After limping my way through NaBloPoMo, I find that I did not publish one day, due to a technical error. On the 26th, I thought I published a draft of an old post, but it is gone with the Schwinn – now neither on my blog nor in my drafts folder.
So it’s NaBloAlmostPoMo for me.
And you get a new header. You’re welcome.
Today was Pajama Sunday at church. It was a fun, silly idea for the Sunday after Thanksgiving – elastic waistbands and too much food going hand-in-hand, you see.
The only problem was that Pajama Sunday was not well-publicized, though about 10 of us got the memo.
Friends, do you know how awkward it is to greet your neighbor when it is the neighbor’s first day at your church and you are wearing a red flannel nightgown imprinted with fat white snowmen?
I was going out to take the dog for a walk this morning when my toe caught on the fourth step from the bottom and I went flying down, leaving my foot behind.
It was almost like I had done the yoga Pigeon Pose, except with a big gravity assist and against my will. And with my leg turned out at the knee, not in.
I have never been good at the Pigeon Pose.
After about 5 minutes of sitting on the step going “We’re okay. We’re okay,” as Abbie barked at me to hurry up, I dragged myself back up the stairs and examined the damage. Nothing broken. Sprained ankle. Knee that now makes a weird liquid popping noise. Hurt hip. Hurt shoulder.
I drove Abbie over to the dog daycare and went home to collapse. I cried a little, out of mad frustration. I cursed living upstairs, as I had foreseen something exactly like this happening.
I have learned a few things today.
My condition has a name: Chronic Ankle Instability (thanks, Miss Banshee). I have always had it, but had just assumed I was clumsy. There’s something about a diagnosis that can make you feel just a little better.
The Great British Baking Show is perfect for days like this.
So is hydrocodone and acetominophen. I know, I know. I’m only taking them halfsies at a time, because pain meds tend to hit me hard, but I am so thankful I have them and that they work.
Onward. I know tomorrow is going to hurt more than today. Not looking forward to morning.
But you know what? There is so much more love than hatred, and love is winning.
A villain explodes one bomb. It’s horrible, yes. We can all agree.
But that is one act. Every good parent does 1000 loving acts before lunch each day. And most of us do good all day long. We don’t call it good because it seems normal, but love is the silent river that flows through our lives.
We greet each other. We make meals. We drive carefully. We let other people go first. We wave. We smile. We fix things. We wait patiently. We let the person cross. We put on jackets. We put socks on little feet. We put on socks again. And shoes. And leashes. Not all on the same being, hopefully.
We say “I love you,” “Drive safe,” “Hurry home,” “I missed you,” “Thank you,” “Have a great day.”
We laugh and dance and make love. We sing. We work hard. We get up even when we’re tired. We put on makeup and pretty clothes. We put on uniforms. We go to weddings. We go to sports games to cheer for people we love. We go to hospitals. We go to funerals.
We look in each other’s eyes. We stand up for each other. We hold our tongues for each other. We hug.
The villains can try to destroy. But destruction never builds. And the building never stops.
There’s also the added bonus of not having to show up somewhere in form fitting clothing at a time when I feel like the Graf Zeppelin.
I joined up and looked through classes. Picked out a 15 minute back tune-up. Hey, no one ever accused me of being over-ambitious.
Here are my thoughts in the first 10 minutes:
- How do I see the screen if I am lying on the floor and this is on my computer?
- Dog, get off me.
- This guy seems like a really good teacher.
- This is great.
- Man, I have missed yoga.
- Hey, I’m still pretty flexible in certain ways.
- I’m going to do this every single day.
- This is awesome.
- WHERE do I put my foot? Ha, no.
- Whoa, balance. Ooops.
- Dog, get off me.
- I…um…I don’t think I can do this.
- Whoa, wobble!
- Maybe I should take a short break.
- One more minute.
- No, I have to stop. Just for a second.
- Oh, are my sweet potatoes burning?
Don’t worry. I saved my class. For later.
*Hat tip to Jimmy Kimmel
CC and I were wandering the streets of Santa Barbara, one of the world’s most beautiful cities. It’s like an episode of “Oprah’s Favorite Things” come to life. Colorful cashmere wraps fall in seductive folds in shop windows. Clusters of Turkish glass lanterns in 50 different colors glow and bob. Fountains lined with talavera tile burble softly in tiny alleyways.
We walked by a shop: Kathleen Cooper – Fine Papers.
We riffed on what kind of person shopped at Kathleen Cooper – someone for whom ordinary papers are just not enough. Someone with a need for very fine papers, unlike those of us known to scrawl our messages on the back of printer paper snatched from the recycle bin. Probably Oprah or someone on her Christmas list.
Back on State Street, an eager European-looking young man dressed in all in black beckoned us from the glaring lighted doorway of a stark white shop.
“Ladies, here’s a free sample of our newest skin care product.”
It was one of those places that lure you in with a tiny foil packet of some miracle moisturizer and want you to spend $250 on their entire line of things that will make your skin look like Selena Gomez on a really, really good day.
“May I ask what you’re using now?”
I didn’t want to tell him about the soap I got from the tie-dyed seller at Ojai Farmer’s Market who calls himself the Crunchy Chemist. I mean, I like the Crunchy Chemist – he knows his chemistry and seems legit, but I didn’t think Euro-Man would understand that I wash my face with $6 unscented soap with no special qualities.
“Kathleen Cooper,” I said, looking him right in the eyes. “Do you know her line?”
“Oh, yes, of course, she’s very good,” he said, looking right back at me. He was a liar and he was good.
CC and I eventually made our escape. She spent the next hour trying to decide what fake skin care line named after a chi-chi store that she should use. She’s torn between Wendy Foster and Pierre LaFond.
A friend asked me tonight why I was doing NaBloPoMo.
“So I can remember my own URL?” I asked. Yep, that’s about it.
She also asked if Twitter killed blogging.
Nope, Facebook killed blogging. Damn it, Facebook. If you’re going to kill the thing I love most, can’t you at least let me see all the recent posts, in order, without reverting back to “Most popular”? Can’t you??
I saw Gustavo Arrellano tonight at the Museum of Ventura County, which made it a totally legit cultural evening. Not only is he the editor-in-chief of the OC Weekly, he’s the genius behind Taco USA, the book that allows you to smugly tell people “Yes, that is TOO authentic Mexican food!” Now he has a new show on Fox, Bordertown. I saw the pilot episode. I may be a little old for the demographic, but it was worth going out just to see Gustavo draw parallels between Vicente Fernandez and Morrisey. Yes, he did.
It made sense at the time.