Why, why, why?

About a month ago, I decided to fulfill a pretty unnecessary and long-held dream of mine to travel to India to practice yoga under the scrutiny of 90-year old Pattabhi Jois' ever youthful eye. I would have to do it alone because all of my friends and family have more sense than interest in rising before sunrise to do yoga faraway and without clean water. That is not entirely true; my mother expressed a keen wish to come and I said no.

I made the arrangements. And I leave in just under 3 weeks. I gave myself far too much time because India is a big place and I wanted to make sure that I am somewhere on that subcontinent and not on this small island for the remainder of my husband's contract with the Company. Since the Company operates largely as a sweatshop, requiring a commitment to 7-day weeks comprised of 10 to 15-hour days with very little concern for considering more efficient methods for fostering employee relations, we both decided it was best that we miss each other from afar.

I have the visa for India. I have new or renewed immunity to tetanus and typhoid. And I have a ticket. I go to Sydney first, for just two days, then to Mumbai, then to Bangalore, and from there to Mysore. Three days after purchasing my ticket, I learned that the place I want to study will be closed for part of the time that I had intended to study there. It seems they decided to take a family vacation. I can't fault them for that desire. I just wish I had known earlier.

I spent today trying in vain to find information about the schedule online. Finally, I called. They confirmed their upcoming trip. I confirmed mine. I'm working around it. Alright. Yeah. I'm still going to India.

A word of credit, quickly

"This is getting good" is comprised of four commonly used English words that can be combined to create this and many other sentences. I credit many people excited about the future, seriously or not, with saying this sentence in their lives, including my husband, his friend and some guy they used to work with a long time ago. In addition, I have heard a former law professor say it. I also have said it once or twice in the past. But most recently, I have heard it said by my husband and his friend. Thanks for reviving one of the best sentences ever composed in the English language.

To all those who have also said it, recently or otherwise, here's to you as well. You know what I'm talking about. Oh yeah.

I was at pottery class.

Here's a great response to a few of life's more annoying questions: I was at pottery class. Isn't that a convenient and succinct answer for all the moments you just don't show, or don't deliver, or don't call and someone calls you out on it? Feeling somewhat remiss for my failure to post yesterday, I searched my bag of tricks for a decent excuse. I'm not saying I answer to anyone, but it's appropriate to always have a ready retort at your hip should you need to shoot quickly. Always prepared, I am. In this case, "I was at pottery class" works well, and is actually the truth. I didn't come to the truth easily. I tested other possibilities for both credibility and integrity. I played with:

"The network was down!" (Emphasis added to convey the utter shock I would suffer in such a case should it happen, though I don't really have a network, since I am unemployed.)
"My car was impounded." (Here, no emphasis used because I doubt anyone in this country would bother to impound my sweet ride suspecting correctly that I would not suffer the loss too dearly nor actually pay to get it back.)
"I didn't feel like it." (Always inclined to be cooler than I am, I considered this one because it made me seem aloof, which could play well as we get to know each other. The problem here: it's just not me. Hence, "I don't care" also failed. I did feel like it and I do care.)
"My dog was swept to sea while chasing her stick and I contracted hypothermia rescuing her." (Oh this one is just plain awful. I don't like to tempt fate so I would never implicate a loved one in a tragic lie.)

The truth presented itself as a decent alternative because a pottery class is always more interesting than most things in life, filled with interesting people and funny misshapen ideas. It's usually the case that the teacher, if she has any experience at all, must be a little deranged from extensive contact with hazardous minerals in the clay. And the emotions run strong in pottery class because of the many opportunities for failure. The clay collapses on the wheel; the object explodes in the kiln; the glaze sticks to the platform and your delicate vase comes ready-made with a giant oven shelf to balance that flower arrangement you learned in your last, cheap adult education class. So, should anyone actually read this and ask, where the hell was she all friggin' day on Tuesday, I now feel satisfied that "I was at pottery class" will clear things up immediately.

Since I have used the excuse, you may wish to join me in a brief rumination about my pottery class. First, I am no good with clay. Second, I don't aspire to be good. Third, I really love to glaze things. It's a fantastic facet of pottery that the glaze will always present suspense. Each dip of my off-center clay mass, or "bowl" if you like, is a cliffhanger. I learned that egg brings out the orange in green. Of course, since the moment I learned that, I have not successfully replicated the reaction. Our class has plenty of people tricking out their clay and perfecting their glazes; I am not one of them.

There is one gentleman who keeps making large underpants. Last week, he complemented the traditional brief-cut with a mound in just the right spot. Well, actually, it was snuggled up to the left. Wow! That was my thought, and the exact word that came from my mouth as I enthusiastically splashed more and more egg glaze on the green glaze and my arm. He must have enough underpant plaques by now to really do up the wall. That would be an excellent focal point of the toilet room, or even the kitchen, I suppose.

Today, it's one of those yoga days. It is also the day after my pottery class, when I imagine all the impressive things that I should try next week, like a piggy bank and a five-fingered vase! Alas, I may need the assistance of the Mr. Underpants. He really knows how to work that clay.

Questions?

Well, I never...

When we first came to live in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, far below the Tropic of Capricorn and almost a quarter of the way round from the lovely balance of the Equator, we were told that Winter would blow us away. Literally. In a city known, nationally at least, for its persistent and severe wind, we were guaranteed a frigid August that would have us chipping crisp little icicles, formed from tears of submission, from our eyelashes every time the southerly blew Antarctica's polar breath upon us. Some people went so far as to say that Winter would break us. I was led to believe that merely opening my car door would present hazards that I would need to overcome to see Spring: I could lose the door to the wind; I could lose my leg to the door; I could freeze my vulnerable, numb, shivering hands to the frosty metal on every attempted egress. Finger by finger, I would surrender my ability to cope with the glacial punishment, and eventually, I would succumb to hypothermia, captured in my car forever by Winter's stinging slap. Good thing it's a Volvo.

Well, let me tell you about today, as I watch young children frolic loudly hither and thither, erecting castles on the warm sand across the street. There are no clouds; there is no wind. The sunshine casts a bold, golden light on the water and infuses the vast, textured brush on the mountain across the strait with intensity. More than a mile across the water, I can discern the conglomeration of wild flowers springing up from the hillside. The blue sky beams from horizon to apex, and everything in between radiates heat and color. The math required to tell you the actual temperature in Fahrenheit is just too much for me, but I'd estimate we're at a balmy 72. Hey, 72. Isn't that the average temperature for America's formerly most beautiful city, San Diego? I believe it is. To all those silly cats who preached such a ghoulish winter and thought that we would fall to 72, I say this: I'll be at the beach.

And that, in a nutshell, is what I did today. After rescuing my husband and our friend from the clutches of the dreadful Company, we bought pies and threw the ol' pigskin on the sand. I love to throw the ol' pigskin in New Zealand. I don't know what materials makes up a rugby ball, which boasts a greater girth than an American football, but rugby balls are thrown underhanded. And that, of course, makes me laugh. To be completely honest, I don't laugh too loudly about it in public because that would be rude and, more importantly, invite quite an extensive amount of ire upon my sweet head. But as a younger sister constantly derided for "throwing like a girl," I have no real choice in this existence but to laugh (quietly) at all the big, tough, bulldog-looking, testosterone-producing males who throw that chunk of a rugby ball with such fearsome gusto... underhanded. Ha ha. Ahem. Ha.

Here's to Spring and 72!

Questions?

Another day, another errand

Saturday! That special day of rest when yet another day of rest is guaranteed, thus there is no real need to rest, unless you are really tired. I could clean or cook or fold laundry or take care of the myriad mundane things that would make my house into my man's castle, but my man hasn't complained yet, so... Okay, I admit, I did wash the clothes and put them out to dry in the frigid wind. I also considered vacuuming, but we need bags. Thank goodness I got out of that one. The market economy in NZ is just small enough to save me from too many necessary errands by closing some important shops on Saturdays and Sundays.

In my former life, prior to moving to this itty bitty microcosm of upside down western living, I was an attorney. I am an attorney still, but you can't fault me for this profession just at this moment because I don't practice here. Instead, I volunteer for all sorts of organizations that I would have loved to have found in the US to help out people that I couldn't. The point of this is not that I did some decent work that made me happy and fulfilled in the past. No, the point here, relevant to my current state and the theme of this rambling, is: I can't remember how I ever got my errands done when I was wearing a suit all day. I don't remember ever taking time off to go get groceries, yet, somehow, I remember having fuller shelves then than now. Did I frequent Trader Joe's in my suit? Did I really clean the house when I arrived home after a full day, and did I do it before or after taking off my suit? If I didn't take off my suit, did I get down on my knees to scrub? In that case, when did I find the time to get to the drycleaners? Who did all the running around? Did my husband do that? I believe he may have on occasion. I have a fleeting memory of the two of us sharing chores. What a world we lived in then.

Where is he now, that husband who used to be home, but clearly is not at this moment, you might wonder? Why am I so alone on this Saturday? He works for a Company that calls Saturday a "normal day" and "normal" apparently means more like the five work days of the week and not the traditional day before Sunday when we all sleep in and take walks and eat lunch in the late afternoon. So, he works. In addition to the strange abnormality that the Company has made normal, they also do such pleasant things as "invite" you to work on Sunday, a day they can't quite bring themselves to call a normal day... yet. They even include an incentive: the boss people will be there. Ah, the Company is eating the souls of lots of people today and probably will again tomorrow.

No unions, no human resource department, and the best part is there are actually no employees. The Company asserts that each worker is an independent contractor, thus has no obligation to pay into the national medical benefit on behalf of all these diligent people required to show up for normal day Saturdays. If you don't come in, you better submit a report. The High Court decided that they really are employees. Score one for the workers, but working more than 65 hours a week makes the assertion of employment rights a really difficult errand to complete.

And so, there are the wives. Yeah, where are we in all this? Why aren't I on the picket line? Surely I have the time, between not vacuuming and not cleaning, to walk the streets in front of the Company's main office, carrying a hand-painted sign depicting me and a sad little doggy crying for our best friend to come home, demanding rights for my husband, and all the others, or at least requesting that he can join us for dinner? I am looking for others to join me, but frankly, I think I would rather pack our stuff, our little dog, our impressive abalone shell collection, and get back to the security and comfort of unionized employment! Hooray for the worker! Hooray for the worker who escapes to stability!

Next up on my errand list: make more songs for my upcoming party album on garageband.

Every hour on the hour

What does an unemployed, childless, unidentified female with no need for employment, children or identification do everyday? Of course, that's what everyone wants to know because the premise is so ripe with possibilities. What doesn't she do, should be the question.

In the two hours since last writing, I have sewn a skirt and played drums. When was the last time you did either of those things?

In the spirit of being a day ahead, I'll give you a jump on the day. This morning was lovely and sublimely sunny. Remember, it's winter here, and that means the sun is still low in the sky. Despite the seasonal challenge, I still got a face full of it upon waking... yes, with that gasp of Friday. On Fridays, I tutor at the prison. My student is a young man from Samoa. I don't know why he's there, and I don't care to know. Today, we worked on possessive pronouns and he told me stories in complete sentences about rugby.

I got those shots, one in each arm, even without the sweet incentive.

I wrote some stuff, but nothing that you can see.

I played on the beach with my dog. The beach is on a bay and the bay is crystalline on calm days. Today, the swell rushed the waves at the jetty and the spray caught the sunlight over the rocks to make elusive rainbows. When the waves break, the water pulls up the sand and churns it over. A big wave will rise above the stirred sand and peel with the wind tickling its peak. The long clouds sweep past the sun and shadows run along the surface of the water; blue turns to green then to jade then its clear again and I can see the gold sand bar swirling under the swell. I spend a lot of time on the beach with my dog. She goes wild, and so do I.

And that brings me to my next issue. My dog is cute and very good with a stick. Thanks to my free time, I have a dog who can do almost anything with a stick but throw it to herself. If I needed to list achievements of the last 8 months, the stick skills of my little black creature dog would be mentioned with a wee bit of pride. Little dog can perform with confidence each of the following important stick skills: 1) find a suitable stick; 2) bring that suitable stick to me; 3) drop that stick at my feet and wag; 4) get really excited about the upcoming toss; 5) sit though she is really excited that the toss is now imminent; 7) keep sitting as I try to fake her out; 8) know when the stick actually leaves my hand; 9) go get the stick with gusto, even in the ocean; 10) (and this one is NEW!) find the stick in the water after a wave gobbles it up; 11) bring it to me with a wag; 12) drop it at my feet; 13) pick it up and chase after me if I decide to wait a bit before tossing it again!

What about those skills? Those skills are hardcore impressive. Really, whose dog but this dog can do all that? I am particularly impressed with her stick-finding as noted in (1) and stick-maintaining as described in (13). She won't abandon a stick, even if I bow out of the tossing role. She'll keep the stick, knowing that I will eventually come back to the game. I don't want to say it's totally innate because I would like to have some responsibility for this talent. I also want to have it to point to should I have to get into that employment scene again and need fodder for the interview. For anyone who wants me to give credit where it is due, I absolutely credit my doggity diggity dog with discovering the best method for conquering the beanbag. That one is all her.

From the beach, I drove home. At home, I painted. Poorly. Then I started this whole fiasco. Look out.

So far, right, it's not so mundane, huh? The life of the willfully unemployed may have its attributes after all.

Friday Funday even though it says Thursday.

Today is Friday Funday (tm). In many, though probably not most, people's lives, it's the day before the weekend. For me, it's just the day before my partner's weekend. And he works all weekend. So it's just a day, and it's a day ahead of Thursday for sure.

This is a small island nation. There are not many people. I am not from here. The clouds move quickly overhead, but that is not why we are a day ahead of a lot of the world.

The wind has not shifted in almost a week. It is blowing steadily from the north. The antipodean winter is not the beast that all had claimed. Instead it's more like the lamb, of which there are many here, and even billboards along the road highlighting a little, white, fluffy lamb named "Maggie" who will be this season's spring cuisine. How sick is that? Everyone line up for chow: it's Maggie tonight.

On Fridays, I admit, I still wake up a little more juiced up, as if there was some great carnival coming to town and we got backstage passes. This morning, in particular, I thought, "oh yeah!" because I had an appointment. I have something in the old day planner and it's going to take me out of the house and into the Volvo and down the road to ... the doctor's office! Sweet. I updated some vaccinations for my imminent travel plans and didn't cry when the *student* nurse gave me a tetanus shot (even though it really did hurt) and though there was a whole bucket of lollipops, I didn't take one because sometimes the lack of dental hygiene in this country gets me down, and I don't want to be doubly down should I lose my own front teeth before 35. I like those teeth. The make it okay to say things like teeth and thigh and thicket.

Yesterday should have been the day that got me up with a gasp except that it was so damn early when my alarm rang that the gasp was inaudible over the collective snoring of the entire city. When was the last time I got up at 5:30? Dear sweet lord of goodness, at the fifth hour of morning, there is no light, no sound, no warmth. Even the bay was silent, relaxing in a nice respite from that northerly wind. I only got up then to see if I could, since I will have to when I am out there in the world on my own, attempting to do yoga in these bowels of the day. But since I was up, I decided to make it to the extras gig I had lined up way over in Island Bay. I got to be a "hotel patron" for a show that will be called "The Lost Children" and will air somewhere, someday, but not likely in NZ or USA and not anytime soon. You can look for me as the woman in orange with the heart-shaped bonnet that made me look like a moon-faced newborn baby. I have a glass of gin in my hand in almost every shot. Yeah. The hotel hussie. You will also notice that my ass is rather large. That is not through the grace of genetics, but crinoline. My bustle was big and my corset was small and I did not breathe properly for 12 hours.

Questions?