Tonsure (kinda)

I'm getting all my hair cut off on Thursday. I've been growing it out for about 2 and a half years now so it's long enough for Locks of Love. Frankly, the only reason I was ever growing it out was to donate it. And it gave me an excuse to be cheap and not pay for salon services. As I've been telling people this, the general response has been, "WHY!? It looks so good!"

Okay. Rather than the self-flagellation and fishing for more compliments, I'm just gonna say I know. I know my hair's pretty good (when I actually decide to wash and style it). It's thick and a good natural color. It's wavy, which can make me look a little unruly because I don't put a lot of fake crap and silicone in it, but nonetheless, I'll agree that I have pretty good hair. I'll attribute it to my Polish heritage.

Having never intended to grow my hair out so it would be "pretty," I'm suddenly feeling myself struck with a little bit of vanity. I look kind of ridiculous with short hair. I look like I'm in the awkward tween phase again, and I haven't quite learned to control the things that extend outward from my body. This is the curse of the white girl wavy hair. Maggie Gyllenhaal is a pretty good example. Ugh. This is pretty much what the hair does. Yep.

Anyway, I've decided to turn this into an exercise in humility. It's not like I make money off my hair. Nobody is dependent on it looking perfectly coiffed. And honestly, it takes me like, an extra five minutes in the shower just to condition it. My shower drain is constantly clogged (and don't tell me to get a drain cover, I've already done that), and I go through tons of shampoo and styling products. I lose pens in it pretty frequently, and I've found like, three dreads in the last couple weeks. I haven't been willing to sacrifice much for appearances in my life; why start now? Thus, I'm going to offer it up, in an effort to quell pride. So...good bye hair. Hello being carded at the bar.

friend request purgatory

If you're not my friend, don't send me a friend request. If you've seen me play a show, that doesn't count. Gawking at me for an hour while I forget the words to my own songs does not constitute being my friend. If you went to a Britney Spears concert, you would not send her a friend request the next day. No, you would go to her band page and click the little thumbs up thing and like her. It doesn't matter that I'm "accessible" because I'm not a superstar (yet!). Just because you think it's funny that I rhymed the words "breast implants" in a song does not mean that I want you having access to the photos I took on my summer vacation to Michigan last year. You shouldn't know my education history, or where I work at my day job. You have sent me friend requests before, and having denied them already, I have discovered that you are either very persistent or very stupid. Therefore, you are forever condemned to Friend Request Purgatory. You, that girl I went to high school with and have already deleted three times, and my mom. Congratulations.

UPDATE: Your mom is now in Purgatory as well. Stop suggesting me as a friend to people.

one-dog family

REWIND: November 2009 was the month of the Buster.

We only got him because we thought our other dog, Maybe, needed a friend. That was not to be. Shortly after Buster's balls dropped, Maybe decided he needed to go. She expressed this by trying to kill him.

Unfortunately, we had signed a contract with the rescue saying that if Buster didn't work out, we had to return him. Also unfortunately, the rescue owner was a hoarder and the house was deplorable. There were at least 15 dogs that we saw, and upon procuring Buster, we had to treat him (and subsequently Maybe) immediately for fleas and bathe him several times to get rid of the smoke in his fur. We decided perhaps it was best not to return him (plus how could you say no to that face?).

The only other option we saw was training. We hired Scott, the militant bald guy who used to train bomb-sniffing dogs for the Army. We went through a myriad of training mechanisms, each more "effective" than the previous, from the "Trail of Tears" (a line of treats meant to lure Buster to Maybe, which he quickly learned ended in a scuffle), to remote-controlled shock collars. Overall we spent about $1000 trying to cure Maybe of her aggression, and countless hours walking these stupid dogs around the house on leashes. Might I add, Maybe is aggressive towards most other dogs, so the decision to train the dogs instead of just removing one was very deliberate. Anyway, this was as far as we got:
We couldn't seem to cure the crazy eye, though. After a relapse, we thought perhaps it was best to find Maybe a new home. We chose to give Maybe away because she's a much more social dog, and gets along with just about anyone, so long as they're human. My brother traded me straight across for a bunny named DJ (PS no one told bunnies crap their body weight every day).

My brother's still in college, and I was a little worried about sending her to live in a sketchy house with a bunch of dudes, but she quickly made herself at home. My brother posted this picture on facebook, dressed like the yuppie dog we trained her to be. In retrospect, I'm sad. I'm sad that we couldn't provide better for her, and that for whatever reason, she decided that she didn't like sharing her humans with other dogs. It was probably very stressful for her to live in the house with Buster (though I may be projecting human emotions on dumb animals). At least I know she's better off having a group of sappy guys at her disposal, but there is a slight sense of failure. I wonder if we couldn't have reconciled them had we picked a different trainer or sent her to a residential facility. But Mitch had a monetary threshold, and I'm pretty sure we surpassed that. I think we'll be a one-dog family from now on, but I just can't help perusing PetFinder.

you're breakin' my heart.

Look, I know this is old. But I want to punch this little girl. I'm hoping that by saying it publicly, I will hold myself accountable, and refrain from doing so. Although kicking a puppy might make me feel better.

I need to die when I'm like 70

Crap, I'm screwed.

Call it Stilates!

I picked up yoga as a means of spiritual exploration. The sinewy limbs and improved digestion seem to be a welcome bonus, but they're definitely not the focus. Yoga for me, and as far as I can gather for others as well, is a peaceful break. I struggle in every class I attend not to let my ego get in the way. I'm constantly berating myself for comparing my skills to others', reminding myself that this is a journey. A humble practice. But then this girl, Tara Stiles, comes along and says it's not. She eschews ascribing to any particular philosophy of yoga, and ignores traditional sanskrit in describing poses and sequences. "Who made these rules?" she questions in the NYT article.

Okay, good question. But I hardly feel that the elders of yoga had intended it to be a means by which insecure 20-somethings shed their freshman 15 (finally). Her claim that yoga studios are elitist and unwelcoming seems redundant, since pretty much all of New York City (where her studio Strala is located) is elitist and unwelcoming. I would encourage her to attend a class at my favorite studio, Yoga Ah!, or any other studio in any other midwest city. Granted, there are people who look down their noses at newbies, but I've experienced that in knitting lessons. You're gonna find it everywhere. This is, perhaps, the most extreme of the protestant yoga philosophies. To say that it is only about health, weight, improved sexual function, and appearances strips yoga of it's essence: moving meditation. Yoga cautions against ego and self-promotion. There is no perfect pose; your breath is your mirror. My yoga instructor has joked that yoga was never designed to be a business; I'm assuming she's referring to the stereotypical flightiness and unmaterialistic nature of yogis. A lot of yogis I meet may have functioned well as Amish in another life.

To her credit, Ms. Stiles charges a fair price for her yoga classes. She used to teach classes for free out of her apartment. I've known many yoga teachers to do the same. However, they gain no revenue from book deals and product promotion. Not many of the instructors in Cincinnati model for American Apparel.

This is not to say she must be stopped. There are all kinds of adulterated yoga classes out there. But most of them at least adopt the om's and the contemplation as part of the practice. This is simply to say, perhaps she shouldn't call it "yoga." There are reasons Episcopalians don't call themselves Catholic. They ascribe to a different set of beliefs about Christianity and worship. An Episcopal Eucharist even looks very similar to a Catholic Mass, but it's labeled differently. The same should be said for Ms. Stiles' exercise regime. She has different beliefs about the essence of the practice, and therefore, should call it something else. It's fine! You're allowed to believe what you want about your practice. This is a free country, and we are blessed to have religious freedom. But if you're gonna start your own church, you can't call it Baptist just to get people to show up.

Inner monologue.

Dear person-walking-on-the-treadmill-next-to-me-at-the-rec-center,

I don't care if you love the music in your headphones, don't sing it out loud. I do not share your love for Nikki Minaj. Please stop clapping and saying "yay" whenever your iPod plays a song you like. It's not magic (contrary to popular belief), and it's not catering to your needs. It uses an algorithm, and gets absolutely no emotional satisfaction from making you happy. Also, it's 6:00 am, and I only made it here out of the fear of killing/pooping myself at the half-marathon I'm running in four months, so SHUT THE HELL UP. If you have enough energy flap your arms around and talk to the person on the other side of me, you're not running fast enough.

Kindest Regards,
Hark