The Night All My Dreams Came True

We were eating tacos tonight while Jaime was being a huge nerd talking about some kind of computer program he created by coding words and numbers to do groundbreaking psychological experiments or something, so I started to read the salsa jar.

My eyes drifted to the bottom where I learned that the salsa had been made in Frisco, Texas.

I was immediately sucked into a rainbow colored time vortex that planted me in The Better Cheddar (the gay friendly cheese store I worked at throughout college) circa 2006.

Now, before I begin, I want to swear to you that this was a real event that really occurred in my real life. One could also refer to it the greatest thing that has ever happened.

I was working a dead night shift with Joe and Mindy when a cowboy sauntered through the door. That alone won our usually elusive attention, as it was pretty rare to see a cowboy at the Country Club Plaza on a weeknight.

Joe got to him first, and the man asked if we sold salsa. What luck! We did!

He led him to our small selection of overly priced gourmet salsa. He stared at the salsa hesitantly. We stared at him expectantly.

He finally chose one and turned it in his hands.

"New York City!?" he exclaimed. Then nothing. Deadpan.

It had, in fact, been made in New York City.

He didn't purchase any salsa from us that night, and I doubt he ever returned. We did, however, pay him more respect than I knew we were capable of and waited for the door to close behind him before we collapsed on the floor struggling to breathe through the deepest laughter.

To this day, I do not know if the man was rehearsing for a role, making good on a lost bet or being paid by our boss for customer service control.

But I prefer to believe he was real.

Childhood  -Click on this link if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about. 

Everything I Thought About During Yoga Part I

My sister sent me a text yesterday morning that said that during meditation (long story), she thought about Sting's (the man who ruined my wedding) songs which led to thinking about our trip to New York (that Sting ruined) and how much fun we'd had.

I replied that I was going to yoga later that evening, and I'd tell her what I thought about. Here's that text:

Pre-yoga

I fucking hate yoga. 

Before class, I took off my Ganesha shirt (that was given to me) and pulled on a tee with a made up sports team on it for two reasons: I could never live with myself again if I wore a symbol of a religion I know nothing about to a practice tied to that religion that I know nothing about, and it was low cut. I certainly wasn't going to put on a bra just because I'd be bending over a lot.

Why in the hell do white people (the tightest of the uptights) think it's okay to walk around wearing Ganesha shirts and doing yoga? 

The 90s I guess.

But, unfortunately, I care less about the rampant and unabashed cultural appropriation of the practice than my embarrassment about not being good at it. That's why I fucking hate yoga.

However, it was free, so Jaime and I signed up and began playing a days long silent game of chicken hoping the other would cancel but unwilling to be the yuppie who caved first. Our stubbornness got us through the door, but there was still time to bolt.

While signing in, I perused the list of names looking for a penis buddy for Jaime.

Found one! Michael. 

Michael...Jackson. I'm sorry. What? 

There are many celebrities I could handle doing yoga with, but Sting is not one, and Michael Jackson is at the very top of my couldn't list.

Michael was easy to spot when we walked into the room mostly because he was the only man. He was also one of two black people drowning in a sea of crackers.

The back row was already filled to the brim, but my weasel husband (whom I thought was following me) set up his festering borrowed mat next to Michael leaving me front and center of the yogi...alone.

Jesus Chirst. I've never seen a skinnier person. Would you look at that thigh gap!? Goddamnit. She has a tattoo on her foot. Are all the yogis in India now white women in their twenties? 

To my relief, a woman in her sixties (I believe) settled in on my left.

I am going to be so much better than you at this. 

To my horror, a young Indian (I believe) woman sat to my right.

Goddammit. You are going to be so much better at this. Also, I am sorry for appropriating your culture. I swear I don't want to be here.

Yogi bear informed us that classes were free the last Sunday of each month, but that this would be her last time leading the free class because she's taking classes and getting married in June, and that would just be too much.

LOL! 

She quieted her voice and walked over to the stereo. She pushed play. Chimes began emanating from the surround sound.

Oh my god. I can't do this.