Bonjour, Y'all!

Have ya missed me? Surprise! I am on a wonderful adventure! I meant to blog all about it, and I even lugged my heavy computer over the ocean, but I have been having Internet difficulties and lots of fun, so I haven't had a chance...maybe later this week things will be easier, and I'll try again.

So...want to know where I am? What? I can't hear you! Ah, how I do love that game! Anyway, I'm not telling. Psych! However, if you tune into the Tour de France tomorrow, maybe you will see me. I'm not riding this year (my old war injury flared up; Nam - the quagmire continues!), but I will be at the third to last stage, eating chocolate and yodeling in the hills that are alive with the sound of music (Subtle hint; don't feel bad if you missed it!), to cheer on this guy who is all into me, some Spaniard named Contador. So... au revior until then!

Alberto Contrador, upon seeing me from his bicycle as I exited the museum. I told him that as a Texan, I only went out with guys who drove cool cars, like Hummers, but he is very persistant. It's charming, yes, but a little tiresome, know what I mean?

Not complaining can kill you!

Hedberg-hey



I just got back from a fantastic mini-vacation, magnificently planned, I must say, to have a maximum amount of fun for a minimal amount of time and money. All went swimmingly, except for one little hitch; I couldn't turn my head. I've had a little problem with tension in my shoulders for about six months or so, but lately it's gotten worse, so I went and had a massage, which I enjoyed. The masseuse rubbed my neckial region and then told me that my glutes were activated. Of course, I thanked him politely; I'm nothing if not polite. He informed me that active glutes are not a good thing, and spent the rest of the session gouging his elbows into the fat of my ass. I was bruised for much of the rest of the week, which completely took my mind off the fact that my shoulders felt like they had been cranked up to my ears and been superglued there. I would have just sucked it up - I'm nothing if not a sucker -but my friends kept making fun of me whenever I tried to turn my head. "Ha ha!" they laughed. " She looks like that robot from "Lost in Space!" Hey, Barney Rubble! Where's your neck, Barney? Ha ha!"

My friends are hilarious.

Still, I figured I couldn't spend the rest of my life never looking left, so I decided to do something about it. I'm nothing if not a decider.

I looked up my old bud from college -I'll call him Jon, because that's his name - because he is an expert in relaxation. In fact, my most in my most vivid memories of him from those days, I always picture him in bed. In the days since, he has continued his higher education, and become a massage therapist, and now he knows lots of stuff about muscles, tendons and connective tissue. He was kind enough to clear his schedule and give me a bit of the magic touch.

I expected candles, water noises (always makes me have to peepee), scented face pillows, and soft, whispering touches, and experience from which I would emerge as loose as the elastic in Britney Spears waistband (Get it? On account she don't wear no panties! They're never on, get it?!) Alas, none of this was to be. Jon proceeded to tell me everything that is wrong with me, and Lordy Lou, I am jacked up! I have pinched nerves, swelling around my L7 (a swollen lesbian band?), Darth Vadars Spatula, TMJ, REM's , Sphygmoidal Redaction, Carpet Tunnels, Primae Faciae, and Pectoralis. There is a chance I misunderstood some of the things he told me, though he explained very patiently; I was just so OVERWHELMED by everything, and it was hard to focus. I do recall that he said that I had some muscle tone under my fat, which I took as a bold flirtation - flattering, yes, but inappropriate under the circumstances. Anyhoo, Jon was as shocked as I was at the extent of my tension. Muscles that should feel like rubber bands felt like piano wire, and at one point, when he pressed a spot in my jaw, I burst into tears. How did I get this way?

That's right, ladies and gents! You guessed it; I haven't been complaining enough! It is just NOT good for you to contain your poisonous stress levels, and if you don't eject that venom onto society as a whole, it backs up and clogs your system. You need to roto-rooter yourself with a good dose of cacking and get that stuff out of you! Take your lambda probe and clean out your bitch-filter! Let it fly, people! Don't hold that stuff in!

PROBLEM SOLVED!

Of course, there are other things you can do to reduce tension. One of those things is to relax. In order to facilitate this, I have decided to talk like Matthew McConaughey or Mitch Hedberg, two guys who actually sound a lot alike, except for the first is stoned and stupid, and the second is just stoned. And also deceased. Anyway, when you talk like that, it's hard to be uptight, alright, alright. I am also considering developing a prescription drug addiction, but so far my doctor hasn't been altogether cooperative in this venture. I am definitely going to take more vacations, because the fun is good for me. Finally, more massage is key. Maybe next time another human being touches me, I can bear it without sobbing. In the meantime (Mean time? What does that even mean? Average time? Aggressively unkind time? Significant time?), I have a new challenge for myself: chillax and be happy, and when I'm sad, frustrated or angry, or if my feelings are hurt, I'm telling. So, I'll listen to your complaining if you listen to mine. Even if it's boring. Anybody want in on this action? I'm nothing if not generous with my solutions to life's little problems.

Poem that Complains About the Heat, by Liliane Richman:

The Killer Heat

We've been in the hundreds
a couple weeks lasting
so unfair
fraying memory
of the changeling Spring
who lulled me
into believing
it would stay forever


This is what it looks like when things are going swimmingly.

This is what it looks like when things are NOT going so swimmingly.

QUESTION TO PONDER: When fish are whacked, do they say, "Yeah, Louie the Fin? He's sleepin' with the humans, now!"?

ANOTHER QUESTION: How would you punctuate that last question? I'm nothing if not puctual...

Things I Complained About in the Week I Gave Up Complaining

#1 - New Mexico, including the climate, road system, alcoholism rate, dust, Hatch Chilis (not so special!) Southwestern Art and Kokopeli. I don't know what got into me. Let's just say I was not all that enchanted by the Land of Enchantment.

#2 - When Click and Clack, the Car Talk guys, laugh about things that are not funny, which is all the time. How funny can it be when you need to replace your catalytic converter or the heating coil? Woohoo, that's a good one Click and Clack!

#3 - When Garrison Keillor sings. I gotta say, I grew up on A Prairie Home Companion, and while I don't seek it out, when it comes on my local NPR station (Holla, KERA!!!), I feel a lovely, warm, nostalgic wave. I like the sound effects, some of the running characters, and even the news from Lake Woebegone. I realize this shatters your image of me as one of the COOL KIDS, but I cannot lie. I like A Prairie Home Companion...until Garrison sings! I hate it when he sings, especially when he has a real singer on the show and feels that we would all appreciate Garrison adding his particular old guy croak of a voice to his/her song. He's a man of many talents; why does he have to sing?! Ooh! That pisses me off! Makes me want to stab him roughly and repeatedly with a lambda probe (see handy schematic above).

4. Heat and all things heat-related. I'm an outdoorsy kinda gal - no, really! I enjoy getting out in nature (especially if it's a controlled kind of nature) and mixing it up with the elements, but DAMN! It's hot in the summer! I'm sick of sweat, sunscreen sweating down my face into my eyes, sweat-stench, changing my sweaty clothes, wearing clothes, sweating in the shower, sweating in bed (but not the good kind), heat stroke, heat waves, hot flashes, when the steering wheel in my oven of a car is too burning hot to touch, and being blinded by the sun when driving my oven of a car. I don't like when people say, "Hot enough for ya?" or "Whew! It sure is hot!" or "Well, she's either drunk or passed out from the heat; poke her with a lambda probe and see if she comes to!" I also hate when Paris Hilton says, "That's hot," and that she had the balls to trademark the phrase, but that's a whole different rant. By the way, I don't understand this diagram at all. Science! What the hell?!

5. I don't like when people say farewell to dead people. It seems so condescending. What mortal ever has fared poorly at death? It's the one thing with which we are pretty much guaranteed success.

So, that's only five complaints. Not bad! I realized some important things with this little experiment. People complain a lot, and it's hard not to join in. There is a sincere desire to complain to show empathy. We complain more about small things than large. We complain to make conversation and to show that we understand the human condition. We complain in literature, poetry, art and song. Many times, situations are bad, and we feel powerless, so all we can do is complain; it makes us feel slightly empowered. Or culture encourages complaining; after all, the squeaky wheel gets the grease. Still, I am going to try to complain less. It's boring and unattractive. Maybe if I complain less, I'll be happier. Maybe if I spend more time thinking of good things with which to start a conversation, the dialogue will be more pleasant and productive for everyone. Of course, that takes a lot of planning and effort, and the spontaneous, organic nature of conversation will be ruined. Plus, nobody likes or trusts a Pollyanna. And also, it really is so damned hot.....