Aselin

My first yoga instructor was named Ted. He was a soft spoken man who never, and I do mean never, exited his seated position. Regardless of the poses we were attempting, he remained seated on his mat and explained what he wanted us to do. It was an interesting technique, and without demonstration, I performed most of the poses inaccurately. At the time I thought he was the laziest teacher ever, but child care was included with the class and I had two toddlers so I would have found standing with my forehead against a wall for an hour worth it.

Ted soon moved on to different yoga pastures leaving our little class without a teacher. A few weeks later Phil was hired. Phil was a twenty something guy who owned one set of clothes, smoked like a chimney and refused to comb his long hair. Regardless of how many classes I took - and Phil taught four days a week - Phil had the same outfit on. I suspected he lived in his car.

Phil had a different style than Ted. He was very hands on, in an appropriate way, and after I got over my aversion to his hygiene I found myself learning quite a bit from Phil. I warmed to him the day he showed up with a shaved head. It showed off his earrings.

One day a uniformed woman came in to our class and announced that Phil had moved to Tibet. I suspect Tibet is better than a Datsun hatchback. Abandoned once again our disoriented little group rolled up our mats and went home.

Bev was hired next. Bev was an interesting teacher who chose to berate certain students into higher effort. Because most of Bev’s class was of the over 70 set, I was often the target. Some days it worked. Many days it didn’t.

Ted the Lazy, Phil the Stinky, Bev the Bossy have nothing on my new teacher.

The first day I entered the class a couple of weeks ago, I found a spot at the back, unrolled my mat and began to prepare. Usually it’s hard to find space in the back of a yoga class, so while the front of the room was completely full, I had my pick of the back, for which I was thankful.

Suddenly, in walked my new teacher, Lance. Good grief, no YMCA yoga teacher I had ever seen had looked like Lance. He was straight out of central casting. Bulging muscles rippling out of his muscle shirt and short shorts. I realized why there was room at the back. All but one of the members in the class were women, and they were clustered around Lance the Luscious like some sort of 80’s movie.

Despite the demand by most of the women for his personal attention, Lance was leading a very nice class. He was instructive, fluid and so far by my assessment not just a pretty face. About 3/4 of the way through the class we were all twisting our way into “Eagle Pose” A tricky balance pose where your arms twist around each other, your legs twist around each other and you stand on one foot in a squat with your arms reaching toward the sky. (If you don’t understand what I just said, this will illustrate why Ted the Lazy was such an ineffective teacher.)

So there we were, balancing and squatting with a gong solo being played on the CD player when suddenly, clearly, audibly poor Lance the Luscious became Lance the Loud.

Exploding with human effervescence worthy of a locker room, Lance passed gas like he had fallen on a whoopie cushion. The entire room lost their zen, devolving into a cacophony of giggles as poor, blushing Lance attempted to pretend like nothing had just happened. The unfortunate thing is gas is funny. Always. Yoga folk often refer to it as wind. In my experience, wind is more discreet.

Interestingly enough Lance’s appeal seemed to diminish on the spot. People actually scooted away from him.

It was bound to happen. You pack a hot room with 20 or so tofu eating, spandex wearing humanoids listening to gong music and you're just asking for trouble.

Suddenly my unwanted real estate was prime.

Yesterday in class, people didn’t cluster around Lance like they had. I had to fight for the back. I much preferred him on everyone else’s pedestal.

Leaving class a woman commented to me that poor Lance will never live down his fart. She is probably right.

There but the grace of God go I.

I started drinking when I was four. My parents held a hip office party in our home, and I was allowed to be a cute, pajama clad attendee - who was unattended.

With the libations flowing freely, I was able to gather a collection of corks. Corks can bring hours of entertainment to the right people. I know a guy who does a cool magic/party trick with a couple of corks. As an inventive four year old I built structures and fortresses with my cork collection. The best discoveries are often the result of accidents, and as one of my taller towers fell, one of the corks landed in someone’s drink.

Unseen, I extracted the soggy floater with my less than clean hand, licked the cork off and resumed building. The next building toppled, some of the corks fell on the floor - so I decided they must be cleaned off and dipped them in the unwatched drink of a nearby guest. Again, I fished the bobbers out with hands I had crawled on the floor with, licked the corks and my hands and went back to work.

Soon my attention span had been spent and I began wandering around the party, cork in hand. Entertaining myself I dipped the cork in any unattended drink I could find, fished it out and licked it off. My little ritual was very entertaining, and because I was so short, it went unnoticed for quite a while.

Long enough that I started to not feel so good. Long enough that when I was finally discovered partygoers thought it had just begun. Long enough that after being forced to ‘say goodnight’ I toddled out of bed and threw up in the bathroom sink. I still remember how yucky it felt.

Having hit rock bottom, I vowed then and there I would get sober. And while I admit, there have been a number of times when I’ve been tempted to go off the wagon... usually motivated by my family, to date, I’ve been 13,145 days sober, give or take a day or two.

Generally, I don’t care for doctor visits; I consider them a necessary evil. Doctors themselves are fine, as long as I don’t see them in their office. The whole experience goes against the way I naturally roll.

Rushing to be on time for an appointment only to sit forty five minutes in an uncomfortable germ infested waiting room where sick people have congregated for the last ten years, sniffing, coughing and reading the same outdated People magazine - because let’s face it, no one wants to read the Popular Science. We only want to look at the magazines we’re too cheap or too ashamed to subscribe to.

So there I am, with my People, trying to decide if celebrity #1 Chi-chi Spinoza looks better in the same outfit celebrity #2 Zola Bandita wore to a different function when this couple walks in holding hands. I think, “aww, how sweet, I remember back when my husband cared if I lived or died and came with me to appointments.”

As they signed in I couldn’t tell which one was the patient they were so connected. They selected seats to my left and began to talk about their upcoming weekend.

In baby talk.

“Should we go swimming at my pawent’s house?”
“Oh, I wub, yew in a swimming sooot.”
“Awww, baby waby yew are soo sweeeet.”
“Wubby bubby, what are yubby going to say to my daddy?”
“Dat I lubby you!”

I’m caught in one of those car crash kind of moments. I know propriety says to quit eavesdropping, but I just can’t turn away. I’m wincing and straining to hear better at the same time. As they conversation progresses, the couple moves closer and closer together until suddenly, they’re making out!

Pretending to be engrossed in the People magazine, my mind is reeling. This is no little smooch session. There are arms groping and she’s got her leg swung up on his chair. Shouldn’t someone stop them? Should I throw a Popular Science at them to break them apart. I’m staring at the one-way mirror check-in window wondering if it’s part of anyone’s job description to throw water on the waiting patients.

Sadly, no one appeared with a hose, so the display continued for good five minutes. Baby waby, Wubby bubby and me. There. Alone. In the waiting room. Talk about third wheel. I was praying for the door to open and somebody, anybody call my name. It was like the doctor lotto. Pick me, pick me, pick me..............

Thankfully, the outside door flung open. While the lovers didn’t even pause, I was thrilled to have someone else join us. Maybe I could forge some sort of bond with the entrant and we could silently roll our eyes at each other as the couple remained oblivious to our judgements. I was so excited for my new friend.

In walks Cowboy Bob, in full rodeo regalia. Tight wranglers, boots, hat. OK, not what I was expecting, but maybe he can fashion his belt into a whip and stop the inappropriately amorous display. Wait, he’s already carrying a whip.... no, it’s a leash.... it’s a dachshund on a leash. It’s a dachshund, on a leash..... in a hot pink dress.

Are you kidding me? I am not at the psychiatrist so WHAT THE HECK??? This is quickly turning into some sort of live Dr. Seuss skit.

Cowboy Bob’s wife follows him in, sits down and begins to talk to the dachshund. Yes, in baby talk. I put my face in my hands trying to stifle my chortle. It didn’t work, it only amplified my loud snort.

I know no one is going to believe this, so I pull out my cell phone and turn on the camera. I have no idea why I was trying to be discreet - this crowd would not have noticed normal ‘ol me in the corner, but I was pretending I was texting while aiming my camera at the dachshund and the wife. Snapping a blurry photo just as the doctor opened the door to call my name I leapt to my feet feeling a bit like I was being released from prison.



As we walk to the examination room the doctor asks “How’s your day?”

Truthfully I answered, “Dull, till I got here.”

In general I’m not a fan of Mother’s Day. It has always seemed to me to be a contrived holiday that guilts people into unnatural behaviors that they would never come up with on their own.

Surprisingly, this Mother’s Day was spectacular! I awoke to a gaggle of snuggling kids, who not only had showered in the last 24 hours, but also brushed their teeth! I think at that point my joy was full. But there was more in store.

I was then treated to breakfast. Traditionally the “Mother’s Day” breakfast is a conglomeration of random samplings, mostly inedible and cold. Decorated with greenery pulled out of a wilting bouquet purchased somewhere around midnight Saturday night. After being presented with the unappetizing platter, everyone would stand around not only watching but goading me to eat.

“Mom, eat the egg. I made it for you all by myself.”
“Which thing is the egg?”
“The gray thing.”
“Mmmmmm.” As I try to control my gag reflex.

These moments don’t really feel like a celebration of “Mother” rather some sort of Candid Camera/Punked skit. Yet, they play out over and over all across the nation.

So imagine my surprise AND delight when this year I’m presented with not only recognizable food, but delicious food. Eggs Benedict and fruit. Home run for the celebrants.

Then, EVERYONE gets ready for church. By themselves. On time. No screaming, crying, fashion crises, lost shoes, face paint, ripped jeans, mismatched colors. They looked like a snapshot out of a Sears catalog. Including hubby.

We head for church and I’m thinking “This is the best Mother’s Day ever!” While I’m not a fan of the annual “sainted mother” soliloquy that’s usually delivered, I genuinely feel celebrated, appreciated and full.

Walking in to church on Mother’s day patrons were greeting other patrons and exchanging pleasantries of the day. One of the Bishopric walks in with us and makes a comment about the program and my children being mentioned in the program. I, of course am still basking in my Benedict glow and think this is a reference to Unnamed child number three’s birthday this week.

How wrong I was.

Walking into the normally reverent chapel, I’m met with an overzealous welcome as people nod, smile, rise from their seats to shake my hand. Now, in my own mind I am a celebrity, but this usually does not pan out in real life.

We all sit in a comfy pew and I reach for a program to see what the special stylings for the day are. Unnamed child number one snatches the program from my hands before I can read it. I’m horrified. I thought I had broken the grabbing habit out of my children’s repertoire back in the toddler years. Clearly I’m a failure as a mother. Hubby starts to snicker, which only makes me madder. I harshly whisper at her for the program back and the people sitting behind us burst out in irreverent laughter. How rude! Like they have perfect, non-grabbing children. As I turn to see who it is I mentally admit, OK, they do have perfect, non-grabbing children, but still.

Unnamed child number two says in a slightly snickery voice, “Mom, do you want my program?”

I’m torn between my desire to restore order and my desire to regain my stolen program and swat unnamed child number one over the head with it. I notice other people are laughing at us. I look to my left and a family smiles and waves. Look to my right and a woman winks. What the heck? Like this kind of discipline hasn’t played out EVERY Sunday for as long as children have been allowed at church.

I take the program offered by unnamed child number two. It has a lovely pink insert inside. I pull it out and realize it’s a collection of quotes from the younger children in the congregation about their own mothers. Awwww.

I begin to read.

“She tucks me in at night,” “She is nice,” “She makes me cookies,” Awwww.

Then, I choke on my own spit as I read Unnamed child number two’s quote:

“She’s one HOT Mama and she’s nice.”

The wife of the family behind us puts her hand on my shoulder and can’t control her own giggling. My face turns a florescent hot red and I’m a little dizzy. But, after I quit coughing and realize why everyone was so attentive on my arrival, I attempt to laugh it off and move on with the service.

The service was lovely. I had calmed down and returned to normal temperatures. Unnamed child number two is completely proud of himself. So all is well.

Then, before we’re dismissed from the chapel, the Bishop stands up to share a few words. Holding up the insert he decides he wants to give a re-cap - in case anyone missed it. I’m not as dumb as I look. I know where this is going. Suddenly my bag on the floor needs immediate attention as I hear over the speaker system, “She tucks me in at night, she is nice, and then with a snigger not befitting of a man of the cloth he says “And of course, Unnamed child number two “She’s one HOT Mama!”

Is this church or a roast?

I don’t know why I thought it was over. Not only did I spend the rest of the Sunday being referred to as HOT Mama, but this entire week I’ve fielded phone calls for HOT Mama.

Most of me cringes in humiliation. Part of me wants to embrace it, because I am clearly a success as a mother as their indoctrination has been a success. They can cook AND punk me all on the same day.

I've recently listened to a series of people describe things they'll "never survive". A bad meal at a restaurant, not getting invited somewhere, having to give a public talk. It made me remember this memorable event...


I was hazed pretty badly starting in Junior High, moving on up through high school. I won’t chronicle all of it here, but one experience in particular was pretty bad. Who knows what makes someone a target, but I had a huge bulls-eye on my back.

One would think joining the Cross country team was pretty innocuous. Most people who joined our team are a bit nerdy, socially challenged and weird. It takes a certain personality to say, “Hey, after a long day at school, I’d like to go run 15 miles in the sweltering heat.”

Cross country is not a social sport. It’s very hard to carry on a bonding conversation while trying not to barf up a lung. At a meet, you don’t find out how your team fared until all the points are added up, and often we would be told the results the next day so it wasn’t like there were moments of rapturous cheering as we crushed the competition. But we were really good, and often did crush the competition.

One strike I had against me, joining the team as a freshman, was I was fast enough that I had to train with the boys. From a coach’s perspective this was a good thing. As a social retard, this just made me more of an outcast with the girls.

After a mile warm-up on the track we’d be sent off on various workouts, broken up according to ability. The town I grew up in is a picturesque collection of mountains, tree lined streets and rural history.


Often, out on these runs, we wouldn’t see anyone else. Running through a tree canopied section of town called the Arbolada, the boys cut through the town cemetery.

Being a huge fan of the shortcut, I followed, only to quickly notice the cemetery was not deserted. Hiding behind the tilted headstones and tall grass was a pack of the older girls. I came to a wary stop as one girl grabbed my hand and announced they were excited I was on the team. Uh oh. And, as an official member of the team I needed to be initiated. I felt queasier than I usually did on my daily run.

Like possessed ants they descended on me and stripped me of all of my clothes. Thankfully they left my shoes on as they ran away laughing. I crawled behind a headstone, and while I was not physically harmed, I was so emotionally traumatized I had to remind myself to breathe.

There in an awkward squat, because no one wants to sit bare-butted on a headstone from the 1800’s; the imprint would not be flattering, And really, who knows what ancient lichen would do to my baby-soft skin? I racked my brain for a plan. I didn’t know anyone who lived close by, and frankly, if I did, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t go ringing their doorbell naked. That sort of idea would work better with strangers. "Hi Mrs.Lake, um, can I use your phone?" "Oh, Mr. Lake and your parents are both home? Yes, I would like a towel, thank you." Then later that evening, "Honey, your little friend Aselin came over today..." Yeah, nix that plan.

After about an hour I decided I had to try and get back to the locker room. School was only about a half a mile away, and it was getting dark so the shadows were in my favor.

Peering out from behind a low rock wall and the cemetery sign I made sure no cars were coming. Planning my route down the road, I scampered from bush, to tree without incident. About a third of the way back to school I was able to harvest two large dry palm bush fronds. Thank heaven it was a bush and not a tree, because at that point I think I would have tried to climb the tree, someone would have seen me, and reported crazy naked girl in running shoes climbing the palm tree.

Like a bad Benny Hill skit, I scampered the rest of the way to school holding a frond in front and in back. Traffic was light, but unfortunately not non-existent. I received a few honks and waves, but being preoccupied, I was unfriendly and didn’t wave back. This may be why I was never voted Homecoming Queen.

Somehow, I had waited long enough that the rest of my team, and thankfully the football team, had all gone home. I made it to the refuge of the locker room ditching my fronds in an undersized trash can. My hands were trembling so badly that it took a number of tries to open my lock.

After dressing and strapping on my backpack I proceeded to walk home. I had a long time to think about what had happened. One of the great life truisms, is that good lessons often come out of bad experiences.

After this experience I repeatedly expressed a newfound appreciation for my clothing, despite how out of style I had previously perceived them. I think it was this point when at my very core I decided that clothes are less important than covering.

I also gained a profound distrust for the draw to belong. Being initiated wasn’t so fun. I learned that the people who create a sense of belonging for me are those I can trust on a deep level. They don’t use me or my weaknesses for entertainment, and they have a loyalty found in true friendship.

Last, I learned that one does, in actuality, survive these disastrous kinds of things. The next day, despite the prodding, I refused to disclose much information. I thanked my teammates for leaving me my shoes, and confirmed I got back to school in one piece, but that was it. It was very unsatisfying for the perpetrators.

Interestingly enough, the whole thing did seem to initiate me. I became much more comfortable in my own skin and felt much less intimidated by the jerks I had previously held in high esteem.

I’m not sure how to adequately show my appreciation to you for reading my blog. The blog started as a late-night blackmail dare that involved a headlock and crying, and has become a fun part of my weekdays. I’ve gotten a number of e-mails and comments asking questions and making requests, which I hope to accommodate.

Yes, I will write the cockroach story soon. As well as the colonoscopy, patriotic sheep painting, and cemetery run. These requests from those who have watched the train wreck of my life are always welcome.

Thank you for forwarding some of your favorites as near as your neighborhood and as far as Antwerp. The greatest compliment is a forward. Well, and a nice comment.

Yes, the stories, so far, are all true.

Yes, I am fixated on my Nemesis, the Blog of Note. Partly because of her continued poor content. Mostly because I continue to be poorly balanced.

No, I’m not currently in therapy, although I probably should be.

The children are unnamed in the blog, but in real life they do have names. Although, I often forget their names, so they have/had healthy therapy funds.

So far, everyone referenced in the blog is still speaking to me.

No, I don’t have many friends, but I’m up to 23 followers- some of whom will even show their faces!

And to you special readers who have recently joined and gone back and read all the earlier posts, a special award. I just wish it wasn’t motivated by the stomach flu.

So,to all of you, thank you, thank you, thank you.

Aselin

My maternal grandparents were a huge part of my life as a child. They spent a lot of time with me, after school and on weekends, treating me like I was the most important person in their world.

My grandfather in particular went out of his way to find the time to be with me. He was my personal taxi service for all of my school years. My grandparents were no different than the kabillions of other grandparents throughout history. Their job was to spoil me, break all the parental rules about diet and bedtime, and send me home when they were done.

Picking me up from school and transporting me home should have taken about 10 minutes. One day, we stopped for forbidden ice cream. I was not allowed to have sugar as a child, and while I see the reasoning in my parent’s thinking, at the time I would have preferred they cut off my right arm and let me eat sugar.

Grandfather was sensitive to my young cravings, and stopped at the local ice cream shop for a scoop of strawberry shortcake ice cream on a sugar cone. I couldn’t have loved him more at that moment.

Needing to come up with a reason why it took us over an hour to get home, (I wasn’t going to rush this rare opportunity), Grandfather said with a wink “We stopped by the hardware store.” Being of deviant intelligence, I got his code and relayed the information to my waiting mother.

The hardware store was our little secret. I adored the hardware store. The invention of cookies and cream flavor notched up my esteem for the hardware store significantly. Grandfather even let me order chocolate sprinkles, which is nirvana on a cone for a ten year old. Whenever he picked me up I would plead for a trip to the hardware store, and being a grandparent, it was virtually impossible for him to say no.

Despite the ridiculous frequency of our hardware trips, my mother never did discover the ruse. I let her in on the secret a few years after he passed away.

Sometimes, when I’m particularly introspective, I take myself to the hardware store and order a scoop of cookies and cream with chocolate sprinkles on a sugar cone. Somehow I don’t feel alone; it feels like he is with me in that flavor. This week, I sat with my treat, and missed the unconditional love my grandfather gave me. Everyone should have someone who loves them like he loved me.

Everyone should get to go to the hardware store.