Sigh

We're at constant war with dirty dishes and laundry. It's an unwinnable war, just like the phone bill that keeps coming every month. And it's not our fault, the dishes and clothing are self-proliferating when we're not at home, I swear. And every week we fight it, only to lose the war again. But not this time... maybe this time adulthood will win.

Yoga

Yoga has never appealed to me. Stretching and holding your body in strange positions, no thanks. Another reason not to like yoga is that some yoga instructors are just a little bit to 'earthy' in my opinion. Like instead of telling the yoga students to stretch their arms over their heads, they say stuff like "Reach uuuup towards the skyyyyyy...." Why sky?? Why not the ceiling, if anything? And they always speak with this sort of soft whispering-type voice and they drag out the vowels on every other word. The way someone from California might sound if they'd talk in their sleep.

At one gym/studio where I work as a massage therapist, they also offer yoga classes. Whenever I pass the yoga class I get to listen to these ridiculous instructions. Here's what I heard today, verbatim.

• "Tuck your tail towards the eeeeeeeaaaarth..." (again, why earth, why not floor? And... tail??)
  
• "Breathe into the kidneys, that's above your pelvis area, straighten that pelvis, feel the air reaching the kiiidneeeeeys..." (huh?? kidneys? air??)
• "Your feet are the rooooots, imagine swaying like a treeeeeee with your feet grounded to the eeaaaarth, feel the photosynthesis...." (she actually said the word photosynthesis, swear to God)
• But the absolute worst thing I ever heard from this yoga woman was this: "....and relax your reeeectuuuuum...and relax your vagiiiiinaaaa..." (don't need to hear stuff like that unless at the OBGYN's)

Here's what I have to say to all Yoga people - What the fuck?!?!

Fight or Flight

A woman in her 20's, dressed rather stylishly and with a hipster hair cut and dark make-up on, sits a few seats away from me on the Q train. As the train stops on top of the Manhattan bridge (as it often does for no apparent reason) she throws an angry fit. A sudden psychotic outburst. "I'm NOT gonna say I'm FUCKING sorry!!!!" she yells. Who is she talking to? There's no one next to her. In fact, I'm the only person sitting sort of close to her. She's not talking to me, is she? Avoid eye contact.

She takes off her eye glasses and throws them as hard as she can against the seats opposite to her, and they shatter into a bunch of pieces and land on the floor, close to my feet. Oh no, she's really crazy. Avoid eye contact.

I look around the car to see if other passengers are noticing what's going on over at my end. The two women across from me are already doing what New Yorkers do best when confronted with unstable people or pregnant women looking for a seat - pretend to be asleep. I look at other passengers and they are also doing the pretend-sleep-trick. I wish I could join them, but I'm too scared of this woman. I need to have at least one eye open. More yelling and screaming "FUCK, I'm NOT sorry!!! FUCK!! FUUUUUCK!!" and then she bangs her fists against the window, hard. THUMP, THUMP, THUMP.

Come on train, start moving please, please. The crazy girl stands up suddenly, I sink into my seat, and she walks past me. She walks with loud angry steps all the way to the opposite end of the car. The train starts moving again. Thank you, God, I think to myself. Then, the crazy girl stomps back to my end and screams: "Don't FUCKING turn AROUND!!" I'm really scared of her at this point. If she begins to involve other people into her craziness, it will be me, since I sit so close to her. I consider my options if this happens: 1) Curl up into fetal position and cover my head with my arms 2) Hit her first.

More screaming and hitting the windows and doors. Still, everyone else on the train is asleep. The train slowly rolls into the station. I plan my escape - don't stand up too soon, don't move until the doors are fully open, and then run out fast. She won't have time to react. It worked. I'm off the train, safe.

Walking towards the exit someone taps me on my shoulder from behind. My first thought is that it must be the crazy girl. It's not. It's a young blond woman. It takes me at least five seconds before I realize that the blond girl is my sister. "Heeeey, we were on the same train?? Were you in the same car as that crazy girl??" I ask. "Yes!" my sister says, "she walked right by me when she did that walk!"

Ha. So this whole time when I was frightened I had back-up all along. My sister would totally have helped me out if need be. Unless, of course, she was asleep.

Fate

Ever since that random guy on Dekalb Avenue told me that I might get mugged if I keep walking home on that street at night with my iPod on, I have had a hard time walking home on that street at night with my iPod on.

He has totally ruined my evening strolls home from the subway. I enjoyed listening to my iPod at night, especially late at night. It makes the train run faster and it makes me walk faster, and I get home faster. But now I'm too paranoid to do it. I would totally get mugged now, no doubt. That guy jinxed it. Thanks a lot, asshole.

This actually reminds me of an old college-friend who has avoided the corner of 23rd street and Lexington Avenue for the past 10 years. On that very corner, he was approached by a crazy homeless person who pointed a finger in his face and screamed: "Youuuu!!! are going to DIIIEEEE heeeeere!!!!!" and then the bum pointed to the street. Obviously he can never pass that corner ever again.

Learn

No one can pronounce our cat Kompis' name correctly. Everyone says "compass" instead of Kompis. And then they come up with stupid things to say about him, like - "Compass always faces the right direction" or "Compass is never lost."

How hard is it to say Kompis? Put the emphasis on the first syllable only. So instead of saying compass (kom'pes) you say KOMpis ('kompes). Capisce? (ca-peesh)

Blood

Bentley - the cat - scratched my wrist so badly it started bleeding. I guess it was an accident.
I picked him up a little bit too quickly and he freaked out and slit my wrist. I had to put a tissue on it and apply pressure and elevate my hand and everything. That's when the appliances guys rang the doorbell to come in and install our new fridge.

I opened the door with blood dripping down my forearm. "Kitchen's right there" I said, pointing with a bloody wrist to our little hallway that's actually a kitchen. The men stepped around me, sort of awkwardly, and started working. I continued to wrap my wrist with a dressing and a gauze bandage. "Let me know if you need any help" I told the guys who didn't respond.

That's when I realized - This totally looks like a botched suicide attempt. Like some stupid teenager in need of attention, not really trying to end her life, but just in need of the scar and the bandage, the attention, the pity, the mystery. These guys must not think I'm a suicidal teenager. "You know I'm married you know" I said trying to seem like someone in her thirties, "my husband actually had to take that door frame off for us to get the fridge out, you know, so that you guys could move the new one in also..." No response from the guys.

I had to go into work looking like this as well. But to be honest, it actually feels kind of cool to have my wrist all bandaged up. People stared at me curiously on the subway. And at work, my patients were concerned and asked me questions about it, all that stuff, attention. Of course I told my patients that the cat did it, not me. But the people on the subway, they will never know.

To Do

I just made a "To do" list. I don't make those lists very often. Thing is, I feel so good about making the list that I think that's enough work for today. Aaaah, what a productive day.

Don't ask

It's amazing how people walk up to uniformed personnel to ask random questions, like directions to the nearest restroom etc. Don't cops have better things to do than pointing people to the bathroom?

Yesterday we were on stand-by with the ambulance at mile 25 of the marathon, which is in Central Park, and we also got some of this treatment from the public. Since our ambulance was practically parked at the side of the road (the engine still running), people thought it was totally fine to bother us for directions: "Where's the finishing line?" and "How do I get to the west side?" and "Is there a bathroom around here?" and "How do I cross to the other side?". Ugh.

Granted, we weren't with any patients when they asked, but still. Our radios kept going off and it's hard enough to decipher what the dispatchers are saying without having some bozos around asking where they can take a piss.

The worst offender of the day was a woman who approached us as we were leaving the park. We were crawling into traffic with sirens on, and she came up and knocked on the driver's window to ask: "Is everything ok?"

Parenting

I never thought of my old cat Katzu (who passed away in August) as my child, like some pet-owners do. Katzu was more of a partner, a peer, a soul-mate. Sorry if this sounds corny, but it's true. I got Katzu when he was 7 years old which means he was already a grown-ass man when we moved in together. And I didn't so much take care of him as a parent, I was more like... his servant. Served him food, cleaned up his crap, massaged his scalp. I miss Katzu.

But now that we have two new cats, young cats, less than a year old, I get it. I understand why idiots think their pets are their children. They sort of are. I take at least 20 pictures of the cats everyday to make sure I don't miss out on any developments - oh look, they're together on the couch! (take picture) Oh, look, how cute, they're eating together! (take picture) Oh look, they're sleeping! (take picture), etc. We weigh them on a regular basis to see how much they are growing. When the cats play with loose change that they find lying around in the apartment, Sean and I even get to say annoying things like: "Stop throwing money around!" and "Do you think money grows on trees?!?" and "Do I look like a bank to you??" Stuff that real parents get to say.

I love having the two new boys around even though I miss Katzu tremendously.

Patient

I saw one of my massage patients from the chiropractic clinic on the train today. He was dressed nicely in a dark suit and was conversing with his girlfriend, or maybe wife, who was also dressed up. Perhaps they were going out for dinner or to a show or something. He didn't see me, and I pretended to be asleep. I kept thinking how weird it is that I know this man's whole medical history. And I know that he has a big tattoo on his shoulder blade; in fact, I'm extremely familiar with his tattoo. And I know that his right quadratus lumborum muscle is restricted. I bet his wife doesn't know that. And I know that he's running the marathon on Sunday. How strange it is to touch people for money.