Rain

It rained today. Why would I bother to share this news? Well, it hasn't rained in approximately one month. It's dry here. Unwet. How dry is it? It's so dry that I saw camels going through downtown. OK, not really. It's so dry that restaurants aren't giving glasses of water to just anyone. Now that's the truth. You have to ask for water.

It's so dry that the city council announced a complete ban on outside watering because there's only 6 weeks of water left in the reservoir. Six weeks! So, get out the buckets, pails, jugs, and anything else you can collect water in and start collecting because the end is near!!

The water crisis has been a boon for the local paper. They finally have something to write about. We've learned that the good folks at the university aren't going to water the athletic fields, including the hallowed shrine between the hedges, until we get significant rainfall. We'll all just have to sit and watch as the field goes from brilliant green to blue, then becomes a big sandpit fraught with unseen divots big enough to snap a running back's ankle in two. Football just got more interesting. There was no mention of whether the beloved mascot would have to forego his beloved bag of ice at each home game.

As expected, some folks aren't happy about the watering restrictions. According to the newspaper editor, some "selfish" people have taken to calling to give him an earful about how their rose bushes are going to die. Pulling out all the stops, he chastised them soundly, writing what can only be described as the modern day equivalent of public flogging. I bet those folks are very sorry. Or not.

And, of course, we've all had to endure the endless stream of letters about flushing - the scourge of our community. "If it's yellow, let it mellow. When it's brown, flush it down." Grown-ups have included this phrase in their letters. Grown-ups. I can understand the sentiment, but c'mon people, even in this crisis, let's keep our heads! There's no need to resort to silly, contrived, disgusting sayings. Seriously. I'm afraid to go to anyone's house and use the bathroom for fear that I will see evidence of things passed. And, whenever I take care of my own personal needs, I have that stupid saying going through my head. I hope they're happy.

Finally, it rained today. As I walked around downtown, I overheard a couple of conversations that went something like this:

Person 1: The last time it rained, Sally and I got caught in it and we were drenched.
Person 2: I remember that rain storm! I got drenched, too. My friend and I went to my house and threw our jeans in the dryer. We had a cup of tea and waited for our clothes to dry.

And, Person 1: Oh my God, me and Jennifer were coming home one day - back when I lived downtown - and there was this downpour. By the time we got to my apartment, we were soooo wet. I was, like, I've never been so wet.

I knew it hadn't rained in a while, but the nostalgia in these strangers' recollections really made me appreciate how long it had been. Usually, I don't like to be out and about in the rain, but today, I didn't mind. The smell of the damp soil, the sound of the rain hitting the brick sidewalks, the sound of cars splashing through puddles, the feeling of the raindrops hitting the backs of my legs as they rolled off the umbrella, the sight of two people extending their lunch break while standing under the magnolia tree - all welcome sights, sounds, and smells after a long, hot summer.

Maybe now, we can all start flushing again. Probably not. The rain didn't last long enough to make mud.

Yin Yoga

Last night, I got as close to torture as I ever want to get. Following my new routine, I went to the 90-minute yoga class. I've decided that I like the class because it seems to attract a core group of the same people every week. The instructor is more relaxed and there's sense of comaraderie. We needed it last night.

The instructor put her mat at what has been the back of the room, announcing that she didn't want us to look at the clock during class. I should have recognized this as an omen. The second sign that things were not going to follow a "normal" path was when she handed out blocks and straps. Then, when we'd all assembled, she announced that we were going to do yin yoga, "just for fun." I've learned that "just for fun" is this instructor's way of saying, "Only totally insane people would try this." For example, she encourages us to wind ourselves up into knots, then balance on our forearms, "just for fun." As she's balancing there, she'll say, "See, isn't this fun? It's hilarious." I usually stop whatever she's doing when she says, "Try this, just for fun."

Heading into an entire class that would be "just for fun" was a bit daunting. She introduced yin yoga by saying that we'd go into poses without warming up our muscles first, then we'd hold the poses longer than usual. I thought, "This sounds like a recipe for a torn muscle, but she's the instructor." We spent the next 75 minutes in some of the most uncomfortable positions I've ever been in. It wasn't excrutiating, just uncomfortable. Poses that I've come to enjoy were not pleasant. Let me tell you, once you've sustained a penguin pose without warming up first, it hurts to move back into child's pose.

I felt like I was 80 years old, but I knew I wasn't alone. There were groans all over the room as we slowly put our legs back together (and back in socket). At one point, the instructor admitted that the lunge pose was "killing her," but she didn't want to "gyp" us out of the experience. A woman in the center of the room said, "No, no, please gyp us." Next, we worked ourselves into a pose where we were on our backs with one leg bent so that foot touched the corresponding hip, bottom of the foot turned toward the ceiling. The lone fellow in the room (not last week's flasher) said, "If my quad should come loose from my body, what will you do?" Someone else assured him that we'd call 911.

At one point, the instructor sniffed the air and asked, "Does it smell like cleaning fluid?" No one responded, so she looked at the fellow and asked, "Do you smell, like, cleaning fluid?" Still holding his pose, he said without missing a beat, "Do I smell like cleaning fluid?" I thought I was going to topple over. It still cracks me up.

At one point, in some twisted pose, the fellow said, "I had planned to go running tomorrow. Now, I don't know if I'll be able to." One woman responded, "I drive a stick shift car. I just hope I can get home." I said, "I just hope I can walk out of this room." But, yet, none of us left. Laughing through the discomfort was somehow comforting.

For the big finale, we sat in a butterfly position, soles of the feet together, knees out to the side. We wrapped the strap around our hips, passed it under our feet, then buckled and tightened the strap. Then, as instructed, the lot of us positioned the blocks behind us and reclined so our backs rested on one block and our heads on the other. As I laid there, trussed up and totally exposed, I thought, "This is as close to torture as I want to get." I also thought, "Please God, let me sit back up."

I feel that I can speak for the entire class when I say that none of us are in a hurry to do yin yoga again. We were all good sports and there was more laughing and cutting up than in the other classes I've gone to. The instructor rewarded us with a longer relaxation period at the end. We did alternate nostril breathing, where you close one nostril, breathe in with the other, exhale, switch sides, repeat. Divine intervention was the only thing that kept me from laughing out loud.

I thought I'd be sore today, but I'm not. Just tired. Probably should have skipped the 45 minutes on the elliptical today.

Bananas

"We should all aspire to live like bananas. They are on permanent vacation, living in lush, tropical rainforests. From high above, a canopy of trees provides the perfect balance of sun and shade."

This bit of wisdom is printed on the back of my Post Selects Banana Nut Crunch cereal box. I read it this morning after I'd consumed half of my required daily intake of coffee. I've decided that I want to get a job at Post, because apparently, they have a very lax drug use policy.

If anyone asks what I'm doing today, I'm going to respond, "I'm aspiring to live like a banana on permanent vacation." It sounds so much better than, "Working on my dissertation."

Me and Jack

As I've mentioned before, I spent approximately two months preparing to move from the NEPIW. In that time, I lived at a friend's apartment, so I wouldn't have to live in the chaos at my own apartment. Despite my efforts to stay sane and organized, the disruption seeped into my daily activities in unexpected ways.

For example, one day, I cleaned out 4 years of coursework and teaching assistant notes. Amazing how the stuff that seemed so critically important magically transformed into absolute garbage. I shredded until the shredder cried "uncle."

With that task done, I headed to the grocery store, but not before grabbing the bottle of Jack Daniels. The bottle had the cap on it, but there was a noticeable amount missing - clearly this was not a new bottle of Jack. When I got to the car, I put the bottle in the drink holder, figuring it wouldn't tip over there.

I got to the grocery store with 80s pop music blaring and pulled into a parking space next to a Cadillac. Apparently, I got really close to the Cadillac because as I got out of my car, the woman who had been sitting in the Cadillac was examining the side of her car. I really didn't think I'd hit the car. I don't think I even nudged the car. I knew I wasn't paying close attention, but I desparately wanted to believe that I would know if I hit her car.

Anyway, she didn't see any damage. I apologized profusely and she laughed and said it was OK, she was just startled when I pulled in. It wasn't until I got into the grocery store that I remembered the bottle of Jack Daniels in my drink holder. The open bottle of Jack Daniels.

I'm still not really sure that anyone would believe that I was transporting the open bottle from my apartment to another apartment where I was actually living because my loud neighbors drove me out of my apartment and the fact that I couldn't park my tiny Honda Civic without hitting really expensive cars in the process had absolutely nothing to do with the open bottle of Jack Daniels conveniently placed in my drink holder. No, seriously.

Men and yoga

This week, I started going to the 90-minute yoga class on Monday evenings. I'm happy to report that I made it through the class and felt better when I came out than when I went in. I think I might be getting the hang of this gym thing.

On Wednesday, I went to the gym for what has become my regular yoga class. As I entered the room, I got my mat and scanned the room for a space to claim as my own. My eyes fell on the person closest to the door. He was in reclining butterfly - where you sit down, put the soles of your feet together, knees out to the sides, and lay back. He was wearing shorts. I don't think I emitted an audible "eek" but I might have. In most other circumstances, I'd be the first to say that audible exclamations of disgust are bad form. In this case, I think I should be forgiven. I quickly averted my eyes, claimed the spot behind him, and tried to erase the image from my memory banks. Ever wonder why memories of loved ones fade, but you can indefinitely retain a vivid mental image of a stranger's not-meant-for-public-viewing parts. Our God has a strange sense of humor.

Since Mr. Shorts was in the front of the room, I decided that he wasn't in class to ogle at the female class members. About 10 minutes into the class, I decided he was there to sweat profusely and breathe heavily like Darth Vader. He was clearly connected to a force all his own. Despite the instructor's constant reminder to "go slow," he zipped in and out of warrior 1, warrior 2, and reverse warrior. He was a whirling, sweaty dervish. I intentionally kept my head down while we were in bent-over poses. I didn't want to see what might not be "downward facing" while we were in downward facing dog.

Mr. Shorts left after 45 minutes. The instructor continued to guide us in and out of poses while scrubbing his mat with what I hoped was industrial strength cleanser. I didn't ask, but I believe she was thinking, "Thank God he left before I put the class in 'the reclining pose of their choice.'"

He's not the first guy who's been in my yoga class. There was a nice gentleman in the Monday class. He actually apologized and moved his mat when we stretched out and he accidentally tickled my foot. He also wore longer shorts that covered all of his parts. He was even entertaining at times, like when we were in eagle pose (where you basically twist your arms and legs into knots and try to balance on one foot.) This fellow had some balance issues and but never untwisted his arms as he wobbled from one side to the other. He didn't completely topple over, to his credit. He just wobbled like a very drunk eagle whose friends dared him to twist his arms into knots and then left before helping him unwind.

There's another fellow that comes to class. He's not skinny and not very flexible, but that guy can hold a T-balance longer than anyone I've ever seen. And he wears shorts that cover all his parts.

As intimidating as yoga class can be for women, I imagine it must be worse for men. I'd like to be encouraging, but if you're going to sweat profusely and flash your private parts, please stay home.

Moon over Arkansas

Last fall, I traveled from the northeastern post-industrial wasteland to Little Rock to do the dance that all budding academics must do - I presented a paper at a conference. The trip to Arkansas went relatively smoothly. The flight left the NEPIW on time, and my flight from Atlanta left on time.

On the flight from Atlanta, I sat behind a couple - a decidedly rotund couple. As we began our descent into Little Rock, the fellow started fretting. He got out his wallet and said, "I've lost my social security card and the card to get the car out of the parking deck." He continued to fret, working himself up to "I don't deserve to walk around. I'm so disorganized. All I'm fit to do is work 24 hours a day."

Finally - we arrived at the terminal and everyone got up. The fellow leaned forward and stood up. I stood up, looked over the seat and saw something that should never see the light of day. Let's just say that this fellow needed a belt. A very large belt. I won't provide the gory details, but I've sworn off men. Forever.

I arrived at the hotel after 10PM and immediately turned in, hoping my dreams would be free of moons, fuzzy animals, and anything else that would remind me of the horror I'd seen on the plane. In the morning, I ordered coffee and yogurt from room service. Why did I order room service when no one was reimbursing my expenses? Well, because this fine hotel with ducks that waddled through the lobby twice a day couldn't put coffee pots in the hotel rooms. I felt a bit like Jack Sparrow - "but why is the coffee gone?"

When I called room service, they informed me that there was a coffee shop in the lobby. I almost yelled, "But I need coffee before I can find the coffee shop! I am not allowed to interact with people before I've had my coffee! I had to look at a fat man's ass last night! Now, bring me my damn coffee!" Somehow, I managed to remain civil.

The day before I was to leave Arkansas, a big wind blew. I know, because I finally made it out of the hotel and nearly found myself in Oz. I walked about 2 blocks and gave up. That evening, I considered the possibility of getting home the next day, and after watching the Weather Channel, I became convinced that I should have let the wind blow me back home.

The next day was beautiful and sunny in Little Rock. I arrived at the airport in plenty of time for my flight. After leisurely unwinding from the conference, I walked to my gate, where I learned that my flight to Motor City had been cancelled due to high winds. No more flights that evening. I could pay to spend another night in Little Rock or try to get to a hub city where I had friends. I went down the list: Atlanta? Only if I wanted to fly to Dallas first. Washington DC? Nope, can't get there from Little Rock. Chicago? Ding, ding! We had a winner. Two hours later, I was strapped in, enjoying the irony of heading to the Windy City because high winds closed every other airport.

I spent approximately 10 glorious hours with my Chicago friends and headed back to O'Hare. I managed to get on the early direct flight to Syracuse. I was on the plane, strapped in, when the desk agent came on board and asked if I'd please give up my seat for a distraught woman who just had to get to Syracuse. I said, "No." The desk agent explained that because I was the last one to buy a seat on the plane, I was the first one to give up my seat in an emergency. I said, "I'm not supposed to be here at all. I was supposed to be in upstate New York last night. I bought my ticket 3 months ago. No, she can't have my seat." The desk agent repeated her plea. I said, "What will happen to me?" She said, "We'll get you on the flight to Philadelphia, then on to Syracuse." I relented, after she promised me a $250 travel voucher.

As I passed the distraught woman, she didn't even turn to thank me. No acknowledgement, no "kiss my ass," no nothing. She headed off to Syracuse, with my suitcase under the plane, and I headed off to yet another flight to yet another airport, where I would give yet another airline yet another chance to get me home. It wasn't until I sat down in a middle seat on the plane to Philly that I realized that I'd forgotten my book on the Syracuse flight. I hope that distraught woman found some comfort in Fellowship of the Ring, while I flew to Philly without Frodo, Sam, and Legolas to keep me company.

I finally landed in Syracuse, 28 hours after I'd arrived at the Little Rock airport. Grand total for the round trip: 6 airports, 3 airlines. Upon arrival in Syracuse, I went straight to the Delta ticket counter, relayed my story, and inquired about the frequent flyer miles that I should have earned on the return trip, had I been able to take a Delta flight. When the manager said, "Hmm, I don't know," I demanded frequent flyer miles. Without any argument, the manager gave me a very generous boost to my total miles.

And, with American's travel voucher, I'm returning to the Windy City next weekend for a proper visit with my friends. It's been a year and I've almost recovered from this travel adventure.

Inside the Actors Studio

The other day, in one of my more bored moments, I thought about what I would say if James Lipton ever asked me the questions he poses to his guests at the end of "Inside the Actor's Studio." Here's what I'd say:

What is your favorite word? Peace, in all its incarnations.

What is your least favorite word? Lynching.

What turns you on? A really clever inside joke

What turns you off? Insecurity, in all its incarnations.

What sound do you love? Laughter - the kind that's slightly out of control and about something that you couldn't possibly explain to anyone who wasn't there in the moment.

What sound do you hate? The sound of my neighbors having sex. Fortunately, it's not a problem in my current apartment. That's either a testament to good soundproofing, or I have very lonely neighbors.

What profession other than yours would you like to attempt? Kept woman.

What profession would you not like to participate in? I wouldn't want to clean animal cages at the zoo. Or anywhere for that matter. I don't even want a cat unless he or she goes to the bathroom outside.

What is your favorite curse word? God***n, mother f***ing, sh*t! When said properly, it has a fantastically rhythmic cadence with a satisfying punctuation at the end.

If heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the pearly gates? "Orlando Bloom isn't here yet, but he's dying to meet you." And then God would chuckle at his own joke.

Yes, that's what I'd say to James Lipton. His loss that I'm not an actor.

Church stories

On this Sunday, while I'm not going to church, I thought I'd share a couple of stories from my brief stint at a large metro church deep in the heart of the city that's too busy to hate. First, let me say that I chose this church because it was big enough to have a decent choir and still kept to the traditional service. While I don't have blue hair (yet), I don't enjoy contemporary church services. Too flashy, too showy, too much like watching televangelists on TV. Just give me an old fashioned "prayer, hymn, and sermon" service and I'm happy.

One Sunday, I sat amongst the multitude and listened as a young assistant minister read the announcements. She called on all of us to celebrate a new birth, mourn a loss, and attend the weekly Bible study of our choice. Then, she told us about a couple in the church who decided to devote a year of their lives to missionary work. She asked the couple to stand up, and two fresh-faced people rose, brimming with wholesome optimism. In what was to be her final hoorah for the morning, the young minister looked at all of us and with a sweep of her arms, said, "So, let's all pray for this couple as they assume the missionary position in..." To this day, I have no idea where these people went because the minister lost me at "missionary position." No one in the congregation laughed. Not even a snicker. To my credit, I held it together, convincing myself that God would surely strike me down if I uttered a sound. I like to believe that he was up there having a good chuckle, though.

Every Sunday, before the final hymn, the head minister invited members of the congregation to come forward if they wanted to join the church. His invitation sounded sincere and didn't mention any strings. For example, he didn't say, "Before you come forward, you should contact our church office and arrange to visit with a minister. Then, we'll assign a sponsor for you and give you a date when you'll come forward to join the church." He didn't say any of that. So, I took him at his word, that if I wanted to join the church, I should just march forward and tell him so.

I spent a month working up my courage. On the self-appointed day, I went to the early service, figuring there might be fewer people (1500 instead of 2000). I chose my best suit, selected a seat near the side aisle, and waited. On cue, the minister offered his invitation and the congregation stood to sing the last hymn. I slipped out of the pew and walked up the side aisle, because walking up the middle aisle was way too intimidating. As I rounded the corner at the front of the church, the phalanx of ministers turned and saw me for the first time. All of their faces registered absolute surprise. I thought, "uh-oh," but there was no turning back.

I walked up to the head minister, who quickly regained his composure. He asked my name and leaned his ear to my mouth, because the poor man was hard of hearing and the congregation was still singing. I told him my name. He asked what church I belonged to and I told him. When he asked my occupation, and I said, "social worker."

The congregation stopped singing and sat down. I decided to focus my eyes on a spot somewhere in the middle of the back door, trying to avoid all of the 3000 eyes staring at me. I didn't feel the spirit of the Lord moving through me, unless the spirit of the Lord feels like sheer terror. The minister looked out at the congregation and accurately pronounced my name and the name of the church that I belonged to. I thought, "Whew! We're home free from here." Then, he said, "...and she's a postal worker." In that instant, I got a mental picture of myself in a postal worker's uniform and thought, "No! I'll never ensnare an attractive man now!" So I turned to him and hissed, "Social worker. I'm a social worker!" He looked back out at the congregation and said, "Sorry, she's a social worker." No one was more sorry than I was.

When I relayed this story to a friend who'd followed the rules and joined the church properly, he laughed and said, "I can't believe you actually thought people just walked up there." I told him, and I still believe, that if you're going to invite people to come forward, you should expect them to come forward. In the end, I decided it was better to be a postal worker than to single out two members of the congregation and announce that they would assume the missionary position in some far-off land.

Britney and Neil, together at last

I've moved my gym operations into the big gym, out of the women's only room. I was driven into the big gym earlier this week when a bunch of ponytailed, young, fatless girls took up all the elliptical machines in the women's room (not that I'm bitter.) Thanks to them, I've discovered that the big gym is much more pleasant. The machines are farther apart and there's more going on thus doubling the people watching opportunities. It's only taken 10 weeks, but I've finally made it to the big gym - and I'm up to 45 minutes on the elliptical machine. I'll be climbing up that dog's ass in no time.

The elliptical machines are the fancy ones with individual TV screens mounted at the top of the display panel. In other words, if you're short, you might as well just look at the ceiling. Usually, I set the TV on something mindless and then listen to my iPod. I'm figuring out my preferred work-out music and let me just say, "Thank God for headphones." I can serenely pedal away while Dee Snyder insists that he's not goin' take it anymore, or Joan Jett vehemently denies that she gives a damn about her bad reputation. These are bad enough, but the other day, I found myself thinking, "Damn right, Britney, I am stronger than yesterday." Again, thank the good lord for headphones. And, yes, that's the only Britney Spears song on my iPod.

Today, I'd set my TV on the gym's music video channel, set my iPod and started pedaling. At about the 25 minute mark, I tuned in to both the music in my ears and the video on the screen. I heard Britney warbling away about being stonger than yesterday while watching a very sweaty, flannel-clad Neil Young lumber across the stage, strum his guitar and grimace while standing at the microphone. I almost burst out laughing. For a brief moment, it seemed like ole Neil had sucked down some helium and decided to sing Britney's top 10. There was Neil, grimacing away, singing, "Here I go, on my own! I don't need nobody, better off alone!" The crowd shots almost sent me over the edge. Die-hard Neil Young fans waving their arms, yelling, "Yeah, Neil! It's nothin but your way! Woohoo!"

If you'd like to experience this unique musical collaboration, here's the link to Neil's video on youtube. Turn down the volume and crank up Britney. Enjoy!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fBS3B2cZcFM&mode=related&search=

Thomas Jefferson

In a recent opinion piece, Georgetown Public Policy Institute fellow Lawrence J. Haas argued that Americans must be the eyes and ears of homeland security. Stealing a line from Two and a Half Men, I wondered who was going to be the liver and the colon of homeland security. But I digress. Haas used a quote from Thomas Jefferson to reinforce his point, employing the age-old argument: "One of the founding fathers said something that seems to relate to our current situation so stop picking on this administration and its policies." Very effective. Ranks right up there with: "This Bible verse, taken completely out of context, seems to solve our problem."

The quote Haas chose was: "The price of freedom is eternal vigilance." I was overjoyed to see that one of my fellow citizens decided to argue with Haas. In his letter to the editor, the fellow puts Jefferson's quote in historical context. I was so excited. Score one for the historians. According to this fellow, Jefferson "referred not to military attacks against a fledgling system of representative government, but instead against the tyranny of autocratic leaders who sought to impose their will over the will of the people." I believe Haas replied, "D'oh."

After making this fine point, the letter writer continues, unfortunately. He goes on to say Jefferson struggled to secure individual freedoms. Well, yes, but only for himself and his male, white friends who owned property and wore silly powdered wigs. According to the letter, "Jefferson learned during his ill-fated career as a slaveowner that oppressing people's rights bears no fruit." I expected him to present evidence of Jefferson's financial excesses and insurmountable debt. Instead, he says, "The locksmith slave in charge of Monticello's storeroom keys saw that the rest of the slaves had easy access to the estate's cider barrels and other commodities slaves produced."

It took me a minute or two (or three) to try to figure out what he's saying. The best I can figure, he's saying that Thomas Jefferson decided to free his slaves because they kept drinking all the cider. Jefferson wasn't motivated by moral imperative - which really would have been something given none of his friends and neighbors saw anything wrong with slavery. No, Jefferson decided that oppression was wrong because no matter what he did, the slaves just kept drinking all the cider.

I'm sure we all remember that famous passage from the Declaration of Independence: "all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Cider."

Exploding food

The other day, I read the paper while having lunch. It's my daily routine. I read the local and national news thoroughly, paying particular attention to the Blotter, skip the sports section where columnists alternately celebrate football triumphs or disect recent losses, and finally turn my attention to the living section, where I find out about all the events I'm not attending, all the books I'm not reading and all the movies I'm not watching. After checking in with my horoscope to make sure I can safely leave the house, I close the paper.

I followed this protocol the other day, sure that there was nothing blog-worthy in the paper. I turned the last page of the living section and there it was: a full-page advertisement for organic, non-medicinal, herbal remedies. The reason I paid any attention at all was the headline, "Foods That EXPLODE in Your Bowel!" Needless to say, I was intrigued.

Despite the full-page ad, Frank K. Wood refused to tell me which foods might blow a hole in the side of my bowels. Instead, he offered a page-long list of other things that I'd never considered but am now really concerned about. If I want answers, I have to buy Wood's book, The Complete Guide to Digestive Health, for $9.99.

According to Frank, I'll be amazed by how many inexpensive, easy, natural cures I'll find all around me - in my pantry, garden, garage, and grocery store. He lost me at "garage." Garages are for cars, car-related products, and cover bands. Forget it, Frank, I'll take my chances. (I bet it's beans and peppers that cause bowel explosions. Those are evil foods that should not be consumed under any circumstances.)

Here are some of the things that Frank would like to enthusiastically tell you about:

• Two-cent colon cleanser! [That's really adding your 2 cents. Let's hope it's not 2 actual cents because that just sounds painful.]
• Belching and bloating - they could be warning signs of up to 7 hidden health problems. [Yes, but they also make you really popular at frat houses, or so I've heard.]
• Irritable bowel syndrome? Check here for another common disorder that could be your real problem. [Let's hope the "real problem" has a better name. I've had to deal with irritable people, but an irritable bowel sounds worse. Me: "Please digest my food." Irritable bowel: "No, go away, leave me alone. I'll do it when I feel like it."]
• How to prevent the embarassment of a leaky bladder! [I don't understand Frank's enthusiasm about this, but more power to him.]
• Eyes bigger than your stomach? Find relief with this herb after overeating. [But, by all means, keep overeating.]
• When eating bananas could be deadly! [I don't know, when you're hanging upside down in a burning building? When someone is holding a gun to your head and says, "If you eat that banana, I'll blow your head off?"]
• Bowels too sluggish...or too speedy? Either way, this super fruit may help. [OK, the obvious joke would be something to do with Richard Simmons. Instead, I'll just ask how a single fruit can help with both problems at the same time? Isn't the solution to one problem the cause of the next?]
• Sleep on this side to reduce acid reflux. [Well, it seems like you could figure this out on your own, without Frank's intervention. Sleep on one side, then the other. Evaluate results.]
• Cigarettes are bad for lungs...but harm stomachs, too. [So stop eating your cigarettes!]

There are some days when I'm not as enthusiastic about my chosen profession. Thanks to Frank, I love my work. At least I don't spend my days testing garage remedies for constipation, irritable bowels, leaky bladders, and belching. I feel certain that Frank is bringing joy and comfort to many people the world over. I also feel certain that I don't want to sit next to him at a dinner party.

Charm City pamphlet

In the past week or so, I've been terribly remiss in writing on many fronts. So, with the start of a new week, I'm getting back into the swing of things, making up for some lost time. Last week, I traveled to Charm City for work. In a stunning display of efficiency and competence, the flights there and back landed early. No, really. Seriously. Oh, stop laughing.

I traveled to attend a 2-day meeting. The first day was long - lots of sitting and listening. The data presentations in the afternoon almost did me in. Even the presenters looked and sounded bored. Perhaps if they had presented their findings through interpretive dance. I think I'll suggest that to them.

On the morning of the second day, I checked out of the hotel and walked to the meeting site, looking the part of the modern business professional in my skirt and heels and dragging my suitcase behind me. As I made my way up the hill, I spied a pamphlet on the sidewalk. I momentarily stopped being a business professional and became a crazy person, transforming in a disturbingly short amount of time. I stopped in my tracks, turned around (suitcase still in hand), stooped, and picked up the pamphlet. I knew I was tempting fate, since the last time I was in Charm City, I fell down while simply walking from point A to point B. In my defense, I was wearing heels and walking on an uneven sidewalk. Nothing like finding yourself sitting on the ground, gathering sympathy from homeless people. This time, I didn't fall down. I consider this a minor miracle, since I was in heels, wearing a skirt, on a downward slope, and toting a backpack. I felt like finding the homeless people from my earlier fall and saying, "See, I can be graceful!"

Back to the pamphlet - the title immediately grabbed my attention: "What You MISS By Being a Christian." Well, who wouldn't want to know the answer to that, particularly if you are a Christian? I immediately guessed Hannukah, but I was wrong. According to this publication, HELL! is what you miss if you are a Christian. Given that I lived in the northeastern post-industrial wasteland for five years, I can only conclude that I am not a Christian, because that was most certainly Hell.

The writers assume that their readers won't know what Hell is, so they offer evidence, extracting phrases from Bible verses and presenting them completely out of context. The list includes some predictable descriptions:

A bottomless pit [so, Hell is like the all-you-can-eat offerings at Olive Garden. Sounds about right.]

A lake of fire.
A furnace of fire.
A devouring fire. [So, there's fire. Got it.]

A place of everlasting punishment.
A place where people cry for mercy. [I think I used to work in Hell.]

A place of filthiness. [What, no swiffers in Hell?]

A place of torments.
A place where people wail.
A place of weeping.
A place of sorrow. [Yep, that's my idea of Hell, spending all of eternity with a bunch of cry-babies.]

Then, there are the more poetic descriptions:
A place of blackness and darkness forever. [Which doesn't seem to make sense if there's an unquenchable fire.]

A place where people have no rest. [No, I suppose not, what with all the crying and fire and punishment.]

Finally, we get some descriptions that border on incomprehensible:
A place where people gnaw their tongues. [Like cows?]

A place where their worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched. [In all my years of regular church attendance, I don't recall ever hearing about a fire-retardant worm.]

Then, there's the most confusing description:
A place where people pray. [Well, clearly no one would want to spend eternity in a place like that.]

The pamphlet then offers suggestions to escape Hell. I thought this might be like escape from Alcatraz, where you'd dig through the walls with a nail file while making a papier mache doll and a boat out of duct tape and rain ponchos. Turns out, it's more like Dorothy escaping from Oz. First, to escape Hell, you should believe you are a sinner. Check. Believe you deserve to go to Hell. Double check, particularly after I told a blind woman that I was suffering more than she was (more on that later). And, there are a few other things on the list, none of which involve any art projects or clicking your heels three times.

At the end of the pamphlet, the publishers ask "If you have decided to trust Jesus Christ as your saviour after reading this pamphlet, please write and let us know." I think I'd only skew their evaluation results if I sent a copy of this blog. I'm also thinking that I'll never travel smoothly again and I'll fall down a lot more.