Dolls, Dolls, Dolls

I may have mentioned before I have a bad back.   Much badness of back, in fact.  I deal with it by complaining (the main reason for this blog) and lots and lots of daily vicodins.  Vicodin is a miracle drug composed of hydrocodone (yay) compounded with either Tylenol or ibuprofin (so very not yay.)  I alternate between the two to avoid poisoning myself because, well, because I don’t want to poison myself.

Everything’s fine until Walgreens fucked my refill last week and suddenly I’m left with only the Tylenol one and I’m reduced to taking half the dosage I usually do.  I was worried about some withdrawal nightmare like that scene in Lady Sings the Blue with Diana Ross in the bughouse. EEks.  But no, because I am apparently tougher than Diana Ross and Billie Holiday combined.  Or maybe I am not shooting heroin.  Could be.

Anyway, what actually happened was all the little aches and pains from being a crotchety old man rose to the surface; everything I’ve bumped or bruised or banged up has come back to haunt me.  Ow. Ow. Ow. Owowowowowowow.

When I meditate, I concentrate on each part of my body in turn, start with my head and work down to my feets.  Typically what little focus I can scrape up is distracted by random thoughts like

• Do I need more orange juice?
• How come the professor couldn’t fix the boat to get them off Gilligan’s Island?
• How hard would it be to spread a rumor on the web that MJ from Infomaniac is really a man?
• Is Saki scratching the leather chair?
• What’s that noise?

Things like that.

Now, each body part has to compete with all the ouchie ones.  I’m trying to concentrate on my right shoulder and my left little toe chimes in to remind me I broke it thirty years ago falling naked down the stairs of a bathhouse in Seattle.  Shouting at it to shut up is one thing when I’m here at home alone with the cat, another completely when I’m in the steam room at the Kabuki spa.

Finally, after several very firm discussions with the pharmacist, I got all my doses back in a row and the sun is all shiny and I am back to slowly destroying my liver and kidneys.  Get to work, slacker bitches, that’s what you’re there for.

If I had more muscles, they would just ache more, so it all works out in the end.

Namaste, Bitches

Now that all that election foolishness is past, can we get back to discussing more important and amusing things, things like me?  Just for instance.

And what’s up in the peenee world?  Our dear friend Secret Agent Fred has taken to forwarding me artistic images he finds whilst out and about on the internet.

God bless Fred.

Also, I have resumed yoga (and can I reiterate how annoying yoga is in that no verb actually relates to it?  I’m “doing” yoga.  I’m “practicing” yoga.  I’m “performing” yoga.  Yuck.  Sounds more like I’m contemplating taking up porn.)   Anyway, I’m back on the yoga train.  I purposely did not say anything about this because there is nothing worse than announcing your plans for improvement and then you sort of drift off, but your friends remember and somebody asks “So how’s the (fill in the blank: yoga, meditation, jogging, porn, whatever) going?” and you have to come up with some lame answer that doesn’t reveal you failed to last three days on the path to enlightenment.

When R Man got sick and I started seriously taking care of him, I blew off yoga.  I wasn’t in the mood for much of anything, spinal twisty flexy things included.  But that’s been almost two years and I was stiff and achy so last month: Yoga-time!

Why yoga? Because I was one of the sissy girly boys who could neither throw nor catch anything and couldn’t sprint to the end of this sentence, I was always uninterested in physical activities until I stumbled on yoga.  I was thrilled to find out that, sincee I’m double jointed, all those bizarre looking poses are a snap for me.  Hoo hoo, take that, homphobic, moronic junior high coaches of my past.

And when does the meditation thing start?  I never have any of that higher minded crap in my yoga.  I’m too busy trying to get the poses down right so that I don’t tear my hamstring (again) and then I’m thinking “I wonder if there’s any Butterfingers left?” so not much meditation.

The only thing I refuse to indulge in is yoga classes.  I get in there and the teacher says “So now put your right hand on your left knee….” and I freeze and think “Which one is my left?  Which one is my hand?”  Plus you’re always surrounded by these skinny bitches in their Lulu Lemmon yoga togs and their tidy-ass ponytails doing all the poses just a tiny bit better than the teacher.  I know you’re not supposed to be worrying about how well anyone else is doing, but get real.  I wind up spending all my energy on refraining myself from slapping them.

So I do my yoga alone at home and just wearing a tee shirt.  I know I’m leaving myself open to a bunch of low-minded comments here, but I hate wearing pants for yoga.  There is absolutely no sweatpants in the world loose enough to be comfortable when one is trying to see how far one can bend over backwards.  Fortunately, I  have no mirrors in there so I’m spared what is probably pretty close to this:

I swiped this from MJ over at Infomaniac.  It was attached to Mitzi’s recipe, but I suspect it is actually a snap of MJ. Goddam paparazzi.