Kale Phone

Kale Phone

Wednesday, 8 April 2015

The part that searches

Tuesday, April 2, 2015

I will miss the wind in Halifax. Outside it always sounds like something is going on and I don’t need to anything about it. I remember meditating in the church at the Montessori school and the wind was always crackling the wooden a-frame ceiling. The last couple of times I’ve worked at the Montessori school, during my breaks, instead of meditating, I just lay down on the floor of the church sanctuary, beside the pews. Sometimes I would fall asleep and sometimes I would stare at the wooden ceiling and think about all the trees it took to build the church and all the people who had come to worship with their families, their people. Even though I was so exhausted, I was lucky to have had that time at the Montessori School. It made my life really structured and I was able to put practice at the centre of my life. I am grateful that my practice was given that structure, that focus, despite the fact that it was often too intense and physically harmful. Intention does count for something. Though there have always been delusions, I have always been sincere. I don’t know what I’m looking for, but I have searched with sincerity. I love that part of myself. The part that searches.
The End.


My friends, the rocks on the beach
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
I Let Go
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

You Cling to Things Until They Die
Last Practice before Vipassana
Recycling Day

Tuesday, 31 March 2015


Although I am certainly no expert on what makes for a fabulous LinkedIn Profile, I thought that it might be in my best interest to remove the following paragraph from my summary section:

Excellent Speller:  Yes. When I was in grade one, Mrs. Vanden Bosch gave me a jujube every time I got a perfect spelling test.  My mother made me store them in a plastic bag because she didn't want me to eat jujubes every day.  By the end of the year, I had 47 jujubes.  Mrs. Vanden Bosch said that in total, I only made eight errors.  I ate all the jujubes during the year-end movie party.  We watched Rescuers Down Under, Duck Tales, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks. All I can remember is the slow accumulation of jujube acid on the inside of my cheeks.  Then my tongue went numb.  Mrs. Vanden Bosch skipped me into grade three.  Now I have Gifted Child Syndrome, and I never ever make spelling mistakes. 


At the Freak Lunchbox, Halifax’s favourite candy store, they sell chocolate covered jujubes in bulk. The chocolate is not even dark chocolate and it could be hiding a jujube of any colour. Probably it is a terrible to consume even one of these chocolate covered jujubes. And yet somehow, whenever I go to Freak Lunchbox, a handful of these questionable items make their way into my clear plastic candy bag. I only buy a quantity that I feel capable of eating in one go without deeply regretting it. So far I have never regretted any of the jujubes I have eaten. In fact, almost every time, I kind of wish I had bought more. 

Chocolate Covered Jujubes

The End.


Andy is a well-travelled teddy bear who has been to the Freak Lunchbox. I do not know if he likes jujubes. 
Andy, the well-travelled teddy bear
Apparently he had a very nice time in Halifax.
You can read all about it.

Andy lives in Chicago. This is what he looks like up close:

Who is Andy?  From andyeverywhere.com
Here is the bulk section of the Freak Lunchbox:

 Someone's Big Day in Downtown Halifax

Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Buy "I Let Go"
Buy Chocolate Covered Jujubes at The Freak Lunchbox

Back when I offered to Elevate Lululemon and they said no

Mrs. Vanden Bosch and Rumplestiltskin

Job Interviews, Plus Why I am Different from Margaret Atwood and What I Don't Gain from Humping Duvets

Monday, 30 March 2015

Recycling Day

Monday, February 23, 2015

This morning I was vacuuming the living room as the Boatman was getting ready to leave. I turned off the vacuum cleaner so that he could get ready in peace. He kissed me and said I love you. Then I finished  vacuuming. I went upstairs to hump our rolled up duvet. We haven’t had much sex over the past couple of weeks and it is one of my several complaints. After a few minutes of humping, likely less than three, I arrived at my usual orgasm, whatever that means. And then I sobbed.  And I thought that somehow this sobbing orgasm masturbation scene could begin my next excellent book.

Now I am at a coffee shop called the Smiling Goat. In Halifax, they like naming things after goats. The Stubborn Goat. The Smiling Goat. The Smiling Goat has the most expensive coffee in the city. I came here during my first weekend in Halifax. In the Smiling Goat bathroom, on that rainy Saturday, I discovered that my period had arrived. Since I was on a sex trip, this was somewhat inconvenient. Oh well. We managed.

I am drinking my expensive latte and looking out the window. It is garbage day.  Also, recycling day. Some guy parked a recycling truck in front of the café. He looks a little bit like Simon would if Simon were a little bit fatter and a little bit taller. And alive.

I am not particularly good at seeing or describing what people look like. The Boatman says that I have Face Blindness.

The Recycling Guy is shoving long cardboard boxes into the side of the recycling truck. I open my Linked In profile to see if some sort of magnificent opportunity will present itself.
Someone has posted an inspirational message.

“Stay away from negative people. They have a problem for every solution.”

Inspirational Message

This is how I feel. Like none of the solutions will work. This is exactly how I felt before I wrote “I Let Go.” Exactly like this. Terrible.

Now the Recycling Guy is putting a plastic bag filled with bottles and cans into the side of the truck. Another bag is filled with receipts and empty vitamin pill bottles. The recycling truck rocks back and forth.

A man with a comb-over walks into the café. Across the street, a police officer parks his car and gets out. I am not sure what he is doing. He has avoided the comb-over by shaving his head.

I fuck around on the Internet. By the time I look out the window again, the recycling truck and the Recycling Guy are gone.

The End.

Unlabelled Footnotes;

-Making an authentic life and/or self-satisfaction an emergency won’t help you get there any faster.  

-Everyone says that if you don’t know whether or not you’ve had an orgasm, then you haven’t had one. People say the same thing about yeast infections. I’m not really sure if any of that is true.

-Something about being the party pooper that all the Happy, Successful LinkedIn people are struggling desperately to avoid. 

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

I Let Go, All Yours for only $2.99 U.S. or approximately $3.36 Canadian. 

Thursday, 26 March 2015

Yours Til Ekam Inhales

It is hilarious that I wrote a book called, “I Let Go.” In truth I am rather terrible at letting go of most things. These days, writing has been very difficult. When I was eight and nine years old, this never happened. Without an alarm, I used to wake up every morning at exactly 6:30. If the long hand on my Mickey Mouse watch had somehow crept to 6:35, I would be devastated. Life would only be bearable if I woke up at 6:30. But regardless of when I made it out of bed, as soon as I was up, I would walk the dog to the mailbox, where I would mail the letter I had written to my grandparents the morning before. When I got home, I would eat cooked rolled oats slothered in plain yogurt and heaps of brown sugar. Then I would write a brand new letter. Every single day.

My letters always began with,

Dear Grandma and Grandpa, How are you? I am fine. 

My grandparents lived far away in Manitoba. They seemed incredibly ancient. White haired and wrinkled, they spent their days sitting in reclining lazy boy chairs that had remote controls. I think my letter routine began after my grandmother had a stroke. Her name was Olga and she was in her early eighties. My grandfather`s name was Julius and he was almost ninety.

 “It would be nice if you sent Grandma and Grandpa a card or something,” my dad mentioned to me one day.

Never one for moderation, I took up a dedicated daily practice of sending my grandparents all my interesting news .  I told them which songs I was learning on the violin (Variations A, B, C, and D of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, Bach`s Minuet in G, Long Long Ago), how many increments of twenty minutes of practice I had completed that week (at least three per day), and how many beautiful shiny stickers this earned me (several). I told them how many lengths I had done at swim practice, and how this converted into kilometers and miles. Every time I had a swim meet, I would tell them about the ribbons I'd won and how much I`d improved on my old times.  Back then, I was quite a big success. That said, in grade five, I didn`t get a main part in the Christmas concert.

December 21, 1994

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
Hi! How are you? I am fine. I can’t believe it’s almost Christmas! We had a Christmas concert yesterday. I had to be a shepherd. I hated wearing my costume because it was to hot. I wore Dad’s bath robe with a towel on my head.

I remember that bath robe. It was a brown, pukey colour.

Quite often I liked to include jokes.

Why did the thermometer go to university?
Because he wanted to earn his degrees.

What goes Ha! Ha! Ha! Plop!?
Somebody laughing his head off!

Rather humorous. Around the middle of grade five, my letters tapered off. I became very busy maintaining my impeccable reputation in academics, swimming and violin.

April 30, 1995

Dear Grandma and Grandpa,
It’s been a long time! Aunt Barbra gave me this writing paper... Our class is going to have a science fair. I did my project on what music is best for plants (vacuum cleaners).

I liked to sign my letters, “Yours til” followed by something interesting.
Some examples were: “Yours til the dew drops,”
“Yours til the banana splits, ”and
“Yours til the jelly rolls.”

And/or I would write, “Gotta go!” in large letters, always ending with an exclamation mark.
Mostly my endings came out of nowhere, or they occurred because I was running out of space on the paper. I guess I have never been particularly excellent at structure. Out of the letters I have, this is my favourite ending,

Oh yah the last letter I wrote at night. That’s why I said, “Yours til I fall asleep.

Yours til the bubble pops,

Erica S.

I always felt guilty for not keeping up my faithful correspondence. One summer when I was thirteen or fourteen, my grandma burst into tears when we said good-bye.  "What happened to those wonderful letters you used to write?" she cried. This made me feel terrible for a long time. Still, it was quite a delight to stumble over these the other day. Hopefully, I will feel the same way in nineteen years when I look back on this blog, and reminisce about my menstrual blood, my kale phone, and my spiritual pants.  

Big love to everyone's ten year old self. 

Gotta Go!
Yours til Ekam Inhales,


I used my smelly Mr. Sketch markers to decorate the envelopes with beautiful designs and pictures. My artistic skills seemed moderately promising at the time; however, they haven’t improved much. 

Just wanted to say Hi! 

Ecstatic Adventures of the Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook

Twitter: @mypelvicfloor

Saturday, 17 January 2015

Simon Girard (1979-2015)

When I found out Simon killed himself, my face and hands and legs started to shake. I sat down, laughed for a second or two, and then wondered if what I felt was relief. And I thought, “Fuck, Simon. Alcoholic writer kills himself. Could you not have thought of anything more original?”
Simon Girard (1979-2015)
35 years old
This is the first time anyone I’ve fucked has died. It makes for quite the head trip, and I feel very odd.

In the beginning, I was supposed to help Simon translate his book about squirrels and homeless people into English. The first time I visited his apartment, I spent two hours teaching myself how to hula hoop. I invited Simon to the Granola Party I was having that Saturday. At Granola parties, you eat granola, take a quiz about what sort of cereal personality you are and then maybe share some performance art related to this discovery. Simon was concerned that he didn’t have anything to bring to the party because he was really broke. I said to come anyways. He arrived at my door with the hula hoop as his contribution.
As it turns out, granola is not the best buffer for vodka and I didn’t have an excellent alcohol tolerance to begin with. Since my boundaries were not that excellent either, Simon and I ended up naked on the blue biodegradable yoga mat in the spare bedroom. While I was drunk at the granola party, I told Simon that we should write a book of letters together. It could be bilingual. He could write in French, and I’d write back in English.

Within three days, Simon had started the book with a letter about how I’d ejaculated on his face on the blue biodegradable yoga mat. The letter ended with a relatively terrible poem that compared my vagina to a tornado, my phosphorescent ass cheeks to crescent moons and concluded with my tornado vagina making him “wet like the morning.”

I couldn’t remember ejaculating and in the following letter I claimed it didn’t count because I was so drunk. Simon said that it had to count or else he would have to erase all his writing from the last fifteen years.

When I met Simon, he had already published two books. “Dawson Kid,” his first published book was the ninth novel he’d ever finished. It was about a nude dancer named Rose Bourassa who takes up boxing. The day I went to visit him and learned how to houla hoop, Simon gave me a copy of his second novel “Tuer Lamarre.” He signed it and wrote a little note about how we never know what will happen next. Tuer Lamarre was the story of a young child who got molested by her neighbour. It was way too depressing and I didn’t get very far on it. Simon said he didn’t blame me and not to bother persevering. I think maybe Dawson Kid is a better read. He has other books now too.

Me and Simon’s book was called “The Little Savage and the Hermit.” I was the little savage because I threw reckless granola parties and Simon was the hermit because he spent most of his days drinking, writing and running up and down the stairs of his apartment building on Sherbrooke Street.

The process of writing “The Little Savage and the Hermit” involved a great deal of fighting, drunk sex, name calling and vomit. But it was the first time in my life that I felt like a real writer. I got to write whatever I wanted, however I wanted. Although Simon called me a stupid fucking cunt several times, he was a sincere and unapologetic fan of my writing. This made up for something.

The last time I saw Simon we were “working on our book.” “Working on our book” was usually a euphemism for drinking rather early in the day, fighting about commas or other mundane issues, getting drunk, and then having reckless, oblivious sex. We did this for months after we’d broken up. “Never again,” I’d say to myself each time I’d wake up in the morning, a couple of times with vomit on my pillow.

I think I finally cut myself off around May 2011.  A couple of weeks into June, I went to a wedding where I met the Boatman. Now there was definitely no more black-out sex allowed. But Simon and I still had to finish the book.

One morning in July, I went to his apartment at 11:30 a.m. I was sort of wearing a hot dress because I had just had an interview for some contract. At 11:38, Simon started making a White Russian.

“I want one too,” I said.

“Only if you take off your bra.”

“Not fair,” I said. He shook his head and brought his drink to the computer. I took it and stole a sip. Then he slid his hand under the neck of my dress and started pulling at my bra straps.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

I marched out. When I got to my bike, I realized I’d forgotten my seat. Simon took forever to buzz me back in. When I finally got back up to his apartment he was lying naked on his mattress on the floor. The bike seat was draped over his erection. On the top of his right thigh next to his groin, he had a really weird red, blue and green face sort of tattoo that looked a little bit like a clown. His dick was hard as wood. I grabbed the bike seat and left.

Simon’s funeral is next Saturday just outside of Montreal. I don’t think I will go.

Probably Simon would prefer that the last time I saw him, he was lying naked on his bed with a hard-as-wood erection, instead of dead in a coffin.

I moved to Halifax and over email, Simon and I wrote Part Two and Three of the Little Savage and the Hermit. We never revised either part and they are both a bit embarrassing. Part One is a bit embarrassing too, though it was almost going to be published at one point. Oh well. I might be able to find something to salvage.

My days with Simon make me think of that Machiavelli quote, “man should either be caressed or else crushed.” Anything in between and the person you injure will be driven to seek revenge. Over and over again, Simon and I went back and forth between caressing and crushing each other. Our reasons to retaliate ran out a long time ago.

“I forgive you, I’m sorry, I love you, I thank you.” Simon heard about this somewhere, and in our third book, he wrote to me to say he’d been repeating it over and over again, addressing his own ego and the people around him. “For the last week, I’ve been feeling a state of peace I’ve never known,” he said. “And I also feel dead. It’s fantastic.” Unfortunately, most of Simon’s fantastic remedies were short lived. The one thing Simon did remain entirely committed to was writing. Writing was his ultimate redemption. He always said that if you could write something good, it would make up for all the shittiest, dead-inside moments of existence. But for him, even  the writing process was laced with copious amounts of alcohol and self-destruction. I've been re-reading his letters, and his subjects mainly range from wild and compulsive sexual adventures to futility, death and way too much alcohol. Behind his exuberant, over-the-top persona, and his compulsion to find something to laugh about everything, Simon was profoundly depressed. He made tons of jokes about the two times he almost jumped off Jacques-Cartier Bridge in his twenties. Over the past decade, I imagine that he walked through many days, bewildered at the fact that he wasn’t yet dead.
Simon used to say that on his tombstone, he wanted the words, "HEYYYYYYYY! I'M NOT REALLY DEAD!" or else, "Monday morning...  the hell with it, I'm not getting up."

“I forgive you, I’m sorry, I love you, I thank you.” Last week I googled, “My ex killed himself. What should I do?” On one of the forums, some woman wrote, “He came into your life for a reason.” Then there was something about finding meaning in the whole ordeal. Although there’s a reason everything happens, I’m not a big fan of “everything happens for a reason” discourse. I don’t think Simon was either. He attributed not killing himself  those other two times to a couple of chance fluctuations of his mind.
That said, whether or not you write books with them, and whether or not they kill themselves, all of your exes leave you something you’ll keep forever. Simon and I were dicks to each other. Probably we were the worst combination in the world. But that was me and Simon. The Little Savage and the Hermit. “Classic shitty relationship, carried out by geniuses.”

The book is done.

The hermit’s dead.

Dear Simon,
I forgive you, I’m sorry, I love you, I thank you.
And I wish you were still around.
Love, Erica.

The End.

My deepest sympathies to his friends, loved ones, family and parents.

Simon's Obituary and funeral details

His funeral will be held next Saturday, January 24, 2015. Loved ones are welcome from 1 p.m. on, and the funeral starts at 3.

Complexe funéraire LeSieur & Frère,
95 boul Saint-Luc at Saint-Jean-Sur-Richelieur,
J2W 1E2

In Simon's memory, the family would appreciate donations made to Centre de prevention de suicide de Haut-Richelieu (Haut-Richelieu Suicide Prevention Centre)

Simon's Books:

Dawson Kid (Boréal, 2007)
Tuer Lamarre (Leméac, 2009)
Michel Bourget, sauver les vies (400 coups, 2011)
Les Écureuils sont des sans-abris (Coups de tête, 2011)

Article from La Presse: Écrire à tout prix (La Presse, 2012)

"Je vole vers l'astre qui est encore tout éteint et m'attend pour s'enflammer." (Simon)
Simon Says
The Granola Party Cereal Personality Quiz

Monday, 5 January 2015

2014: Year of the Spiritual Pants

2014 was the year of the Spiritual Pants.

Spiritual Pants in Fake Yoga Selfie
On January 1, 2014, I bet the Boatman twenty bucks that I could meditate for one hour without talking or taking a break. And I won.

Around that time, I had the brilliant idea that maybe I should become a nurse because I was obsessed with nursing memoirs, medical shows and diagnosing myself with all sorts of diseases on Google. Also, I thought it would be fun to get to wear purple scrubs and sneakers all day. I was relieved to have finally figured out my life’s purpose. In the meantime, I continued to work at the Montessori School. I had a terrible time getting out the door. The Boatman and I devised an imaginary sticker reward system. For every morning I left for work without a frenzy, the Boatman would give me an imaginary sticker. After a week or two of earning imaginary stickers, maybe I’d get a prize. The system was not super structured. Despite this, sometimes I did win some excellent pens.  The Boatman is good at choosing excellent pens.

I tried my best to be cheerful; however, I felt moderately grumpy most of the time. One night I dreamt that all the children were running around the gym with knives. A particularly adorable little girl had a huge pointy knife which she held up and aimed at my mouth. I was lower than her because I remember I could feel that I was busting my knee cartilage in an extra low hip width squat.

“Put the knife down,” I said.”

The knife stayed hovering about my mouth.

“Put it down,” I said again.
She brought the tip of the knife between my lips. Then I screamed in the night and the Boatman took me into his arms and said it was okay.

One Wednesday morning in real life, two little boys were pulling each other around in the pink and green and blue synthetic tunnel. To distract them from their dangerous game, I said, No, in French and crawled into the tunnel myself.

Wouldn’t this be very fun?

Very Fun.

The younger of the two boys jumped on me and I wacked my chin on the concrete gym floor. I sprung up, pulled myself out of the tunnel and walked away. I said nothing, sure that whatever I said would be yelling or crying, neither an appropriate response for someone in charge of a gym full of kids.

My chin was bleeding and I decided that I had a spinal cord injury. I insisted that my bosses let me go to a walk-in clinic to rule out my imminent paralysis. The doctor gave me a tetanus shot, a band-aid, and asked me to look up at the ceiling and then touch my toes. He said that everything was fine.
I bought my ticket to India in March. My plan to become a nurse did not progress beyond hammering every nurse I met with incessant questions, inhaling every nurse memoir at the Halifax library and watching the entirety of Nurse Jackie Season Six in two worknight evenings.

Nurse Jackie
Although I filled my journals with page after page of endless, relentless angst and complaints, I didn’t get around to finishing many blogs or other pieces of writing. Around the springtime, I considered deleting my entire online output when actor, celebrity and disability-activist Danny Woodburn expressed his horror at a trilogy of articles I had written for comedy website mobtreal.com. The Boatman convinced me otherwise and ultimately I only removed the offending words along with a bunch of pieces that I decided were pretty mediocre anyways. I republished the revised story, “Soul Fucking” and it has made it into the blog's all-time top ten posts.
Danny Woodburn, an actor I met while lifeguarding at the Westin Hotel
in Montreal. His Fan Mail inspired a valuable head trip.
Otherwise, besides a few fluffy posts on birth control and funerals, I didn’t put much out there. This became a constant source of low-level grief, but I hoped that leaving my job and going to India might help such things shift. In June, I hired a new psychologist who I called my Expensive Friend. The main purpose of the sessions was so he could sign a form confirming that I wasn’t too crazy to attend a Vipassana meditation retreat in August. It was my third time applying and I’d always struggled to get the I’m Not Crazy form signed, mostly because I haven’t bothered getting a consistent health care provider in years. In addition to signing the form, I thought that maybe my Expensive Friend could help me with my creativity drought and my bewilderment at how to earn money in a way that didn’t result in despair and devastation. My Expensive Friend was very kind. He gave me some writing assignments, meditation exercises and let me talk as much as I wanted. After several sessions, he said that it was wonderful meeting me but that he wasn’t sure he was helping me achieve my objectives. Perhaps my trip to India would work to clarify some of my issues. He didn’t exactly fire me; however, I feel this is the catchiest way of putting it.
My last couple of months at Montessori were more fun than the previous year and a half since I was allowed to speak English and didn’t have to endure the chronic frustration of not being understood. Before I left, my bosses provided me with a raving letter of reference that was meant for hanging on my fridge. They praised my mopping, composting and toileting skills. My toilet conversation with toddlers and bum-wiping skills are apparently “without parallel.” Hit me up if you struggle in any of these areas.

At the end of August, I flew to Montreal to finally attend my first ten-day Vipassana sit. Almost everyone I know was surprised to learn that I made it through the whole thing without breaking the noble silence rules. I cried more than anyone else there and at one point I thought I wasgoing to dislocate my sacrum and/or get a spinal cord injury. When I was finally allowed to talk, I talked so much and so fast that my throat got sore.  After Vipassana, I got back into sharing my writing again without thinking too much about it or worrying that I wasn’t writing something brilliant and literary like a novel.

Then I went to India. This was my first trip off the continent. It is a magical thing to be able to get on a plane and a day later, arrive in a totally different place where the leaves don’t turn brown and fall off the trees in October. Thanks to everyone who helped invent airplanes, and to the people who took the time to learn how to fly them.

On the plane, I wore the pressure socks that my father lovingly bought me, for fear my legs would swell up on the long flight.
Magical Socks
I arrived in Mysore and reunited with my Cool Friend From Belgium (CFFB) and met several other new friends, many of whom appeared on this blog under the guise of some similarly catchy acronym. My Cool Friend From Belgium and I started a Butt Club because my CFFB was concerned her butt was too flat and was causing problems in her pelvis. Another friend, the Queen of Butt Club (QOBC) was instrumental in leading all two of the Butt Club’s sessions. I will always be grateful to the Queen of Butt Club for this, but even more so for the time she took me downtown to a store that sells the most wonderful pants in the world. I call them Spiritual Pants, and I wore them almost every day in Mysore. They would be perfect for pregnancy, and for a brief period in Mysore, I thought that it would be so beautiful and magical to make a baby inside me. Then I changed my mind.
Sharath wasn’t scary at all. I really liked him and practicing in the shala was extraordinary. For me, it was everything it’s cracked up to be. When I told Sharath that my hip was “popping in and out” (not really, but it sounded like it), he told me, “don’t walk too much.” Lucky for me, everywhere I went in Mysore was about ten minutes apart, and anywhere further my Cool Friend From Belgium usually drove me. The various challenges I had on my left side didn’t magically vanish; however, there was definitely a significant and steady improvement that seems to be continuing on back in Canada even though it’s freezing and I’m walking all over the place.

During Vipassana, I wondered if maybe my body and psyche were maxing out after seven years of unbroken Ashtanga practice. Maybe Mysore would be my grande finale and I could move on to some “easier” yoga involving cushions and a lot of ropes. Pretty sure this won’t happen, and I think I’m going to try and stick out Ashtanga for another seven years or so. We’ll see.

The Boatman thinks I’ve grown up quite a bit since I left. Probably this is true, although I did blog about my pubic hair at least twice in three months and I went on and on about humping various kinds of bedding in approximately every other post. Also, in this picture with Sharath, somehow I look so young.
Me and Sharath, so young
From Mysore, I flew to London to meet the Boatman and his family at an extremely fancy hotel where we weren’t allowed to wear Spiritual Pants, Birkenstocks, or eat with our hands. The hotel was way too fancy for me and the Boatman, but thanks to very detailed instructions from the Boatman’s mother on what to wear at what time, we didn’t cause too much shame to the family.
Of course it was delightful to see the Boatman again. No one is as happy as they look on the internet, except for us.
Deep Love

The End.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
Happy, Exuberant 2015!

Sunday, 14 December 2014

What I Learned in India

So I have less than a week left in the wonderful land of Gokulam, India. Next Sunday in the middle of the night, I’ll be flying to London, England to some extremely fancy hotel where I will celebrate Christmas with the Boatman and his family. Once I get to the hotel, I will not be allowed to wear spiritual pants anymore. I am nervous and afraid. Mostly I am nervous for the “I just got back from India speeches.” The questions are going to be terrible, and my answers even worse.
Farewell to the Spiritual Pants
Luckily, my Friend Who Enjoys Her Anonymity (F-WEHA) has helped me compile several adequate responses, particularly for the Boatman’s mother. In preparation for this trip to London, the Boatman’s mother took me on several massive shopping sprees so I wouldn’t shame the family with my horrible fashion sense. Every single time we went shopping, she asked me, “So, is there something you want to accomplish when you’re in India, or is it just meant to be an experience?” Whether I was trying on underwear, skinny jeans or ballroom gowns, I would eloquently reply, “Um. I think it’s meant to be an experience.” Regardless, when I see her in London, the Boatman’s mother is almost guaranteed to ask me, “So did you achieve what you set out to accomplish in India?”
My first instinct is to respond, No I achieved nothing. I remain exactly the same as when I arrived. I still talk too much and too fast, play with my hair constantly, struggle to prepare meals more complicated than cereal or peanut butter sandwiches, and experience more meltdowns than is probably appropriate for a twenty-nine year old.  But my Friend Who Enjoys Her Anonymity, F-WEHA, kindly assured me that in fact, whilst in India, I have learned many valuable and important lessons that count as accomplishments. Here’s the list, which I will regularly review and rehearse until I see the Boatman’s mother:

1.       Coconut Oil is good for your hair. Since Sharath is an advocate of oil baths, every Sunday I have been rubbing different kinds of oil all over myself, including on my head and hair. As a result, my hair has remained in shiny crunchy curls all week. Perhaps it appears questionably greasy, but I feel it is an improvement from the previously chronic frizz. And I save money on conditioner. Even though it doesn't sound very scientific, rubbing oil into your body coconut and other types of oils also happen to be quite good for your joints, especially if you compliment oil rubbing with lying around all day.

2.       Don’t talk to strangers about their yoga practices. You have a 91% chance of saying the wrong thing at which point the stranger or strangers will bite your head off.

3.       Don’t talk to strangers at all. You have an 89% chance of saying the wrong thing and a 0% chance of ever redeeming yourself. As my Cool Friend From Belgium says, “In Mysore, people get to know each other on a superficial level, but judge each other on a very deep level.” Safer and better to keep your mouth shut.

4.       Don’t google strangers. Either you will end up with an inferiority complex or you will become irreparably traumatized. The Long Lost Cousin I met in Mysore is irreparably traumatized every single time.  Learn from my Long Lost Cousin’s mistakes. Suffering that has not yet happened can be avoided.

5.       All through October, I thought that it would be so wonderful and beautiful to grow a baby/parasite inside of me. For the Boatman’s mother, this would have been the best news ever. One time at the mall, she was feeding me a soft serve Dairy Queen ice cream, when she said, “I’m not pressuring you to have children, but you know, it’s so great for me now. I have three lovely adult children. It’s so much fun” I immediately pointed out to her that not all children become lovely adults, and proceeded with a long list of morbid and/or vulgar and absolutely not fun examples. Then I finished my ice cream. In India, I started experiencing baby cravings for thefirst time since I was an eager adolescent babysitter. But it seems that the closer I get to actually having sex, the less having a child appeals to me. These days it is barely appealing to me at all. Also, last week I read on the internet that if you menstruate on the full moon, it means that you’re not ready to have a kid. Me and the Full Moon are totally in sync and my vagina and the moon are giving me a sign.

The next inevitable question is definitely, “How does it feel to be back? Is it good? Are you happy?”

I am still working on my response. So far all I have come up with, “Well, it’s fabulous to hump your son’s leg as opposed to the ugly polar fleece bedsheets they have in India.” Probably I will need to come up with a better answer, but I am absolutely looking forward to the Boatman’s thigh. And to no more bedsheets.
They are so amazingly ugly.
Seven more days.
The End, except please be sure not to miss this gallery of beautiful photographs of  polar fleece bedsheets around Gokulam:
The Ugly Bedsheet from my Last Apartment
My Creative Intellectual and Astute Canadian also has an ugly bedsheet. I thought it was even uglier than the one from my last apartment but now I can't say. Maybe it is just more photogenic.

And this is the polar fleece bedsheet from my current apartment. I think it is the ugliest. You can buy your own ugly polar fleece bedsheet at Honesty Fashions, on the Gokulam main road.

The turquoise- daisied lime-green duvet. I was a bad duvet mother and left it in the trunk in the basement for three years. The Boatman said the mildew smell was horrendous so we had to put it on the curb.
The turquoise-daisied lime-green duvet was inspiration for

Why I Am Different From Margaret Atwood and What I Don't Gain From Humping Duvets

I decided to put it up on the blog even though the piece is probably horrible for my reputation.
My other inspiration was Margaret Atwood, Maybeline eyeshadow and my Magic Mushrooms Friend.

The End.
Exuberant Bodhisattva on Facebook
Twitter: @mypelvicfloor
I Let Go, which Sharath encouraged us to do in conference this week.
Simon Says
Soul Fucking
Do Not Kill Your Baby