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It's like screaming into the void, here. I'm ok with that.
The last time I went camping, and it was many years ago with a horrible ex, as we drove out of the campground we stopped at the dumpster and threw out my tent and a few other waterlogged accessories. It had rained torrentially for days. My tent was at least 20 years old by that point and there was no amount of on the fly patching that was going to keep us dry. Everything leaked. Everything was soaked.
That camping trip was a sort of hail mary to a doomed relationship. Nearly everyone but me could see it for what it was. It seems appropriate now that I got to see some of the worst in his behavior and the trip was a disaster in many ways. Yet I still kept trying. Stupid me.
Fast forward to now. I have an burning desire to go camping again. As of about 10 minutes ago I've finally purchased the last of the gear I need for a most epic car camping adventure. I am not in any physical condition to do any type of backcountry - hike in and hike out - camping. My ankles are a mess and my desire to sleep on the ground (even with a sleeping pad) is nonexistent.
Now to select a place and a date.
My spouse says he's not a fan of camping but wants to go (at least once). I hope he discovers a little but of the joy I find in camping.
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Tonight is my usual Wednesday night "Gentle and Restorative Yoga" class. The class is mostly comprised of older ladies and a few younger women who are suffering from sports injuries.
The instructor was new to me. Her accent was Israeli. In my head, she's a retired Mossad operative.
The problem with having older people in class is when the instructor asks what people need, everyone complains about their back pain so class is catered towards lower back pain exercises.
During the extended restorative child's pose - it became clear that I was not fully 'in the moment' as I started twitching my hand and then quietly flailing, enough so that the instructor came over to find out what was breaking my inner peace and reflection. It was the unmistakable feeling of a spider crawling on my arm. The Mossad operative killed the spider.
While in an extended 'legs up the wall' I made the startling discovery that I am an anatomical freak, as my left foot is significantly larger than my right foot. I feel like I knew this already about myself, but actually seeing this was a little upsetting. Again, I wasn't focused on my inner peace here, but wondering what else is wrong with me.
The instructor was new to me. Her accent was Israeli. In my head, she's a retired Mossad operative.
The problem with having older people in class is when the instructor asks what people need, everyone complains about their back pain so class is catered towards lower back pain exercises.
During the extended restorative child's pose - it became clear that I was not fully 'in the moment' as I started twitching my hand and then quietly flailing, enough so that the instructor came over to find out what was breaking my inner peace and reflection. It was the unmistakable feeling of a spider crawling on my arm. The Mossad operative killed the spider.
While in an extended 'legs up the wall' I made the startling discovery that I am an anatomical freak, as my left foot is significantly larger than my right foot. I feel like I knew this already about myself, but actually seeing this was a little upsetting. Again, I wasn't focused on my inner peace here, but wondering what else is wrong with me.
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I few weeks ago I started a beginner yoga workshop. Many years ago I had a regular yoga practice but I'm older now, out of shape, and have lost a lot of flexibility. I figured a beginner workshop is just what I need, to re-learn some basics and get back into the groove.
This happened in week three of the six week workshop....
Well. That settles it. I can never go back to the yoga studio again.
After a pleasantly successful Ardha Chandrasana that elicited an excited "Perfect!" from the instructor, we moved on to Supta Gomukhasana. This is where it went downhill. It was the point of no return. The instructor leaned down to correct the plane of my feet and I can't hold back.
I farted in yoga class.
It wasn't dainty. Or quiet.
She kept walking and talking. I fought the worst case of giggles, that hardcore inappropriate laughter that usually only happens at funerals or church.
Once I finally settled down and felt pretty proud that I had my laughter under control, she told us to put our feet down and switch sides, bringing our knees to chest and crossing our other legs to repeat Supta Gomukhasana. It happened again, and louder than the first. This time I guffawed. What a great word, guffawed, because that's exactly what it sounds like. I was vibrating on the yoga mat, and not from all that prana, but from trying to not disrupt the class while I trumpeted my successful demonstration of flexibility and laughed uncontrollably. I had the most amazing ab workout, as a result. I highly recommend farting in yoga class and trying to not laugh about it if you'd like to tone up your tummy and obliques.
After last week's humiliation where my yoga pants crept down and I gave everyone a good show of my bare butt, I'm pretty sure they are meeting right now to discuss banning me from the studio as I am some sort of inappropriate menace.
This happened in week three of the six week workshop....
Well. That settles it. I can never go back to the yoga studio again.
After a pleasantly successful Ardha Chandrasana that elicited an excited "Perfect!" from the instructor, we moved on to Supta Gomukhasana. This is where it went downhill. It was the point of no return. The instructor leaned down to correct the plane of my feet and I can't hold back.
I farted in yoga class.
It wasn't dainty. Or quiet.
She kept walking and talking. I fought the worst case of giggles, that hardcore inappropriate laughter that usually only happens at funerals or church.
Once I finally settled down and felt pretty proud that I had my laughter under control, she told us to put our feet down and switch sides, bringing our knees to chest and crossing our other legs to repeat Supta Gomukhasana. It happened again, and louder than the first. This time I guffawed. What a great word, guffawed, because that's exactly what it sounds like. I was vibrating on the yoga mat, and not from all that prana, but from trying to not disrupt the class while I trumpeted my successful demonstration of flexibility and laughed uncontrollably. I had the most amazing ab workout, as a result. I highly recommend farting in yoga class and trying to not laugh about it if you'd like to tone up your tummy and obliques.
After last week's humiliation where my yoga pants crept down and I gave everyone a good show of my bare butt, I'm pretty sure they are meeting right now to discuss banning me from the studio as I am some sort of inappropriate menace.
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Between the DDOS attacks on LJ and my new love of Wordpress and all of its shiny bells and whistles I wonder if LJ is a veritable ghost town.
There are communities that still actively post, and I do check them from time to time, but I feel like I've abandoned something here that was once very special to me.
There are communities that still actively post, and I do check them from time to time, but I feel like I've abandoned something here that was once very special to me.
I woke up yesterday to find that my remaining cat, Tuxxie, died in his sleep.
He wasn't ill. He had played, snuggled, ate, drank just as usual. With the passing of the other cats he has been receiving an unusual amount of attention from me and every little sneeze or cough had me jumping up to inspect him.
His paw was still tucked under his cheek. Whatever happened, happened quickly and he didn't appear to suffer.
I am truly a mess, total emotional wreckage of a human being at the moment.
There's a lot of stress, decisions, worry and fear happening in my everyday life and I feel like I'm drowning in sadness and loss.
In October of 2001, Dennis and I had moved to our new apartment in DC. It was a huge adjustment to lifestyle but we were learning to love city life. One of the striking observations about the odd subculture of living in a building that backed up to an alley was the number of alley cats that ran around. Being the softy bleeding heart that I am, I started feeding the alley cats and we had a veritable shanty town set up on our back porch. We gave nicknames to the cats and noticed that unlike other alleys in the neigborhood, our alley cats were black, gray or tuxedos. The largest of the tuxedo cats seemed to herd the kittens to our porch, waited patiently for them to eat or drink first, and would often come up to sit just out of arms reach when we were socializing with neighbors on the porch. It wasn't long before he came close enough for a pet or a scritch and then would carry on about his cat business elsewhere. Dennis and I discussed taking him in, but we already had a LOT of cats in our small apartment and we decided it wasn't a good idea for anyone. Besides, the tuxedo wasn't feral, he seemed healthy, it was likely that he was someone's pet that they let outside. This wasn't a pleasant thought, but a distinct possibility.
In February of 2002, I received a call from our neighbors (with whom we shared the porch) who told me that the big tuxedo cat was passed out on our doorstep. They took him to the vet where he was diagnosed with a sinus infection, warmed up, given antibiotics, dewormed, checked for fleas and ticks and sent home with my neighbors. They tried to bring him into their home, but their two cats began a warfare campaign against the sick kitty. When I came home that evening, I took in the tuxedo cat in, paid for half the vet bills, and set him up in my room. He curled up with me and went to sleep as if he has always belonged there.
Dennis tried to get friendly with him, and indeed was the first to be approached by the cat on the porch, but Tuxxie, as I named him, did not want to have much to do with him, or anyone for that matter. He was most certainly my cat.
Through the years, Tuxxie remained suspicious, aloof and wary of anyone new but never wavered in his affection for me. It was a VERY BIG DEAL that Scott was allowed to pet him, hug him and give him kisses.
Tuxxie had a very strong hatred of pens, and would sometimes give pencils the stink-eye just for good measure. He had a distinct purr, an affinity for cuddling with my butt, and seemed to enjoy being called fancy. He would place his paws in such a way that the white line of his mittens would line up perfectly.
Tuxxie had a great level of dignity. He was my darling and I loved him so very much.
He wasn't ill. He had played, snuggled, ate, drank just as usual. With the passing of the other cats he has been receiving an unusual amount of attention from me and every little sneeze or cough had me jumping up to inspect him.
His paw was still tucked under his cheek. Whatever happened, happened quickly and he didn't appear to suffer.
I am truly a mess, total emotional wreckage of a human being at the moment.
There's a lot of stress, decisions, worry and fear happening in my everyday life and I feel like I'm drowning in sadness and loss.
In October of 2001, Dennis and I had moved to our new apartment in DC. It was a huge adjustment to lifestyle but we were learning to love city life. One of the striking observations about the odd subculture of living in a building that backed up to an alley was the number of alley cats that ran around. Being the softy bleeding heart that I am, I started feeding the alley cats and we had a veritable shanty town set up on our back porch. We gave nicknames to the cats and noticed that unlike other alleys in the neigborhood, our alley cats were black, gray or tuxedos. The largest of the tuxedo cats seemed to herd the kittens to our porch, waited patiently for them to eat or drink first, and would often come up to sit just out of arms reach when we were socializing with neighbors on the porch. It wasn't long before he came close enough for a pet or a scritch and then would carry on about his cat business elsewhere. Dennis and I discussed taking him in, but we already had a LOT of cats in our small apartment and we decided it wasn't a good idea for anyone. Besides, the tuxedo wasn't feral, he seemed healthy, it was likely that he was someone's pet that they let outside. This wasn't a pleasant thought, but a distinct possibility.
In February of 2002, I received a call from our neighbors (with whom we shared the porch) who told me that the big tuxedo cat was passed out on our doorstep. They took him to the vet where he was diagnosed with a sinus infection, warmed up, given antibiotics, dewormed, checked for fleas and ticks and sent home with my neighbors. They tried to bring him into their home, but their two cats began a warfare campaign against the sick kitty. When I came home that evening, I took in the tuxedo cat in, paid for half the vet bills, and set him up in my room. He curled up with me and went to sleep as if he has always belonged there.
Dennis tried to get friendly with him, and indeed was the first to be approached by the cat on the porch, but Tuxxie, as I named him, did not want to have much to do with him, or anyone for that matter. He was most certainly my cat.
Through the years, Tuxxie remained suspicious, aloof and wary of anyone new but never wavered in his affection for me. It was a VERY BIG DEAL that Scott was allowed to pet him, hug him and give him kisses.
Tuxxie had a very strong hatred of pens, and would sometimes give pencils the stink-eye just for good measure. He had a distinct purr, an affinity for cuddling with my butt, and seemed to enjoy being called fancy. He would place his paws in such a way that the white line of his mittens would line up perfectly.
Tuxxie had a great level of dignity. He was my darling and I loved him so very much.
Less than two weeks after Miss Poo Kitty died, Jack - another loveable orange tabby of mine - passed away.
The heartbreak in our household is nearly palpable.
It has taken me this long to even talk about it in LJ form.
We theorize that since she passed, Jack, who had been ill for some time, just decided to give up.
I don't know what else to say, other than I love him so.
I can't shake this shroud of depression.
The heartbreak in our household is nearly palpable.
It has taken me this long to even talk about it in LJ form.
We theorize that since she passed, Jack, who had been ill for some time, just decided to give up.
I don't know what else to say, other than I love him so.
I can't shake this shroud of depression.
July 4th weekend, 1993 I was given two cats. At 18 years old and just starting out in a crazy life full of challenge and adventure, it was a grounding and humbling experience. I knew nothing about cats, but I was head over heels in love. A few years later one of those cats passed away and it was tragic and horrible. I said goodbye and went about a life full of cats and other experiences. I still had one of the original two. her name was Poo. Not Pooh.
A female orange tabby, which is not a common thing, she was also SO soft and fluffy with downy fur. She never met a lap she didn't like. When it came to men in my life, she was quite obvious about whether or not she like you. In retrospect, she could pick them better than I could.
On July 4, 2011 Miss Poo turned 19. I sang to her all day and gave her extra love. I marveled at how well she was doing for such an old lady. She smiled and purred.
yesterday was the day that she took a dramatic turn and it was obvious from looking at her that she would not recover. I bought her a new brush, her favorite treats and toys. She sniffed the treats but only paid attention to the brushing, which was her favorite. I told her she was a pretty girl. My heart broke even more when she didn't grab the brush and commence vigorous brushing of herself, as she always did.
She died this morning, with some help from a vet, while I petted her and told her how much I love her. I've had her for 18 years - exactly half of my life. It's hard to let go of that.
I've shed a lot of tears over the past few years - for regret, for fear and many other things - but I have never felt such a hollowness before. I'm amazed that such a tiny little bit of pointy orange fur with a question mark tail and a sense of elegance could have such an impact on my life.
I'm going to miss you, sweet Poo. I hope you find Tigger and Midnite in kitty heaven and you will have crazy hour all the time again.
A female orange tabby, which is not a common thing, she was also SO soft and fluffy with downy fur. She never met a lap she didn't like. When it came to men in my life, she was quite obvious about whether or not she like you. In retrospect, she could pick them better than I could.
On July 4, 2011 Miss Poo turned 19. I sang to her all day and gave her extra love. I marveled at how well she was doing for such an old lady. She smiled and purred.
yesterday was the day that she took a dramatic turn and it was obvious from looking at her that she would not recover. I bought her a new brush, her favorite treats and toys. She sniffed the treats but only paid attention to the brushing, which was her favorite. I told her she was a pretty girl. My heart broke even more when she didn't grab the brush and commence vigorous brushing of herself, as she always did.
She died this morning, with some help from a vet, while I petted her and told her how much I love her. I've had her for 18 years - exactly half of my life. It's hard to let go of that.
I've shed a lot of tears over the past few years - for regret, for fear and many other things - but I have never felt such a hollowness before. I'm amazed that such a tiny little bit of pointy orange fur with a question mark tail and a sense of elegance could have such an impact on my life.
I'm going to miss you, sweet Poo. I hope you find Tigger and Midnite in kitty heaven and you will have crazy hour all the time again.
