Which of these cousins has the more offensive T-shirt? Depends on your politics and gender. Big, buff Cousin Jay is taking Team Beaver a little too far. Lily, in the bottom right corner, does not look amused.
Two things (at least two things) have made us laugh in the last few hours. One was the ad, the Web site, and the concept of the Fathead, a large poster of your favorite NFL team’s helmet. Last night we were very close to getting them at Christmas gifts for Wes’s father and my mother, until we thought better of it this morning.
The other was the list of proposed names for the new high school to be built in town. The main debate is between those who want to name it Carrboro High, since it sits in Carrboro’s planning district, and those who feel it must have the name Chapel Hill in there (South Chapel Hill High, Chapel Hill South High) because of the prestige and association of education the town’s name confers. (One woman was quoted in the paper as saying, “What does one think of when told ‘Chapel Hill’? EDUCATION. What does one think of when told ‘Carrboro’? FUNKY ECLECTIC. . . . I want EDUCATION, not FUNKY ECLECTIC.”)
The best name on the list of all those proposed, though, is James Brown Funk Spirit High School. Wow.
If, as the scientists tell us, we use 10 percent of our brains, and, as Owen Wilson tells us, we use 10 percent of our hearts, and, as I tell my yoga students, we use 10 percent of our lungs, then I’m pretty sure we also use 10 percent of our dishwasher capacity.
A few months back, I watched bemused as my friend Sarah loaded her new dishwasher with soiled plates. She’d scraped them, but not rinsed them, and when she caught me staring, she explained that (for once, she said) she’d read the appliance manual. It pointed out that the purpose of the machine was to save water and wash plates, and that by “prerinsing,” you were really doubling the water and the work. Since then, I’ve been conducting an ongoing experiment on the limits of my dishwasher’s capacity. It does fine with tomato sauce with no rinse. Even cheese is OK. Eggs do need not only a prerinse, but a good scrub.
Tonight as I loaded the dishes, I noticed the flip-down racks on the shelves. This dishwasher is much more sophisticated than I could imagine. There must be one hundred different configurations I haven’t considered. Ten percent.
Happily, I rarely load (and even more rarely unload) the dishwasher. Thanks, Wessie.
This editorial from the local paper recounts an attack by a rabid beaver!!! There must be some way to connect that with the mystique of Team Beaver Cycling. OK, not that it has much mystique.
What a difference the fix of a run has made in my outlook (that, and progress on the book; I’ve taken down my complaints!). The knees are just tendonitis, maybe some bursitis on the right side. Just as with the stress fracture I had last year, I think it’s the yoga that really brought it on: in shins already stressed from marathon-training mileage, repeated landings out of handstand in a workshop were too much; in a knee already irritated from the tight clips on the Spinning bikes at the gym, kneeling over and over on my thin teaching mat exacerbated the problem.
The orthopedics PA, whom I adore, said, “You can run on it–it might hurt, but it won’t make it worse.” So off I went, and the pain didn’t increase, but my sense of well-being skyrocketed.
Another change: instead of ice, which the PA says works primarily to numb the pain, I’m using heat (“to increase circulation to the avascular tendons”). Psychologically and metaphorically, that’s a big difference.
The running eases my brain in a way yoga practice doesn’t quite. It’s invigorating and exhausting. While yoga, in Patanjali’s words, is the cessation of the fluctuations of the mind, solitary running gives me awareness of my mind’s fluctuations, and often leads me to that place of empty brain or of focus (dharana and the opposite of pratyahara, a hyperawareness of the senses) that we seek through yoga.
And sometimes, when it’s good, it’s dhyana, a mediation. Today, the snippet of a children’s song that was the basso continuo for the run (“Vowels are important letters, there’s a vowel in every word”), the vigilance about my knees, and the fleeting thoughts and images that crossed my mind all cleared for a few climactic seconds, yielding “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
It just struck me: Saddam Hussein is acting like a two-year-old.
How do you keep a child in bed who doesn’t want to be there? Persuasion isn’t effective; threats carry little weight (what does Saddam have to lose? He’s said he’s not afraid of execution); your last resort is force (the imprisonment of the crib railing, the shut door).
Rebellion in a two-year-old is a frightening preview of the impending teenager’s realization that no, we can’t truly stop you, or make you, or keep you in your bed if you don’t want to be there.
We asked for it.
And when the creche was set up and explained, “Yeah, dat Baby Judas.”
I’ve been wanting to see inside this house, three blocks away and in the school district (versus the other big one I discussed Sunday). My friends say it was even more modern but the sellers toned it down. The stainless-steel countertops are great. Check out the pictures.
Now, what could Dad mean by “obsessed by capitalism”? It sounds like something that would affect a poli sci student. I think he had the wrong offspring on that one.
Somehow I’ve found myself in possession of goods and services that can help my friends, who from time to time need maternity clothes, copy editing, or yoga therapy. I guess that’s part of being a grownup. While we’ve gotten a lot of very generous gifts in exchange for the no-obligation lending of the amazing maternity wardrobe I accumulated (maternity running clothes, maternity windbreaker, maternity lap suit, maternity leopard-print pajamas, maternity yoga clothes), I’ve worked up some great exchanges for other favors.
This week alone I’ve enjoyed a free lunch and really helpful free physical therapy. Last year I reduced my coach’s fee in return for private yoga lessons. I’m trying to work up the chutzpah to pitch yoga classes in exchange for a weekend at triathlon training camp in the NC mountains.