My daily pop-culture update comes from reading “The Fix” on Salon while eating dried apricots as a lunch dessert. After that, I turn to Go Fug Yourself for some schadenfreude. The writing is catty but brilliant, and the post-Oscar rundown is inspired.
Now that I have a gorgeous logo, I’m going to change my ad in Endurance Magazine to highlight my expanded services (private lessons, podcast, the USAT credential). I can run a color ad as part of the editing trade arrangement, and I can run one in the Charlotte issue, too. (Thanks, Steve!)
How should I phrase it? What would draw you in? Here’s my draft:
Be flexible, be strong, be focused
Private, group, and podcast yoga lessons
Referrals happily given
and then the text of my business card.
Wooooo! Go, Heels! Roy, you are my Coach of the Year. Tyler, how nice to see that almost-tearful smile of joy.
After taking down the wind chimes, chasing a particularly loud wren off the porch, and huddling over the microphone in my blanket tent, I’ve got the voice track for the third episode of the podcast recorded. (Teaser: Seven-minute abs, yoga style.) But I’ve already exhausted my copyright-free music supply. I don’t want to impose on Alex, and my attempt to create my own track in Garage Band delighted my children but was woefully repetitive and even annoying. (Think eight measures of tabla looped for eight minutes, with vibes and “deep house bells” sprinkled throughout.)
And then I found Magnatune, which has a whole catalog of really cool music—acoustic, ambient, world, etc.—perfect for yoga practice. And they will share. They want to share. Hooray!
I’m in “sponsorship negotiations,” if you can call talking to a dear friend who offered to help out negotiations, with Donia about having Carrboro Yoga Co. sponsor upcoming episodes, in exchange for a USB compressor mic and a mic stand.
What a fun project. Thanks again, Courtney, for turning me on to this.
The history of ECU I’ve been working on is a little dry. For example, one chapter was a line-by-line description of the university’s five-year plans since 1975. Imagine my delight at finding this story buried deep in the chapter on the history of the medical school. It’s told by the first dean of the school, remembering the days the twenty-student program shared space with the Department of Biology.
We once received a cadaver we badly needed for Gross Anatomy. The cadaver arrived unannounced in the late morning at the peak of campus activity at the loading dock of the biology building. The cadaver was a tall, large man, and we were unable to get his carrying case into the small elevator. It was necessary to remove the cadaver and stand him up in the elevator to get to the fourth floor. Unfortunately, this elevator serviced the entire biology tower. On our way to the cadaver storage area on the fourth floor, we were lucky that it stopped only on the third floor. But before we could get the doors closed, two chatting and totally unaware young coeds entered. When they looked up, one fainted into the arms of the other (fortunately), and the other was screaming. We felt bad that we had to leave them there, but we thought we would only cause more confusion and disruption by staying. By the time we returned to check on the two students, they were gone. Long gone, we were told. We never heard from the two unfortunate and scared young women, but we did hear from the elderly: the president, the provost, assorted deans, and an irate chairman of the Department of Biology.
Click here to see a great satirical clip about the man we love to hate, Rat Face himself. Go, Heels!
She was halfway through a two-inch-by-two-inch square of Valrhona when I discovered it. Since it was already covered with slobber, we sat together on the stairs and put it away. Might as well join ’em. The picture—derivative of Bear’s, I know—and the smears around her mouth show her triumph.
And I thought I had expensive tastes.
With my cold entering week 4, it’s been a while since I got a good night’s sleep. First it was congestion, then a weird shoulder complaint, then the stress of Guava’s demise. While visiting Banjo and Bear last weekend, I slept pretty well on their guest-room pillow, so yesterday I got one of my own.
Usually I’m drawn to the fanciest version of anything: give me two items to choose from, don’t tell me the cost, and I’ll always choose the pricer one. This works with everything from wine to clothes to UV-blocking window film. But last night, I slept straight through the night—no potty breaks, no twingy shoulders—on a $12.99 pillow from Steinmart.
She was fourteen (or so). Lately she’d lost a step and was having problems jumping to chair level. I noticed her limping a little. And she had begun cutting her run into the garage as we pulled in closer and closer. We’ve been commenting about it over the past few weeks. Then last night, there she was, running in, as the whole family returned from a trip. We saw her. I said, “It’s almost like she has a death wish.” Wes pulled in very, very slowly. And she cut back in front of the car.
Don’t worry, there’s no graphic story to tell, no blood, not much drama. She ran and hid, but we lifted her out gently and got her into her carrier. We thought we’d clipped a foot or her tail, but when Wes got her to the emergency vet, only 20 minutes after the run-in, it turned out she was bleeding internally: the end.
We’ve spent all night wondering why she did it. She knew to stay away from cars. She regularly got out of the way as we slowly pulled in. Now we feel complicit in a kitty assisted suicide.