Deaf at 28.

A guy introduced himself to me as Jorge. But I heard Horne (accent over the e). And continued to call him that all day. FML.

He saw me in white.

The Blue Cross Blue Shield of Georgia health insurance dude recently left me a voicemail. He was at our school at orientation, selling us all nicely priced health plans. But between graduating, re-locating to MA and finding a job, my peach-state health insurance naturally did me no service. After calling him back to tell him I was recently employed and had health insurance again, he thought it was good an opportunity as any to ask me about marriage.

Now, there’s no way this man remembers me from orientation in April 2008, and likewise, I doubt I could pick him out of a crowd. But still, from the sound of my voice he said, “Marriage is next in the cards for you.” And then asked if I was taking the appropriate steps to get to the altar.

Because he’s Southern (take no offense, y’all), I absolutely could not get off the phone with him. With each attempt, he managed to find a new chapter. If it wasn’t marriage we were discussing, it was how high the taxes were in the North East, or the humidity in Hotlanta, or get this… the divorce rate across the country. Cue Alanis: And isn’t it ironic?

I should have mentioned earlier that this whole conversation took place on the commuter rail with the conductor, a Spanish woman and an ADHD kid all screaming in the background. And still, Mr. Blue Cross Blue Shield talked a blue streak, completely unfazed. Probably reclining in his socks with a gimlet in hand. And picturing me in a veil. Cringe.

Come see the softer side.

I'm unemployed at the moment (recently finished Grad school) and I run errands. Today's list included brown paper trash compactor bags from Sears. (The hot pink Timex watch was not on the list but found a home on my wrist. Shh...)

The Sears salesman who helped me locate the trash compactor bags turned out to be more talkative than Joan Rivers. I should have searched for the unexciting bags myself, but I'm unashamed to admit that I'm a female who asks for directions, help, jobs, etc. on a daily basis.

In the course of finding the banal bags and paying for them, it seems I had unwittingly agreed to a Sears ShopYourWay Rewards card (acts no differently than a CVS card), a Q+A session about today's service, and a chance to win $4,000 in a Sears sweepstakes. I naturally perked up when hearing the latter. The Sears dude then circled 15 things on the receipt with detailed instructions on how to win the said money. My head hurt.

When he wouldn't part with the receipt, I started to get antsy and glanced furtively at my frivolous, but fabulous hot pink watch. But I listened patiently because I sensed he was bored. Or worse, lonely. Or stuck in the Sears basement for far too long. Think 'Milton,' from Office Space.

I listened because he was a nice guy who was just doing his job. And right now, I have all the time in the world. Because I'm unemployed. And strangely, I'm OK with this is. Because I know it's only temporary. And work is forever. So is Sears, come to think of it. The company has been around since 1893. Imagine that.

Wimp

Dusting off the old blog. It’s been a while. My last couple of entries feel weak. Maybe it’s because nothing weird has happened to me recently. I suppose that’s a good thing, right? I think so. But for the blog? Well, that could mean demise. ☹

Anywho, let’s talk about the massage. Just the other week, I was the first time recipient of a hot stone massage. The male masseuse was incredibly soft-spoken. No, really. I couldn’t hear this gentle, New Age dude at all. Come to find out, he was telling me to be honest with him about the temperature of the rocks. Yeah, in one ear and out the other. Got scalded.

“Iceland’s volcano. Those rocks must have been hot, too,” was all I could think of. I winced as the skin on the back of my legs melted off the bone like lamb’s meat. The masseuse, although a kind fellow, (I sensed this through his smile and sincere eyes) could not manage to mutter an audible apology. So I took it upon myself to fill the room with sounds one might associate with an injured horse. Or perhaps a llama. A chorus of weird neighs and high-pitched ninnies.

Turns out, I just couldn’t take the heat.

(Not me.)

City of Embalms

Ft. Myers, aka "The City of Palms," is where the Red Sox Spring training is held each year. It coincided with a school break so I agreed to go with my Mom, Dad and Grandmother. We then met up with my Grandmother's brother and brother-in-law, ages 92 and 80-something, respectively. In fact, the mean age of the fan base in the baseball stadium was give-or-take 1,358 years old. I got strange looks for not having a walker. Or maybe they just couldn't see me at all.

My great-uncle (age 92) jokingly asked me during the 7 inning stretch, "So when are you getting married? I'm running out of time here." I then left my seat to eat some bad sushi.

Also, the city of Ft. Myers shuts down around 8pm. There were no signs of life on the streets. Like Emily Dickinson, I went stir-crazy until the last night when my Mom suggested I go downstairs to the hotel bar and have a drink. Fine.

As I pulled up a stool, I kid you not, the Red Sox minor-league baseball team strolled in. Young, hot and sweaty after practice. I tried not to look like an alcoholic, sitting at the bar by myself.

I lost my breath when the Australian pitcher pulled up a stool next to me. He was a young Heath Ledger and I'm not just saying that because he was from down under. I fell in love with this 19 year-old after just one drink. We talked for hours and then he walked me up to my room...

At this point, I'm just going to say FML, because a) I met this hottie on my last night in Ft. Myers (wtf?) and b) I was sharing a room with my 82-year-old Grandmother.

Strike 50.

Dank duffel

I bought a used duffel bag off Amazon.com but it smells like its previous owner. Sorry, if you're reading this, previous owner. I'm also guessing you're a blond from the long strands of hair in the wallet accompanying the bag. I've washed the bag numerous times but the fragrance prevails. So there it sits in the corner of my closet and there it shall stay. It's a shame too, because I love the print.



(I just can't do it. It smells like lavender dryer sheets and old cat.)

Yoga cult

First, I think you should read 'The Yoga Cult' article in the February issue of Rolling Stone (a well-tatted Lil Wayne is on the cover of the issue).

Unbeknownst to me, I got involved with Dahn yoga in New York City. I think a friend of a friend innocently handed me a pamphlet and said, "Here, take a class." At the time, I had been very curious about yoga. (Never have I had an interest in cults, however.)

After the first class, I bought a 3-month membership because I'm pretty open-minded (feel free to replace the word 'open-minded' with 'naive' or 'impulsive') and was looking for a break from the gym routine.

But yes, it's definitely a cult. The membership included a white martial arts uniform that made everyone in the class look like inmates. Another red flag went up when I saw other members stay after class to mop the bathroom floors in reverence to the Dahn Master, Ilchi Lee. I'm sorry, but no person in their right mind, nevermind a fucking New Yorker, would voluntarily do this. Unless they'd been brainwashed.

The classes were notably more expensive than most yoga classes and taking them 3x a week were never enough in the instructors' eyes. In order to reach enlightenment, you had to devote your entire life to the practice. They constantly pushed workshops and retreats down my throat. I politely declined them all, but could read the disappointment on their faces. In their struggle to control me, I left before I could spot the Kool-aid.

So the Rolling Stone article is absolutely right. Dahn Yoga is a fanatical group led by a Korean guru that's part Moonies, part New Age boot camp – and pure profit. Read the article, it's fucking frightening.

Weird shit happens to me. In retrospect, I thought I was signing up for some simple downward-dogging. Turns out it was anything but that.