Estamos En Nueve York

To celebrate Spring Break, my brother and I decided to go to a park and a museum. We celebrated our escape from academia by doing something rather academic. You can take the teacher out of the school, but you can't make the teacher not be eager to learn stuff. Curiosity is an asset. We were curious to see the panorama of New York City at the Queens Museum.

When we got to the museum, I paid student price and he paid full price. I am cheap. He is not. The entrance fee is a suggestion anyway, so we could have bypassed the information desk altogether, but we didn't. I don't know why it was called an information desk because the woman was not very informative. She didn't even tell us how much to pay. She kind of stood there while we scrounged around in our wallets. Then she did not give us any kind of floor plan. She simply pointed and mumbled. Thankfully, I speak mumble; my brother does not and had no idea that she said, You can start with the panorama.

We walked up some stairs in a dark hallway and then, voila:

P space A space N space O space R space A space M scpace A

I, in my infinite miswisdom, figured a panorama is a long diorama. Remember those? Take a shoe box, cut up some construction paper, add some cotton balls and glitter--instant Ice Age! So I was planning on walking into a large dark room with a table in the middle of it, under a spotlight. I apparently generate this ideas based on subconscious memories of movies about artifacts under glass cases in museums.

The entire floor of the room was the panorama. Around the edges of the room is a walkway on an incline so the more you move around, the higher you go on a slope up to the second floor. It was magnificent. The buildings are teeny tiny. The boats and planes are eenie weenie. The legends along the walkway are not helpful. Instead of relying on them, I relied on my brother.

I am convinced my brother knows everything about New York City, and by the end of our walking tour around the panorama, I was trying to convince him to get a summer job doing those city double-decker bus tours. He took me on a tour through the city, pointing out where our grandma used to live--around 88th and Lex for a rent of around 4 or 5 hundred in a rent controlled apartment--along with where he lived in the Bronx, where he lives now, where he used to work, where he works, and mostly where he bikes, which is everywhere.

While we went around pointing at things--look there! where? there, right there, where I'm pointing! I am looking there! No! There!--a rather loud Hispanic man had a laser pointer that he used to more accurately point at things. He spoke very loud Spanish. It was echoing. When we were halfway around the room, I said, That guy has not shut up since he walked in! Anthony responded, he's got a laser pointer. Then I realized at the end of the room that they were on a tour; I realized this only because another group came in at the top with a different loud Spanish speaking man with a laser pointer. I am slow on the uptake sometimes.

After the panorama, we looked at all the old posters and trinkets from both World's Fairs along with pictures of the builders building it. It was all very kitschy. There was also a small spiel about the Valley of Ashes, a very big part of The Great Gatsby. (Fascist bastards knocked down the inspiration of the Gatsby House this month. Not cool, rich people. Not cool.) (Note: I am not calling the Queens Museum fascist bastards. That's directed to the people who tore down the house. My rant seems to have been unclear after reading it back to myself). (Note: I actually did read that back to myself, which, I believe, is unprecedented. Double checking what I write as I write will not become a habit of my lazy ass writing process in which I rarely proofread and even more rarely fact-check).

We then went back around the panorama down to the first floor again. We walked further down the long dark hallway to find two big screens playing movies on a loop. Anthony said, It feels like porn is gonna start playing. I agreed so we went back to where the light was.

Having no map of the place and no idea of where to go, we wandered into a room with a topographical map. It was almost room-sized. The walls were huge photographs and drawings of pipes. The map was about where water comes from.

Then we saw some art. The exhibit was Not The Way You Remembered. Some of it was very cool. Bryan Zanksnik offers a 2 channel 5 minute video called Preserve that features his father acting as a docent in a taxidermy museum intercut with a tour of the family home, with the best part being the mom complaining about vacuuming. Also, Jason Lazarus has a collection of photos called Too Hard To Keep, Agathe Snow presented Paper General which is a collection of caption texts and non-narratives, and Jean Shin's Altered Trophies were trophies with the people on top changed from athletes into maids and gardners.

Then there was the other kind of art. I'm gonna steal this description from the guide I found at the museum: Dave Murray's 85% Of The Art I Made Turned Into A Diamond, .29 carat diamont: Dave Murray has given actual, material value to discounted artistic ideas and creative false starts by cremating their physical remnants, and transforming them into a diamond.

Now let me give you a description of what it actually was: a diamond chip on an oversized velvet stand under glass. Kind of how I pictured the panorama would be set up.

There was also a large wooden thing. We could not tell if it was part of a piece of art on display, its own piece of art, or just a piece of wood hanging around.

Then we did what everyone has to do when they go to the Queens Museum. We walked around the park, took way too many pictures of the unisphere...



...and then walked around some more. The sun came out at the end of our walk and I got overheated, having worn my Northface hoodie with the long sleeves with thumb holes. He made fun of me for wearing it, but really, the sun didn't come out until the end of the day so I was glad I wore it since he took me over the LIE to the manmade lake on the other side. It's still too chilly for waterside walks.

Heated Hot Yoga

Bikram yoga is yoga in a room at about 100 degrees. That's hot. So in comparison, 90 degrees should feel better. It doesn't really. It's still hot. So as D, AK, and I chose a space in the back of the yoga room for our hot yoga class, it felt good for maybe two minutes since we'd been waiting outside while the class before us was finishing up and the door was locked. But then, as we sat waiting, and waiting, and waiting even more, I found that I was sweating. I even took a sip of water. While all I was doing was sitting.

Class began late, much later than it should have. I can maybe understand five minutes late, but this was more than five minutes. If it were a private club where everyone were friends, that would be fine, but this was an open class at a business, and they should start on time. People have lives. Plus, I didn't want to be doing yoga into all hours of the night. However, it seems that the studio doesn't really care about clocks. The class before us ended late; that's why we were locked out. Maybe they're in a yoga time warp.

When class finally began, the instructor told us to lie down. Ahhh, lying down to start class again. This is something I can get used to.

What I couldn't get used to was the instructor wearing her hair down. It was making me hot just looking at her.

After lying down and breathing for a while, we did some arm and floor work. She was holding a lot of poses. This class was supposed to be a vinyasa class. (Actually, it was a power vinyasa and when we got there and looked it up to be sure, AK was like--what does that mean? and I was like--it means it's gonna be really hard). Last I checked, vinyasa is all about movement and flow. Instead, we were stuck in these positions, holding them and feeling them and breathing through them.

And sweating. We mustn't forget the sweating. Profuse sweating.

She kept saying that usually she does like 11 poses in 11 seconds but here she's feeling like holding and letting us feel the posture and the body and the breath. She kept saying she felt like doing something different and usually her classes are so much faster but now it was all about the holding. All that would make much more sense had we had her before as an instructor, but really, all she was doing was being a tease. Again, if this were a private class where we all knew each other and knew her style, we would feel the difference in her teaching style. But really, all it was for me was hearsay.

Then came the "feel bad about yourself" portion of the class, which was the majority of it. Her teaching style emerged as one-third motivational, one-third school yard taunting, and one-third bad parenting.

When D raised her hand to show that she was new to yoga, the instructor said she was in a perfect place to be modified. That happened maybe twice during the course of the class. Instead, the instructor teased the boys behind us, asking them what was going on back there, telling them they should calm down a bit, and then taunting them, saying the girls were doing much better than the boys. One of the guys kept asking the other, what'd she say about us? What'd she say? Either he had a hearing problem or he just wanted to call attention to the fact that the pretty girl was talking about them. In any case, it was slightly inappropriate.

I probably wouldn't have been bothered by it if I weren't bothered by other things. And there were so many other things, most of which had to do with her.

One thing that did not have to do with her was the sweating. The unbelievable sweating. The first time she told us to go into child's pose, I did so and sweat ran up my nose. Ever have sweat go UP your nose? It doesn't feel good.

It happened more than once.

The studio's website says that all classes are for all levels. That's a big lie. As I said, the instructor came over to D maybe twice. Beginners need more than that. Also, just announcing postures without showing them when you know there are a few new people in the room is not helpful.

Plus, doing the postures you like just to show off is not the way to instruct. Yes, it's great that you can get your ass up to the ceiling in crow. It's fantastic that you can flip right over into wheel. But it would be helpful if you show other moves that aren't as impressive.


The teaching became taunting during crow. It's balancing your knees and shins on the backs of your biceps while your hands are on the floor. It's not easy. As we were supposed to be in this posture, she admonished us that we needed to get into it. We had to do it. We should do it. Even for those doing it, they should do it the right way (that's when she showed off, er, I mean, showed us how). Everyone was in crow. Everyone. Everyone. She kept repeating it because some of us were not in crow because, quite frankly, it's difficult and some people can't fucking do it. When that portion was over, she sighed kind of loudly. I don't know if it was out of frustration about some of us not doing what she was instructing us to do or if it was because the room was hot. Very hot. Have I mentioned that?

That kind of pushing is for personal trainers, not yoginis. In yoga, you're supposed to listen to your body. Instead, she wanted us to listen to her.

I do need some pushing. When we were in side plank, she stood over me and repeated, look up. Look up. When I realized she was talking to me (it was sometimes hard to tell if she was talking to me or AK), I slowly moved my gaze to the side and then all the way up. She actually did say, good, when I did it.

Later on, when she was going into backbends, I did not feel like going into a backbend. I don't like dropping my head backwards. Plus, if you feel like your throat is closing when you drop your head back, you're not supposed to drop it back as far. Any yoga instructor--actually any human being who does not like the feeling of gasping for air--knows that. But instead, we got: stop drinking water...stop figeting...everyone is in back bend.

By the time savasana came around, my nose was filled with sweat and I was kind of in la la land, wondering if the instructor was wearing underwear. She had on tight pants but no VPL. It was fascinating.

See what happens when you're not allowed to drink water? You get a little nutty.

And now for "AK Did Not Like That Class." This was by far my favorite part of the evening. As we walked to the car and drove D to her place about a block away (she'd walked), AK listed every reason she did not like that class, most of which overlaps what I've said here. I agreed and agreed and agreed. She was like, I'm never taking her class again! I agreed!

When I got home, I had to peel my clothes off. It was gross. I took a long shower and drank more water. I'd had about four cups of water during and on the way home from class. I had two more before bed. As I started to doze off, I kept thinking about the story I read in a magazine about the woman in the sweat lodge who died several hours later. I started to freak out a little. I got up and drank more water. Then I went to bed again.

I woke up about an hour later, thinking I was dying. I had more water. Ugh. The class was late to begin with. Since it had started and ended even later because of delayed yoga time warp syndrome, I simply hadn't gotten enough water in before bedtime. It wasn't a good sleep.

So to finish my Groupon, I plan to go to all the non-heated classes and maybe a hot class in the morning so that I can drink gallons of water before going to bed. Then, when I win lotto, I'll open my own studio, and not taunt people as I teach.

The Bigger Problem

After OC County GOP official Marilyn Davenport sent out a picture of President Obama as part of a family of chimpanzees, she apologized, saying, "at the time I received and forwarded the email, I didn't stop to think about the historic implications and other examples of how this could be offensive."

No, the problem is not that you didn't stop and think before sending it. The problem is that you were not offended when you first saw it. The problem is that if you really recognized it was offensive, you wouldn't have to stop and think about it. You wouldn't have to have that self-conversation of, hmm would it be wrong to send this along? You would have written back to whoever sent it to you and scolded them for sending you such offensive material.

But you didn't do that. You were, as you say, "an imperfect Christian."

Thanks for your guarantee that you won't "repeat this error." That's mighty big of you.

Non-Heated Hot Yoga

Groupon offers a lot of deals that I would never dream of using. However, AK found a deal that was pretty unbeatable. It was for a month of unlimited yoga for like 29 when the real price would be over 100. That's a good deal. The studio is in Long Beach and we decided to take a morning Saturday class, and for the first class, we had to be there 30 to 20 minutes early to fill out forms.

So on a cold Saturday morning at 6:45, we headed to Long Beach, where it's even colder. We walked in and it was thankfully warm. We signed in, got these nifty keychains that we can now scan when we go to class as a sign in, and walked to the front of the room. AK was like, I don't mind the back either, so we then quickly moved to the back. The woman in front of me was like, No one ever wants the front. Heh heh. True. Whenever I teach any class--no matter what it is--composition, poetry, yoga, aerobics--no one wants the front.

Two men sat behind us. I thought to myself, oh man they look like grunters. They were not. Phew.

When the class started, I couldn't hear a word the instructor said. She told us to lay down on our backs to begin and when she walked to the front of the room, I heard only music (but it was yoga music--also smelled like patchouli, mmmm). I've never started a class on my back before. Since I'd gone out the night before and gotten to bed around 1 AM and I'd gotten up at 6ish, beginning on my back was not a good idea since I was wanting to fall asleep. Ooooh, I could have slept there forever, except that the room was feeling toasty. I little too toasty. I got a little worried that the heat was going to be a problem, set off my vertigo, perhaps kill me.

My shoulder had started to hurt the night before, so I was also dealing with that even while lying down. But the heat was good for it as we started to move. Also as we started to move, the instructor's voice got louder and we were both off and yoga-ing.

I was sweating almost immediately. I'm an easy sweater (not the cardigan kind, the wet kind). In a room at 70 degrees with very little movement, I'm gonna start dripping. It was a good sweat. Some sweats are uncomfortable, like when you're all gussied up in tight tight jeans and high high pointy toed heels and a tight tight boob shirt and you're walking blocks and blocks through the city in the summer to get to a bar to milk an overpriced drink and then walk all the way back to Penn Station. That's a bad bad sweat. This sweat was a good sweat. Yoga sweat is good.

The instructor had a slight accent that I couldn't place, but it was soothing. I'm a sucker for accents (even though I can't mimic them). Her adjustments were gentle at first. She would touch my hip and I would bring it forward. She would nudge my shoulder and I would open it out.

And then the insanity began. I was in down dog and she came over, put her hands along my back to really flatten it, and then, she goes, And reach your head to the floor relax the neck good good good. Before I knew what was happening, she got my head to the mat in down dog. I've never realized how much tension I hold when I think I'm dropping my head. I was really happy that I got my head to the mat.


And then the insanity went up a notch. We were in camel. Think up on your knees and reaching your arms back so your hands rest on your heels. AK did the smart thing and switched between reaching with her right and reaching with her left. I can barely get into this pose, but did my awful best. The instructor helped me. Here, "helped" means "almost broke me in half." She pushed my hips forwards, rounded my arms back, and tipped my head all the way back. Good good good nice, she said.

As soon as she walked away, I collapsed forwards and drank some water. Surprisingly, I wasn't sweating any more than a little and I'd adjusted to the heat. The only drawback to the heat was some hand slipping at certain points.

She moved onto inversions, which I don't do. Afterwards, AK asked if I don't do them for a certain reason. Yup, I feel claustrophobic and like my neck is going to snap. I normally don't even attempt to go into them because instructors would come over and "help" me, and I freak out when someone grabs my ankles, and that's how they "help" so I avoid them. Here, however, I did slight variations, but only when the instructor wasn't near me because I didn't want her to rip me in half, literally.

The end of class came quickly. We'd started a few minutes later, and even still, it felt too soon. Coming out of savasana, I felt very sweaty but also loose and stress-free. Ahhhh, I love yoga. AK and I were like, that was a really good class! We grabbed our stuff, thanked the instructor, and went downstairs to put our shoes on. We'd taken them up with us and realized we should have taken them off at the door, which was where a pile of everyone else's shoes were. It was a cramped space to put them on, but by that point we were quite flexible. We're looking forward to the hot class at a balmy 90 degrees. I wonder what shapes I can curve myself into at that temperature.

Seeing Clearly

<--This is the best ad for eyewear ever. Here, "best" means "absolutely ridiculous."

Somehow, I got roped into getting my eyes dilated today. I went for my annual eye exam, which is always chock full of moving from room to room and resting my chin on different chin rests and pushing my forehead against different metal bars and starting at red dots and green dots and a hot air balloon and flashes going off in my eyeballs and lenses lenses and more lenses being switched at rapid speed in front of each eye so I can never really tell which one is clearer and I usually say "that one" randomly.

So in between glaucoma tests and puffs of air pushed into my eyes, the doctor said something about my usually getting dilation while I'm there instead of coming back, and then I was getting drops that sting really badly and then I could barely see as I sat down to get new frames since I haven't had new frames since 2008 and I have a new prescription. Frame after frame, we tried on and gave thumbs up, thumbs down, and thumbs sideways. I fell in love with two frames, one metal and one plastic, and chose the metal one as it's easier to adjust to my face.

I have crooked ears. One is higher than the other. So glasses always need adjustment. I also blame my ears for my not being able to wear hats. I look weird in hats. Maybe I just have a small head. Or maybe the hat industry needs to make some smaller hats for adults.

Anyway, my pupils finished dilating, they took pictures of my eyes, and then the doctor looked at the pictures, praised the frames we'd chosen, and sent me on my merry way, explaining that since the frames covered by my plan were ugly, I should stick with the frames I found and let the plan cover my contacts, which is less coverage since contacts are cosmetic, but still, it's coverage.

Blurry-eyed and bleary, I got to the counter to find out the damage.

512. Dollars. American.

That's with a discount on the frames, mind you. A 30% discount on the frames plus insurance "coverage" and I'm shelling out $512.

I asked the receptionist, Can you tell me what the insurance covered exactly?

She goes, 60 dollars.

Then she, the receptionist next to her, and I shared a silent pause and then a weird laugh.

I left after putting it on a credit card. I had decided to do some errands as I waited for my eyes to dilate since the dilation was taking me well past noon, the time I would have had to leave to go see a Silver Screen movie for two bucks with T (and she canceled anyway due to a relapse in a cold). When I got outside, I fashioned my sunglasses over my regular glasses and headed to the library. Not wanting to look like a complete idiot, I took off the sunglasses to walk into the library. I was walking with my eyes almost closed. You know, so I didn't look like an idiot doing that.

I took out a book of poetry on my list plus a book not on my list but by an author with the last name Olson because I had an Olsen accidentally left on my list and the book had a cute cover. Whoever said you can't judge a book by its cover did not work in the publishing industry.

Heading back to the car--with my eyes mostly closed--I decided to go home instead, and I've been cooped up in the house, unable to look at daylight, kind of like a gremlin. Being cooped up on a sunny day is not fun, especially when I think about the events of the morning; how can my eye care cost that much? Seriously? I don't know why using my frames from 2008 was a huge negative. I don't know why the frames the insurance covers are ugly ones.

I don't understand what a big difference 60 dollars is; actually, it's almost insulting. It's like, oh you need 500 dollars to see? Hmm, well, I'll give you this monacle I got from the costume shop for your left eye and this microscope for your right eye. If you don't using those, then you can go ahead and buy yourself your own damn glasses. Which is what I did.

Actress

The woman who asked me to play Antonia in the Sor Juana event passed my name onto an artist who is putting together a staged reading of a play about goddesses. She told him that I'm a good reader. This woman is a sweetheart, and I thought it was really cool of her to give me such a compliment. She's playing one of the goddesses as am I; there's supposed to be a third goddess, but she didn't show up for rehearsal so we're one goddess down at this point. I'm getting ahead of myself.

I read the script that I got in the mail a few weeks ago, and then I read some of it to Eddie, and the two of us were laughing hysterically. I'm not going to reveal it because it's just too much of an absurd and unexpected idea, but I will tell you, it involves undergarments and, at one point, gas.

The guy in charge called to set up a rehearsal because he does not have email. My main way of communication is emailing, so now that I'm working with him, I get to practice my phone skills. I've never liked the phone, so being forced into using it is really the only time I'll actually use it, but it's good for me since I'll have to be using the phone a lot at work in the coming months (more on that soon). The first rehearsal date fell on the date after Sor Juana, meaning I'd be driving another hour out and hour back the next night. Ugh.

It was worth it, though. The gallery we practiced in is very cool. A bunch of artists run it as a co-op, and they each have a feature show every few months. The guy showed me his own art before I left. It's all very cool. I've missed the gallery and art scene, so it felt really good to be there. We read through parts of the play.

The director asked me, Can you do an Irish accent? I said, Nope. Then, I eventually could, most likely, if I hear one over and over. I learn by hearing best.

We worked on a monologue I have that's pretty long. It's a good thing it's a staged reading and not a full-on play performance. One reason I've avoided the stage is the need for memorization. That does not entice me at all. In high school, I was always involved in plays, but only behind the scenes. Why bust my ass to memorize a script when I could write the script? Also, I was fugly and awkward in high school, so that, too, had something to do with it. Now, I'm not fugly or as awkward, and I kind of like attention.

He kept calling us actresses. He said several times that we needed to find out if the third actress would be joining us. He said that only two actresses were not enough. So, I suppose that means, in at least this instance, I'm an actress. Who would've thunk it. So now this actress is on hold, waiting for the news that the third actress has been found and the goddesses are a go.

It's Always St. Patrick's Day Somewhere

At Jackie Reilly's, the Belairs had a show. That's the band my brother's friends are in. I always want to go but the shows usually way too far. When he told me they were playing half an hour away, I jumped.

JR's is an Irish pub. I don't know if they just didn't clean up after St. Patrick's Day or if they are trying to remind everyone that they are indeed Irish. There were shamrocks and leprachaun hats all over along with Irish flags. It was all very festive.

AEF and I gossip gossip gossiped, even in the loud, loud, loud music, which is what happens when we don't see each other after a long time. It's a non-stop talk fest. The band played one very long set of very loud music. The last time I saw them, it was an outdoors venue, so I don't know if they usually play that loudly, but yeah, it was loud. So loud that when I left, I had scratchy voice because all the talking I did was really yelling.

My brother was rockin along the whole time, which Eddie found slightly surprising. I was like, yup if my brother were musically talented, he would totally be in a band. Then I corrected myself, telling Eddie that my brother does play a few instruments: the baritone, the recorder, and the trumpet.

He was like, What's a baritone? My definition: a small tuba.

He asked, What's a recorder? My definition: a small plastic instrument kind of like a clarinet without the buttons and reed.

Then I reminded him that I used to play the flute and I could also play the recorder. He wasn't all that impressed. I'm not either. What the hell good does that do for me now, having played the flute, and not very well, for two years in elementary school?