Sometimes you get more than what you paid for.....

I began an exercise regime yesterday called "Tantric Toning."  Well, I should clarify.  I took the plastic off the packaging and put the DVD in the player.  I skipped through the intro and tried to 'center myself in the earth' like the dictator was suggesting.  The Horse pose kind of weirded me out...I mean, it didn't look like any horse I had ever seen before.  I made it about 10 minutes.

You know the whole 'tantric' movement right?  No, not the rock band..."Tantra is that Asian body of beliefs and practices which, working from the principle that the universe we experience is nothing other than the concrete manifestation of the divine energy of the Godhead that creates and maintains that universe, seeks to ritually appropriate and channel that energy, within the human microcosm, in creative and emancipatory ways.^"  (Thank you wikipedia!)  But let's be serious. If you've heard the term, it's probably in reference to some sort of deeper meaning sexual experience where you are totally in tune with your partner. What? You mean you're not supposed to be watching David Letterman while you're 'doing it?'

The allure of this particular DVD in the dollar store wasn't the whole sex aspect (which you should know if you are keeping score at home.)  It was the promise on the front of the cover of having a sexy body...for the mere investment of a buck.  Because, well, duh, I'm a bargain shopper!  And,  a 'sexy body' is becoming a fond, yet dim memory.

Okay. So I put the DVD in, hoping for a quick fix.  I can get past the way the instructor says 'tantric' - was more like t-aaaaahhhhhn-tric.  (Maybe I'm the one saying it wrong with my Midwestern accent...but, probably not.)  No, I was more put off my the amount of time that the chick spent bent over in front of me, displaying her pretty dang perfect breasts.  Seriously...who did they record this for?  Men don't even know what the word 'tantric' means and would be more apt to hightail it in the opposite direction should their partner ever bring it up.  Give up their remote??  UNHEARD OF!  This chick, though, CLEARLY was on display for someone.  The camera guy got an eyeful every single time.

As did I.

I'll give Ms. Taaaaahhhhnnnntric the benefit of the doubt and hope that as we move into other segments of the DVD, she's a bit more covered up.  By then, I should be able to get those dang hip movements down (who knew they were supposed to move like that?!?!)

Updates ahead.

Declaration of Independence

I’m used to having pretty intense, bizarre dreams that have more layers and complexities than Angelina Jolie has tattoos…or things to talk to her shrink about…or children.  There’s the one where I am shopping in the thrift store where everyone is making fun of me, only to be running down the street naked later because I got locked out of my apartment and all my clothes are in my ex's convertible Beetle.  Or the one where clones  invade earth and they are chronic liars.  Or being in my high school that really isn’t my high school  at all (um, three glass towers and an elevator that shoots out of the sky??) and trying to remember my schedule and where I sit and what books to grab and what the hell my locker combo is.  Or the one where I’m in college, living in the dorms and rooming with this weird young kid (I’m my age) who’s never there and trying to find my way to the south side of campus – which is actually a huge cruise ship.  Usually, I can just shake them off.  This morning I awoke after one such dream to some cold hard truth – in the form of 4 year old projectile vomit and the damn dog licking herself.

Harsh reality:  I am not going to be in a bar where an old high school friend (Derek making a cameo) introduces me to his nice, attractive, seemingly mild cousin. Even though I know I'll never be in that bar, one part rings true...I WILL probably favor the sarcastic, emotionally unavailable man instead.  Which means, that I’ll never be roaming through the streets of my hybrid Chicago/Evanston – a common backdrop from my dreams – with the mild cousin (who’s actually really nice and goofy and smart where it matters and funny…kind of like Grayson on Cougar Town) after all, and won’t realize that he truly IS my type if I had great taste in men.  We won’t pop into a quaint store the sells colorful three-wick homemade candles (or was that fruity fudge logs with candles in them?) and teas made from potatoes and carrots.  He won’t take my hand and walk with me across the street.  And I’ll never find out that he’s actually astrologically appropriate.  Sigh.

Pleasant reality:  Same dream.  I won’t be living in a split ranch with my father and grandfather and have an impromptu party of the mild cousin, four girls from high school and a bar I used to work at, the other sarcastic jerk that was hitting on me and a few other really random people.  Every single bathroom won’t be disgustingly clogged and I won’t be walking around topless.  I won’t be left with a mess of a house in the morning and no working coffee maker (but TONS of leftovers from the school cafeteria) and my uncle and dad coming home from partying at 8 in the morning and realizing that I am late to get the kids to school.

On one hand, it sucks that I won’t meet the my Graysonish cousin, who of course is too good to be true…but’s awfully nice knowing that I won’t be walking around topless in the midst of horrid bathrooms.  I think it’s a push. 

I declare these truths to be self-evident.

Taking the Purple to Pasadena

I think most people have songs that transport them back to a certain time (Alice in Chains, Man in the Box or Hootie and the Blowfish, Time)…or even specific day (Glenn Madeiris, Nothings Gonna Change My Love For You). Songs that remind them of someone special (Paula Abdul, Straight Up or Dep Leppard, Love Bites or Aqualung, Brighter Than Sunshine) or someone that they’d rather forget ( Alanis Morissette, You Outta Know). I could do this for the entire entry and affix names and dates to the songs. My memory in this case, is THAT good. There’s a singer that reminds me of a friend (Katy Perry) and two that make me think of my family (Harry Chapin and Pat Benatar). Jean Jeannie by David Bowie conjurs up ‘horsey rides’ on my daddy’s back when I was a toddler. AC/DC, Back in Black brings up thoughts of getting ready for soccer games and the Sugar Hill Gang makes me ache for friends that are no longer my friends for one reason or another. The entire list of 80s tunes represents my teenage years.


I’ve also realized that places do the same thing. I OFTEN (several times a week) have dreams about my high school. Although in my dreams it’s uber big and complicated and I am always lost and I ALWAYS fail my classes and forget my locker combo. (SO the opposite of what really happened.) So now when I pass the school when I am home, I am filled with apprehension and tension rather than the confidence that I felt (well, academically anyway…well, except for Government class and Physics…and Calc) when I was actually there.

I find that I try to be in a place that makes me feel good. Like Evanston. All three of my boys were born in Evanston Hospital. But long before that (well, at least with numbers 2 and 3), I was a Wildcat. Every time I breathe the Evanston air, it’s like I’ve been injected with pure glee. It’s one of the places where I feel I am not a shell or a poser, where I feel completely energized.

• A soccer field is another good spot. I think about the ‘glory years’ and smell the sweat and the oranges that we invariably got at halftime.

• The library calms me down in a heartbeat. Geek alert: I totally enjoy looking through the dewey decimal numbers for a specific book that I want. I should have been a librarian.

• Another of my happy places is the Salvation Army. All of the recycled stuff…all of the clothing organized by color. Satisfies the OCD part of me.

But back to Evanston. It’s so damn different now. The ‘downtown’ is built up, Dave’s has moved. Due to connections I made ‘way back when,’ I’ve been back more times in the past year and a half than I have since I’ve graduated. There’s a sense of Jeni Marr there. Jeni Marr still existed. If you knew me in high school, you’ll probably understand that. Those that have just met me…I hope someday you get to meet her.

I know it sounds relatively ridiculous to allow a place to define ourselves…but I kid you not. I have yet to find the key to tapping into the sense of joy I get there…and to trap it once I again head back north. Mile by mile, as I head from Cook to Lake County, I can feel the elation seeping out.

So I just applied for 12 jobs there. Maybe I’ll get to be an active Wildcat again yet! And listen to my playlist of 80s one hit wonders on my ipod while I’m commuter between the counties on the train!

As George Michael Says.....

I have faith. I do. I’m Catholic, just like I’m Polish and Scottish and Native American. I was born into it. And never thought to change it or explore other religions because it's worked for me.


But I heard a phrase on a TV show that I happened upon this morning. “Cruise-Control Catholic.” Now that’s pretty apt. And probably really disappointing to those that love me.

To me, being Catholic meant going to C.C.D. and Jenny Gammons' dad giving us Hersey bars when we memorized the Apostle’s Creed...and decoding notes from Dominic Konopka in 2nd grade...and having crayon wars with Derek Walkush in 10th grade. It mean going to 12:00 Mass and knowing that Fr. Ritter would cut the homily short if the Browns were playing at 1…and hoping that I’d see the Kocsis boys….or that kid Gerel from Firelands.

My religion meant going to my Grandma’s church during Lent every Wednesday and listening to the Stations of the Cross…and then stopping for a chocolate shake at McDonalds after. Or going to my Grandma’s church the day before Easter and getting our food blessed. Or going to that church and hoping against hope that the Shildwachter brothers were the altar boys on that Saturday night.

Being Catholic meant that I got married before I baptised my first baby - even if it WAS the day before.  It meant the when babies two and three arrived, they were baptised too. 

Recently I’ve found that my Catholicism is an active boomerang. You may fling it away, even unconsciously, but it comes back…and usually just in the nick of time.

I went to church today. Mainly because I had a Sunday off from my job and could…but also because I had this deep seated need to reconnect with the familiarity of my upbringing. I’d recently joined my friend’s family at their church for a Friday night event (the minis had a blast!) and the same friend said the rosary next to me while we drove in horrendous, Wizard of Oz like weather (I don't think I even could say a 1/19th of a rosary!). The signs were all around me, so I made the 5 minute walk to the church.

I sat in the pew and I heard in my ear, “open your heart.” So I did.