifying with the thinker (whoever that is). 

So apparently beyond the thoughts, and the personality, and the non-existent thinker, is some sort of spacious awareness. Hmmmmmm....

I'm not really getting it but I always do enjoy a challenge.

Send me your syno*sis

So I was treated to the pitch of Kenny, a guy I met in the Starbucks across from Berklee, recently. He used a question about the book I was reading (Thomas Moore's Dark Nights of the Soul) to launch into his idea for a film about a family who sells lobsters. The family boils their enemies alive—just the way lobsters are boiled alive!

As I was musing on his idea, which he claimed I'd "fall in love with," he said he had already written his treatment and his "synosis."

Well. Kenny.  I'm not saying you have to know the word "synopsis" to sell the thing. But it may help.

Yogaromatherapy

One of many words I've coined. I take an essential oil towelette (the lavender ones from Herban Essentials are the most potent) and wipe my yoga mat with it. Then I stick it in my bra and the whole workout I get nice wafts of lavender. Which beat wafts of sweat any day. So you get yoga and uplifting aromatherapy at once; the multiple benes of: yogaromatherapy.

Bells, bells, bells!

Well, they're not really bells but bowls that are tapped in the CD Xumantra. The meditation bowls that wake you up from a sessions, reverberating and fading until you are completely awake.

A series of them ring in various "songs" and listening is very relaxing. Don't do it while driving.

I told my dad that if he meditated or did yoga he could totally kick his anti-anxiety meds. I couldn't get him to say "om" with me.

Listening to these bowls could help too.

Gender questions

At dinner last night my niece asked about the gender of my brother's birds. How could we tell which one is the girl and which is the boy, she asked? Well, first of all, we don't know how to tell a bird's gender, really. I've been calling them Sid and Nancy because one has a yellow mohawk and bites, reminding me of Nancy in the movie by the same name. Sid is bigger, so I assumed he was a male. My niece has been calling one of them "Lucy."

But recalling some arcane bit of knowledge I had tucked away, I responded, "You part the feathers, and look for the CLOACA." Just saying the word "CLOACA" made me  laugh hysterically. Try it: CLOACA. It  is funny. Pretty soon we were both laughing hysterically. Especially since I wouldn't recognize a cloaca if I fell into it. I really need to get my niece that book about biology. But until then, CLOACA to you!

Coffee: never say die

My doctor asked me yesterday how much coffee I drink and I told her one cup a day; I actually did replace that second afternoon cup with either green tea or a piece of fruit. It's tolerable, but I'll never give it up totally.

My fiance doesn't drink coffee (must reconsider nuptials) and once dared me to quit coffee. I did it. I was cranky. But I did it. And I'll never do it again. Call me an addict, but I love the smell, the taste, and maybe just the pause in the morning as I drink it. When I visit his family I have to make elaborate arrangements to get coffee. I told my fiance's dad it was my only luxury and he said it certainly is, considering the price. No more defending my coffee drinking. No more skulking around.

I would gladly spend the balance of my days in a cafe in france just drinking coffee and pondering the meaning of life. I know perhaps there is no meaning to life. I know I'll never know the answer. But doesn't that make it a great thing to ponder? (Scientists unlocking genes and manning particle accelerators: please don't discover too much. The best part of life is its mystery.)

I don't care too much about the origin of the universe. I just like being part of it all. Preferably with a cup of coffee in my hand.

RIP David Foster Wallace

DFW hung himself on 9.12. Sad! He was one of my favorite writers, who inspired me, especially for the hilarious book: a supposedly fun thing I'll never do again.

Found poem saturday while walking

Cucumber slice at the side of the road: tossed salad.