Namaste to the holiday

This Easter holiday many people are spending time with family, dying egg shells and various body parts delightful pastels or just running outside of their homes in the shock of an earthquake (at least anyone from Baja California to Sacramento).

I decided to finally exercise my physical and spiritual self by going to a much overdue yoga class. In all reality, I had forgotten that it was bunny day and was overjoyed to see that my class wasn't canceled.

I was a bit nervous after missing class for months due to poor excuses and staying much too comfy in bed well past the waking hour. Muscles begin to atrophy and will power gets soft if not exercised. My usual Sunday activity is more similar to the picture below.

Mostly, I hate being that person who can't just balance on one foot with their heel tucked neatly above the kneecap like some sort of heron. I find it disrupts everyone’s focus when I can’t stop swearing under my breath as I flail wildly. (Similar to the picture below, but without the scenery)

I had determined that this wasn’t going to be one of those sessions. Instead it turned out to be much more uncomfortable in a variety of ways.

It’s advantageous to show up early for most things, but not when you have to take the initiative to be the first mat on the floor. Often that's the person that has to be told their facing the wrong wall.

It’s also courteous to go to the front of the room, but that always means the entire room watches your feeble attempts of downward-facing dog.

I chose to hover near the cubbies where I sipped water, wishing that I would have brought my phone to at least pretend like I had pressing engagements to deal with. Instead I channeled the look of an awkward turtle.

I had already run out of stretches and people started looking at me funny for watching each new person walk in so intently. I settled on my mat, so not to draw attention. I got stuck in the front row.

There is that feeling that rests on the back of my neck when my back is to the door at a given establishment, especially bars. Not sure if I'm keeping an eye out for axe-wielding psychopaths or practicing for my future job as a bouncer.

The instructor showed up late.

I immediately worked out the aches and pains that had been plaguing me for weeks. My legs and arms shook like a jackhammer, but with every deep breath I felt more victorious.

Andreas led us through 20 minutes of meditation inviting everyone to focus on the gratitude for all of the people in our lives. I tried to stop thinking about the coat on sale that I would be going to purchase after class. It was a killer deal though.

Some guy started snoring loudly in the middle of the room affirming that my meditations weren’t all that bad. At least I was still conscious.

Take that girl who did handstands when I can't even make my hands touch behind my back.

Andreas played a small organ that produced sound with accordion-like folds on the back. Chanting together in the warm room and hearing the words echo off the floorboards reminded me of hymns in church.

Closest thing to a spiritual service I had attended in a while. I thanked Andreas wholeheartedly after class for such an enlightening session on Easter.

I then realized I had forgotten to bring any cash to put in the donation box. My swift exit was the most agile move I made all day.

I don't think my internal clock adjusted for daylight savings time

Children have always scared my very nature.

I've always had this irrational fear of small things, such as bugs or midgets in costume.

I have the attention span of a six-year-old, so one might think we would jive better.

I work at a cafe down the hall from a dance school and children are crawling all over the café on any given day.

Recently when a three-year-old walks in wearing a tu-tu and a pink bow, my womb practically quivers.

I hear a tiny little voice or little hands pointing and I melt. I will wave hello to smiling children and brim with joy when they wave back.

I neither encourage nor rationalize such behavior.

The sudden affection for these tiny people may stem from my state of peak physical health.

I finally quit smoking, eating meat and drinking like a I should attend meetings where I introduce myself with a, "Hi, my name is..." At least, for the most part.

My womb must have caught on.

Of course the body doesn't factor in my bleak financial state or lack of life partner.

Not to mention that I inherited my father's slender, not-for-birthing hips.

And I consistently forget not to refer to children as "it."

And I love to make up absurd lies to kids for my own amusement.

Like when my friend's little sister asked about my navel ring, I told her a stranger attacked and stabbed me through the belly button. So I decided to put a ring there.

Man, her eyes bugged out of her head when I made a hooking motion.

Or that I can't keep a plant alive. Even my cactus.

Or how my last two pets, I put to sleep. For peeing on the bed and wanting to move across country, respectively.

Still, I just want to hug these unbalanced little toddlers for emitting a proud hello when I walk by.

I do fear being near new babies. I might accidently poke the soft spot of their skull and take away their ability to read. I can't even hold my phone without dropping it.

My mother loved to scare her daughters the fact that we come from a long line of procreators. The idea of being stupidly fertile sure kept my sixteen-year-old self home on a Friday night.

If I ever do get pregnant,

I would lose my mind trying to make my baby better than all the other babies. That's a lot of pressure for someone who just discovered their toes.

This competitive nature also runs in the family. Mom had to ban the "love taps" game. In retribution for the taps, we began to pummel one another. Dad included.

I snap back to reality when I watch a child turn blue as they scream over the delicious cookies the cafe has to offer.

Or an exasperated mom eat her first crouton after 45 minutes of wrangling her squirming child into a seat.

Seeing the tear-stained faces, I remember what kids mean.

The complete inability of privacy for eighteen years.

I think it's enough for now to just work on the plant thing.

Maybe I should just invest in a Moped and call it a day

I always thought that it was the mechanics that you really had to worry about. Turns out Saturn made a recall the timing chain on a SELECT few 2001 L100 2.2L 4-cylinder vehicles in 2008.

Guess who has that exact car from 2001 and a broken timing chain? Now guess who’s VIN number does not apply to the recall?

Only about 20,000 cars were recalled on that one specific make and model, while countless reports of timing chains breaking from all L-series cars have flooded the internet for years (this guy really took this seriously http://dontbuysaturn.blogspot.com/). Some breaks caused the car to shut-off at highway speeds or in the middle of intersections.

Don’t worry Saturn stopped production on L-series cars years ago and now GMC shut down the company due to its poor ability to make money or reliable cars.

So I may be late on the joke, as I’m sure some of you just shake you head while your Prius accelerates to uncontrollable speeds on the freeway. My stomach churns as Toyota laughs all the way to the bank.

My two-door Saturn with the extra junk in the trunk has stopped working. As in it just wouldn’t start after I got out of work this past week. Bummer.

A knight in shining armor allows me to use an AAA tow to get it to the most reliable sounding garage within seven-miles. Totally investing in AAA from now on. That is of course if I can ever afford to fix/buy a new car.

Little Saturn gets towed to Santa Monica Brake, which I am pleased to hear is approved by mechanic friends and friends of friends alike. Yelp.com really is worth its weight in gold.

Glad to also hear SMB will work on my domestic car since none of the garages in this city bother to work on anything other than foreign cars, specifically shiny BMWs. Damn Los Angeles yuppies.

George looks over my engine and listens intently as he revs the engine. I try to control the sweats that have taken over my body.

“So it’s not your starter.”

“You sure?”

“Yup. It’s the timing chain.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Must worse.”

Well, maird.

“This car is done for.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh yeah, I bet you could get a great deal on a Toyota right about now though.”

He chuckles. I hold back vomit. The sweats are now brought on with fervor.

George continues to explain that the engine will stop when the timing chain breaks. After 150,00 that’s not too bad compared to belts that need to be replaced often in other cars. Unfortunately, without a working engine means no compression to check what else may have been damaged.

Translation: I may spend over a grand to find out the engine is shot. Game over.

This is on a car with the passenger-side mirror duct taped to the car and zip ties holding the bumper on. I can see why he would say the car is donezo.

George calls me the next day to inform me that there is a god. The timing chain on 2001 Saturn L100 vehicles were recalled and it can get fixed for free. I just need to call the 800 number for Saturn and go from there.

After multiple calls to the helpline and GMC dealers left to deal with Saturn’s messes, I am told my car does not apply to the recall. My specific VIN missed the recall by a few hundred numbers.

When I tell George the news, he curses at the swindling assholes for cowardice.

So instead of getting the guy fixed for the problem that it was discontinued for, I get to foot the bill and hope that a bunch of other stuff didn’t get messed up in the process.

This is what I get for living in a city of sprawl. I had to pick sun over reliable public transportation. Chicago is giving me a big ‘ole I told you so.

At least I feel like I have a mechanic on my side. Really didn’t see that one coming. All I can say about Saturn/GMC is karma is a saucy mistress.

Three cheers for high-speed rails! Anybody with me? Anybody?

I'm terrible at letters so I thought I would blog instead, too bad for you I'm not so great at those either

When I first met you I thought, this is probably the most hip cat that I've held a conversation with. I felt intrigued by your energy and invited into the fervor of your personality.

It was the boisterous laugh that usually accompanied a knee slap and a head jerk in case anyone questioned your sincerity. Although theatrics rarely seemed staged.

But this is supposed to be about me, my daily drama in the quest for greatness.

I stood at sunset facing the stacked clouds piled over the ocean yesterday and knew I was home. The smell and wind are so different from the lake that I love so much.

Sunsets bring some of the most vivid shades of pink I've seen anywhere. My favorite moments are nested on the beach after dusk. I will have to show you sometime. (Picture from a fellow blogger and sunset aficionado)

I am melding into the monotony of city life. The traffic, the hustle, the climb up the social ladder. This is not meant in disdain, but astonishment that I could assimilate so quickly.

Los Angeles is no longer just a vacation or an extended visit, but where I live. Still settling without getting too settled.

My lovely roommate and I found solace in a cozy apartment on street lined with gnarled trees. I couldn't be happier. She introduced me to numerology and I believe this is my personal year of creativity. Don't ask how I deduced this, the math still boggles me.

Therefore, I am working harder than ever to stretch from my comfort zone. Each weekend this month I attend an event or gathering that perks my interest about this fair city. Going downtown to experience the plethora of museums and galleries is a must.

The recent trip to the Natural History Museum's first friday event was a bust. People actually asked us to scalp them tickets. Jokes on them, we didn't have any. Who knew that Yeasayer would be so popular? Who knew people in Los Angeles drove in the rain?

Sticking to what's familiar is dangerous, even in a city full of unfamiliarity. I left behind the dive bars and the cafe jobs for a reason. These items soon found their place in LA, but I think their presence is fleeting.

Writing has become more demanding between freelance and my desire to post all these new experiences for the world to see. I am jumping at every opportunity to get out there and get my voice heard. I feel the verge of some great work.

Trying to learn from my mistakes and quiet any disparities.

Covering the mundane school board meetings and city hall agendas are different when hoer devours are plentiful and Cindy Crawford is sitting in front of you. Is it wrong that I almost lost my composure only when I saw the actor that plays Data in Star Trek?

I miss a community of writers and welcome any work that you want to send me way. I of course welcome any input you have even if it's just a comment on a silly post. I want to hear about the Windy City. I miss it so.

Thank you for listening. It's tough being the new kid some days.

Send my love to the Smitten Mitten. Please respond with a jar of snow as soon as possible. I will be waiting.

Funny part is I've always wanted to meet a Tom Selleck doppelganger

With the introduction of Doppelganger week, a new form of self-delusion and ridicule have commenced. For those of you who aren't glued to social media or updating your Facebook hourly, it's officially post your "celeb" doppelganger as your profile pic week.

Try not to get too excited for those of you that have always looked like the Notorious B.I.G. I always thought your doppelganger was an evil twin you dueled to the death upon meeting, for neither can live while the other survives...

The story goes according to the Huffington Post who actually cared to look into it, this guy decided to fight back against his co-workers for always pointing out that he looked like Tom Selleck and post their doppelgangers via Facebook.

This whole thing is even better than posting what bra color you are wearing. Not sure what that has to do with breast cancer, but who am I to judge all you leopard print touting ladies.

I had no idea that so many of my Facebook "friends" look like Leonardo DiCaprio, Jennifer Lopez and Reese Witherspoon. Despite what some might claim, I don't know anyone that actually looks like Janet Jackson.

I am the first to admit that people are getting generic and blend together into six variations. This is not dependent on race or coloring either. Yet celebrities are a hyperbolic stretch for many the average person due to stylists and airbrushing.

I mean how awkward to have to tell your man that no, he doesn't look anything like Antonio Banderas, but more like a combination of Steve Buscemi and John Leguizamo circa The Pest.

It really is shocking to see the lack of Kevin Spaceys, Woody Allens and James Gandolfinis. To be fair I do run with a younger crowd, but not once did I see an image of Screech from Saved by the Bell. You know you’re out there.

If only each of these profile pictures could be juxtaposed next to an actual photo of the person. Then people can actually see the resemblance and really make it interesting.

Oh totally sweetie, if you dropped about twenty pounds and shaved that mustache you really would look just like Beyoncé. Oh wait, now that I look at it maybe I was thinking of Oprah.

I refuse to participate in this game because it is obnoxious enough to get a weekly shout-out from a random that thinks I look like Pink or the mom from Gilmore Girls. Thank baby jesus Even Stevens went off the air. I repeat, I do not look like that girl even though she got rid of the braces.

So my genealogy is a melting pot of Eastern European immigrants and natives. I understand that sister and I have that "familiar" look. No, I did not take sociology 101 with you nor do I know anyone from Wisconsin.

Do not fret those of you blessed with originality and charismatic features. No one really wants to be confused for someone else unless it gets you free stuff.

Anyway I always did bear a shocking resemblance to Natalie Portman, if I do say so myself. Only with the shaved head of course.

Best mom quote of the day: "Little kids that play with knives don't get to go to Toys R Us."