O, Kain Na! (Let's eat!)

My Facebook posting of steamed saluyot and other veggies got so many responses and it makes me smile every time I imagine its smell and texture.  We Filipinos love to eat and cook and whether we are still in the islands or away, we feel a certain emotion, a longing for the simple dishes that evoke memories of the beauty and bounty of the rural areas of the beautiful Philippines.

I was born in the Central Plains of Luzon. My late father was Ilocano but I was not sure that he was as authentic as what my friend Muriel would  call “GI” (Genuine Ilocano).  He was not from the Ilocos region but he spoke Ilocano fluently and he was so frugal it seemed to pain him to easily give me money for a toothbrush. He would say, “Your mother has a brush she uses for her toenails. Go borrow that and use it on your teeth.” I did not know that he was playing with me.  My mother was born in Muñoz, Nueva Ecija to a landowner named Don Joaquin but that is another story. She loved my Dad and she cooked his food and fed it to us and we loved every morsel of it. 

One of the most beloved dishes of the Ilocanos is known to me as “bulanglang.”  The Manilans call it “diningding” and my father would call it “inabraw.” In its simplest form, inabraw is cooked with whatever vegetable is available from the family’s garden or from the seasonal harvest of the region.  When I moved to the United States, I longed for the bulanglang of my childhood.  I would use broccoli as a substitute, pretending that they are the little heart shaped green blossoms, “pusu-pusuan,” that my Mother would harvest from the “bakood.” (These blossoms are called "loroco" in Central America; they use it make pupusas revueltas, available in Latin stores). My mother would also harvest wild jicama “singkamas” tops and pods and make "abraw" with the young leaves and pods and wild mushrooms.  Andrew Zimmern would have been proud!

More than thirty five years of living in the USA, it is not unusual to see winged beans (sigarillas),  amargoso (bitter mellon),  heirloom tomatoes (kulda),  long string beans (sitaw) among others in Asian stores. However, the jute (saluyot) so loved by the Ilocanos and the majority of Pampangueños and Nueva Ecijanos still remain exotic and unubiquitous. 

Manila-born and raised friends might have at some point tried it but did not  become  saluyot  aficionados.  You see, it is an acquired taste.  It becomes slimy when cooked that some people mistakenly call it okra leaves. Nothing could be farther from the truth. However, I discovered that okra makes a good filler when the jute leaves are not plentiful.

 Let me share with you my Fil-Am version of saluyot -bulanglang recipe. "tantiyahan" (al calculo).  Here it is:

 Ingridients and how-to:

1.     Kiss and hug the friend who grows saluyot   in his/her garden, and offers you some. 

2.     If above is not possible, befriend someone who does.

3.     If none of the above is true, go to a Filipino or Mediterranean-Arab store to buy it.  Arabs love saluyot like we do but they cook it with meat. 

4.   At least one Japanese eggplant; nothing exotic about it, it is the type we grew up eating; it comes in purple or white.

5.     Buy some okra for fillers. You know that your eyes are bigger than your tummy.

6.     A fish to grill. I prefer Spanish mackerel or Millkfish

7.     Optional: Stock a bottle of fish bagoong (Dagupan, Balayan, Vietnamese- the same ingredients, the same pungent smell)

8.     Optional: a slice of lemon or lime

9.     Steamed Rice, a whole huwataw (big bowl) of it

10.     The flavor will be enhanced by your excitement, seriously.

Sprinkle the fish with sea salt, kosher salt or Salt Sense – grill it or broil  it for those who do not own a grill.  Put the deliciously smelling grilled fish in the bottom of a pot. Submerge it with one half to a cup of water. Use your common sense, this is not sinigang or nilaga.  If you put too much water, you might have to dive for the fish to find it in the pot. Bring it to a boil.

While waiting for the fish/water to boil, wash the veggies and cut the eggplant lengthwise, no other shape will be as exotic and be graded an “A.”  As the fish starts boiling in the pot, lay the eggplants over it, spreading it gently ( to avoid being burned, and for nothing else).  Then spread the jute leaves over it.  Lay the okra over it.  To those who are closet OCD (obsessive compulsive disorder) sufferers, I know what you are thinking, “This is not diningding if I do not add the bagoong!” So add a tiny little bit and pray you do not have a high blood pressure the next day. If you wake up with stiff fingers, you overdid it, i-jot! (idiot in my Ilocano speak) so drink a lot of water with the left over lime/lemon juice.

Simmer and keep opening the lid- Ok lang.  Hey, we all do it because we are so impatient and so hungry for the beautiful savory simple dish.  Serve with a huwataw  steamed rice and a little bagoong in a sauce dish.

Tip:  If you want an awesome experience, eat it “kamayan” style and if you like, you should put your other foot on the seat of your chair, much like what the peasants do when they eat sitting on the floor using a low table (dulang). 

Caution: Do this only with your best friend who will not call you “lumpen” or “pisante” while he or she is doing the same thing or do it only if you are eating alone and happy that you do not have to share your diningding with anyone. 

It is okay if your “subo” is as big a kitten’s head (kasinglaki ng ulo ng pusa –your Mom would have decked you on the head, “Hoy, namumuwalan ka, kasing laki ng ulo ng pusa, mahihirinan ka!) while at the same time, she is quietly pleased that you love what she prepared for you.

To be on the safe side, eat with a ripe banana on the side just in case you do a Mama Cass.  Kain na!

 Alay ko sa aking mga kaibigan at ka-pamilya na kaugnay ko sa kasaysayan! Naimas 'dyay!

My tesoro is your bizarro....

I went to a estate sale for the first time yesterday.  The house, by any standard, is huge, and has a lot of character. It also contains a hodge-podge of everything from Southeast Asian artwork, American landscapes, French provincial and contemporary furniture, Victorian and contemporary lamps, batik fabrics, Chinese soup bowls, and Moroccan lamp tables, Brass floor candle holders, an Amish bench, a church pew, a European street scene on canvas, a wooden camel, worn out carpets and tired oils on canvas, among other things. An Asian looking man in his early fifties smiled at us when we got there. After viewing the predominance of Southeast Asia inside the house, we concluded that he must be the son of the departed owners of the mansion.

As I fingered a folded batik on a table, an Indian or Pakistani garden print on the wall caught my eye.  There was a beautiful carved wooden table somewhere.  As I examined the patterns on the fabric, my thoughts went to the faceless lady of the house who probably hosted teas with savory stories and sweets in this parlor.  Did she laugh with her friends while retelling the precise time and place when she bought the artwork in a bazaar in some exotic and peaceful town in Pakistan? Did she bat her eyelashes and cast a glance with her kohl eyes at the uptight rug dealer to get the best deal or did her husband surprise her with it?  Was her marriage arranged - I am sure it was.  He must be very successful, the house spoke for itself.   Did her husband buy those saris?  Which sari was she wearing at her last party, was it the marigold one on the hanger and is the red with gold frill the sari she wore at her wedding? 

In the living room was a huge Indian Swing, with hand painted columns and romanticized carved birds at their feet. The seat is a ‘love seat’ made of wood, probably painted teak.  It is “in your face” and I did not feel passionate about owning such gaudiness at a cost of $2,000.  This was the reason why we came but I came away with an unexplained disinterest towards it. 

A great number of people came to pick over the things that were once held dear by its owners, room after room.  I bought four soup bowls, the garden scene print and the day before, my HB who stopped there on the way to buy bottled water, brought home a mobile to add to my collection of Balinese flying mermaids. We paid less than $30 for our part of the faceless lady and gentleman’s treasures.  Whenever we haggled for a discount, one of the ladies who looked straight from Antique Roadshow would gently say, in a hushed voice normally reserved for church or funeral parlor, “She will not accept anything lower than…”

I started to wonder if they were referring to the departed; I mean who was this “she?” Were they contacting the owner from the dead via Text or IM?  Departed says, “I don’t want to sell that sauce pan for anything less than $5. That's my favorite curry sauce pan, do you know how many pounds of coriander and cumin I stirred in it?”  “He wants to pay only $25 for that chair? That was an antique made-to-order in Karachi (or Bombay). Nothing less than $55!”  Anyway, most of the things in there were in my opinion, junk.  I surmised that their heirs already took the creme de la creme of what was left, and rightly so. What we were seeing are just the left overs soon to be hauled by dump trucks or Goodwill.

We went through the house, up and down and all over again, discussing what we are willing to pay for the swing should no one buy it,  deciding further that we were operating under the proposition that we do not need it. Furthermore, I categorically do not like it  two thousand dollars.  I then started to run a mental note of the things we have accumulated through the years.  In the same manner that I was speculating on the tastes and lives of the previous owners of the variety of things I just went through, it occurred to me that someday, my personal properties will be subject to the same judgment that I was passing.

When my HB and I moved into our house, I was very opinionated about interior décor, always calling upon my theater experience and throwing it near, not “at” his face.  His collection was part of a previous  division of property from a dissolved marriage, whereas mine was fueled by being single and uncompromising with what I liked.  His collection or taste in that matter was clearly the “ying” to my “hugely yang.”  Winter to my summer.  Salt to my Saffron.

Between us, he was more accommodating of  my  Balinese dance masks, flying mermaids, wooden Thai folk art, sari materials, etc.  I, on the other hand, was unabashedly critical of the drab, gloomy winter scenes, charcoal depictions of animals in a wintry landscape, and  water color painting of a barn on a New England melancholy day. I reel like taking Prozac just looking at them.

One day, I was quietly reading a book in our deck facing the woods and a pathway to the tennis court. Directly behind me was our living room where we had hung a metal rod to hang my Balinese winged mermaids from Indonesia.  One can look up from the pathway and see the ceiling of our living room. All of a sudden, I heard some voices.  “Look at the bizarre stuff hanging in those people’s house!”  I was taken by surprise and without making them see me, I retorted, “That’s Indonesian artwork! Get a passport and see the world so you don’t stay ignorant!”   

I also remember when my son was just a toddler.  I sat him down to eat lunch. He was facing away from the wall but he could see a huge mirror in the living room opposite him. I noticed that his face was just an inch away from his plate so I asked him why he  had his face down. Without saying a word, he put his tiny arm behind him, tiny forefinger pointing to a mask behind him. It apparently scares him as it stared from him on the mirror. I carried him on my waist,  took him to the mask and I slapped it hard while telling him, “See, it is not real, it is a mask, it is made of wood and YOU are the boss of the mask.  Go slap it!”  Say “I’m the boss!”  We kept slapping each one of the dance masks we owned and he was comfortable after that. He kept saying, “You are not the boss of me.  You are fired!” as we went around the apartment slapping each mask.    

Then a year or so ago, a pizza delivery man caught a glance of the inside of my house. He got all excited, “This is like home! Your house is like home!”  I invited him in and I made him breathe it all in.  He’s Burmese.  I pointed to our Burmese puppets and he was very delighted, smiling from ear to ear.  “Thank you for showing me.  Remind me of home”.

Just a week ago,  my third-grade niece was visiting us with her family. After she used our powder room she proclaimed, “There were so many eyes looking at me while I peed!” 

After the estate sale yesterday, HB left for an out- of- state trip.  Alone in the house, I started to think of what history my stuff tells?  I cleaned out my kitchen cabinets lest my estate sale buyers think I have a compulsive disorder collecting can openers, bottle openers, corkscrew – really why do we have at least 8?  I organized my wooden spatulas and discarded the distended Rubbermaid rubber ones.  Heck, I even threw away ten-year old bottles of paprika and cumin. Does it say something about me as a cook?

I went to the pantry and organized the tonic water bottles, pesto jars, boxes of Splenda, sugar bags as hard as the pavement of K Street Washington, DC,  flat soda water, tempura mix. I have  minimalized my drawers of pearls and costume jewelry by giving some to my nieces last week.  But what about my college notes, my term papers- who cares about those?  I decided that I would pitch them too. If a college kid leafs through them, he/she can use those term papers to get a good grade, yeah! And hopefully get expelled for plagiarizing as those were submitted once before through a website that checks for plagiarized materials.  Ok, back to the matter of my artifacts.

My heirs get to donate my prized wall art  to the Museum of Pensacola, Florida. I once saw its poster at the airport and it has a Garuda on it, so I am sure they have a Southeast Asian wing and it will be nice to immortalize the work of an unknown Balinese artist.  It depicts a wedding procession and by destiny, I ended up buying it twenty years or so ago, not knowing it was prophetic of what was going to happen in my life.

I told my friend Richard that I became sad after going to the estate sale and wondered if my feelings were appropriate and he said it succinctly, “It is really sad to go to an estate sale because you are looking at people’s history…”

I hope someday, when my turn comes,  that people would catch the happy vibe and the energy in my junk.  “Look at this mermaid with a double DD bra size and she is topless! Look at the brown tabby kissing the black one – they will never know that it represents my beloved cat  that passed away, giving a kiss to his brother.  The black cat wears a tag, which only became known to me when I got it home, that says “Bermuda.” Since that day,  I took it to mean that my departed cat is trying to make me  know that I should just think how happy he is enjoying the surf, sand, and sun of Bermuda.  That’s my way of putting a positive slant on everything sad or stressful when I could. I hope they will say, "Whoever was in here had a full happy life, I can almost hear her laughing."  I hope this is not anytime soon. I love life so much I fear dying.

But just the other night, I heard a quote from an unnamed source:  “The beauty of life is that it cannot go on forever. This makes us live it to the fullest each day even more.”   Amen.

Year 2042:

“Look at this mask…bizarro… How much do they want for it - $35? Seriously? But you know, it is different!“

-She won’t accept anything less than $18, says the lady in pumps and pearls, straight from Central Casting.

I will be hovering above, feigning being offended: "Hey, get yourself a passport and let us see if you can buy it cheaper in Denpasar!"

"Dude, you got THE look!"

Letter of Gratitude to my Son, who constantly teaches me a lesson on unconditional love, endless surprises, and laughter, per RX by Dr. Richard Carlson, Author.  “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff….and it is all small stuff.

Last Week at a late lunch meet:

“Hey Mom, I was called for a group interview to work at this most awesome clothing hipster store in G-town.”

-Cool! What did they ask you?

“All kinds of stuff, and  there was this  annoying girl who  kept interrupting the interview. Like the manager asked me if I can close some nights and this girl said, “I can because I live nearby.” I thought maybe I bombed  because I waited until she is done with the answers to questions posed to me. And you know I did not have any clothing retail experience but I told them I will learn.  So I just waited until she is done telling the Manager about herself then I spoke. 

-That is nice that you gave her a chance to hang herself.

Aside:  I would have slapped the idiot bitch. (Primal  Parenting)

Four days ago:

“Mom, I got called back for a one-on-one and it looks like I have  an 85% chance. They want me to come back for a photo session on Monday.”

-For an ID perhaps?

“No, to make sure I have the looks, you know, the look that they want! The CEO is picky how his employees look”

-Interesting…but what about the annoying hijacker?

“Oh the Manager did not like her, I was told.  She  said I was very professional and that I was honest to tell her about my transportation issues.

-Who told you this?

“There were some guys working in the store who told me.”

-Oh, you have connections?

“No but this one girl,  she saw me there and put in a good word for me.  She said the Manager also liked my look.”

-Oooooh.

“After my interview, I met up with my former coworkers at K Street.  Mom, listen. “  They said, “What in the hell, where've you been dressed up like THAT?” I told them where and they said, “Dude,  they had better hire you! You got their look!”

This is the look: Bright squash goldish/yellowish skinny jeans, button down shirt that shows off the a svelte twenty year old ABS(beer belly in the distant future), expensive leather loafers, sky- blue socks, sky blue thin necktie, eyeglasses. 

My heart stopped as I imagined "the look" then I  gave him a high five,  -Dude, they had better hire you! You got THE look!

Two days ago:

“Hey Mom, I got the job!”

-That is excellent! Congratulations!

We and his extended family went to dinner to celebrate.  His teen-aged cousins were excited. "We like that store! Cool!"

Parenting Note:  My kid told me later on the drive home, “Mom, getting through the interview and being able to pass it and be chosen made me feel that I am OK, that there is something about me they liked and I feel validated.

That tugged at my heart. His generation was often told that they are doing an “excellent job” for an above average result and “super  job” for a mediocre job.  When these kids go out in the world, they are finding that they are no longer the superstars they believed they were when they were being coddled  at school and at home.

 As parents, we try to keep our children grounded so we tend to raise the bar higher and they get confused because their self-worth was tied to all the “Super!” “Excellent!” stickers and marks they got from  school to camp to the video game they play.    We dole out tough love and tell them that they still have lots of room to grow and develop and improve.  Sometimes, that means telling   them NO.  

His charisma worked once again.  I am confident that someday the “look” will be more conservative with just a flash of trendiness.   I am glad that he is finding his way, one hiccup at a time, and when he does, he feels he can share it with me, good or bad.  "My job is to put you back in the right path when you detour off your route."

Oh before I forget - the girl who gave a good word for him – she and he are hanging out to dinner  at the end of the week.

“Mom, do you have a recommendation for some cheap eats in China Town?

Nice to know his Mom’s recommendations still count in a major way, no less.   

"Are those yours?" - I paid for them. They're mine now!

I went to the spa on the day before I took my vacation a month ago. On the way out, I saw a little ad they have for eyelash extension and my curiosity got the best of me.  I asked if they could do it for me.  “Do you want the $95 or the $50?” 

-What is the difference between them?   The Vietnamese spa owner spoke at length while I nodded and agreed.  The truth is that I did not understand any thing she said.  I think that based upon what I was willing to pay, they can make me look like a show girl and the other will make me look like the emcee.

“Maria will do it for you,” she said.

I followed Maria and I told her, -Look, I do not want to look like Las Vegas.  I will pay the $50 for $5 worth of lashes, ok. Not too much, not too long.

“Yes, I will put short, don’t worry. $50 look $5.  I don't understand.”

-Just put less than 25 lashes on each eye.

She frowns, "Okay, $50 not put too much. Natural."

-Deal.

She put adhesive on my lower eyelids gently and then she  proceeded to perform surgery.  It felt like a combination of super glue, jalapeno pepper, and lemon juice being rubbed on my eyelid, with some escaping into my eye.  I felt like literally ripping off the darn things. I felt itchy like a group of fire ants were feasting on my whole body.  I kept scratching away the imaginary ants off my arms.  I wanted to strangle Maria.  I fantasized stabbing the bitch.  Instead, whenever I’d get a chance, I would shake my hands as though I was trying to get the ants off them and then I would start making weird noises.  Maria would stop and let me do my combination hyena-goat in agony sound and then she would go back into her sadistic lash extension job.

It took over half an hour of what seemed like eternity.  Maria handed me a mirror and I looked at my bloodshot eyes with lashes that extended from Los Angeles, California, to Washington, DC with a lay over in Atlanta, Georgia. I looked like Mary’s little lamb with my long upturned lashes.  It started to itch so I rubbed my right eye and one of the lashes fell. She said, “Oh, no don’t do that. I put it back.” I held the mirror  between my face and hers.  -No. Uh-uh.  No way. I don’t want it.  It is okay.  I will kill you if you touch me. Stop right there!

She smiled.  “Okay, if you careful, it last a month.”

-I am going to the beach. I am going to snorkel. Will this stay?”

“Oh, only a little bit water, ok? No too much water, ok? You need careful, ok?”

-Ok.  

I slept with my thick lashed lamb's eyes. I was pleased to see that nothing came off the next day.  If I can only hold off until the first formal dinner during the cruise, I will be okay.

Later in the day,  on our way to New York where we would stay the night and board our cruise ship the next day, my husband (HB) turned to me and said, “Wow, your eyelashes are amazing.  Did you start using Latisse again?”

“I did. Are they amazing or what?”  I lied and I touched my nose lightly to make sure it did not grow long.

“They are nice and long!”

If only he knew how miserable I felt  at that moment. But for the $50   and $15 tip I paid for these lashes the previous day,  I would have pulled them all off.  They were annoying.  They’re hampering my view. I felt like I was seeing the world through a layer of tulle petticoat that was starched stiff.    I could see their ends and my eyes looked so overly dramatic I  swear I felt like doing some damage on the floor with flamenco stomps and click my castanets at any moment. But at the same time, I kept checking them out when I go to the ladies’ room to make sure that they are still attached to my eyelid.  I was so much into my lie, I did not have the heart to admit to HB that I was vain enough to glue caterpillars on my eyes. Well, they felt that way.

Wow! My eyelashes survived two Broadway plays and meals in Manhattan. I started to feel quite  special. I cannot believe my good fortune of walking about the Big Apple with long awesome eyelashes like it was no one’s business.  I even started to take them for granted when I was not busy checking them out and gently touching them to make sure they have not flown into some wuthering heights!  We boarded the ship.  Two wonderful nights later, we arrived in Bermuda and my lash adventure started in earnest.

We went snorkeling the morning before the formals and I swear I must have freaked out the little fishes with my eyes magnified through my snorkel.  However, I am sure the anchovies were not as traumatized as much as  by the lashes of the young Russian wife with two kids from New Jersey.  She must have paid $200 for hers because those extensions looked like a shoe brush that was dipped in solid shoe polish, but this is not her story.  Oy vey! “How heavy was hers?  How could she even see through those?    

When we got back to the ship, the first thing I checked when HB went to take a shower was whether my lashes were still intact.  I felt something featherly traveling on my face, tickling me lightly only to realize that a few strands from the right eye were falling.  Uh-oh!   I turned on the magnifying mirror’s light and gently plucked some from the left and as I did so, HB came out of the shower.

“Why are you pulling your eyelashes?” “Wait, are those FAKE?”

I started laughing.  –Yes, you did not know?

“No they look natural, actually. Don’t pull them.”

-It is driving me crazy.

“Just let them fall naturally.”

I felt liberated being able to pull some strands but I had this weird feeling that I would end up without any left so I was thinking fast. Crap!  -Is there a pharmacy we can go to?

“Tomorrow. What do you need?”

-Nothing just wondering if I can buy some hair color to touch up my grey.  (Grey hair my foot!) Actually, I need to find me some mascara fast just in case.

“You have to wait until tomorrow.  Black and white photo sittings will be day after tomorrow.

-Okay,  I guess I can wait.

The way it went down that night was that I looked like I was suffering from some disorder where I pulled some of my lashes and left two on the left and 3.5 on the right. Is it better to be judged insane or shy?  Insane for pulling eyelashes, shy for averting eye contact.  Oh well... 

The next day, I bought some mascara at some exorbitant Bermuda price and that night, I applied it over and over again over my own puny lashes and whatever is left of Mary’s little lamb’s lashes.

The next day, I could only see one or two and three lash extensions attached on each eyelid.  The .5 that was on the right eye a night before went missing in action.  It was a moment of truth.  That night, I had some black and white photos taken. I was my true self once again—I felt totally weird without my awesome extensions.   I only wished it lasted a month so that I would have felt  right about pulling them on the 23^rd day versus the 3^rd!

I came back to the mainland promising I would never do it again but I was temporarily obsessed with them. I went back to Maria and she gave me a new set of 7 lashes on each eye. 

“Only seven each eye?  Is only $5 discount, pay $45, and maybe won’t be nice!”

-We never know, just work with me Maria.

She did her nasty job.  This time it only took her less than  fifteen minutes.  Less than a week later, the darn things were all gone.  Back to Maria.

-Maria, let’s do 15 each.

“Hmmm. Fifteen.  I think good. I think good for fifteen!”

-Let’s do it.

She does her dirty work.

- Oh my God Maria, when are you going to be done?  Enough already!

“Just a one minute – just relax. I do pretty for you.

When I came out, I was looking terrific.  The next day was a working day so I went to work all excited.  An assistant came in and did a double take.  “What mascara are you using? Are those yours?”

-I paid for them.  They're mine now! 

After lunch, at exactly 2pm, less than 24 hours after Maria did her ghastly job, I went to freshen up and when I looked up, I saw some dark insect crawling on my eye. I brushed it and out came a whole row of eyelash extensions.  Are you kidding me?  I just paid a lot of money for this the day before. I laughed so hard, I thought I would toot right there in front of the cleaning lady. 

“Que pasa?”

-No hay nada mas que las pestañitas, chica, se las postizas y mira se caeron todos!

“En serio? Jajajaja! Oh my God” says the Guatemalteca.

Enough of this foolishness, I said to myself.

That night, I unceremoniously rubbed Vitamin E on my eyelids and started pulling the rest of the beautiful plastic lashes on both eyes.  I emancipated my lashes.  I even allowed myself to roll my eyes at the reflection on the mirror.

Mee-hee-hee-hee, says the poor  little lamb back at me.

Oh yeah, I got moves like Mick Juggler -

I enrolled in a jazzercise class a month or so ago.  I wanted to get my inner dancer out of the attic.  It has been thirty years since I have danced with my Fil-Am dance troupe and during that time, I was limber and definitely nimble.  I decided to go back to revisit my “performing arts” past and jazzercise offered an opportunity to see if I can still tell my left from my right.  I also want to have some workout while pretending to dance so I thought jazzercise would be it for me.  I have two instructors, both of whom are good. They alternate teaching the class. 

I prefer the older instructor named Kate; she is graceful and mellow and I like that she is fifty-something. She understands my body and mind’s limitations.  My body is limited by the movement it can make without having to take Ibuprofen while the mind is limited by my ability to focus and contain my attention deficit disorder. Furthermore, I have an unbearable inability to stop myself from grinning silly through the misery of figuring out what I should be doing!  Kate is patient and will actually show in slow motion what her feet are doing.

The younger instructor, Abigail  is the type that downs five energy bars and a large double espresso for breakfast. She is flying off the floor and bouncing off the wall.  She talks to no one and she asks hypothetical questions like “Oh yeah,  this is a great song, right?”  “I am over you! Oh yeah! It is going to be a great day, RIGHT???,” If one of the ladies answers, she ignores her.  I do not bother having any interaction. I am always too busy being amused by the whole thing.  She will be screaming into her portable mike, like we are all wearing hearing aids.  Then she does a move that only she and J.Lo can do and we all scramble to follow. Then she yells, "Ok, for those who want to do low impact, you just march in place! Step, step, step!” The  majority of the class start marching like soldiers from Korea. Some from the North and the others from the South, and as we march, we watch Abigail do her amazing footwork. We wait for our brains to communicate to our feet to do whatever it can do on their own.  And we actually pay money to do this for an hour every Sunday.

For some reason, I ended up working out next to a “Real Housewife of Chevy Chase, MD”.  She wears the skin tight work out outfits. None of those elastic waistline shorts worn with a shirt that says "I am not Dead Yet"  over an old pair of leggings.  She has lips that have been supersized with collagen shots, she looks like a trout; her hairline is high from her Joan Rivers, and her botoxed eyebrows arch like twin  rainbows.  She looks like she is eternally shocked.  I cannot keep my peripheral vision off this lady, not because of her looks but because she "weirds" me, as the Generation millenium would say. 

To wit, whenever we are doing a tango move, she would be doing a cha-cha-cha.  So if the instructor would call out a plié, the trout would be hopping up and down with her buttock sticking out and up in the process while she shouts “Whoa!”  We would do a chase and she would be lifting her weights in place while yelling, “Wohoo!”  Go figure. She honestly has this aura that she is the hottest gal in the class.  That should make me feel good to be in her perimeter--I can use some radiation of hotness.  The Paris Hilton type. 

This last weekend in particular, I am sure she had been watching the Olympics because, I kid you not, when we did our floor exercises, she was doing a split. She did this while she looked bored at us mortals around her, like she was surprised that she was the only one doing a split. I on the other hand, next to this split trout, felt like a dejected Mustafania something or other--you know, the sullen looking Russian gymnast who was bested by Gabby Douglas. 

Then, Abigail, bouncing off the floor, kept hopping like a battery operated bunny, turning the music volume up, talking to no one in particular, her eyes never meeting ours but egging us on, “Y’all look hot ladies!  You should see yourself from where I am! Whoa! Do it, and four, three, two, one! Come on!! This is from Rock of the Ages and you... are... looking hot!!”

SERIOUSLY?

Listen Abigail, you are bullshitting.  I love you!  Because the truth is there are about 15 women having hot flashes, A-D-D, and bone loss in this class.  I have an idea of what you are seeing:

A trout doing a split on the yoga mat; the tall skinny lady who wears a Forever 21 short shorts but could not follow any of the steps, she makes Kate Gossling look like a prima ballerina; the older lady who is hard of hearing, asking me, “Did it say we move like milk juggler-- what?” Oh dear Gawd.  “No, 'it is moves like Jagger. Mick Jagger.”'  “Ooooh…,” or the lady who strikes  yoga poses instead when we do our mat exercises then holds a full conversation with the trout; and the young dynamo who gets all the moves but seems out of place until one realizes she is the teacher’s assistant. Then there’s me, with a smile plastered on my face because of the dark comedy I am now a part of, and loving it. 

And, oh yeah, oh yeah,  I got moves like Mick Juggler!!

stock photos www, accessed 08/06/12