4....9..9....Ommmmm or why Botox is better than Chemotherapy.

I am my immigrant father's daughter, my origins & ambitions mostly prefer the concrete over the lingeringly conceptual.

Amelia(Amy/Chicklet from my previous AOL blogs. She feels those names sound juvenile now..but I've caught her still using Amy...I digress...) is attending college in NY. The last time I had to be in the state I agreed to join her for a yoga class. I'm not a particularly frugal person, but the place seemed rather expensive. Amelia's dad happily pays for the classes because she is 20 & they do not involve sex. He will pay for anything she does at 20 that does not involve sex.

The yoga studio would take me~as a one-time guest~for roughly the price of 2 Chopin Cosmos, with the rental mat being another Chopin shot. I tried not to weigh that out too long. But still.

I've meditated (for free) for many years but this was more soft pornish(I'm telling Daddy) aerobics with earnest but feathery people who smelled like lemongrass/curry.

And the air of something knowingly grad school philosophy student superior that is hard to distill into a sentence.

There was an aggressively benevolent poster on the wall advertising a rich people workshop. Not that it said that. I indulge in some high-end products & services myself, but they are usually rightly coded as luxury or pampering or spa. This was... spiritual awakening.. all is one & ...healing...@ $499 + tax for one & a half days. Do the math. A rich people workshop.

I am not uneasy at the prospect of change, but I am uncomfortable with people in shabby-chic designer clothes with $300 hair cuts who are whacking at the capitalists & saying chemotherapy is a sham(see pamphlets in lobby). Girlfriends seem to be ok with Botox though.

When we took a break several French manicured women were close to reverence speaking of a tea tree oil treatment for sale in the shop..which turned out to be the shoppe. I kid you not when I write that one of the shoppe's yoga tops had ~Austerity~ emblazoned on its front. I tried soaking in the tea tree oil profundity for a bit but then I switched to thinking that Sports Authority probably has those yoga pants for a lot less than $157 the shoppe was selling them for. And I am pretty sure "shoppe" is an ego word. I tuned back in when the yogettes were talking about possible cures for strep. Oh, oh, I know that one!

Me: Antibiotics.

But no, sadly, my answer was judged too mundane. Actually, I'm assuming, because I was genially ignored. They didn't want input, they wanted agreement.

Then a birdlike woman was waxing poetic about her depression mix? The yogi will put together a personalized kit to heal your most pressing physical & psychological "concerns." A combo of emollients & quenchers(these are known in my little backwater town as lotions & drinks), breathing techniques, exercise regimens, & mantras....@ $499 + tax. Apparently a popular number in yoga.

Great. Can I please have a cure schizophrenia & get my house back kit? I'll wait over by the rich people poster while you mix it up.

Me: So where do all these liberal, ethereal hippies with Obama t-shirts(ok, there were only 3 t-shirts, & I do actually believe the guy cannot win no matter what he does, even if I am not much a fan of his policies) get the money to pay for these classes?

Amelia:Shhhhh.

Me: Maybe from their conservative, concrete, antibiotic-taking dads & husbands?

Amelia: Shhhhh(but she grinned in slight collusion because she loves her concrete, moderately conservative, antibiotic-taking dad).

Break is over & the yogi wants to know what we feel emanating from deep within our bodies & souls. I did not say irony & cynicism, but I was sorely tempted. I said -Love, because when I am with Amelia that is always true.

Don't mind me, I'll just sit here next to the mouse gynecologist.

My sardonic friend David(he is a writer, which explains a lot, but not enough)often goes to wakes for people he has never met, & to group therapy for conditions he does not have. His lovely wife tends to stay at home, generally mortified.



David believes most wake mourners have a penchant for histrionics, center staging it.


Hmmm. Maybe because they actually knew the deceased?



I recently attended a celebration of life(for some random dead guy)with David. I'd never met the honoree, & David had only spoken with him once, at a publishing must-go. I agreed to this because David's wife, Chloe, wanted(begged)me to normalize his encounters.



Me? Pickings must have been slim indeed. My disgrace factor has been a little jiggered of late, what with the schizophrenia & all, but I tried to rein him in(no I didn't).



This (commercial for a publishing house)celebration had a lot of artisanal(heavy on the last 4 letters)food. Oh, and the fancy, fragrant wine, on a backlit rainbow display, tasted like they'd poured Yankee candles into balloon goblets. Pictorial references galore, tepid selling novels, chic scattered.... but no Know Me words spoken. All memories were deftly turned into publishbot relations humoid-smileys. Please give me just one surge of real tenderness. But no. All very distant & staged.



With one notable standout~this guy cried when discussing the honoree's children in his speech. A teeny but chubby man with jello-shot man boobs & blue Husky eyes, later talking about intestinal flora & the genitalia of mice. He is/ was working on a research project(I hope). I sat next to him, sipping my Yankee candle, deconstructing smileys.

I can't move into your guest house because it is too Kato Kaelin for me. I'd rather pay my own bills than dye my hair that many colors.

Whenever the ex-bf thinks I am encroaching on his male prerogative he takes on an expression suggestive of extreme intestinal discomfort. He wants to save the princess because it's an embed on his DNA. This(somewhat long-in-the-tooth) princess (snort) has her own DNA issues. I resent & resist any & all invasions of my autonomy. An unearned, unsolicited, sense of security can be very costly in a much deeper way.


And the story should end there, before it becomes a girl-in-danger B movie. But.


At some point..what with all the electricity arcing between us...it becomes difficult to keep buttons buttoned, but I do, because after all, I have a point~ a solid stance to maintain, amid all the attendant details of life (& insanity). Many advances have been inconsistent & rudimentary, but ultimately it has all pointed slightly skyward. I've done a fairly good job of capturing dignity despite some degrading & despairing circumstances.


So I am willful & aloof(with a subtle whiff of loving) while he is powerful & ornery(with a stronger hint of loving). A couple finding their way to indignation is just so trite & plebeian. All the facts are neutral until we add our complicated(often contrary) meanings. But does that occur to us while we are going through it? Oh, hell no.


So what was my point again? Hmmm...

Ah, yes. That he is alternately,

out of the question


And


deliciously unavoidable.



Damn it.


The ex, smiling like a crocodile, can sense this & appears to be taking great personal satisfaction from my predicament. But then his bright eyes look(mildly)contrite, & he says:


I want to be the calm, sane place for you.


And often he is.


Then much more quietly he says: I guess I also want to be essential.


And always, he is.

The less that is happening overtly the more there is to keep track of

I miss Russ~ http://innerouterdemons2.blogspot.com/

I hope he is properly mortified that Amelia's Catholic college prayer group is praying for him. When things got really bad & others were pinning me like a dried caterpillar to a specimen board(well, I was acting very, very weird), he remained a kind & loving friend. And yeah, it may have something to do with the fact that he writes Hallmark cards for a living, but his emails(& well-timed cards) have helped me sort through the advisability of my actions, gently~always gently.

Christmas makes me feel like a salmon swimming upstream, but I very much doubt that I alone carry that emotion.... then a couple of little kids at the food pantry give me knee-hugs after they get to pick out their holiday toys; I paddle back from my mental- defense Elba & have a good time. Who knew?

When my dad came to the US from Italy he mistook the phrase bleached blonde for beached blonde. Often, he used it often. My mother, always a beautifully natural brunette, assumed a perfectly guileless smile...and never corrected him.

I do long for my parents' touch this time of year, but the memories(& the knee-hugs)always make me smile. And there is something to be said for simply, quietly, proceeding.

Utilizing material progress for the good of society while having a really great time.

The AIDS charity I co-hosted came off beautifully. I gotta say, I looked great too. When 4 gay men dress you for an event, unless you are Aileen Wuornos, you are going to look Fab.

Someone mentioned that there were a few times I acted like a potentate. Bambi Eyes.

Anyway, did I mention I looked great? Seriously, a couple of times my eyebrows were pitched in tents of worry, & I might have nipped a heel or 2(or 4), but we raised a ton of money, helped a very talented, immuno-compromised boy launch a dancing career, & brought a mom out to NJ who'd not seen her(again, unfortunately, very ill)son in 2 years.

And you really have to have a certain mind set to enjoy a bunch of adorable men in tights singing My T Cells Are Falling. I have that mind set & fortunately(I think) so did most of the others in attendance.

Great night. Great cause. (Great dress ;o)

Courtesy of Jack, my favorite homicide detective....

Why you even asking me this? I haven't seen him in going on 10-15 years. I don't know why you asking me this. Cause last thursday he was. See I don't know, I don't even know why I just said that because I didn't see him last thursday. Like I said I haven't seen him going on 20 years.

(what not to say to your local homicide detective)

Fall seven times, stand up eight ~Japanese Proverb

George, a client at the food pantry, will only take grapefruit juice because he isn't on a medication that it interferes with. He doesn't particularly like grapefruit, but he is worried that if he takes the other juice an elderly person on multiple meds will get stuck with the "wrong" juice. He told me he is just thankful for juice.

I'm thankful for:

*People who think like George.

*An ancient(his word)retired psychiatrist who gently pulls me out of the quicksand on occasion.

*Amelia

*Joel

*Hybrid wolves.

*No longer feeling the physical & mental atmosphere too acutely.

*Ex-boyfriends ;o.

*Work(all work. i'm hella less picky now).

*Humor, resilience, & perseverance.

*My stock portfolio(if you plan on leaving a diatribe about the evils of wealth, bite me & see humor above).

*Dusty old family photos on high shelves.

*The calm space between thoughts.


What are you most thankful for?