I am writing this outside. Therefore, this entry will have an entirely different character than if it were written inside. For one thing, I am writing it freehand, as opposed to typing. I had this writing class a few summers ago, “Releasing the Writer Within,” and the teacher believed that really pure stream-of-consciousness writing only comes when pen hits paper. Typing is some how cheating. Whatever. I much prefer to spell check my consciousness, thank you very much.

That is as far as I got. I started staring off into space, literally, as the deep, blue heavens are very distracting. So, distracting, in fact, that it usually takes me a good half an hour before I noticed the roar of the exhaust fans from the Gorgeous New Gym sounding in my urban paradise. (But I digress.)

I firmly believe the blog entry would have a different character were it written outside, however. It’s just nicer out there. The breeze in your hair, your bare feet on the (industrial, carpet-like) grass, the roar of the fan—it’s city Zen, man.

Maybe I should get a laptop.

Anyway, I didn’t have to accept rides from strangers to make it home to Boston. I did become acutely aware of my failings as a human being on the trip home, however. I think it had to do mostly with the airport delays. I sat in my hometown airport for an extra two hours, and then I sat in Pittsburgh for another 5 or so. Jolly good times. A bigger person than I would have been grateful that I flying out at all. But I, a small, angry person, was not. What pushed me over the edge were those “people mover” things. You know—they are like escalators, only flat.

I feel people should have to take a quiz before they are allowed to ride these. It would consist of a mere three (but telling) questions:

A. I am too proud to get a ride on those beeping airport carts, but am too lazy to propel myself entirely of my own volition.
B. I can stick out my arms and it feels like I can fly; here I appreciate life for all its tragic beauty.
C. I wish to expedite the walking process to arrive at my destination in a more timely and efficient manner.

The correct answer is, of course, C.

2. I want to stand on the people mover. I know I should:

A. Stand to one side, so that those who wish to move past me are able to do so.
B. Stand wherever the hell I want. This is my airport, fool.
C. Stand in the least convenient spot possible, causing a backup of 12 people behind me.

The correct answer is A.

3. If I answered question 2 incorrectly, the people I inconvenience can:

A. Politely tap me on the shoulder and move around me.
B. Cough and gently bump my luggage until I get the hint and move.
C. Nothing. Like I care what they think. I’m never going to see these chumps again.

The correct answer is D: Rip off the moving handrail and beat me senseless, all the while screaming, “The moving walk is nearing the end, PLEASE WATCH YOUR STEP, YOU THOUGHTLESS FREAK.”

Alas, the perils of airportness led me to think very mean thoughts about total strangers. I was tired, I was cranky, the candy store at the airport hot not a lick of Pez. So, needless to say, I was not at my best. But would it kill people to ride the people movers responsibly? Just move 4 inches over to the right, for pete’s sake. Or, if you are in fact in the way, don’t look at me like I’m the freak when I say “excuse me,” and try to go past you, and then when you block my way, don’t get mad when I trip over your monogramed Gucci dog carrier and make poor little PhooPhoo all upset.

Yeah PhooPhoo. YOU HEARD ME. WHERE IS YOUR GOD NOW?

Pedestrian rage. Listen man, it’s the next epidemic. A slow moving one maybe, but a threat nonetheless.

Part I: Strangers in a Ford Escort

So, on Wednesday I set out from Boston to my hometown in scenic Pennsylvania. All seemed to be going well. I got to the airport three hours early because I was offered a ride at that time and wouldn’t have to take the T (or a cab, which can cost about 30.00). I thought about eating when I was there, but then thought, “Oh piffle! No need to eat here! I will eat at the Pittsburgh airport where there is much more selection." So I sat and read two People magazines cover to cover. My IQ dropped about 15 points in that time, but it was worth it to learn about Paris Hilton’s engagement.

Anyway, around 5pm I noticed that my flight, which was supposed to leave at 6pm, was now leaving at 6:20. This did not concern me. After all, though my connection in Pittsburgh was close, an extra 20 minutes still would have given me at least 15 minutes to switch gates. And I am a marathoner with no carry-on luggage. I was confident I could make it.

That, friends, was an error.

“Crap,” I thought. “It’s already taken off.”

Here I called Peter, out of breath and on the verge of tears. “Peter, I missed my flight and I’m stuck in Pittsburgh and OH MY SWEET HEAVEN THEY JUST CLOSED THE FOOD COURT.” Things were not looking good. I arrived at a ticket counter near my gate and explained my situation to the people there. They told me that I could get a 45 dollar voucher, blah blah, have to pay for a (200 dollar a night) hotel room nearby, blah blah, can’t get my luggage, blah.

This was decidedly bad news.

Meanwhile, Peter kept calling my cell phone (the ringer was off, so I didn’t know this) because he thought something horrible was happening because my rather dramatic performance on the phone minutes before gave that impression. I called him back and sadly told him my plight—he agreed that spending the next 12 hours in the airport would be unpleasant, but spending 200 dollars on a hotel room where I would only be fore 9 or so hours wasn’t really fiscally responsible. Suffice it to say, I was upset with the universe at large.

And then Denny entered my life.

Denny informed me that I didn’t actually miss my connection, but the hydraulics system of the plane I was to have flown out on had failed and earlier that day, the plane had almost not been able to stop on its landing in Pittsburgh and had skidded off of the runway in a dramatic display of airplane free will. This is why I wasn’t to fly home, not because I had missed the flight.

This provided little comfort.

However, Denny, as it turned out, was going to rent a car and drive to the same place I was going. I briefly calculated the odds of Denny being a psycho-killer, versus my likelihood of committing Hare Kare in the airport restroom after listening to 12 hours of the muzak rendition of “Girl from Ipanema.” I decided the latter was more probable as the cause of my untimely demise. When Denny went to use the restroom, I hurriedly called Peter and was giving him the details, lest I was never heard from again.

“Peter, listen. I’m going home with a guy named Denny. He looks about 50, is wearing a gray shirt and pants, has salt-and-pepper hair and is balding on top. I was last seen at baggage carousel F in the Pittsburgh International Airport wearing a Red Sox shirt and jeans. If you need a picture to show police, use my school ID; it was taken just after I got my hair done. I will have my cell phone on my person, so use the signal if you need to locate me. I gotta go! Denny’s back!” And I hung up the phone. I don’t know if this really reassured Peter of my confidence in Denny’s intentions, but one can never be too cautious. Anyway, after miraculously convincing the nice US Airways people to liberate my luggage, and spirited debate with the Hertz Rent-A-Car people, Denny and I hopped into the rented Ford Escort and were on our way.

Me: Oh, I’m a doctoral student in Theology.

Denny: Theology, that’s like, religion, right?

Me: Yup

D: *silence*

D: *more silence*

D: So what does your husband do?

Me: Oh, he’s a research technician at a lab. He works with the Human Genome Project; they’re associated with MIT. I don’t know exactly what he does—he is on the materials team. They make stuff for other people there.

D: *increasingly uncomfortable silence.* (This is where I realize that Denny and I are very, very different people.)

Me: So what is it you do?

D: Oh, I work for General Electric. I fix *insert long list of technical words that have to do with engines, words that involved “turbines.” It’s good work, you know? I get to travel a lot. I travel, well, hell, wherever they need me, I guess. I can go wherever there is electricity. I got into it a long time ago, and now that I look back at life, I wonder if that was the best thing, if that is what I was meant to do. You know? You do one thing for so many years and you wonder, is this what life should be? Is this how I should have spend my time?

Me: Yeah.

D: I was born and raised Catholic. I think I still try to live my life by those values. But I got out of it, you know? Hell, maybe I was abused by a priest and I repressed those memories. I was an altar boy, you know? But I got away from it. And I wonder if that had something to do with my life. Now I work a lot. Some years, I have over 1000 hours of over time, but I’m trying to cut back. I guess that’s an excuse for not going to church. I don’t know.

Me: Mmm. Do you mind if I put this in my blog?

D: What the hell is a blog?

Me: Uh. Never mind.

D: I live by the rectory of some church. And there were some nice people who came through there. You know, they were friendly, said hello. But damn, there was this one woman who was crazy. I mean, she’s wasn’t nice at all. I don’t understand it—the people supposed to be doing God’s work are just terrible to you to your face.

Me: Yeah, the ministry is like any other profession. Some people get into it who probably shouldn’t.

D: Hell, yeah. Like psychology. Psychology is like financial advising, I think. You don’t need any damn education for financial advising. I think anyone can do it. Anyone can call themselves a psychologist. My wife went to one, and I begged her to stop. That woman she was seeing was filling her head up. And then my wife decided she didn’t want to be with me anymore, couldn’t be married. And then she lost her job. That’s why I don’t trust psychologists. They go messing around inside your head and they do more damage.

Me: Mmm.

D: It’s been four years now since I’ve been married. I guess I’ve gotten used to being single again. I work hard and I play hard. I try to play hard. I can travel because I’m single, you know? I have a boat, I have my motorcycle. These fill up the empty spaces.

Me: *silence* So, when did you move here?

D: Oh, in 1984, just after we got married. We bought our house and saw it as a fixer-upper. Thought it was investment just to start. We just ended up staying. You know, my wife and I would travel a lot. We went to Hawaii on our honeymoon. We didn’t get to go right away, because my father died two weeks before our wedding. So we went skiing for few days and then took my mom and we all went to Hawaii. It’s beautiful there, I’ll tell you. You look at them there trees, that ocean, and it is like your soul as is clear as the water, you know? You forget all the stuff that bring you down. It’s just you and the world and, if you’re lucky enough to be with someone, that love. You know?

Me: I’ve never been to Hawaii.

D: Oh, but it’s not just there. It’s anywhere, really. (This is where I realize that Denny and I are similar in the way that all people of Western, PA are of similar stock.)

Me: Mmm.

D: But then you gotta come back. To work. Everyone comes back from these places to work. Well, I guess if they’re lucky. That’s something, going to all of these different people. I go wherever I’m needed. I once had to fix this engine that was built in the 1800s. Guy who managed it got all pissy because I had to study it a while before I could start on the problem. I mean, what the hell did he expect? He says to me, ‘All you GE guys come here and don’t know anything about this machine. Why the hell don’t they train you on these things?” Well, this guy—and he looked like Colonel Sanders, you know, the Kentucky Fried Chicken Guy, well, what does he expect? There’s only two of these machines still in existence and that’s one more than I thought was still around in the first place! Anyway, I do what I can and the machine starts working again. That’s the best part—fixing something that someone doesn’t know how to fix. Making the broken whole again.

Me: Yeah.

D: It’s not always like that. Colonel Sanders, he was on okay guy, he was just worried about his machine. But I went to the local newspaper’s printing press—you know, it’s pretty small time, it’s not like the Boston Globe or nothin’. I mean, I came in in a clean uniform, come to look at their printing press motor that had busted, and they acted like I was a noone. They said that the press was “Harry’s baby,” some other regular technician, I guess, and didn’t want me to touch anything! I managed to somehow get it going again—cause any newspaper press down is a big deal for the people runnin’ the news, but it was tough. And I went to eat in their cafeteria, and these guys in suits come it and looked at me like I was lower than dirt. And I thought, hell, I probably make twice what you make, if that’s what you’re basing your opinions on. Other places, people want my opinion. People give me respect, treat me like I’m smart. And I mean, I’m not the best at reading or writing like they might be, but I’m good at what I do. I went to Hershey Foods—a corporation that’s a hell of a lot bigger than this newspaper, and I was treated really well. There was a problem with the machinery that separated the milk—kind of like a centrifuge, you know? And I sat down with important people, and at the end? They gave me this special edition, gold box of chocolates! Ha! Beat that! And here some local paper thinks I’m nothing.

Me: Wow

D: Yeah. *silence* Well, I’ve waited long enough. I’m going to have a cigarette. I’m driving. My wife always hated me smoking, but I was allowed to if I was driving.

Me: Okay.

*cigarette passes*

Me: So do you like working for GE?

D: Yeah, it’s alright. I started out doing *insert more technical language* when I first went there 20 years ago. And I really liked that job. But I lost that job right after I lost my marriage. Let me tell you, those were some rough times. But what I’m doing now is alright. My neighbors, they can’t figure me out. You know, some days, I work 12 hours in a row, sometimes I’m off for a month. Sometimes I have a different truck, sometimes I’m gone for a week. They make up stories about me, you know? They’re an old couple.

Me: Mmm.

D: More work is coming back into the country these days. Not a lot, but some. You know, they go oversees, or down south, where they can pay the workers next to nothing. And that’s not right. To have people on an assembly line not be able to afford the things they make, that’s not right. GE makes electricity. Those people should have electricity, you know? But what do I know? I come home, I take care of my birds. I go where they tell me to go and I fix things. But some things aren’t right.

Me: “Yeah.”

D: It’s like, electricity. We’re all electric, you know? Benjamin Franklin discovered it, Thomas Edison, he figured out how to bring it to the people and make money. And me? I fix the things that need it. But our bodies, our bodies, you know? They run on electricity. Our brains, all those things that make us who we are and what we our. Those things that made me and my wife get married—that made us get divorced. It’s all electricity, you know? I just wish I knew how to fix those kind of things, you know? Hell, maybe there is a God. I’m always thinking about how God’s a better electrician than I am, that’s for sure. He can fix those broken parts and make it all start to flow again. And I sure as hell can’t. *Denny laughs.*

From here I pretty much give Denny the directions to my house. I feel as though Denny is some sort of character out of Peter’s Dungeons and Dragons campaigns. Or, not a character necessarily, but an entity who could be a character. He would be an “electrician mage” or something. For in the two hours on the ride home, Denny talked about his entire worldview—faith, politics, family, life, love—you name it, and it was all somehow wrapped up in his connection to electricity. Electricity—the animating force that runs through all of life. Denny spent his life fixing the things this force propels, and he wonders if it’s been worth it. Strangely, it is I who spend my time studying the One Denny doubts exists, but still sees as the one controlling ultimate animation. Who is the wiser one? Who’s livelihood is the one more valued for contributions to poetry, philosophy, thought in general?

I think a lot of people would say mine—an alleged scholar. (Or at least one in training.)

But my money’s on Denny.

Go figure.

Total volume of music on my computer:
around 3.5 GB, but some of it is audiobooks.

The last CD I bought:
Soundtrack to the movie Millions. Though, the last song I bought was “Unwritten” from the soundtrack of the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants

Song playing:
The Ashoken Farewell

Five songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me:
Well, this varies. I tend to listen to Josh Groban a lot (no, really, I do. Have I ever mentioned that? I like Josh Groban. He’s a singer. Yep.) These days, I also like Russell Watson’s “Fiama Sacre,” U2’s “Still Haven’t Found,” Mario Frangoulis’ “Another World [Va’ Pensiero], Ben E. King’s “Stand By Me,” and Josh Groban’s Alla Luce del Sol

Five people to whom I’m passing the baton:
I’m not sure I know 5 bloggers who might like to pass it on (at least, ones who haven’t done this sort of meme). But I’ll pass it to David, who seems to know oodles of people. Perhaps he can send it along for both of us. And to Cogent Diversion

And lets not forget: My added meme category--

Most ridiculous lyrics to a song I’ve ever heard:

At seventeen the bridge of dreams
Can reach across forever
A long weekend, my mother’s friend
You came in search of weather

The women I saw, I’d seen years before
But never like this
Your kiss on my cheek, said “Find if you seek,
A moment of bliss”

I’ll never forget you
Don’t ever regret you
You opened my eyes
Wherever I go in this world
As I stumble on shifting sand
You were there
When a boy turned man

Secretly it had to be
Though honest was our passion
And every moment in your arms
Made mockery of fashion

I’ll never forget your
I’ll always respect you
You opened my eyes
Wherever I go in this world
As I stumble on shifting sand
You were there
When this boy turned man.

[Mario then repeats this “You were then when this boy turned man” several times. Because once just isn’t enough.]

Now, I’ll admit, when I was a little girl, I’d hear this song “All I want to do is make love to you,” and I didn’t understand it. Apparently the protagonist in the song seeks random play from various men in order to have a kid. I didn’t realize that the song was actually about this until, oh, last year when someone explained it to me. But oh, I know what Mario is talking about. It is as clear as his crystal tenor. But frankly, the world really could go without this song. Because, though honest their passion, it made mockery of fashion.

Somewhere good lyrics that could have been put out into the world are weeping quietly and dying an anonymous death.

I’m going to go see if “Spawn” has a two-player mode. Faux demon slaying has to be better than this.

There isn’t too much happening here in camp Theology Girl. Last weekend, I made my friend Stacie accompany me on a Harbor site-seeing cruise and then to lunch with Grobanites, ™ with whom I have chatted on the internet. (Well, okay, I never chatted with them, even. Someone just decided to organize a Grobanite ™ “Spring Fling” on one of the message boards and I was dork enough to want to be involved.)

The fact that we went out on a boat with total strangers simply because we like JG struck me as amusing. I figured this adventure had to be a gold mine of material. However, they turned out to be normal people who (if you can believe it) are far bigger fans of Josh Groban than I could ever be. One girl had a Josh Groban tattoo. The others chatted about some of the “celebrity fans” (re: fans who post a lot and have risen in the social hierarchy in the imaginary Grobania; not necessarily people who are themselves well known like, say, Wil Wheaton Hey, did anyone else know Wil Wheaton was a voice in these video games? How have I lived life with uber-gamer Peter and not somehow found this out? And I call myself a fan. *insert onomatopoetic sound of fan-girl-self-disgust here* But I digress). I explained to Stacie the fragile and complex world that is fandom. I am a lowly nobody in Grobania—I haven’t the drive to post enough or talk about JG’s thighs enough to gain quite that place in infamy.

I did, however, purchase Josh Groban awareness bracelets. (Well, okay, they’re for his charity.) Believe it. They’re like the Lance Armstrong “Livestrong” bracelets, except instead of cancer awareness, they’re raising Josh awareness. I’m totally sending one to Lorianne too, because she had never heard of JG before and obviously needs to become more aware.

(Okay, again, the bracelets are to support JG’s foundation’s efforts to help starving orphans in Africa. But I like the idea of complete vanity more . . . I’m thinking of getting some Theology Girl awareness bracelets . . .)

I thought I was going to be okay. I avoided the magazines with titles like, “Health,” “Mademoiselle,” “Cosmopolitan,” etc., because, as I’ve discussed before, those really depress me. Today, I stuck with Time and Oprah. (No, I do not equate the two, however, Oprah at least pretends to have more words than ads.)

I should have stuck with the women’s beauty magazines. At least with them I only receive a crushing blow to my self esteem and a mild case of depression for the rest of the day. The news magazines and the one article in Oprah that I found worth reading provided at least a week’s worth of despair, however.

In the course of, oh, 200 or so pages, I was once again reminded that I can not eat, drink, sleep, go anywhere, do anything, wear any clothes, breathe or probably think without hurting myself, the earth or adding to the oppression of other people. The food I eat is poisoned (read that in an article about mercury poisoning coming from fish—thanks Oprah!); it could also be doing irreparable damage to any theoretical children I may one day have. My clothes are made by people who are not paid, like, anything (stupid stylish Nike hat—you keep the sun off of my already burnt face BUT YOU WERE FORGED BY THE HANDS OF CHILDREN). And then there are layers to the oppression—cows are treated badly, their milk and meat has stuff in it, the farmers are treated badly, the food is sold cheaply in Wal-Mart (the great scourge of civilization, oppressor of the masses, etc.).

See now, as much as I try to tell Kate and David I’m not Wesleyan (mostly because I think it is fun to annoy Kate), here is where my boy John Wesley had it right. He was all about moving on to perfection in this life, all about social justice in this life. Oh sure, there was talk of hell and such. But was that really the point? No. No it wasn’t.

*insert exasperated noise here*

However, all affirmations of my Methodism aside (I can’t believe I’m doing that. Clearly I got too much sun over the weekend), this leaves me with a few practical ethical dilemmas. Unless I decide to buy land, build an environmentally-friendly bio-dome, raise non-oppressed animals, produce non-oppressing food, weave non-oppressing clothing, consume only what I can live on, recycle everything and somehow produce an income to support others less fortunate than myself, then I am very much a part of the web of sin that keeps everyone captive. I mean, I really like my Nike hat. It’s white and when I wear it, Peter says I look “sporty.” Must I condemn Taiwanese children to a life of poverty for the sake of my hat (which was on sale, might I add)? Oh sure, there are little changes I can make, better habits to hold. I could probably buy only second hand clothing, which several people in my “Theology of John Wesley” assured me was socially just. I could buy organic food (which is unfortunately expensive). These ways of living would cease to be even inconveniences after a while, I imagine.

But, would that really do any good? I mean, really. The whole thing seems too big. So should I buy the books that kill the trees, even if I keep them for the rest of my life? Do I just go on happily consuming oil based energy with wild abandon?

If anyone has any good ideas how to, say, exist and not hurt at least half the world’s population, I’d be open to hearing your suggestions.

Another oddity of life is how much I enjoy tennis. My enjoyment of the game is directly proportional to how badly I play it. Let’s ignore the fact that I went to tennis camp for four years and various other clinics as a youth. Let’s just say that I started two days ago, when I had my first tennis class of the summer. (That makes it sound better. Oh, I’d like to give a shout out to Helena here, as she was my tennis partner lo’ those many Saturdays. Hi Helena!)

So, the first class was dedicated to the forehand. And frankly, I can’t keep all of the stupid steps necessary for proper form in my head at once. Racquet back, head up, feet pointing right, shoulders perpendicular to the net, bend your elbow, don’t bend your elbow too much, step with your left foot, step with your left foot before you swing, don’t let the ball get to close to you, racquet position goes from high to low, and don’t forget to follow through!

And that is just one shot. I mean COME ON. In theory, I understand it. I’m a great theory person. But in practice, my joints and muscles think, “Ooh, pretty racket, look at it move OH DEAR SWEET HEAVEN THE BALL IS COMING—ABORT MOVEMENT! ABORT! ABORT!”

Anyway, I am fine with being in the remedial group. I was in remedial reading in first grade for a time, and I’m now getting a doctorate. (HA! Eat that, gifted kids.) However, the remedial group is the subject of some jesting from the non-remedial group. I’ll call these stellar individuals, “the Special People.” The Special People were assigned a Remedial buddy with whom they are to volley. My forehand and apparently my backhand were so very remedial, thus I was assigned two Special Buddies. Lucky me. My special buddies are blond, have cute little tennis outfits and together weigh about 180 pounds. I’d say I could eat them for breakfast, but really, I think their combined sweetness would kill me.

So, I was fine with my Special Buddies too, except I really feel they are no better and tennis than I am. Now, in my shot repertoire, I have but one—a rather nasty drop shot. I lack a solid forehand, backhand, a serve, overhead slam, whatever. And I usually can’t even score correctly. But man, I have this great drop shot with top spin—it’s freaking awesome. (It represents the lonely vestiges of my summers at camp.) But as I am only currently allowed to practice my forehand, I can not demonstrate this. And while I can return a forehand volley—in the lines mind you—my Special Buddies feel the need to critique my every move. And my fashion choices.

Justice came unto me, however, when the Special People and the Remedials combined for “running drills.” In these, your job was to hit one ball from a teacher, run around the opposite baseline, and return for your next shot. Well sir, let me tell you. I and my marathon trained cardio-vascular system beheld this task and thought, “Pshaw. We can run around a tennis court for 15 minutes thank you very much.” Interestingly, though, my Special Buddies made it around one time before they looked like they wanted to fall over. They were ahead of me, and early on, one turned to me and said, “What? You want to pass us?” (Because they were seriously slow. I mean, they were practically walking. Have they no pride? A Remedial was showing them up.) The other one said, “How can you run so fast?” What I wanted to say here was, “Go eat a power bar and run on a treadmill for a couple of months, then maybe you can step with me, sweetheart.” What I said was, “Running is easier if you don’t talk.”

And then I passed them.

After the drill was over, most of the people fell to the concrete, gasping for breath. I, on the other hand, just serenely stared into the bright, blue heaven that has been hidden by clouds for weeks. I’ve decided that tennis was the sport I’m meant to play.

This is my first entry in said category. The title of this entry is funny, see, because of the double meaning that will become apparent. Ha.

So, I went to yoga yesterday. This will heretofore be known as Mistake Number One. I went into the ridiculous new gym my school just opened, and let me tell you, it is gorgeous. I see no real reason to ever set foot in another gym. Well, save the fact that I work in one.

I felt a little intimidated from the get-go about this whole class. Despite the fact that I was wearing my fashionable yoga pants and matching yoga shirt, everyone else in the class seemed so . . . I don’t know . . . so thin. They were already all so svelte I become immediately convinced that I had accidentally entered the advanced class and at any minute, extra limbs would spring from their torsos and contort into positions that would make double-jointed acrobats doubt their own athletic prowess.

But I digress.

Anyhoo, I managed to overcome this initial fear to fully engage myself in becoming one with my yoga mat. Or the floor. Or the universe. Actually, I don’t know with what I was to become one, exactly, since the teacher never specified. It didn’t matter, the yoga teacher’s undulating voice kept me entranced; her speech patterns are kind of what I imagine a lava lamp would sound like if it could talk. “And NOW we’re GOIng TO STRetch TO THE sky, BREath, just breATH!”

So, things were going pretty well until we got to the standing poses. The teacher told us that we should try to be comfortable with what we’re doing, not to push ourselves on the first day. I, being terribly competitive even when doing Hatha Yoga (“the path to peace and mindfulness”) decided I could vanquish my fellow travelers on the road to inner peace with a cheery “So long suckers, see ya’all when you’re enlightened!”

This heretofore shall be known as “Mistake Number Two.”

And during what pose did this little show occur, you ask? Why, during the “Moon Salute” of course.

Seriously. I’m not making that up. Turns out the pose is quite aptly named.

I think I caused Gerald’s road to inner peace to end up in a ditch.

Good times.

I wasn’t really embarrassed, per se. This stuff happens to me all the time. The lesson on should learn from this, children, is to buy pants with a drawstring. I am reminded of this with alarming frequency.

So, in other tales of migrating trousers, I went to see “Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants” yesterday. And let me tell you IT WAS AWESOME. It lands itself a spot in my top five favorite overall film category. (It is third after Shawshank Redemption and Love Actually. Positions four and five have yet to be filled. Though, as Peter pointed out, My Neighbor Totoro probably would make a viable bid for spot number four.)

The girls in the movie were great, I cried like six times (because I am getting ridiculously sentimental in my old age—the death of Daniel Jackson has NOTHING on this movie), and it was a very good adaptation of the book.

The only thing I didn’t like was that they, of course, changed the ending to make it happier. And that was lame. The great thing about the book is that things weren’t perfect, that there was joy and sadness, and that the girls’ were there for each other through it all. To change the ending to make it more movie-acceptable dumbs down the story and changes the direction of one character’s direction completely. Children and young adults aren’t dumb, stupid Hollywood. They can handle things. But noooooo. Heaven forbid something make them think about anything than their options as consumers.

So here’s my advice (because Hollywood listens to my opinion)—don’t make a movie on the other Sisterhood books. You can’t do it well. You’d ruin them. Especially with the way you changed the ending of the first book.

I’ll forgive you this time. The movie was so worth it (and it also probably helps that I haven’t read the first book in a year or two). Everyone should go see it (though, I don’t know if many men might enjoy it; I could be wrong, though).

And don’t forget to check out Trisha’s blog to score a new design. Oh, and if you could, drop in on Shara and wish her a big “get well soon.”

And as long as you’re listening to my advice—buy exercise pants with drawstrings. Trust me on that one.

I also signed up for tennis; I actually went to that class yesterday. It was there that I learned that I suck at tennis. And here I thought I wasn’t bad. Apparently merely being able to get the ball over the net isn’t enough. One is supposed to have “good form.” Also, apparently “good form” does not mean, “tennis ball randomly propelled across the court by the pent up rage of an otherwise cheerful babysitter.” It’s a shame, really.

Despite the fact that I don’t want to go to yoga (nor to I want to do anything except stare blankly at my ceiling), I really think I need to get out of the house. My mind is starting to go a little bit funny. For instance, today I was reading “Curious George rides a bike” and something like, “Curious George goes to the Chocolate Factory,” to the kids at the nursery. And I got to thinking—you know what? That Man In The Yellow Hat is seriously sketchy. I mean, lets ignore the fact that he appears, for all intents and purposes, like an corpse with a thin, plastic sheen of yellow covering his body. (Maybe he is a model. Who knows.) But then, who in the world just goes and takes a monkey from the jungle to keep as a pet? It’s not like the MITYH lives somewhere where a monkey might enjoy; no, he lives in suburbia. Should we really be teaching our children it is okay to take wild animals from their native habitats and plant them in a fashionable upscale neighborhood?

I think someone should write the real story of Curious George, “Curious George goes to Family Court,” which would tell the story of his legal emancipation from the MITYH. George would be relocated back to the jungle from whence he came, find it impossible to live there without filtered water and high thread count sheets, and return to the suburbs where he’d live off the income from his memoirs. He’d probably also become a regular on Oprah. “Today, Dr. Phil talks to viewer favorite George about how he learned to forgive and live his best life.”

See. SEE. I need to get another job. Because I start thinking about these things. And don’t even get me started on Rainbow Fish.

Oh yes—in a completely unrelated topic—Trisha is running a contest that could score you a sweet new redesign on your blog. All you need to do is be a witty (and appropriate) commenter on her site. Here’s my advice Trisha—if you want comments (or, say, hate mail)—make fun of Josh Groban and (probably the Man in the Yellow Hat). Man, that brings people out of the wood work like you wouldn’t believe. Trust me, I’m a Grobanite ™.

Excuse me while I post my resume on Monster.com. Or try to make chain mail. Same thing, really.

But then, summer arrives. I stare out of my window (that does not open) and behold the verdant splendor that is the Charles River bank. I think of all the things I had planned to do—read the pile of books I’ve been collecting, write something (it doesn’t matter what, just as long as the characters and dialogue don't make me want to run screaming into the night . . . like they did in the Da Vinci Code, for instance), learn to juggle—anything.

Somehow, I never end up doing those things. Mostly, I just surf the internet looking for the meaning of life. (I have not yet found it.) In the evening, I yell things like, “Peter, I’m bored!” And then Peter will suggest at least seven things that are, in theory, entertaining. My mother did the same thing when I was growing up, bless her. I always remember yelling, “I’m bored,” a lot as a youth. But somehow, this object when at rest wants to stay at rest.

All of this relaxation is stressing me out. This is why I have 5 jobs (which end in the summer, mind you. I go down to only about 20 hours a week). This is why I constantly say, “Sure, I’ll watch your eight-year-old-recently-diagnosed-with-ADHD-triplets!” It’s because I can’t handle freedom. If I have no deadline to resent, then I am aimless.

Those prophets of Bananarama said it best. It’s a cruel, cruel summer.

Does anyone have any suggestions? I realize most of the world has to work no matter what the season, and that I, in my ivory tower, have been blinded to the gift that is summer vacation. However, even with this perspective, I still spend too many hours staring at the Wretched Stone and surfing the net.

I don't suppose anyone needs a nanny, do they? I'd work cheap--all I need is purpose for my afternoons.

Well, thanks to Lorianne, the fabulous human being who took the bike, to Kate and David who took a lot of stuff, to Val who took more stuff, and finally to Annie who took the rest to go to the homes of small children and battered women—THANK YOU!!! I’m free, I’m finally free! I could stretch out and do yoga on my living room floor now. I won’t, of course, because that would involve movement. But it’s just that I like to have the option open.

It’s funny—everyone kept saying, “Are you sure you want to get rid of this? Really? Are you sure?” My reply was, “Do you think I want to keep the piles of stuff blocking all paths through my living room? I don’t think so suckahs.” I thought this answer to this would be obvious. Don’t get me wrong—Peter and I did pretty well. All told, we’re keeping a lovely bathroom shelf thingie (so I can put books in the last room where there hadn’t been any place to put them thus far; the bathroom held out, it did, but in the end me and my book problem won out). We also got a light saber spoon, a battle axe and a mug with a cool knight on it. All of the stuff we kept makes me ponder when it was, exactly, that Peter was able to turn me into the raging lover-of-all-things-medival-and-science-fiction-related geek it now appears I’ve become. I suspect it was between the time I met him at a viewing of the BBC’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and our wedding, which featured the Imperial Death March from Star Wars.

Though, I always did love Wil Wheaton. Never mind. I was just in denial before. I’ve always been a geek.

Excuse me while I vacuum. Once I clean, there will be far more room in which to practice my axe wielding technique.

And next year, as per a challenge from Lorianne, I intend to find chainmail.

I think I look cool with an axe. Heh.