I’m a huge comics/sci-fi nerd, and one of the things that always brings me to tears is when the gadgeteers trust their science. When Tony steps out of the window of Stark Tower, he trusts his math, his calculations, his process to save him from Loki, to save him from the NYC sidewalk, to save the world. In the end, it’s his science—his Work, his Self—that gets him though the aftermath of New York, through betrayal, and back to a headspace where he can go home and be a good partner, a good Avenger, and better to himself.

Today, I’m trying to needle around where that surety has gone. Since my job dried up, I feel like I’ve become a bit of a employment-centric dancing bear. I have to work very hard to shove past the tedium, and to manage my expectations when I find a job worth pursuing.

Amidst all of this rudderlessness, I am eating my fears. A month ago, I sucked it up and took my road test. Twenty-five years after I could have had a driver’s license, I finally did it. No one has died. I have not died. It is good, and I am proud.

I’ve gotten a lot of officious people off the street, in my classes, who feel it’s their right and obligation to come up to me and tell me there are WAYS of getting rid of my weight. What I’d rather be rid of was their projected judgment, sanctimony, and amazed wonder.

In a community that professes fierce love of your body, we still see students and teachers AMAZED that a fat person could be joyously embodied, be present, and have a beautiful practice. We see a lot of value placed on their “success stories,” where they have lost half themselves and become yoga teachers to share their joy. We undertake ridiculous experiments and pat ourselves on the back for the bravery of “career suicide” to “understand fat bodies,” when all you need is to respectfully use your training, curiosity and a sense of human decency. A fat student can tell you through posture that their belly is impeding their forward fold. A manual self adjustment (lifting from pelvic creases upward) could CHANGE THEIR LIVES, and your expectations. Teach that adjustment as an exploration of extreme Uddhiyana Bandha and you’ll teach anyone with a belly how to be a better steward to their practice without singling them out.

Watch your students. If you’re really curious, offer someone who needs a lot of in-class adjustments a free private lesson and allow both of you to teach the other. It will be more priceless than rubies to both of you.

My writing habit lies crumpled in the corner.  I need to find my way back to the place where I’m writing for craft, not writing to clean a wound.

There’s a creative non-fiction class beginning January 8th. It’s called Shut Up and Write! Classroom hours miraculously fit into our frenzied schedule, and I’m hoping to be able to make it happen.

Lately, I’ve realized that stuff means far less to me than experience. A writing seminar would rattle my cage and ruffle this bird’s feathers. If you were considering sending me a Holiday card, or any sort of Yuletide gesture, please consider placing a drop in my bucket instead. Folks who donate have the option of giving me a (non-fiction) writing prompt, which I will fulfill, even if I hate it.

How many times do you get to tell a hothead like me to shut up (and write!)?

My first food column ran yesterday in the Jackson Free Press. It’s called Salad Days: Avoiding Lettuce Burnout, and includes recipes for a deconstructed pesto salad and a cookout-friendly Grilled Caesar.

If you’re so inclined, please login and leave feedback!

I’m not big on posting lots of videos, but this one has made my week. It reminds me of all the best about Buffy Summers, and why even a passing glance at Twilight is all, y’know, like GAG ME. Contrasted with Whedon’s Buffy, Edward’s creepiness outshines even his sparkliness.

Buffy’s not perfect (one of Whedon’s strengths), but when it comes to fictitious role models, I wish my sister had more Buffy Summers and less Bella Swans.

Feel free to contact me, though: just be forewarned I might be slow.  Locals take note: phoning/texting me might actually be more reliable than email for once.

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Now, I just need to be sure my other subdomains (like shockra.birdofparadox.com), as well as the other domains our side business hosts, aren’t being hit with the “sexual content” stamp of disapproval.

I wandered around in sensory overload, numbed by Easter Egg radishes, blown away that they, too, thought there were greens other than Collards fit for eating.

Soon, we’d walked past the bakery and gelato, and Matthew (with an understated flourish) gestured towards the cheese section. To be fair, our local Kroger has a surprisingly kick-ass cheese station, but there are a few things pointedly missing from their assortment.

That’s when I saw it. Directly behind my dear husband’s hand, there was a huge wheel with a particularly distinctive font decorating its rind.

Locatelli.

I could lie and say I was excited.

To be entirely honest, I jumped up and down, flapped my hands and squawked in such an unseemly fashion, people must have thought Matthew proposed to me with a gigantic wheel of cheese. Lottery Jackpot winners comport themselves with more dignity and grace. Matthew, bless him, did not suddenly pretend I was some cheese-fetishizing maniac stranger.

When I am gone from this world, I hope I am remembered as the girl who’d turn somersaults for a fine wheel of cheese.