26 February, 2015

Magic Man: A stream of thought synopsis.

Many of you are aware of my general disdain for Stevie Nicks. "Go Your Own Way" is pretty much the only Fleetwood Mac song I actually like, and while Lindsey Buckingham can bust out a tune on his guitar, Nick's voice is far to likened to nails on a chalkboard to ever be enjoyable.

**NEWSFLASH**

In my search for the lyrics to this song, I just discovered it is, in fact, a Heart song. But lets go ahead with my thoughts on the lyrics and general composition.

*First few chords strum across the radio*

Not this song again. I hear it every day I'm at the gym. He's a magic maaaaan. Shut up.

*Lyrics begin*

If it's cold and late, what are you doing out? Shouldn't you be:
A. At the bar, drinking?
B. At home, in bed?

Stop playing helpless, too. This, "Oh, I was so weak" thing is irritating... you have control of your feelings! Don't fall into the trap! But every single time, this dumb girl ends up with the Magic Maaaaaan.

And just for the record, if some skeezy man walks up to you on a cold, late night, be sure you have your mace. This one sounds like a real winner, asking you to come along and get high a while. This sounds straight out of some episode of Intervention.

*Next verse*

So her mom calls, begging her to reconsider her affinity for this creepy dude, who keeps telling her he's a Magic Man. Did he introduce himself to her mother that way? And if she's young enough to be hassled by her mom about these poor choices, it seems to me Mr. Man should possibly face conviction on charges of influencing a minor, and at the very least statutory rape. He sounds like a predatory psychopath.

Then, in the following verse, he as much as admits that he's been seducing a youngster, telling her he made a woman from a child with his "magical hands..."

Look, ladies. If a fellow ever approaches you and tells you he's a Magic Man, offers you drugs, and wants you to come home with him, I suggest you rethink that. This song is ingratiatingly irritating. It's not the apparent age difference of the lovers. I'm not victim blaming. But the tone of this song reads "helpless idiot" and sounds like the penner needs more help than just her mom calling her on the phone. This guy clearly displays tendencies toward victimization. The girl needs to give him a solid smack across the face.

The arrangement is also questionable, resembling music from a second rate haunted house from the 70s.

Please, radio stations. STOP PLAYING THIS TERRIBLE SONG.

21 February, 2015

Get comfortable.

Last weekend, I went to another one of the beer and yoga events at Tennessee Brew Works in Nashville, called Detox|Retox. I continue to leave the yoga classes at this event with new insight and inspiration. While the class was very different this time, as classes are when there's a different instructor, it was still good. Paul joined me this time, too, as well as a couple of our friends, Scot and Mari. There were a few less people in the class this time, which is nice in its own way.

If I could give you my take away insight in a single sentence, it would be this: Be comfortable being uncomfortable. Become acquainted with those feelings. Get to know them. Find them and understand them, and don't try to run from them. Don't work to push those feelings away, pulling them elsewhere in your mind or body. If you allow the fear or pain to overtake you, the discomfort to push you away, you're missing the point entirely. The instructor said it was necessary to work through some physical shit to be able to work through some mental shit. (This is a quote, of sorts, so forgive my failure to adhere to my Lenten guidelines.)

The howling emptiness of a life less full feels scary right now. My plans for Lent are tough. The diversions to which I normally turn are off limits for the most part. I can't eat my boredom away. Beer and wine are largely no-gos. I haven't been riding my bike since my ankle has been gimpy.

If someone had tried to warn me that the first week of Lent would be a boring snow-fest, I would have laughed in their face if they had questioned my ability to uphold my standards. I've found my guidelines harder to follow this year, insofar, simply because of the situational magnitude. I go to church a couple times a year (backslidden Baptist, I know.) and usually just to mass with friends or Paul's family. I enjoy the homilies of the local priest. He's interesting and insightful. Ash Wednesday mass brought my thinking full circle.

In the same way yoga creates space in the mind and body when you lean into the discomfort, my Lenten sacrifices (first world sacrifices, natch) are designed to create space in my spirit and soul. The removal of my aimless self indulgences are a source of discomfort. I suppose that isn't entirely bad. I find myself forced to re-engage in the life that surrounds me, to partake in moments of quietude that open my heart and mind to creativity and sensitivity. I'm doing more yoga, and mindfully meditating.

I'll emerge from the cocoon of the forty days a new woman, more comfortable in myself and in my world.

17 February, 2015

It's Lent. Again.

Last year, for the first time ever, I gave up something for Lent. For all of Lenten time, I gave up sugar, most bread products, beer, wine... with a few noted exceptions, including my birthday weekend.

I had planned to give up one or two things this year, to add something as well. My sailor-make-your-mom-blush-potty-mouth has gotten completely out of control. I am an admitted fan of the spicier verbal seasoning. While I think "fowl language" is a mere social construct, there are plenty more eloquent and interesting ways to express myself. So... I'm approaching this rule a little differently, knowing I will invariably fail. I also know it will be worth the effort I give to it, so full speed ahead with the cleanup on aisle one that is my mouth and mind.

What am I adding? Fifteen minutes of yoga at least five days a week. And a stronger focus on the meditation I said I was going to do daily and have successfully managed to neglect.

The thing I hadn't planned, but decided this morning: Once again, I'm getting rid of the sugar in my diet. I made this decision as I realized I was sitting down with my second paçzki this morning. Wait, you've never had paçzki before? I suggest you hitch up your sled to your snow doggies (or reindeer...) and head to Kroger to pick some up. Since it's an icy wonderland outside and all. Paul's grandfather introduced them to us last year... They're a Polish fat week pastry, dense donuts filled with custard and covered in royal icing. Delectable :)

Where was I? So, I found myself eating yet another pastry, and I thought to myself, "I'm out of control." At that moment, I decided to follow through with my dietary restrictions from the previous year, with similar exceptions: My birthday weekend. On the bike. In the half hour following bike rides. Dark chocolate in moderate quantities. One chair latte per week. Less beer and wine.

And here's the really tough one: No facebook on the telefono.

It's a time for me to be quiet. To recenter within my spiritual self through outward struggle.

Join me in Lenten sacrifice :)

12 February, 2015

Let it go. Let it be. Just be.

I'm a competitive girl. I like to do well, at whatever it is I'm doing. I like to bake cakes well, I like to ride fast, I enjoy winning at Bananagrams, finding myself well-read is wonderful, I dislike a lack of control, I want to be my ideal weight.

I am a perfectionist. I'm an obsessive competitor.

I think I'm more self-competitive than interpersonally competitive, but I suppose that has its downside as much as any other sort of competition.

One of my most recent posts talked about how effing hard mountain biking has felt as I've been learning. I've let up on myself a little since. My friend Vollie gave me some good advice: Don't be so jocky you miss the forest for the workout.

In my efforts to always be faster and better than I was the time before, maybe I do miss out on fun sometimes. I think seeing improvement is fun. I sometimes think the sadomasochistic side of what I do, when I take myself to the outer limits of my ability, is also fun. I wouldn't do any of this if it wasn't fun, if it didn't feel like a stunningly good time. In a way, it is part of what keeps me coming back for more, the shifting, enigmatic nature of my goals.

But sometimes, I suppose it would do me good to slow down and smell the flowers and not be so hard on myself by incessantly grinding away at my exterior with expectations. It's okay to struggle, and to fail, and to not feel 100% sometimes. It's alright to take a day off when I should be training if I'm not feeling quite right, if I have a little niggle in my ankle. It's fine to go slow sometimes. It's fine not to expect the best every day. It's acceptable to take a step backwards.

Those admissions... they're tough to process. They apply to the rest of my life, too. An article I read earlier by Elizabeth Gilbert discussed how we postmodern women are so abrasively hard on ourselves, in our comparison- and perfection-based society. We expect perfection of our very imperfect selves.

Gilbert implores us to fail. To suck. To make poor choices. To do so gloriously.

Today, I'll heed that advice. I'll miss my training. I'll leave the floors dirty. I'll rest some. I'll write. And knit. I won't think about the fact that even at the ripe old age of 31, burgeoning 32, I still have absolutely no clue what I'm doing with my life, and have no roadmap. If I do, I'll do my best not to care and enjoy where I am anyway.

Tomorrow, next week... they're new days to find success, to suck, to screw around and do nothing productive, to accomplish every task on your to do list. I'm a person, a human, and so are you. Enjoy your moments. Don't always compete. Let yourself BE. I think I'll take some time to see the forest.

02 February, 2015

Unplanned.

This is decidedly not how I planned for my beer-related posts to get their start.

Okay, wait. You need a little history.

I've been an avid lover of craft beer since The Husband and I began to frequent the Flying Saucer in Nashville many moons ago. Maybe five+ years? I've been to amazing craft breweries all around the country, where I am that oddball in the crowd who knows the answers to all the questions. (Dogfish Head tour guide, who openly accepted the woman nursing her baby in the baby carrier, who aced the pop quiz, I'm looking at you.) The Hobbesit knows all about the beer making process, and knows lots of correct answers too. I'm not certain if that makes me the best mom or the worst mom ever. It's not like he drinks it. I'm a bonafide beer lover, with a plate on the wall in the Nashville Saucer, and a second one in the works.

Flash forward, now I'm a craft beer drinking cyclist stay at home mom blogger activist. Last night, I didn't watch the Super Bowl, mostly because I don't really like football. But also mostly (wait, that doesn't make sense...) because I was busy drinking craft beer, and using a staple gun to upholster a new cornice for our bedroom so we can stop looking like poor college students and take the sheet down from our window.

So this morning, when my friend shared a Paste Magazine post dissecting a Budweiser commercial I hadn't seen, I was interested.

The irony of my failure to see this commercial has not been lost on me.

Budweiser, stop running scared. It's much like the new Bud Light commercials that show these hip, young things slinging back the blue-emblazoned bottles, with the new slogan.

But here's why the craft beer scene is important. Those brewers that make the beer worth fussing over are often local guys and gals making what I equate to high art for your tastebuds and soul. What they make appeals to us, the moustachioed hipster at the wooden table, us curly-topped girls, because it's a little piece of art, something to be tasted, enjoyed. Those people, these artisans, are making something for us, something beautiful, and making a living at it. They are worth patronizing.

I'm not anti-pilsner. You could look at my tasted-beers list at the Saucer, or into our beer fridge on a warm summer day to discover I love a good pilsner. One with body, that makes me think of Monet's Haystack Series and fried chicken and potato salad. Or maybe just a jet-set weekend to eastern Europe.

What I don't dig is a megalithic company like AB trying to steal back market share by overinflating the gastronomical value of their suds, and acting like something is somehow intrinsically wrong with craft beer.