Friday, May 15, 2015


One year ago today, after my 10AM yoga class, Jim surprised me at the studio with a giant Diet Dr. Pepper. Three and a half hours later in our backyard I wore a dress I'll never need again and became his wife. Then our family and best people ate lemon cake. Then we all went to the go-kart place for our inevitably unique “reception.” A kick-off that aptly indicated what we were in for.

We've been married one year. In my life, I've never been happier. I've never been more spoiled, more loved, or more in love. I still think that everything he does is adorable. As an example, Jim has a habit of leaving his chewing gum on his bedside table at night. When I zip past and snap it up to toss in the trash I think, “He’s so cute.” But I'm right. I mean, gawsh—

Mid-morning on Wednesday I took a call from a third-party company that Sanofi hired to do my exit interview. Was the company compliant? Would you work for Sanofi again? Why did you leave? Are you currently employed? And then the interviewer paused and said, “Do you mind my asking what you’re doing now?” “I left the industry,” I told him, “I’m teaching yoga.” He laughed and commented on the significant departure from my previous life. “Why did you choose that?” he asked. “It makes me happy.

At that moment I was perched on the edge of the kitchen table facing the backyard. I had the sliding doors open a few inches because I’d just come in from checking on my herbs and before that I’d been taking our chubby puppies for their daily march. As I answered his questions I thought, “Sheesh. This is a good life.” I’m grateful to Jim. Jim is grateful to me. I thank him often for convincing me to quit. He thanks me often for quitting. And he’s glad that my time plugging away in the workforce granted me a perspective that can appreciate what it takes to support a family. I don't take what he does for granted. He makes success seem like a foregone conclusion and hard work look easy. But it isn’t and I know that and it makes me all the more thankful for what life my sweetheart enables.

I do house stuff—laundry, grocery shopping, morning tidying after everyone’s left, bringing in the milk, writing the check to the housekeeper—but I also get to do things beyond what I could when pedaling drugs. On Tuesday I had time to make a four-layer cake. (Ended up decent but not better than that. I’m learning.) Yesterday I took three yoga classes—one for strength, one for sanity, and one to check out a new local studio. In between I got a facial. I drink more water. I eat more vegetables. Guys, I’m just happier. 

But here’s the thing—while my job got to a point where it was making me white-collar cross and that was beginning to bleed into my personal life, my personal life was already splendid. This husband I have can’t be real. When I get jealous of someone—like, oh they have such a great body or they are so pretty or smart or all the other shit we think—I scuttle my envy by thinking, Yeah, but they don’t have Jim. I actually think that. And it actually makes me feel better.

I’m so taken with this man's quirks. He leaves me love notes on 3x5 cards ‘cause they’re what’s handy. His favorite part of our Playboy Mansion experience was the technology of the hyper-cool MirMir photo booth; that’s the thing he can’t stop talking about. He sees cheese and crackers as an acceptable dinner. He always gets the same smoothie at Jamba juice but orders it as, “Give me whatever has the most pineapple in it.” He thinks water is disgusting. He falls asleep listening to The Office. And while everyone thinks my husband is funny, no one thinks Jim is funnier than Jim does. 

He teaches me things. On a drive from Los Angeles to San Diego he taught me about handicapping and how sports betting works. He taught me the difference between welding and soldering. I now know a bit about what’s going on in my car when I turn on the A/C. I’ve learned exactly why Teslas are inconceivably bitchin’. And I’ve independently come to the conclusion that unions are, like, the third worse thing ever. 

He is the most fun person I know. That anyone knows. His hobby is spoiling the hell out of his kids. (We’re trying to balance that out with foreign things like “discipline” and “responsibility.”) He’s down to go anywhere or do anything. He likes desserts enough that when we were in Vegas at Rose Rabbit Lie and he ordered the entire dessert menu so we could try everything. He took me to “Wait Wait…Don’t Tell Me!” and then the following morning we went to breakfast with Bill Kurtis. He is constantly bringing home new remote-controlled gadgets and has lately been playing remote-controlled battling tanks with Benjamin. People, there’s a professional-grade ice shaver in the garage. He buys me feta cheese in bulk. We did the VIP tour in Disneyland.

Read: fun. 

He knows that the thing I want out of every trip we take is to find a yoga studio. (Right after our breakfast with Bill he dropped me off at the Funky Door while he went to a job site.) He came with me to class in Milan. A couple weeks ago he practiced with me at a Bikram studio in North Hollywood where the room’s temperature read 110 degrees Fahrenheit before class got started. He’s a guy who’s in it for the experience even when that experience is sweaty and inconvenient. 

We have a trip to Hawaii with the kids planned for next month. If you know me much you know that Hawaii isn’t so much my bag. I went there for college. The novelty wore off. I loved my education but learned that island fever is real. Also, I’m the color of printer paper and avoid the sun like it’s cyanide. After Jim booked the plane tickets I told him, “I love you so much that I’ll go to Hawaii with you.” His reply: “Have you ever gone somewhere with me and not had fun?” Of course not. Naturally it’ll be a blast. Wherever he is is where I want to be. Always.

Also I’ll get to see his exquisite legs in shorts. I never get sick of that.

Sunday, May 3, 2015


What day is it? I figured out that it’s Sunday but it’s not all that strange for me to lately have no idea as to the day of the week. This is my post-drugs life.

I just checked into our hotel in San Diego. Jim has meetings for the next couple days. I tagged along. Because my life is unduly splendid and I’m gleefully—yet gratefully—spoiled. We drove in from L.A. where we stayed for the last two days. We were at the Mondrian on Sunset Boulevard and I specify where so if you are in West Hollywood and looking for a pool area with nonstop really damn loud music where you can surround yourself with impossibly beautiful people who certainly don’t have jobs—and that token pensioner who wore dress pants to the pool—Skybar at the Mondrian is a suitable option.

We flew down to L.A. for a weekend of partying at both ends of the spectrum. Friday night was at the Playboy Mansion. Saturday: a benefit for a Catholic organization. Same shoes. Very not the same dress.

Allow me to disappoint you and say that our Playboy Mansion night was PG-13. You want to know if we saw boobs. We did not. It wasn’t that kind of night. We did see barely-dressed-and-dead-in-the-eyes young ladies gyrating on huge lucite cubes but not too much more racy stuff than that. We were at the event by way of one of Jim’s entrepreneur organizations so while I wouldn’t deign to call it classy, the gathering could have been much trashier. I mean, at one point there was a parrot on my shoulder. I’ll say this though: if you have the hypothetical opportunity to get a lil’ frisky with your person in the Playboy Grotto you’d be a dummy not to take it. I’m no hypothetical dummy.

Our Saturday event was a benefit for St. Anne’s, a social services agency in Los Angeles. My Jessica friend co-chaired the board that put together the event, and since we were in town we got to go. The thing went off without a hitch—I mean, of course; it’s Jessica we’re talking about here—and four killer brownies consumed to the tune of conversation with one of my besties sealed the evening as ideal and the weekend as perfect.   

On Friday morning when I was jamming shit into my suitcase I said to Jim, “It will seem like I’ve packed the entire bathroom because I have. I have no idea what all I’m going to need for this weekend, so I’m bringing everything.”

“No big thing,” he said, “The life of a trophy wife requires a lot of luggage. You’re getting whisked from party to party.”

Trophy wife. Sheesh. This guy.

But until I can figure out what the hell I am now, we’ll enjoy the kick of going with that tongue-in-cheek title. See, you go to enough events where there are folk you don’t know and you’ll get asked frequently to label yourself and then suddenly a merry soiree morphs into an existential mess. Yes, what even am I? Well, at this point, hungry. Once done with post this I’m gonna mow down a Trader Joe’s hummus wrap. But in, like, life, what’s my title? What do I identify with? Ask me that common, “And what do you do?” and you’ll get met with incertitude. I was a drug rep for a decade but I’m not that anymore. I’m a yoga teacher? I’m strongly considering making something of my Masters in writing? I’ve designed things but I sort of don’t want to do that anymore? I do laundry on Mondays and shop for groceries on Thursdays? I’m obsessing over slimming down our dogs? It’s all true but it doesn’t fit under a simple title. “Drug rep.” was an easy answer. That activity took the most of my time. But now, while my day is so full I can’t figure out how I ever had time for the drug career and at the end of the day I wonder if I sat down for even fifteen minutes, there isn’t a thing that takes the most time. I get to divide it out more evenly and do all those things on my own timetable.

Thus it is best to meet “And what do you do?” with “Whatever I want.” All hail Jim.

Prior to our Saturday event, the evening included a spell of panic when I got out of the shower, coated my wet hair with styling goo and subsequently discovered that our room didn’t have a blow dryer. My call to housekeeping didn’t procure one fast enough. So I perched on a chair overlooking the hip AF pool area and fretted that my hair product was going to dry hard and my hair would be weighed down and I’d have to shower all over again to start fresh and we just didn’t have time for that nonsense. Jim phoned housekeeping and said that, yeah, that blow dryer that the lady just called about, we need it immediately. As in now. As in where the hell is that thing and if they don’t get it up here pronto he’ll have to call back every 90 seconds until they get his wife her damn blow dryer before her—[totally justifed]—distress triggers an arrhythmia. Dryer was delivered. Tragedy was assuaged. Absurdly cute and catering husband gets the credit for my satisfactory hair night.

JiMegan: blissfully making friends and family gag and roll their eyes since 2013. 

On the home front, I keep asking Josie when she’s gonna suck. She’s a teenager. 13. As her “stepmother”—as a human, really—I’m supposed to find her incredibly annoying. Can’t. She’s delightful and a piece of really good cake. A sentence not uncommon—from either party—in JiMegan conversations, “How freaking great is Josie?” Very.

Monday, April 20, 2015


• Sometimes I play messenger at home. The other night I told Josie, “Hey, public service announcement: if you don’t get on top of your laundry your dad is gonna lose his shit.”

• Apparently my hair color has been hiding my dosha. Last Tuesday a student said that since he can now see my roots it all makes more sense—my dark hair was misleading, and now that he can tell that my hair is actually lighter and more consistent with my complexion it's evident that I’m a Vata. (Prayer hands and a bow if that made sense to you.) My actual concern here: you are examining my roots? Wednesday’s hair appointment couldn’t have been more welcome. Evidently it’s time to schedule them even closer together.

• I got a food dehydrator that hasn’t stopped humming since I took it out of the box. Kale, apples, potatoes, pineapple, and bananas over the weekend. Next up, mushrooms and tomatoes. I’m a dehydration pro in the hot yoga room and will be in the kitchen too.

• Dustin’s greeting to me lately: “How’s retirement?” Lotta yoga. I “retired” a week ago. I took class and taught Friday, Saturday, Sunday, Monday Tuesday, Wednesday, and Saturday. So retirement looks an awful lot like pre-retirement just without a day job that was, quite honestly, making me miserable. Now I have a flexible schedule. Get it? Flexible? Yoga? Oh forget it.

I legally changed my name to Romo-Elliker. Megan Romo-Elliker. Up until now my hyphenation has been informal. But it’s official. (Fish fish, Tanya.)

• Benjamin’s sweats were getting short so Jim dropped in at Old Navy and snapped up a few more pair. Problem is, he got Mediums and those were the size of the ones that are too short. So I exchanged ‘em for Large. Ben tried on the new sweats and they were way too big. “Medium is too small,” I said, “And Large is too large.” “Too bad there’s not an Extra Medium,” he replied.

• Vanilla almond butter.

• When talking with a friend about how she plans to one day live off the grid, to give up internet and phones, my immediate response was, “But how will you go online to order your life from Amazon?”

• The other night I was chatting with a fellow Juice Boxer and he asked after Jim. “Where’s that adoring husband of yours?” I told him that Jim works out every weekday at 5AM so I don’t expect him to come to late classes. “He loves you,” he told me. “I know,” I replied. “I can tell when he looks at you. I saw you look at him and him look at you and I thought, ‘That man has a twinkle in his eye!’ You guys look so in love.” Aw. We are. It makes people nauseous.

• Last week I met the fluffiest Bernese Mountain Dog in America. Her name is Maya and she is as big as me.

• My Lola sister came in for the weekend and left yesterday. She was here to hang. We dehydrated things. She took my vinyasa class. (Which I totally crushed, by the way. Afterward a student told me that because of my enthusiasm he tries things that he otherwise wouldn't and he's loving it.) She, Jim, and Dustin went to the GSR and played poker. She came with us to Ichibahn to celebrate Dustin and Nathaniel’s birthdays. She helped me transfer all the stuff out of my soon-to-be-gone work car into our other car. It was relaxing yet productive and completely delightful.

• Convenient how Jim already had a car for me. Forward thinker that he is, he got the thing last year with this very scenario in mind. Wife may quit job. Will then need own car. This car can be that. He’ll drive his truck and I’ll take the little car. Done and done.

• I've got some kind of yoga-clothes disconnect going on in my brain. On Thursday I forgot to put something to wear in my yoga bag, so I used the back-up clothes that I keep in my car. On Friday I forgot my yoga bag altogether and I hadn't replaced my back ups so I borrowed clothes. And yesterday after class I was nearly home when I got a text telling me that I left the bag of my sweaty shorts and top in the dressing room. I wonder what fun apparel screw up awaits me today.

• I wrote “mushroom fluff” instead of “marshmallow fluff” on my grocery list. My subconscious wants me to make nasty smores.

• Some evenings I ask Jim, “Do know what happens tomorrow?” “What?” “Breakfast!” I rise to eat.

Saturday, April 11, 2015


Growing up we sixchix had our classic movies, the ones where my sisters and I still know all the words. On an afternoon in Italy while her kid napped, Mal and I found ourselves at the dining table pounding Jelly Bellies and singing every word to “Be Our Guest” from Beauty and the Beast as if we’d watched that show yesterday and like we were six-year-olds.

While on my way to a drug lunch in South Lake Tahoe earlier this week I called my sister Whit. As soon as she answered I said, “Help me. This will sound weird.”


“There’s this movie. And there are two guys and they are talking. I know this sounds stupid.”

“I’m with you.”

“And one sings, ‘I—I quit. I quit. I quit. I quit, Mr. . . . ’ First, what the hell movie is that and second what’s the name of the Mr.?”

“That’s an easy one,” she replied, It’s That Thing You Do and it’s ‘I quit, Mr. White.’ You should have known that. It’s a Peterson classic. I think you’re getting Alzheimers in your old age.”

Here, the clip she sent me as follow-up:

Why did I call her to ask about the movie? Well, I quit.

I had slivers of that flick clip knocking around in my noggin because I was thinking about quitting my drug job.

I got hired into drugs a month before I turned 23. In two weeks I turn 33. For this venture, a decade was enough. I've sold 15 different drugs for 12 different disease states. I’m done.

Jim has been encouraging me for months to leave pharmaceutical pedaling and pursue stuff I love. My drug job has had benefits galore, and though there have been lots of things to appreciate about it, this career wasn’t what I chose for myself. It was what funded the other choices, and with my marital situation what it was, that job was what I had to do not what I wanted to do. Instead, the three “jobs” I did choose for myself—art, words, and yoga—traditionally have the lowest fiscal yield in the history of ever.

But Jim says he wants to support me in doing what I love, and because, well, I tend to be pretty good at whatever I do and I’m a dedicated little thing, he knows it’s not like once I leave pharma I’ll be sitting at home wearing Old Navy flannel pajama pants and watching Netflix all day. No, instead I’ve got lots of plans, things I’ve been wanting to do and trying to do but haven’t been able to ‘cause the day job was really effing demanding.

So add Exceedingly Supportive to Jim’s ever-lengthening list of perfect traits. You wanna write, Megan? Stay home and write! You wanna learn how to be a better yoga teacher and then teach the hell out of yoga? Do that. Make pretty pictures. Wear jeans and flats. Screw pharma. Go be you.

As the option has become more realistic to me I’ve worried some about what this does to my lil’ identity. In talking to my dad about moving on from the drug years I asked—honestly starting to tear up—“But if I’m not this, what am I?” I’m the things I’ve always been, just without the inhibition of the pharma career. Jim is enabling me to be what I want. He just gifted me 40-some-odd more hours in my week. As if I wasn’t in silly in love with the guy already.

I’m also looking forward to being able to be more available to him and the kidlings. Honestly, I haven’t had time for a damn thing that wasn’t work or yoga. Some days I would leave at 8AM and get home at 10:30PM. Now I can work on the food situation around here, organize more, and slim down our fat, fat dogs. (Enough already with being so bashful about Gus’s sausage middle and the fact that we can’t find his ribs whenever I take him to the vet. Poor boy.)

It’s all a little bit scary and a lot bit exciting. But as excited as I am I think Jim is twice as thrilled. Homeboy loves that I quit. Pharma schmarma.

Tuesday, April 7, 2015


I am in a hotel in Modesto, CA. They have hotels here. Which surprised me because I can’t figure out why anyone would visit. (My regrets tendered to Modesto residents.) For me the reason to be here is a two-day meeting. A make-up meeting. My company just launched a new drug (read: big deal) and I missed the gigantic launch meeting week before last. So: here now.

I missed the meeting because I was in Italy doing vacation things with my person. Jim and I left on a Saturday and returned the following Saturday. We landed in Milan and started the trip with a few days in an airbnb flat in with my sister, Mally, and her guys, Husband Nick and Child Sy. One of the days Jim and Nick went over to Switzerland to ski the Matterhorn. (Fancy, yes. They did not, however, get to ride the roller coaster through the famed peak and zip by the abominable snowman, therefore the day trip was only so-so.) Then Nick and Mal and kid left for their home in Belgium and Jim and I rented a car and headed three hours thataway to Venice. We stayed on Lido. We stayed in Venice. We stopped in Verona. We went back to Milan. We flew home.

JiMegan's Italy-visitor activities look like this—taking a shady taxi ride to our flat, a drive during which I passed out and Jim planned out how he was gonna save our lives when this driver pulled over to kill him and sell me into forced prostitution. Forget entirely about changing to an international cell plan before leaving the U.S. and finding ourselves without a way to get into our Milan home when we arrive. Walk to a studio to take a couple Bikram classes. Stroll to the Duomo in Milan where outside the cathedral Jim and Nick tell me that its ground floor houses a sit-down McDonald’s and, appalled, I believe them for a second. (They really rode the lie off the rails though when they said that it also had Europe’s only Chick-fil-A.) Completely melt the insides of my flat iron by plugging it into a 220V outlet without an adapter. Get me a new flat iron. Hit up a rad modern art museum in Venice. Wander into an art gallery where upon entering I immediately start making bets with myself as to how long until Jim nudges the art installation with his toe to see if it is secured to the ground. (I love that he loves to see how things work.) Trace our way through Verona looking for more above-average gelato.

Also, we got lost. We got stuck on Lido at 1AM and decided to just stay there for the night. Thus on one night of our trip we two had three hotel rooms: the flat in Milan that we’d rented for the week, a pre-paid hotel in Venice, and a hotel in Lido with Italy’s most delightful hotel clerk, Paulo.

A lil’ adventure made itself into a memory.

And of course we did what you do when you go on vacation of any kind really: sleep more than usual and eat too much. This body will be on its way back to my normal size for the next two weeks. Ah, discipline. (Frown.)

The trip wasn’t structured. It was unhurried. It was out of the country, so aside from the moments of WiFi here and there, I was cut-off from my at-home communications. Perhaps that was the best part—being away from everything with my husband. Because that was what I liked best, I’d really have been happy to vacation pretty much anywhere. I go places to be with my people. I got to spend a couple days with Mallory and her family. I got to bum around with my husband. The environment was unique and compelling, but being with my people is the reason to go. Friends ask, “Did you see this? . . . Did you go there? . . . Did you shop?” Yes, sort of, and not really. Because neither Jim nor I care all that much for what tour books call highlights. He’s the highlight. I’m the highlight. Our people are the highlight.

On our drive back to Milan Jim told me that I’m “a good little traveler,” a compliment that made me feel spectacular since doesn’t the stress of travel so often bring out the worst in people? It’s true I think, but see, Jim brings out the best in me. 

Tuesday, March 17, 2015


• My breath stinks right now. Onions. And whatever else those wizard Mexicans put in their crack salsa. After yoga I met Jim and Dustin and his lady friend at Miguel’s for dinner. I polished off a basket of chips single-handedly, consumed at least a pint of salsa, made a quesadilla disappear in seconds even though there was a smidge of guac on the tips (ick), and then battled Jim for the last bites of fried ice cream. Yogis eat, people. We eat like nobody’s business.

• I have a bald spot in my left eyebrow right now and I don't want to talk about it.

• Lately—and justifiably methinks—my arms are my pride and joy.

• Something very important has happened. I found jeans that fit. I am 32 years old, and I finally found jeans that fit. I’m short, I’ve got thighs, and I do not have any chest to speak of. It is therefore a royal pain in my ample ass to find me clothes that fit. If pants are short enough they’re too tight through the thighs. If a shirt fits around my waist it’s too baggy in the bosom. Enter Banana Republic Petites. All my work clothes that fit without alterations are BR Petites. In a blow of brilliance I realized that those people make jeans too! I now have three pair and Goodwilled all of my ill-fitting denim. 

• Today I got new perfume. My mom got a new knee. 

• Last week it was a year since my sweet James made a Tiffany box descend from the sky in yoga class in order to ask me to marry him. We were already happy together. We're happier now. He makes me feel secure and protected. He feels loved and supported. We complement each other. We're partners. He is my best friend. Please God, never let him die.

• I startle very easily. I get so far in my head that Jim will bang on the walls and stomp his feet up the stairs so that I hear him coming, because if he doesn't and then walks in the room without my having heard him, I scream. “But you don’t live alone,” he’ll tell me. This is true. It is also irrelevant. Yesterday I apparently forgot that there is a mirror on the wall in the closet, peripherally glimpsed the shadow of my own reflection, and screamed.

• Ben had a bad dream this morning and when he came in our room frightened—as kids do—and told me about it he said that he dreamed that “there were bad men in the house and they were teleporting out.” I was torn between sympathy for his distress and delight that an eight-year-old used the word “teleporting” straight out of a dead sleep at 5:30AM.

• On Sunday I tore through my closet for ten minutes looking for this one bra. I found it on me.

• To answer everyone’s absolute favorite question of late: No. Despite the line local church leaders have been fed, absolutely no one mistreated in the infidelity disaster has received even an attempt at an apology from Mark and Carrie. Not wronged spouses. Not kids. No one. So probably don’t believe that made-amends garbage. It’s garbage.

• Yesterday my dad texted me to say that he “nearly worships” my husband because he “is a warrior.”

• My grandma did the whole boat-from-Ireland-to-America-and-signed-the-leger-at-Ellis-Island thing. It’s not infrequent I’m told, “You look Irish.” No shit. I’m pail as paper. My hair turns reddish even when it’s dyed brown. Most of those splotches on my skin are freckles. I dig The Chieftains. I look dynamite in green. Notwithstanding, I forgot that it was St. Patrick’s Day. 

• I have a hair appointment tomorrow. Hence by law today was my very best hair day.

Saturday, March 14, 2015


I used to sleep late on the weekends. Until, like, ten or something. But I was up this Saturday morning by 6:20. I woke up when Jim and the kids were getting ready to head out to Carson City for Josie’s all-day volleyball tournament. The tournaments are most Saturdays, and Ben, not exactly thrilled about it, goes along for the day. It’s one of those things that a youngest child has to deal with that an oldest really doesn’t; you're constantly going along with whatever’s happening and when you have a lot of siblings who are involved in a lot of activities you sorta grow up in the car. This one’s at dance practice. That one soccer. Play practice. Art lessons. That’s how it was for my youngest sister, Lo, and it made her an easy-going, spontaneous lil’ soul. When she was bitsy, she spent more time in her carseat than anywhere else, and since my mom digs tunes and it was the early 90s, she learned the words to Hootie and the Blowfish’s “Only Wanna Be with You” before she learned stuff like “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star.” Which was fine by us. It way cuter to hear a 3-year-old singing “I only wanna be wif you-ooooo-ooooo" than the pedestrian ABCs.

I'm not at all miffed though about being up so early on this particular Saturday. Today’s the first time I’ve taught two different yoga classes in one day. I’ve taught two classes, yes, but not two different ones back-to-back. I’m subbing a beginning yoga class at 9:30 at one place and then driving out to Juice Box to teach Yoga Motion at noon. The classes will share certain sequences, but most of them will be different. The beginning class is actually a beginning class and in the Yoga Motion class I get to push them more than you would standard beginners.

That’s the truly beautiful thing about teaching a new vinyasa class at a Bikram studio. The students that come are already accustomed to working hard. When I get the room’s temp down to 90 degrees they say it’s chilly. They have cultivated good body awareness. They know how to engage muscles in a static posture. So while it is certainly a Level 1 class for the amount of over-explaining I do for stuff like the new-to-them and very vital chaturanga, we don’t have to move too slow. On this day though, I'm hoping that I at least pull from my muddled mind the right bits and pieces in my brain for what I've planned to teach. The muddle inside sounds like Wait, which class was it that we are holding goddess? Is that both? Both have prasarita? No. Just the first one? Definitely not working on an arm balance in the beginner class. Can’t forget to instruct on using blocks though in the noon class. Loop the straps in one or two. Two? Are we starting standing at noon? Wait. On our backs? . . . 

When you start a new venture there are things that experienced people don’t necessarily spell out. Like how much—just how much—out-of-class time it takes to be a good yoga teacher. It’s not you show up, you say words, you leave. You plan your sequences. You make them logical. You make sure the music isn’t obtrusive. You work on modifications. You try to anticipate confusing parts. You learn more anatomy. You practice adjustments. And all the while you remind yourself that not everyone can make their bodies do what yours can and you try not to take for granted that every one knows the little yoga phrases teachers automatically use. “Roll over your toes,” for example. We all say it. Someone brand new to a vinyasa is like, Huh? Or “direct your tailbone downward” even “tilt your pelvis.” You want me to do what with my pelvis? Students do pick up the jargon quickly—Josie walks around the house saying “open your heart to the sky” and arching her back—but initially you really do need to clarify. It’s work upon work upon work. But like Cameron reminded me last night: I truly do love it. And my students can tell. They tell me so.

Although I've been perpetually engaged in building the classes and refining sequences, I’m not sure I can trust what I’m coming up with these days. I’m tired. Like, sleepy tired. The drug job is kicking my ass more than at any time before in this decade that I’ve been slinging pills. (Burning the candle at both ends is sort of my specialty. Which means that at some point burn out will be too!) To illustrate: my current definition of a successful yoga class is one where I don’t fall asleep in savasana*. Which is none over the last week and a half. You guys. I never do that. I’ve taken thousands of yoga classes, and until last week I could count on one hand how many times I actually passed out in savasana.

And all this busyness has been prohibitive in my getting excited for our trip to Italy next week. I just haven’t had the RAM to be able to give any of my thinking to happy anticipation. Good thing is we’ve got, like, 17 hours on a plane. I’ll use then for getting excited. Surely that will make the getting-there part more bearable. Surely it will.

*Savasana is corpse pose. You lie flat on your back with your eyes closed. It’s the last posture of yoga classes and is also interspersed throughout the Bikram floor series.

Sunday, February 22, 2015


I am sitting on the floor in the intersection between two hallways at Victory Woodworks. That’s Jim’s biz. They make sweet shit. Victory just moved offices, and right now Jim is fifteen feet thataway drilling into concrete. Something to do with the two five-foot-wide barn doors he installed this afternoon.

I’m wearing a long down-filled parka ‘cause winter showed up for a few hours. I’ve still got flip flops on, but at least my upper self is insulated. I’m sure I’ll ditch the coat soon though ‘cause when we came in through the warehouse space—where Jim put the ping pong table, pop-a-shot basketball hoops, arcade game, picnic tables, and dart board—Jim showed me how to hot wire the heater. It’s on now and blowing toasty well wishes. For three seconds there I felt like I could commit a crime and get away with it. Never mind that all I had to do was bend and cross a couple wires; I turned something on without using a switch. 

When I get up from this floor it will hurt. My hip flexors and adductors are stiff and sore. I taught the inaugural Yoga Motion class yesterday at Juice Box and I at least worked myself plenty hard.  I've discovered that there’s something pretty spectacular about telling a student to do something, seeing them look at you like you’re nuts and it’ll never happen, and then watching them do the thing you directed. It happened yesterday when I was teaching the yogis Baby Hopper. Their eyes get wide. They smile. You smile. It’s a lovely exchange. 

Teaching yoga makes me happy. It also stresses me the hell out. Yesterday morning before teaching that Yoga Motion class I was basically bat shit crazy. My heart was beating in my throat. I was snippy. I couldn’t focus at all when I was taking class beforehand. I wandered around the house dropping to the floor to try postures and whispering to myself, “This is what I know. You know this stuff. This is what you know. You're prepared. You’ve studied for this.” I was right. I did know it. So far as I can tell—and was told—it went well. But it doesn’t mean that the nerves won’t start all over again for next Saturday’s class.

Victory's new digs are swingin’. They moved so that everyone could be under one roof—Engineering, Estimating, Project Managers, Management, and so on. The halls are wide. The layout is friendly. Jim’s office is dead center and welcoming. And, well, when the decor is done it’s gonna be top notch. Jim’s letting me do it. I say, “Buy this.” He does. I say, “These go here.” He hangs them. I appreciate that he trusts me, and I’m careful with that. I know I could say, “This wall must be neon yellow!” and he’d call a painter. I want the space to be fun but to also sensibly match the demeanor of the business. Therefore, among the decor we have a wire moose head, retro Vegas and Reno posters, big prints of patent designs for woodworking tools, salvaged letters, and maybe best of all—an idea Jim came up with—a window display thing of sixty-some odd old screwdrivers hung across a window.

Jim trusts my taste and will go with pretty much whatever, but it’s important to me that I’m not the only one making decisions about the decor. I want my fella to like what we put in there, for it to suit him and his people. So when one of his guys said that he should have a couch in his new office—a suggestion at which Jim initially balked; I’m not that guy! That guy is pretentious! No, sweet James, you’re the guy who wants employees to come sit in your office. It’s welcoming, not douchey—and the one that Jim fell for was a retro, sea foam green leather number, I was delighted. His taste is much better than he has been led to believe. Do get what you like, love, we’ll make it work.

And we are.

And we do.

And we will.

Sunday, February 15, 2015


This was a light yoga week:
  • Monday: take Bikram
  • Tuesday: take Bikram; teach Warm & Mellow
  • Wednesday: take Bikram; teach Warm & Mellow
  • Thursday: practice the yoga of going to the Cheesecake Factory with Jim and Katelynn rather than taking class 
  • Friday: take Bikram
  • Saturday: take Beginning Vinyasa; take Bikram (Note: never stop taking beginner classes no matter how long you've practiced. Revisiting foundational stuff is imperative.)
  • Sunday: take Bikram
See? Light.

Let’s ramp it the hell up, Dear Reader.

Let’s add teaching a regular vinyasa-style class at noon on Saturdays. Let’s do it at Juice Box Yoga, the place I call my yoga home. While ever a Bikram Method Studio, Juice Box is expanding its offerings and adding a class called Yoga Motion at noon on Saturdays. I’m teaching it. It will be a blast. Totally, like, come. It’s not advanced. It’s foundational with advancement options for people already familiar with the practice. It’s different from Bikram, but it’s vinyasa designed for yogis that practice primarily—or even only until this point—Bikram yoga. It’s complimentary to a Bikram practice rather than conflicting. 

I’ll embarrass myself now and show you this photo of me in Fallen Angel (Devaduuta Panna Asana) if you promise to overlook the show of despair on my mug. Actually, my face states clearly: Take the damn picture already!

On here—and everywhere else aside from at my drug job—I talk about yoga constantly. But do you know my yoga history? I shall inform you. Below: my Juice Box bio. My tiny yoga tale—

I took my first power yoga class in July of 2004, and in no time my yoga practice became a significant part of my identity. I’m a yoga junkie. I subscribe to the yoga pubs, write yoga articles, go to yoga workshops, and it takes a significant schedule conflict for me to turn down a new yoga experience, whether that be a festival, a different type of class, or a new studio. But it was four years into my power practice before I tried Bikram yoga.

In January of 2009, my yoga practice had plateaued and I was desperate for a dose of whatever would return me to growth on my mat. So I gave hot a shot. It wasn’t long before I was a goner. I developed an affinity for sweat, my yoga clothes got tinier, and the Reno Bikram yoga community became My People.

While I’ve come to call myself a Bikram yogini, I didn't lose touch with my yoga roots in vinyasa yoga. I enjoy practicing both styles because the differences in method require a greater awareness in each class. I love the disciplined, type-A style of Bikram, and I love the variability and playfulness of vinyasa yoga. Doing one enriches the other and both together help me be me a well-rounded yogi. Thus, in 2014 when I again found myself in a place where I needed to spur progress in my practice, I enrolled in a training program to teach vinyasa-style yoga. I did my training through the Satya Flow: asana + Authenticity training program in Reno, Nevada, and have my Yoga Alliance-RYT 200 certification (200-Hour Registered Yoga Teacher).

My mat is where I feel at home. It’s where I accept vulnerability and where I feel the most successful and protected. It’s where I have learned to respect and appreciate my body. As a yoga teacher I want to help cultivate that in my students.

I am honored to have the privilege of teaching Yoga Motion and Warm & Mellow at Juice Box. Yoga is my favorite thing to talk about and I’m excited to take what I’ve learned over my time on the mat and offer this wonderful, juicy community another way to broaden our perspective on yoga and enhance our practices. 

I mean it. I'm excited. I love yoga. I love what it's given me. I love that I have the chance to share that. So come to my new class. We will have fun, I promise. That's a priority.

Other non-yoga-related updates:

• The drug job is a little bit kicking my ass right now. Super busy. Stressing me out.

• Jim pulled a classic and surprised me with a dozen red roses for V-day. Since I'm a space case these days I forget I have them and relive the surprise every time I walk into our bathroom. Red! Gorgeous! Awww. And while they're lovely, my favorite part of of the gift is that he wrote the note on a 3x5 index card. I wouldn't change a shred of this man for anything.

• My hair color is the very definition of bitchin'. (Hannah, you doll of a stylist, thank you for being way above average.) My length, however, leaves length to be desired. Shoulder length is just awkward. Grow, little abused hairs, grow!

• The other morning from the stove where I was cooking something in an iron skillet (maybe an egg? dunno), I said to doing-dishes-Jim, "Did you know that cooking in an iron skillet imparts a certain amount of iron into your food?" He replied, "Did you know that sounds stupid?" Me: "Did you know that I know more food science than you?" And from his place on the couch in the family room where he was engrossed in Minecrafting, Ben piped in, "Did you know that 15 minutes could save you 15% or more on car insurance?"

And now: off to further destroy my body by eating more cheddar cheese and cheap Hersey's chocolate. Tanya says that Chocolate Season is over on the 17th, so I'd best eat up. Good news (Cameron and Maroon): Cheese season never ends. 

Friday, January 30, 2015


Dustin is a pilot. A freaking pilot. He has a license to fly planes. In the for-real sky.

Last week while he was taking his practical exam I was in Vegas on my way to the airport. In the cab and in line at Southwest I checked my phone every three seconds to see if Jim had yet texted me the results. I was fretful that I’d get on the plane without knowing! Phew!—I got the “He passed.” text before we were airborne.

When I got back to Reno I went straight from the airport to yoga and then as soon as I got into my car to drive home Jim and Josie called me. Jim said, “Can you come to the mall?” then there was a rustle and Josie was on the phone, “Please come and help me choose glasses. These guys are worthless. They say every pair is cute. They’re wrong.” I made for the mall, we got some glasses selected, and, you guys, Josie-girl rocks those specs like she was born in ‘em. (Bonus: now she can clearly see the board in math class.)

While Jim and Katelynn waited to pick up the stylish spectacles, I drove Ben and Jo home. When I pulled into the garage and saw Dustin’s motorcycle I said, “Our pilot is home!” Josie said, “We have a pilot!” When I saw Dustin I told him, “The best part is that you were this person when you passed you’re exam,” I pointed at his mismatched purple and orange-striped Toy Machine socks, “You were wearing those.”

That boy was completely himself when he took the test. He was wearing a beanie to tame his impressive spray of bleached-over-the-summer-and-growing-out hair. He has ridiculous tattoos. He wore skate shoes. And he’s the reason my black nail polish is missing. The kid is 20 and is consistently the same person no matter where he is. He got his dad’s stellar work ethic, and he studied like hell to reach this milestone.

I too reached a milestone of sorts last week. Dear Reader, I graduated from yoga school. I know that should have a whole lot of wahoo to it, but when you’re already teaching, the huzzah is a little less enthusiastic. At that point, the diploma is more like a box checked than a ticket through the door. Don’t misread me, I am really proud of the accomplishment—it was hard and worth the effort—but the culmination is somewhat tarnished when you don’t need the certificate to get the job. I done already gotted it and now I’m just doin’ my damnedest to deserve it.

Also there’s the part about the 200-hour RYT training being just the beginning of so much more necessary education. I need a long ass workshop on anatomy. I need one on adjustments. I gotta learn more about prenatal modifications. As ever, the more I learn the less I know.

I’m loving it, by the way. I am loving teaching. I have students that I already adore and miss when they aren’t there. I’m giving it my all. I read an article a few months ago about what yoga students want from their teachers and one of the top items was “Learn my name and use it.” As a student myself I agree. There’s something about your teacher making clear that they know you’re in the room.

On Monday I took Bikram before teaching my Warm & Mellow class. Between classes Jim and I texted. He said he was tied up with the new alarm system at work and he wouldn’t be able to make it to my class. Because every husband spends all his time dying to know what his wife is eating, I texted back, “Dammit. I thought I brought chocolate almond butter. Instead: pepper chickpeas. A terrible snack trade off.”

When I finished teaching class and came out to the lobby I discovered my husband sitting on the bench by the window. Despite the late hour, he came to the studio instead of going straight home after work! He took a bag of bagels, a jar of almond butter, and a jar of chocolate spread out of a grocery sack. “It’s not chocolate almond butter,” he said, “but it’s the best I could do.” He had two plastic butter knives in his shirt pocket, and he asked if he could make me a bagel.

When he read my food text he went to the grocery store. And then, from the butter aisle, he called my sister, Whitney. “What the hell is almond butter?” He said, “I can’t find it.” She explained that it’s like peanut butter and would be on the same aisle. My Jim went looking for almond butter with the dairy butter. Whenever I think he must have reached the cuteness threshold he does something like this.

That man is the strudel on my cake. He’s the cherry on my sundae, the Saturday in my week, the breeze in my evening. He's the wag in my tail. All the good things, James makes them even better. (Don’t worry, I’m making me gag too.)

Wednesday, January 14, 2015


Breakfast is the first thing I do in the morning. I get out of bed, I find my glasses, I pull on leggings and a sweatshirt, and immediately I go downstairs to eat. I wake for food. But when I went downstairs this morning and turned on the kitchen light I heard a moan and discovered a boy on the floor and a boy on the couch. Dustin and his homies watched LOTR until late last night and so we had some—rather uncomfortable, I’d say—overnight guests. I turned off the lights, whispered an apology, grabbed my diet soda, and retreated back upstairs. If they don’t have to get up yet, why wake them? So instead of toasting an English muffin downstairs, I’m in my office, little heater humming at my feet, blogging about this week.

This week just feels so full. It is full, actually. It’s my out of town week for work, so today I’m driving to Fallon, Yerington, and Hawthorne. I’ve got a meeting in Vegas next week that I’ve got to prep for. My final written exam for yoga school is due this weekend. On Sunday we teach a full vinyasa class for our “final” exam on teaching skills. (And then graduate!) On top of that I’m driving to SF tomorrow night, ‘cause on Friday I’m attending Yoga Journal Live! 

The YJ event lasts all weekend, but because of yoga school/yoga school graduation I could only attend on Friday. It will, nevertheless, rock. I’m signed up to take an all-day intensive with Kathryn Budig. File me under Thrilled. If you’re a vinyasa-ing yogi and know anything about anything you know who she is: a badass yogini goddess without the standard suffocating ego.

I was supposed to be in Chicago for work this week, but when I found out about the meeting I emailed my boss and told her that I already had a nonrefundable reservation for a yoga conference. She and said that instead I could attend the meeting in Vegas the following week and, Wait a minute, a yoga conference? That's a thing? Do you, like, wear yoga clothes and do poses? (I forget sometimes that not everyone does what I do.) Why yes of course. It’s a blast. The last time I went to a Yoga Journal event was eight years ago. I’m overdue for more.

I never expected yoga to be such an enormous part of my life. (But I don’t do things in a small way, so I should have seen this coming.) It sort of just happened. And it wouldn’t have worked without an incredibly supportive husband. Jim has always loved that I do yoga and now he loves that I teach. He wasn’t able to make it to my class on Monday and, quite honestly, ended up fretting some about what he missed. In the lobby before class he likes to tell new students, “This teacher is my favorite in the whole world.” They nod and smile. He continues, “That’s why I married her.” Uh-dorable. Duh.

He gets more ‘dorable every day. Last night Cameron was over so we could do yoga shit and Jim just kept feeding him. Here, try this cheese. Have a bowl of edamame. Drink this smoothie. “I keep telling you he’s perfect,” I said.

Jim and I have lots of I-may-have-marrried-you-fors. “I may have married you for your legs,” I’ll tell him. “I may have married you for your fried rice.” For your perfectly-shaped head. For your awesome mom. For your delight in constantly surprising me. For your love of pie that almost equals my own. One of Jim’s I-may-have-marrried-you-fors for me is that I don’t have kids.

It was a foregone conclusion that Jim would remarry. He wanted to be with someone. And he expected to end up with a perfectly passable lady in his age range who liked Jim because he’s hilarious and generous and most especially because he is financially solvent and could support her and her kids. After all, what other options on the market were there? (Turns out: Me! Surprise!) The family blending with a whole other set of children could be dramatic and painful. Maybe even a nightmare. It is a complication we’re grateful not to have to deal with and a thing he thanks me for often.

As soon as we even started thinking about thinking about dating Jim told me that he wasn’t down for more kids. Four is plenty, you know. “Good news,” I told him, “We couldn’t possibly be more on the same page there. I don’t want to get pregnant. Ever.” After we got married Jim's friends who obviously don’t know me all that well started betting on how long until I got pregnant. (She is 32, you know, and time's a-wastin'.) Nuh-no. Four is plenty. And those four are completely great. I couldn't ask for better.

The other day, however, one of my dear yogi friends asked me after class if she should wish me congratulations. Baffled, I asked why. “Well, I saw you were modifying postures in class, and I know you recently got married . . . ” Oh my stars, she was asking if I’m pregnant.

See, in Bikram yoga we practice the beginner series every day. The same 26 postures again and again. Some of those poses aren’t right for those with child, so there are specific modifications that you switch to just as soon as you know you’re pregnant. Actually, it's usually how we find out that one of our yoginis is expecting. My right knee is so completely effed up right now that I can’t do Rabbit pose without shooting pain that I’ll pay for later. So my teacher showed me how to modify the pose, and that modification happens to be part of the pregnancy series.

“Oh, no, no!” I told my sweet yogi pal, “I’m injured, so I’m modifying so I don't have to sit out the pose!” She was, as you’d expect, mortified. Because I know I don’t look pregnant even a little bit I wasn’t offended at all, and I told her, “Actually your congratulations is appropriate. You’re congratulating me that what I’m dealing with is an injury and not a pregnancy. That’s not in our plans.”

It’s a whole new way to look at my awful knees. Pain over pregnancy, please. 

Monday, January 12, 2015


Today the doorbell rang at 4:30AM. When Jim came back upstairs after dealing with the door I asked who? what? He told me, “It was the security guard. Dustin left the garage door open last night.” “What a jackass,” I said. I didn’t mean Dustin. I meant the guard. Seriously? 4:30AM? That’s your company’s policy? It’s two and a half hours before daylight and you think it’s a good idea to ring a damn doorbell and wake people up? 4:30 isn’t exactly prime robbery and rapery time. I think we were gonna be okay until one of us left for work.

• The phone-as-a-hotspot thing is a boon for someone who doesn’t work in an office. I’m online! Wherever I go! Mostly! (Don't forget I live in Northern Nevada where in some places because it's so remote we actually use carrier pigeons.)

• Usually I keep Soph’s coat really short. Yorkies have hair not fur and I don’t want her hair to get tangled and matted. But when I took her in to be groomed this weekend I told Brandi to keep her long and just trim around her eyes and paws. She looks like a lil’ ewok when her hair starts getting long. It’s a fun change, and now Dustin won’t see her with the short, short cut and say in his special, reserved-for-dogs-under-7-pounds-voice, “Sophelia where did your hair go? Who made you look so ugly?

• On the afternoon of January 5th I got to pet a live raccoon. He was on a leash and when I reached out to touch his surprisingly soft coat he came up on his hind legs and put his charmingly creepy raccoon hands on my knees. “Oh, I’m so sorry! He’s getting your nice slacks dirty,” the handler said and pulled him back. “My pants look better with raccoon handprints on them,” I told her. And then I texted Jim, “I got to pet a raccoon. This is going to be a good year.”

• On Saturday while I was at yoga training Jim and Katelynn spent the day up at Heavenly in South Lake skiing in what little snow we’ve got right now. Just the two of them, a little daddy/daughter date. Lucky Katelynn. Still, as an adult, daddy/daughter dates are the best. Even if it’s just down to Sonic to get a soda I relish the time that I get my pa to myself. Cute as can be, these two had a great day:

I recognize the relationship that Jim has with his adult daughter. It’s like what I’ve got with my dad, which is a good, good thing. We love having Katelynn and her husband over whenever we can. My dad (and my mom!) feel that way too, especially now that they have a son-in-law they respect and know adores their daughter. We see that in Nathaniel. He adores Katelynn and has her very best interests in mind. He’ll protect her from distress in any way he can. We love that. Katelynn trusts her dad. As a daughter with a dad I love and respect and admire and trust and all the good things, I love seeing Jim and Katelynn get to enjoy that same fulfilling relationship.

• Saturday evening we spent with Jim’s other adult kid. Dustin turned on a documentary about Ed Templeton, an influential skater and artist—in fact, there’s some of his work printed permanently on Dustin’s body. Both Jim and I were enraptured. Skate language is basically not English and I love learning about that world. Saturday night my dreams were about Ed Templeton and his wife, Deanna, and then all day Sunday I had the song “Mr. Templeton” in my head and I was thinking about the rat in Charlotte’s Web.

• During the documentary Jim and Dustin sprawled on the sectional and I lay spread eagle on the fluffy shag rug on the floor. I wore my long puffy down coat, yoga clothes from earlier in the day, and my gray Sorel boots. I looked like a cartoon. For Christmas Jim got me the cutest snow boots in the history of Ever and sometimes I have to wear them around the house because the weather is too nice for snow gear and the boots are too perfect to just gather dust in my closet.

• Whenever I finish an audiobook and the recording says, “Audible hopes you have enjoyed this presentation,” I reply, “I have! I really have! Thank you!”

• I admit this with a certain amount of shame . . . I say kill all the coyotes, hawks, and owls. I am a vegetarian because I love animals. The animal that made me this way is my small dog Sophie. I love her more than anything else not human and more than nearly all humans. There are coyotes behind our house. There are hawks that fly over the yard. I sometimes hear owls at night. And I hate all of them. My creature is tiny enough to be stolen by those big predator birds and nasty coyotes. That happens around here. I like my critter more than I want them saved. I know how bad that sounds, but she is my person. 

I suddenly love beets. I credit my spiralizer. This super simple recipe in particular. Now I’m trying to learn more ways to prepare beets. I so far prefer the golden beets merely for the fact that they don’t stain my hands. (No, I'm not going to wear gloves.) When we stopped by Whole Foods after yoga yesterday to stock up on beets—and Halo Top!—Jim put the root vegetables in our cart and asked me what they taste like. “The ground,” I replied. That night Dustin took a bite of my beet dinner and said, “It tastes like dirt.” Yes, I agree. But sophisticated dirt.