Finding My Chi

I am going to a yoga class this morning.  I’ve been doing yoga off and on for the past several years — more off than on due to time constraints, but I love how regular practice makes me feel.  I also love the non-competitiveness of yoga.  A competitive person by nature, yoga is not a level playing field in which I can one day hope to “win.” I am not, and will never be, one of those women who can put her leg behind her head — Mr. Dingo has made peace with that — but in the classes I’ve attended, it’s feeling good in your own skin that is cause for celebration and not whether you can braid your hair with your toes.

I am looking forward to starting yoga again.  The years and calcification are catching up to me.  I move with all the stiffness of a zombie; not one of those new fangled George Romero Dawn of the Dead (2004) fast-moving zombies but one of the Night of the Living Dead (1976) ghouls — arms fully extended, knees locked.  I’m too young for this stiffness but I’ve always been this way.  At five years old, while other girls were aspiring to be the next Nadia Comaneci (yes, I’m that old) or starring in Swan Lake, my dance instructor told my mom that, “Dingo’s talents lie in other areas.” She did not specify exactly what those other areas were.  Although Mom tried to hide it, I could tell she was crushed.  Not because she had the stage mother aspirations of the other moms at my dance studio, but because she loved making the costumes for my dance recitals.  She truly missed her calling.  Mom belongs in NYC making costumes for Broadway.  Still, there were days in grade school when I thought that going to school dressed as a pirate right down to the eye patch was a bit much.  And, in retrospect, my mom standing in the hall for costume changes — going, for instance, from the Cat in the Hat for English to a pilgrim for History — now does seem excessive.

Years later I discovered yoga.  At that point it wasn’t that I wanted to look like a Degas portrait as much as I wanted to be able to bend over and tie my shoes without pulling a muscle.  Yoga was incredible.  It took me months to gain flexibility but my body felt good.  I felt good.  So I’m off to the yoga studio this morning.  If I haven’t sprained my fingers or torn a ligament, I will give you an update later this evening or tomorrow.

For now, meditate on the peaceful expression of the Yoga Frog gracefully executing Tree Pose on my terrace.

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It’s All Happening at the Zoo

Several times a week, Dingo Girl and I walk past the entrance to the Central Park Children’s Zoo.  When she was little, she’d paw at the wall on Fifth Avenue that overlooks the Children’s Zoo.  I would hoist her up so that she could see the animals, particularly the goats.  She was fascinated with the goats.  When I think of a zoo, I think of penguins, polar bears, lions.  Not goats.  I guess it’s not a good public relations move to let children run around a lion enclosure.  It’s not that goats are any less dangerous; not by a long shot.  In fact, at the entrance to the Central Park Children’s Zoo there is a statue of a child being mauled by two goats!  Somehow the goats tearing the clothes off of this child fails to deter parents from buying their overpriced tickets to the “petting zoo.” I have only seen one child balk at entering the Children’s Zoo.  This marvelously prescient child must have realized that the “children’s zoo” was a ruse to get cheap human fodder for the goats and other animals behind the enclosure.  The parents of this child ignored her tears and, as they dragged her through the entrance, I swore I could hear her shout, “Soylent green is people!”

Update:  It is with irony and sadness that I need to update this post to let you know that Charlton Heston, one of the old school actors of the big screen died on Saturday, April 5, 2008.  He was 83.

Heston had a prolific film and television career spanning more than six decades.  Although in his later years Heston became better known as the face of the NRA, at one time the silver screen icon was the king of blockbusters.  He often portrayed the gritty, rough around the edges leading man in blockbusters such as Ben Hur (1959), Planet of the Apes (1968), and one of my favorites as evidenced by the film clip that is linked above, Soylent Green (1973).

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I CNT RITE - 4 REALZ

I’m amazed, just amazed, at what passes for writing at the university level these days. I am so sick of reading bad papers.  I think my eyes are bleeding.  I can understand that, as freshmen, my students have not yet developed critical reading and writing skills.  To not have mastered basic sentence construction, however, is unforgivable. How, how, how did these kids get into college?  Is my Institution of Higher Learning so desperate for tuition that we take anyone who can string together, “The dog ran after the ball,” in her writing sample?  Because, really, so many of my students have not advanced past that level.  Although it may just be my age showing, please tell me when it became acceptable to write an entire paper in LolCats?  Should I look the other way when I receive an email like the following?

Hi Prof.,

HRU?*
WH5 U HV HRS?

OOH,

Student

There is only one response to such an inquiry,

WTF?


Who is at fault for this crapola?  According the faculty member who gave me my review today (it went splendidly, thank you), most of our students are from New York City public schools.  Really.  That’s what he said.  Most of our students are from New York City public schools.  End.  Stop.  Period.  This, to him, was a wholly satisfactory explanation for their crappy papers.  When pressed, he did give me a more detailed explanation.  The finality and resignation with which he made this announcement prepared me for a rationalization involving some sort of Emerald Nuts shenanigans.  You know, something like the Swiss Family Robinson or the Addicted to Love Girls descending at 3:00pm to steal the young, vital brains of NYC youth.  But no, his explanation was far more bizarre. 

He claims that the reason I receive incoherent papers that make Dr. Seuss look like Dr. Zhivago is because NYC schools are overwhelmed, overworked, and understaffed.  There isn’t enough feedback on writing assignments and English homework to teach students the correct way to write a sentence, form a thesis statement, or write a conclusion.  So, the students are passed along to the next level without mastering basic skills.  To this, I say, Bullshit.  To the teachers who don’t do their jobs. Bullshit.  To parents that are not involved in their child’s learning.  Bullshit.  To the students who accept mediocrity, hell, less than mediocrity, when it comes to their education.  Bullshit.  To the schools that are letting us down.  Bullshit.  To all this, I say, “Here’s a big, steaming pile of doo-doo!”

IMO,

WOMBAT.

Oh well.  IGTR.

L8R,

Dingo


Translation:

HRU? = How are you?
WH5 U HV HRS? = When are your office hours?
OOH = Out of here
WTF? = Oh, come on, you know what this means.
IMO = In my opinion
WOMBAT = Waste of money, brains, and time
IGTR = I got to run
L8R = Later

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Response-able

I’ve been spending a lot of time training Dingo Girl lately, with mixed results.  She is smart and learns quickly.  She enjoys learning new things, but after she’s learned something new, when you give her the command she looks at you like, “It was fun learning that, but don’t expect me to just do it every friggin’ time you snap your fingers, be-otch.” I’ll write more about this later, but the biggest problem is with Dingo Girl’s response times.  She’ll do something, especially if there is a treat at stake, but don’t expect for her to rush about it.  Yeah, she’ll come, but she has an itch she has to scratch first and maybe she wants to check to see if there is anything in the garbage can along the way. 

You may have noticed, if you’ve been following this blog, that the blog itself was experiencing this very same problem.  You would innocently point your browser to asiwassaying.com and then your browser would wait and wait and wait.  The website would eventually serve up the page, but it had an itch it had to scratch first and maybe it wanted to check to see if there was anything in the garbage can along the way.  In the time it took the page to load, you could have prepared and filed your taxes.  On a particularly slooow day, your refund would have already arrived and you would find yourself with enough time to lounge on a sun-drenched beach in Antigua sipping umbrella drinks and checking out the cabana boy before the first As I Was Saying pixel hit your screen.  This site is undergoing improvements and the first one I wanted to address was response time.  If you are like me I truly feel sorry for you when it comes to cyberspace, you know the angst any delay brings.  If a page doesn’t load within .2 nanoseconds after I click on a link, I twirl my hair, gnash my teeth, and bemoan the fact that valuable seconds of my already jam packed day are being sucked up by the cyberspace gremlins.  The option of backing away from the computer just does not exist.  I am convinced that whatever is on the other side of the computer screen fighting to make its way through is absolutely vital to my existence.  Vital! 

But you, dearest readers reader Mom, will have to wait no more. 

Did you notice the speedy response time today?  Did it impress you?  Did it make you happy?  Did it make you want to add As I Was Saying to your Google Reader?  If so, take a second, add me to your Google Reader and then come back and I will tell you how Mr. Dingo saved the day and how my old web host is now on my shit list along with idiots who wear Uggs in the summer, Rachel Ray, and people who unwrap hard candy during the tearjerker scenes in the movie theater.  (Oh, if we ever meet again, “Mr. I’m Too Manly To Cry During The Notebook But I Happen To Have A Brand New DVD With Me That I Am Dying To Open,” I’ll show you what it feels like to be a Twizzler.) What was I saying?  Oh, add me to your Google Reader.  Go on, I’ll wait.

***
Mr. Dingo is not only a superfantastic cook, my own resident comedian, and the Dingo household late night, torrential rain, blinding snow, stars are not in alignment dogwalker, he’s also my very own personal IT guy.  Yep, all of the knowledge but none of the khakis with white socks and black shoes.  A few days ago when I started to receive emails from you gently notifying me that Social Security would be defunct by the time my page loaded, I asked Mr. Dingo to figure out what the heck was going on.  He said that it had something to do with [insert technical computer jargon here that I don’t understand even though Mr. Dingo explained it four eight twice] and our web host.  He contacted the web host via email because we all know trying to get in touch with a live customer service agent these days is like trying to squeeze into those chic winter pants you bought last fall that were so comfortable in the dressing room.  Their website promised a response within 24 hours.  Two days later, two whole days later, we still had not heard back from them.  When we figured moving at the speed of a garden slug was their standard operating procedure, we switched web hosts. 

The transfer has not been without its own adventures.  My posts did not transfer verbatim.  The punctuation apparently decided that it liked the old web host better, especially the commas and the periods.  With all the pausing and stopping they do, they found nothing wrong with the old ways.  So instead of ellipses, apostrophes, and em dashes, you saw ¤, ×, or ð.  No, I wasn’t trying to send coded messages.  There are no fragile vials filled with doomsday secrets; there are no creepy robed men; there is no flabby Tom Hanks in a bad toupee.  It was merely a freaky transfer issue that has since been resolved through my meticulous attention to detail and the magic of “find and replace.” So far, the only other issue we’ve encountered was brought to my attention by Lunanik from Secrets of a Black Heart, who emailed me to let me know the comments weren’t working properly.  Thanks Lunanik!  Your blog name to the contrary, your heart is not so black, merely a shade of cerebral grey.  Now, if I can just get Technorati to feature me on the front page, all will be fine in the world.  In the meantime, comment away, folks!  Comment away!

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Cold Turkey, Wild Turkey, It’s All the Same to Me

Sweet Baby Jesus, the last two weeks have driven me to drink!  More!  They’ve driven me to drink more.  I have to say that my good friends Jim Beam and Jack Daniels have been very supportive during this time.  Who was it that decided that I should quit smoking the same week that PMS was ratcheting up my moodiness to unprecedented levels?  Oh yeah, that was me.  Freakin’ moron. 

I decided to quit smoking while Mr. Dingo was in Miami two weeks ago to save him from the effects of my nicotine withdrawal wrath.  The first three days were miserable.  I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t think of anything but not smoking.  At night, Marlboro 100s danced through my restless sleep like the ridiculous animated concession stand characters that are shown right before the previews in the movie theater.  Does anyone else find it disturbing that these advertisements show a soda, box of candy, and a bag of popcorn going to the concession stand to buy a soda, box of candy, and a bag of popcorn to eat during the show? 

Speaking of movies, I went to see The Other Boleyn Girl during the great Dingo Smoke-Out.  When I see someone in a movie smoke, it usually makes me want to light one up myself.  Say what you will about the anti-smoking lobby’s efforts to remove smoking scenes from PG-13 movies, but I think we have already established that I am a sucker for blatant advertising.  However, the only thing smokin’ in The Other Boleyn Girl is Eric Bana. 

On Day Four, I sorted through Cigarette Mountain (as we affectionately call the pile of cigarette stubs that overflow the cigarette bucket on our terrace) looking for any stub that hadn’t been smoked down to the filter.  It was a low moment, and not one of which I am particularly proud.  My frantic search was futile.  In anticipation of the great smoke-out, I sucked everything down to the gold stripe on the filter.  I was wondering why it was getting harder not to smoke instead of easier.

Day Five.  I was bitter about Mr. Dingo’s Miami junket.  I imagined him in the lush, color-saturated tropics basking by the pool in shades and suntan oil surrounded by long… lean… creamy… cigarettes.  And ashtrays.  I swear, by Day Five if we had any dirty ashtrays in the apartment I would’ve been licking them like a Tootsie Roll Lollipop. 

Day Six was so much better.  Mr. Dingo was returning home, Dingo Girl and I had a great session with her trainer (more about that in another post), and all was right in the world.  I think I have this thing beat.  Not counting the time I stalked the gaggle of women down Madison Avenue just to inhale their second hand smoke, I hadn’t touched a cigarette in six days. 

Day Seven.  Woohoo!  March 17th.  One week without cigarettes.  The entire world threw a party for me.  You may have passed by a few of the celebrations.  There were streamers, crazy costumes, and even parades!  NYC threw a huge parade for me up Fifth Avenue.  Mayor Bloomberg couldn’t attend because he was in Albany inhaling the fumes from Elliott Spitzer’s political career.  But dear readers, reader, Mom, I’m glad you were there for my big day. 

Today marks the second week since I’ve had a smoke.  The second week was much easier than the first, but it was no picnic.  There’s been a lot of stress this week with quitting my job (yes, I told the lying bastards to go fuck themselves), grading papers, grading mid-terms, working on my thesis, training Dingo Girl, creating lesson plans, blah, blah, blah, and there have been times when I just wanted a cigarette to help calm my nerves. But I resisted the temptation.  Instead of sitting out on the terrace smoking a cigarette, I sat on our bench hand in hand with my two greatest allies in this no-smoking campaign.  Jim and Jack.  God bless ‘em.

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