I’m thinking of creating a new greeting card, called a Post Christmas Card, where people take pictures of the melee that the post Christmas lull yields.  You know what I mean, where everybody wears sweat pants and watches crappy TV while the tree rots; its drooping limbs no longer able to support even the lightest ornament.  You stopped watering it a week ago.   It’s still somewhat surrounded by the gifts you’re not going to actually use until mid-February.

You’re still trying to get through the rest of the 20 lb. turkey you thought was such a good idea — all those turkey sandwiches you could make and save yourself some trouble, except nobody wants to eat turkey anymore.  You’ve stopped sneaking into the kitchen to steal stuffing in the middle of the night.  Even you, the Queen of Stuffing, have had enough.

Your daily garbage continues to consist of pieces of wrapping paper, balled up under a chair or stuck in the sofa cushions.   Last night you threw out mashed potatoes that were five days old.  You’re avoiding the rest of the stuff because you’ll have to clean all those re-usable storage containers.   What were you thinking.  Haven’t you heard of throw aways?

Somebody’s gotta get the ladder out to get all those lights down, and climb up to the head of the taxidermy tarpon, (he’s about 7 feet up the wall), to get that stupid Christmas hat off his head.  Poor guy.  Every year he’s gotta wear a Santa hat.  He’s a freaking fish for chrissakes.

It’ll be mid January before you take down the Christmas tree at work.   You’re thinking about just taking off the ormanents and leaving it there as an office plant.  It’s fake anyways, who gives a crap.  Plus, somebody left a poinsettia plant in the bathroom with three leaves on it.  When that thing dies, you’ll think about taking the tree down.

You’ll have to take the home tree down soon though.  The angel tree bitch on the top is listing to the left.  She looks drunk.  She could definitely go on the Post Christmas Card.

Still though, it was a good Christmas.  Everybody laughed.   Everybody gave each other thoughtful gifts.   There was music and good food and joy.  It had all the components that every day should have.  At least we make sure we share them once a year.

I’m not sure why there’s a hospital vomit bag next to the handmade Christmas rocking horse though.   Cuz it’s green?

Hot Yoga.  Two words that might as well be Mountain Climber, as I discovered this morning.   Bruce sent me an Amazon invite a couple of weeks ago for a yoga club that I’ve been wanting to try for quite some time.  We go to a nearby restaurant for breakfast occasionally and each time we go there yoga women come in, all high colored and vigorous from their wonderful yoga outing.  I was intrigued, so when I got that invitation I was hooked immediately.  This morning was my first foray into the Hot Yoga zone.
Very friendly studio people as yoga people generally are.  The teacher was Jack, and  here’s the point of the story right up front:  Jack put the HOT in Hot Yoga.  He was beautiful; shaggy surfer boy hair, blue eyes, great physique.  Before class Jack strolled around with his towel wrapped around his waist like he just got out of the shower and you weren’t entirely sure what you’d be seeing if the towel fell.  Very  friendly, nice guy, good yoga teacher.   Jack put his towel on the floor up in the front as all the teachers do.   About three minutes before class started (I set up 20 minutes early so I could make sure I got a spot in the back near the emergency I-gotta-get-outta-here exit) a young fabulous blonde girl came in.    She was about the same age as Jack (25-ish), long swingy hair, blue eyes, great body; wearing a brilliant turquoise yoga bra and matching turquoise leggings, her bare stomach ripped and tan.   As beautiful as Jack was, she was perhaps even more stunning; lithe, lean, strong girl.  You just knew she was going to do great yoga.

So….. Jack?  That guy was my boyfriend (or one just like him) when I was 25, and I was The Turquoise Girl.   I was the great looking chick that put my towel right up front next to the hot guy so everybody could stare at my fabulous-ness.    I’m trying not to sound vain here, though clearly I do, but most sincerely this is the person I was fortunate enough to be.   Then.  Not anymore.

I looked at her this morning and thought, Hey!  When did I stop being The Turquoise Girl?  I think it was recent too, I think I was still some measure of The Turquoise Girl until about 3 or 4 years ago.    I guess that’s fine, nobody really deserves to be The Turquoise Girl any more than anybody else and it should be temporary so somebody else gets a turn.  I just wish I could have made her listen to me a minute so I could let her know she should appreciate it while she has it.

Welcome to my newest blog site.  I’m trying out Word Press because I’m starting initial work on a book that will hopefully work in tandem with my blog site and I want to test Word Press out.  I post mostly essays about relationships, children, families, girl stuff and travel — not necessary in that order of importance.   I have a brilliant 22 year old college student for a daughter, and a wonderful fiancee (although we’re pretty committed to the idea of not ever getting actually married.   I’ve recently travelled to Europe and plan to do so again next year if I can swing it.  I live in Pompano Beach, FL but would someday like to retire maybe in Costa Rica.  Hope you enjoy my posts!  Comments are welcome and encouraged.