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“Your contraption is here.”

“You’re not a hippie. You’re esoteric. At least that’s what I tell my coworkers.”

“You’re going to be a handful when you’re senile.”

The Cop and I are watching the Super Bowl. A commercial about the stages of a man’s life. Amusing. At the end they announce Dove Soap for Men.

“Karen!” The Cop bellows, “Have I been using WOMEN’S SOAP?!?!”

Cop, approaching me: “I’m going to put my hands under your armpits and lift you up…”

Me: “Huh? Why?”

Cop, with his hands under my arms: “One! Two! Three!”

Me, getting heavy so he can’t lift me up: “What are you doing?!”

Cop: “You jump and I’ll catch you up over my head. It’ll be fun. One… two…”

Me: “No! I don’t want to!”

Cop, disappointed: “Why not? It’s like ice dancing. What’s the worst thing that can happen?”

Me, nodding toward a 7 foot tall bookshelf made of 95% glass and 5% metal: “I don’t want to fall on that. We’re not trained to do this!”

Cop, setting up to throw: “If anything goes wrong, I’ll throw you toward the bed. One… two.. three!”

Me, up in the air over his head, having made the jump: {screaming sound}

Cop, putting me down: “See? Like ice dancing.”

I accomplished a lot today, seemingly without really trying. By noon, The Cop and I had spent a little time having breakfast at Starbucks with Waylon, the house was clean, clothes were ironed for the week, and all my little chores completed.

When we first arrived at Starbucks this morning, a man was sitting outside at one table talking to a young woman at another table. She had on a yellow and gold dress and looked like she’d been up all night. She was very thin and twitchy and I understood she was a meth user even before I saw The Cop’s eyes, which change a little when he sees… uh, persons of interest.

As we were sitting with our coffee, an older man dressed in golf clothes stopped to look at Waylon.

“That is a big pit bull,” he said.

We told him that Waylon is not a pit bull. He asked a few questions, then said, “He seems friendly.” When we agreed, he smiled and drew closer and spasmodically poked the air in front of Waylon’s face a few times. “Nice dog,” he said as he walked happily to his car.

I wondered what kind of animals the man usually interacts with. His gesture wouldn’t be appreciated by cats. I thought about birds, and imagined him being bitten. Reptiles? I couldn’t imagine they’d respond well, either. The Cop had wondered the same thing and come up with his own explanation: “Maybe he has a five year old at home that he likes to flick on the head.”

***

Here’s a picture of Waylon with his true love. He can only play with it when Maxine is asleep. She does not allow anyone else to play with a ball when she is awake. Seriously. I have to hide yoga balls and tennis balls because she bites and “kills” the big ones, and declares ultimate ownership (she will NOT share, but will pretty much fight to the death) over smaller ones.

I was worried at first that Waylon might swallow the tennis ball, but as it turns out, he just wants to carry it around and lie down next to it and gaze at it lovingly.

***

Nothing like a super short short story. Lydia Davis. Here’s a good story — and a link to an interview, and a link to more samples…

Cop [2:54 PM]:
who sang “endless love” w/lionel ritchie?

Karen:
are you on a stakeout?

Cop:
yes

I rarely do two posts in a day, but I just saw this GREAT quote on autumn lotus yoga blog, and I had to pass it along. I assume it’s from Ana Forrest, since the blogger is a Forrest yoga teacher. Anyhow, sorry for the rip-off, E — but this is something good for the Ashtangis, too!

Ah, quote — why do I love thee? Well, mostly ’cause you’re pragmatic and straightforward. You remind me that all of the whining we do about poses is really about US. All of the fear we feel? The desire? The hatred? The shame? The pleasure? Yup — it’s all about us. Not about the pose. The pose is a tool. To dig into the stuff of us — whether we do it well, or badly, or fanatically, or slackerishly. All of it is just part of the excavation effort. Whether we want the pose, or don’t want the pose. Whether we idolize the teacher, or hate the teacher, or beseech the teacher, or reject the teacher.

None of that matters. ‘Cause the pose is just the pose. A tool. Like a hammer or a shovel. Do with it what you will. But if you make it into an emotional issue or a physical issue or a psychological issue, at least recognize that it is an issue of your own making. ‘Cause the pose is a tool, not an issue.

No, not what you’re thinking.

Okay, so The Cop and I go to Target after dinner because I want a ball to roll under my back. I was thinking one of those small play balls. I tried a soccer ball, and it was the right size, but too hard.

At Target we found a red ball that was the correct size and a blue ball that was the right material. I decided to get both, since they cost less than $3 each. I figured the red one would probably be the correct one for back rolling.

At the cashier, The Cop asks what the ball is for and I tell him it’s to drape myself over. “Doesn’t that sound good?” I ask. He responds by draping himself, front-first, over the ball as it lies on the conveyor belt of the cash register. This is hilarious, because the cashier has no idea what he’s doing as he drapes his 6′2″ frame over the ball, arms outstretched on the conveyor belt. I couldn’t get my phone out fast enough to get a picture.

We get home and The Cop bounces the blue ball. Maxine, decrepit old lady that she is, springs into action and attacks the ball. She can’t get her mouth around it, though, so the ball is safe. I bounce the red ball. She springs, and I hear, “Pop! Wooosh!” Yeah, that’s the air coming out of the ball.

Maxine looks up happily and goes into the kitchen for dinner.

This morning, my neighbor tried to kill himself. I saw cop cars when I went out to the garage, and as I was driving past his house, he was lying on the driveway, surrounded by cops who’d pulled him out of his garage and were waiting for the EMTs.

I don’t really know this man. He’s staying with his elderly mom, who lives two doors down from us. I only know him because he walks her dogs, and I often passed him on the street as I was walking Ty. He was always smoking a cigarette, and as we passed, he’d share a few words before his mom’s dogs would go berserk about Ty’s presence.

“Geez,” he said, turning to them disgustedly as they lunged toward Ty. “What’s with you?! This is such a NICE dog!”

I hadn’t seen much of him and his mom’s angry dogs, because Ty died, and then Waylon was too skittish for much walking.

Last week, though, Waylon and I were tooling around the neighborhood and we passed him. He was smoking and not paying attention. He looked up when his mom’s dogs went ballistic at the sight of Waylon.

“He’s a cute puppy,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said. After we passed him, I wondered if he didn’t recognize me, or didn’t register that last time he saw me I had a much larger puppy, and now I have a new, smaller one. He didn’t comment. I wondered if he figured I have two puppies, or if he was being polite not to say anything, or if he just didn’t really notice.

Now, obviously, I assume he was perhaps not paying too much attention to the world outside himself.

Who knows.

I’m sorry he was in that much pain, though, and I hope he’s okay.

I am strangely baffled about the fact that he could have been going about the business of killing himself as I practiced this morning, or as I practiced “sit” and “down” with Waylon in the kitchen. Or as his mom slept in their house. It seems like we should have some kind of telepathy with each other, to be able to hear these things.

And it worries me that we don’t, even though I know that it doesn’t make sense to imagine we would.