everything should end in cookies
Santa Monica sunset beach yoga, free
Velma & I joined 25 strangers on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. Then in unison, we all commenced synchronized yoga poses, publicly. Lying down twisty poses get tricky when you are in close proximity to other lying down, twisted people. I was trying to stretch out my right arm, but that would have meant flinging it over the top of Velma and resting it on her boobs. She said, "Just lay your arm down."
Because I am from the Midwest and about the only religiously held belief I have left is the Divine Order of Adequate Personal Space, I stretched my arm out in the air, hovering above Velma. She responded by loudly directing me to, "Relax your arm, bitch."
So I gently rested my arm across her tits. Because I was afraid not to.
During the class, three young men who were passing by loudly made observations on the assorted class booty. While I'm told (repeatedly) that I should not make assumptions about people, I feel strongly that they were members of an urban social club whose activities include criminal enterprise and the wearing of very large shorts.
I asked them politely to move along. I was seconded in my desire to have them go by a man in the yoga class. They repeatedly referred to him as"dog". He and I found this perplexing and not at all germane to the conversation. Finally, having exhausted their limited lexicon by the eighth repetition of "dog", they moved on.
It was brilliant and at the end they gave us cookies. I love anything that ends in cookies.
sex & alcohol Sunday, $45
Em & I met at the Grove to see the Sex & the City movie where she proudly showed me her new cookbook, whilst waving it about and intermittently opening it to site the finer points of twelve hour polenta. Em is mostly Charlotte, while I can apply the archetype of Samantha. Which is why when two ladies cut in line in front of us, Em subtly pointed it out and then I sent their sorry asses to the back of the line. Probably for the best, I'm not sure it's possible to be taken seriously while carrying a crock-pot cookbook entitled, "Not Your Mother's Slow Cooker".
Today was a beautiful day. Unlike yesterday, when I called a woman a whore at Bed, Bath & Beyond. She totally had that coming.
Velma & I joined 25 strangers on the bluffs overlooking the ocean. Then in unison, we all commenced synchronized yoga poses, publicly. Lying down twisty poses get tricky when you are in close proximity to other lying down, twisted people. I was trying to stretch out my right arm, but that would have meant flinging it over the top of Velma and resting it on her boobs. She said, "Just lay your arm down."
Because I am from the Midwest and about the only religiously held belief I have left is the Divine Order of Adequate Personal Space, I stretched my arm out in the air, hovering above Velma. She responded by loudly directing me to, "Relax your arm, bitch."
So I gently rested my arm across her tits. Because I was afraid not to.
During the class, three young men who were passing by loudly made observations on the assorted class booty. While I'm told (repeatedly) that I should not make assumptions about people, I feel strongly that they were members of an urban social club whose activities include criminal enterprise and the wearing of very large shorts.
I asked them politely to move along. I was seconded in my desire to have them go by a man in the yoga class. They repeatedly referred to him as"dog". He and I found this perplexing and not at all germane to the conversation. Finally, having exhausted their limited lexicon by the eighth repetition of "dog", they moved on.
It was brilliant and at the end they gave us cookies. I love anything that ends in cookies.
sex & alcohol Sunday, $45
Em & I met at the Grove to see the Sex & the City movie where she proudly showed me her new cookbook, whilst waving it about and intermittently opening it to site the finer points of twelve hour polenta. Em is mostly Charlotte, while I can apply the archetype of Samantha. Which is why when two ladies cut in line in front of us, Em subtly pointed it out and then I sent their sorry asses to the back of the line. Probably for the best, I'm not sure it's possible to be taken seriously while carrying a crock-pot cookbook entitled, "Not Your Mother's Slow Cooker".
Today was a beautiful day. Unlike yesterday, when I called a woman a whore at Bed, Bath & Beyond. She totally had that coming.
I love how we get down, litteraly on the floor, together. I love when yoga ends with vodka more than cookies.
Posted by: Velm | June 03, 2008 at 05:41 PM