Namaste- Away From Me Right Now!

Oh boysies has it been a while (rhetorical). Mama (me) will write more when she gets her new laptop (by 2012!)... until then...

I do yoga by donation at a place here in San Francisco. I highly recommend this space to people who want to go to yoga, but are on a budget. However, I see where yoga has just turned into a form of Jesus on the plate of a cynical public, hungry for some authenticity and a little less "OM" (or horse breath). I felt like Carrie Bradshaw just then.

I go to yoga and have been for ten years... I even participated in a teacher training a few years back... did I decide to teach? No, because yoga isn't salvation (also I didn't pay in full, so was never really certified) and the people in it are no better (energy wise) than the Greyhound Bus Stop half way between here and the next Clan Rally. People who go into something like Yoga believing that breathing extra loud will give them some relief to what they're trying to drown out are really just like the homeless people they secretly despise- loud and yucky! This has been a huge statement lately- people SCREAM BREATHING. I bring my destructive friends so their back can get stretched and that they may feel the endorphins released by having a supple, stretched body instead of an 8-ball. After most classes lately, I know they are going right back to sauce and spice and I'm not talking Paneer, Slumdog!

I love an instructor who mostly keeps his or her mouth shut (not likely to happen with most women instructors, I know). Just guide the class and stop telling the same tired jokes you tell every class to help people escape from their discomfort. Stop trying to make this "better" for people- IT ISN'T! It isn't good for people, that's why we're here (yoga) and no amount of New-Age-bull-shit-chuckle jargon is going to make the experience more "authentic".

I suppose this is a bit of a rant, but I farted in yoga once... HA! Look- a funny little fart joke. I love going to yoga, but if I wanted to go to a comedy open mic- I would.... uhhhh, oh yeah. I go to open mics about 6 times a week, so NAMASTE away from the jokes and let me listen to my own breath for a moment. THAT is why I am here... and that is what experience I hope my friends have. Just be quiet and stop encouraging the entire class to express their breath with loud sighs and horse mouth... happy babies are quiet babies, so let's stop pretending they need to lion's breathe in a higher octave to get back to innocence.

Alright, Mama (me) is off to a comedy mic to tune out the same fucking jokes I always hear from people I should probably not like as much as I do and hopefully cultivate something new for myself.

xoxox

Abbey

I Can Say Whatever Because National Geographic Says I Am From Africa

I got a call from my agent today (you know the one- Dr. Everything Be Alright) and she says that I'm huge in Russia! This news cannot come at a better time because I really need to move into an apartment. I have been sleeping on a forensic science nightmare for the last month and the only thing between me and sweet comfort is about $1,400. Surely Russia can help. I mean, look what we did for Haiti in this economy! (I hatey to make it a competition, but...) My back feels like Darfur + 911 + World Trade '93, not to mention (yet) that I can't find a thing to wear with all my stuff in boxes. Where's my telethon George Clooney?!

So in real life I am a stand-up comic, writer, take the trash outer, small talk with stranger specialist and I also work various other unpaid jobs. However, in Russia, I am a famous fashion designer of swim suits and sundresses! My picture is all over their Queen's panties! I guess it makes sense because I am part Czechoslovakian, which is still, today, a beautiful country inside of Russian territory. I think my Mom was like a cat and that I have several different fathers (I also think, as a kitten, she was left in the microwave too long). According to National Geographic I am originally from Africa, which explains my compulsive desire to yell out "MY NIGGA", but this has yet to yield any grant money from my Niggas over at the NAACP.

I recorded a bit, byte, clip for all of my fans in Russia. I did this before I was informed that my swim line isn't selling because it's 10 degrees. Also, on a production front, nothing has been made due to everyone thinking the designs are "ugly and tasteful". When my agent (position available) said I was "huge in Russia", she meant "fat and plain looking". So all I can really do is wait for NAACP to get back to me about my request for $1,400. They could also just be a co-signer for a $50,000 loan, enough to get me through the year. I think within a year I will have made it big, if not for stand-up, definitely for doing the dishes.

Best ______You'll Ever Get.

People ask me what I want in a fella. I mean, these people are paid professionals and under my employ, but they ask (not a lot of boat rocking in this economy). People tell me I should write more and wear more shirts that show my mid rift. I like to own people, it makes me feel skinny. So when describing my dream boat, let's just say I get motion sickness... which is why he better be sedentary. It helps if he's bogged down with salty snacks. Extra weight makes it extra hard for him to run away or feel good about himself (hot tip ladies, you look way better to fat guys). Another big thing is occupation and when I hear "employed" I think "boring"! Jobs are for goal- oriented people and trust me, you can't run a man with ambition. Oh sure, he can want things, just as long as he doesn't pose a threat at advancing in life. I mean, if he advanced what would I look like? No one would ask themselves "what does she see in him?" and with out that question how could I maintain the benevolent notoriety that is so crucial for any woman to be considered truly beautiful? The best part of this paragraph is when I talk about employing people.

sigh.

I was getting frozen yogurt tonight and the young man working the sweet shop informed me that they only have one size. I asked for him to fill it at three quarters (can't live in stretch pants). As I asked this a tall, thin, female worker walked by, heard my request and rolled her eyes. I immediately jumped behind the counter, shoved her frail head into a tub of ice cream and screamed "I'M SORRY! DOES MY PORTION CONTROL BOTHER YOU?". She wriggled, but her vapid body collapsed under my strong arms (thanks Yoga!). To my defense I was only trying to freeze her sassy eye balls out of her emaciated face when, suddenly, I was snapped out of my lucid daydreaming to the male worker saying "...that will be $4.50, not a lot when you consider we serve our yogurt with love!". I slowly backed out the door yelling "YOU DON'T KNOW ABOUT LOVE! NOT YOU, NOT MY FATHER, NOT THE BANK THAT DENIED MY LOAN..." and with that I walked out feeling pretty good, but then I went back to fetch my purse off the counter. I ended up leaving with my head held high. I didn't eat that frozen treat after all and this means I'm going to be all the thinner when I see my sweet fella in just a couple weeks. He's been "looking" for a job and smoking lots of pot (who loves snacks?), so I'm sure to be pretty physically appealing. Turns out the Secret isn't a bunch of bull-shit after all. Thanks Oprah!