New beginning...

Change is good.

I'm now blogging at Wordpress:  GoKittenGo

Pick up your feet...

***Quick note:  Try me at gokittengo.blogspot.com while I get a domain name snafu settled.  It *will* be iamgokittengo.com - - but for now?  Don't ask.  And please bring me a cocktail.***

Hell has frozen.  I have decided to stop fighting my hair's natural state (wavy bordering on curly) and stop ironing it (for the most part).  I'm about a week into this adventure - here's the run-down:

Day One:  I got the pink dyed back to black for the winter, and had some layers cut in that would enhance what my hair does on its own in moments of high rebellion rather than make me look like a two foot tall curly-needled spruce.  Bought some products.

Day Two:  Took leave of my senses and brushed it.  Moving along....

Day Three:  Started experimenting with shampooing the night before, deep conditioning, and drying just my growing-out bangs.  Got up in the morning and....

Day Four:  Took leave of my senses and brushed it.  Again.  Hid the brush.

Day Five:  Did not brush it.  Did not brush it.  Did not brush it.  Ardently finger-combed in desperation, but did not brush it.

Day Six:  Overdid it on the wave spray.  Like, WAY overdid it.  Way, way, WAY overdid it.  People walking behind me could probably taste the wave spray from the wave spray vapors my hair was emitting.  It looked dull, so I grabbed the hair polish - this pomade stuff that rocks socks when used correctly.  Overdid it on the polish.  My hair was flat, crunchy, and looked like shiny zoomed-in-upon burned ramen.  And my head itched.

Day Seven:  Realized I was making it too hard and using WAY too much stuff even before the obvious overload, and that finger-combing with some of the hair polish while using one/one-hundredth of the wave spray resulted in something really, REALLY cool.

Today:  In the midst of weather that used to give me hair nightmares, I am having the best hair day ever.  It's damp and windy - - and my hair's having a party instead of being restrained in a clip or a ponytail so it won't do what it is prone to do, which is precisely what I'm letting it do.

What hair brush?

A bona-fide reaction moment...

You know, I'm spoiled.  I'll admit it.  I have been called a princess, and it's not anything I even try to deny.  I like to be comfortable.  I was a tad indulged when I was growing up - I did not learn to do laundry or clean my room until I was 15, when my dad went on an austerity kick and fired the maid.  Princess-hood is not something I try to take on, but it's there, waiting for the right moment to bubble up to the surface.

Some areas have seen great release of princess behavior.  I used to pout about how I look in the yoga room and not being able to wear makeup and keep my hair cute, but finally I embraced letting myself go a little and enjoying where I am.  Having to lay low and let my body heal from the injury stuff means, well, some jeans have been shelved for the time being (ahem).  Some days I don't have time for a perfect pedicure.  I can deal with it.  Really.

What I cannot deal with is playing bellhop.  Full disclosure:  Until recently, I would only stay in hotels that offered room service and a nice person to cart my bags down to checkout.  (See?  I TOLD you!)  I did not let this go until I was in yoga teacher training in 2012.  (Go right on and shake your head.)  Most of the time, I traveled with a suitcase for my clothes, another for purses and shoes, another for an array of high-maintenance goodies - like bath oils and scented candles and my favorite blanket, and a cosmetics case.  On a trip to Hawaii in 2010, I took thirteen pairs of shoes.   I have been awarded with the "this person's bags are too heavy" tag at baggage check in many times, and use one as a bookmark.  So, to me, getting my bags to and from my hotel room has traditionally meant requesting help from the bellhop.  They have little carts, and are skilled in the wrangling of said carts.

A new reality has since set in.  Increased travel has graced me with an awareness of the need to cut expenses by staying in hotels that require me to deal with my own luggage.  (Having food delivered has proven an okay substitute for room service - but I'm not thinking about that right now.) I've learned to pack light(ish) and can zip around with my rolling bags like a pro.  But I cannot manage a baggage cart.  And I learned the extent to which I cannot manage a baggage cart Sunday night at the Hampton Inn in Ocala, Florida.

Getting the bags on board the stainless, wheeled monster was fine.  Getting the monster to the elevator would have gotten me a score of three out of ten, but I managed.  Maneuvering it onto the elevator?  That entertained onlookers.  I became desperate enough to get the thing to turn that I assumed a linebacker stance and picked up one end.   When I got it to the room, for some reason beknownst only to the gods I decided to roll the thing into the room to unload.  The door swung partially shut, and I swerved to avoid the potential of having it knock the cart over (I know, I know...).  It went caddy-cornered through the bathroom door.  Well, kind of.  Straight the hell up:  The damned thing got stuck between the room door and the bathroom door.  Like, wedged.  And I said, "Shit!"

I was hungry.  I had a little piece of tres leches cake with me that I fully wanted to enjoy with a cup of decaf and a book.  I was still in yoga clothes from Art of Assisting (I left Miami right after training) and had an EPIC case of yoga hair that I was suddenly very self-conscious of.  Being stuck created a keen awareness that I was covered in my own dried sweat AND the dried sweat of others - - it was an assisting training, after all, that I had been to.  I stood in the hallway for a couple of minutes, considering jumping over the loaded cart and into the room.  Fully into zizz-out mode, I re-assumed my linebacker stance and manhandled that damned thing out of its wedged-in state and rolled it right into the room...

...where it occurred to me that all I had to do was unload it, put the bags in the hall, and gracefully roll it free.  OR - - not bring it into the room at all.

So - yeah.

The next morning, I had to do it all over again.  Things went a little better, save the moments it was nearly wedged caddy-corner in the elevator (this happened on the way up and on the way down).  I became aware that I was saying, "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod..." over and over wheeling the thing into the lobby on my way to the car (it was listing to starboard with a vengeance) when I noticed everyone at the complimentary breakfast watching with great interest.  Did you know the wheels that swivel all around need to go in the front?  They do!  (Hush.)  I rolled it out the doors after checkout where I gently snuggled it up against some urns of greenery (satya:  this was almost a crash), loaded up my little red car, took the cart back to its friends, and left.

There's not a lot I can say about deep lessons here, other than an awareness that princess moments are moments of reaction and that I clearly forgot to breathe and stay grounded.  I'm considering making a little plaque of some sort that says, "Dear Annalisa:  Even princesses must breathe."  I might make one that I can hang on the top bar of the baggage cart at my next hotel.

Create your most bomb-diggity day ever.  Namaste.

Level UP!

Whoa.  The last time I posted, I was about ten days away from starting Level Two training in Austin, Texas through Baptiste Power Yoga Institute.  And - - WHOA!  It's amazing.  It's transformational.  It's everything everyone ever said it would be, and more.  While I was there, I tapped into really deep stuff that I didn't know I had going on that was running a profound lie that I unwittingly allowed to define my life.  I also tuned into something else:

I was slammed with the blazing truth of certain situations in my life, patterns that I witness and get caught up in to try to gain approval *or* keep another wave of those situations from heading in my direction.  Self protection?  No.  Inauthenticity?  Yes.

I am no longer a yes to those things that strike me as bullshit, manipulative, bullying, false, diminishing, grandstanding, peacocking, or means to gain spotlight and control.  I am no longer a yes to allowing myself to witness or experience those things - they're one and the same, the choice is in whether or not I go into reaction.  They happen, yes - but I'll come from center.  I am no longer a yes to the culture of the driver.  I *am* a yes to following my path into being a leader.  I've seen and felt the difference, and I know what truly inspires me and what I want to model in my community and beyond.

I am a yes for following my own intuition, creativity, plans, goals, dreams, favorite things, getting messy, getting playful, swearing and crying and laughing on my mat, tackling "desk work" from bed because that's where I honestly like to work (fuck desks), and for letting these things and their spirit form the core of my life.  I'm open to what embracing these things can create, and am excited to see how everything lines up towards creating my vision.

And on that note, I'm no longer afraid to have a really damned big vision - more than one, even.  As I move into the last six weeks of 2013, I'm setting the full-on intention of clearing my path and beginning to pave a whole new way.

But first, I have to pack for my next training, coming this weekend:  Art of Assisting at Bala Vinyasa Coral Gables - the studio where I did my very first Baptiste training in April of 2012.  And since I tend to over-pack, that means I have to start now.

Create what amazes *you*.  See you post-Miami!

That's just nasty...

I just pitched a fit.  Not a loud one, mind you, although I am capable of that.  I pitched a fit over the word "should".  Yes, I know there are trendy quote graphics all over the place with how we should drop should from our hearts, minds, and souls - - but I've gotten jaded to them.  After reading the umpteenth instance of another person telling another person they should do a thing in a particular way (it was actually someone saying humankind in general should do a thing in a particular way), I remembered a fun twist on should I learned a few years ago.  Where, I don't remember.  But the gist of it?

Should is judgment, and then some.  It's a guilt-laden manipulation tactic.  Let's try it this way:  Should = shit.  And to should someone is to shit all over them.  Likewise, to should yourself is to shit all over yourself.

Now - WHY would anyone do that?   And before you should all over someone else, flip it and think upon how downright gross that is.  

I used to call myself out *hard* on my use of it, because I was a very strong should-er.  In relation to others, apart from the more brutal example of doing that all over somebody, I took on a rephrasing exercise any time I wanted to say it, replacing should with:  "It would fit my reality if you...", or, "I would be more comfortable if you...".  I came to see that not only is there judgment in should, there's entitlement and expectation.  Why the hell would I expect that anyone change anything to make me more comfortable with what they're doing or saying, or that I am entitled to have everyone bow down to my every whim?  Why was I so insecure that I needed to control everything in that way?  It was challenging, but it shifted my perception in a powerful way.  I learned that I used should as an escape hatch - as strong as I thought I was, I was nothing without that tactic.  And then I learned the shit example and, after doing a gross out dance, dropped the practice of shoulding for a long time.

But it's been creeping back in lately, and just now, in my kitchen, preparing my breakfast - I had a should moment.  And I realized how easy creating this new life would be if I dropped that practice, if I stopped bullying myself with the five letter equivalent of a four letter word.  Better yet, what if I stopped using should as the escape hatch to actually making a decision based upon what I want and away from the fear of what someone might think?  Whoa.  Yeah.  My whole year brightened up in an instant.  And for the people I will invariably encounter who use it?  I might just be a smartass and offer them some Pepto.  (Just kidding.)  (Maybe.)  (Oddly enough, that would probably be shoulding, too.)  

So give this to yourself:  Back away from the should.  It's nasty.  Experiment with what happens, and pay attention to what it brings up for you.  And do something YOU want to do.  

Pickled cinnamon...

Me, in my kitchen, a couple of nights ago.  I was debating whether I should bake a cookie or just eat the dough raw (satya, baby), and noticed a team of ants carrying a bit of rice noodle across the counter. Totally had a cute moment.  Oh, yeah, I thought they were cute.  I watched them while I munched on my raw cookie dough and had some tea.  When they struggled to get the thing up a wall and over to an opening, *I helped*.  Fashioning a little elevator platform out of a piece of paper, I coaxed them into walking on it and lifted them right up to where they were trying to go.  And then I noticed the others.

There were a lot of others.  I asked my friend, Google, for advice as to how to get rid of the ants and turned up garlic and black pepper.  I sat garlic cloves around, and then (oh, man) broke out the pepper grinder and went to town in a spot on the counter to see what would happen.  And would you like to know what happened?  One of the ants walked over, picked up a chunk of it, and started walking off.  Pepper, at least freshly ground, does not deter ants.  Garlic?  Works.  They will walk up to it, stand on their hind legs and look at it, and then wander off like they're bored.  But I wanted something stronger.  

I posted my issue on Facebook, and got cinnamon as the solution.  And that.  Shit.  Works.  Seriously - sprinkle cinnamon in the vicinity of an ant, and he will haul ass.  Sprinkled near a posse, it's like one of them broke explosive wind and they're all running away - just madness.  I became the cinnamon fairy and rocked it all over the kitchen.  And the ants fled the cinnamon fairy, and all was well in the land.  

And then I had to clean it up.  I make my own cleaning stuff - and use a glass cleaner that contains vinegar to clean the kitchen counters.  Well, I do that when I run out of the all purpose stuff that doesn't contain vinegar - - anyway, just know that I had to use the stuff with the vinegar in it.  I don't recommend spraying vinegar anything on cinnamon.  There's a reaction.  A strong one.  My kitchen smells like pickled cinnamon - NOTHING will get rid of the smell.  Not even the especially potent cedar incense that makes my house smell like mostly like campfire.  I haven't tried smudging, but I'm close.  Honestly, I'm not sure even setting sulfur ablaze would help.  Anything that's sprayed, burned, or otherwise applied to mask the smell wears off and I'm left with pickled cinnamon.  

At the top of today's list:  Reorganize kitchen.  I'm replacing it with:  Buy cinnamon STICKS. 

Tonightly routine...

Decide it's not a good night for tacos, after all.  Rebellion is the spice of life.

Decide on soup.

Congratulate self on this decision.

Decide to have rice with soup.

Put rice in rice cooker, turn on.

Place array of vegetables in pot with diced tomatoes, stock, and seasonings.

Place pot on stove.

Decide that the perfect way to wait for a quick pot of soup and the rice to cook is to have a nice, hot bath with sandalwood bath salts.

Congratulate self on this decision.

Have bath.

Pamper self.  Feet like cocoa butter, as do hands.

Decide whole self likes cocoa butter.

Congratulate self on this decision.

Put on something not out-of-house worthy, but acceptable and comfortable.

Realize soup and rice are probably almost done.

Congratulate self on decision to make soup and rice again.

Meander to the kitchen (post-bath post-yoga blissed-out almost-coma).

Take in the smell of freshly cooked rice.

Wonder where the aroma of freshly cooked soup is.

Realize stove is not turned on.

Get peanuts.