dumpster wars

When I sat down this evening to whip up a little bl*g post, I realized I had nothing. So I turned to the yachtsman and asked what I should write about. His answer?

"Seagull wars, and my jihad, and why I’m on the righteous path."

But of course.

The yachtsman has opened a new front in the dumpster wars: YouTube. But I refuse to post a link to his seven-minute video of seagulls recorded at 5:30 in the morning, because he is now targeting not only the crappy Brazilian restaurant in our lobby, but also the delicious Italian restaurant in our basement, and I want to be able to continue to eat at the latter without finding saliva in my gnocchi.

And really, the yachtsman's tongue is mightier than the sword, the pen, and the online video combined, so I offer you a few of his recent war-room comments:

"What do you think of me setting up a 24/7 surveillance for that back alley? I’m only half being not serious."

"Did you hear the garbage trucks at 3:15 this morning? 3:15. I’m going to booby trap the whole area down there. It’s going to be like Da Nang. I’m going to light up the sky."

YACHTSMAN: Victory is mine.
ME: It is?
YACHTSMAN: Victory is in the eye of the beholder.

as far as i know, there have not yet been any casualties

The Yachtman asked that I post this picture and call the post "dumpster wars." I'm not sure who, exactly, is at war, though I know it involves the dumpster in the parking lot behind our building, the crappy Brazilian restaurant in our lobby, a flock of seagulls (actual birds, not the band), and the Yachtsman.

The Yachtsman: "Write, 'Today is D-Day in the dumpster wars.'"
Me: "What does that mean?"
The Yachtsman: "They'll know what it means."
Me: "Who will know what it means?"
The Yachtsman: [IGNORES ME.]
Me: "Are you going to storm the shores of the parking lot?"
The Yachtsman: "Just write it."

passion

There was a big fire in a dumpster outside our building last night.


I'm pretty sure Chris set it as a testament of his love for me, but he's blaming our arch nemeses at Souza's, the Brazilian all-you-can-eat-meat restaurant in the lobby.

adventures in eating out

I'm not sure how I feel about dining at Koto.

On the one hand, an onion was set on fire.



On the other, this man threw a piece of zucchini at my head.


But Chris's mom, or maybe it's Chris's stepsister, likes to eat there, so we go from time to time. On our next visit I'm going to bring my own little pocketful of chopped vegetables and that guy is going to PAY.

yoga addict

I think I may be addicted to yoga. My yoga teacher is out of town for three weeks (how dare she!) and sometimes my body actually aches to do a sun salutation. Lest you think, however, that I'm one of those yoga people -- the kind of yoga person who refers to herself as a "yogini" (gross) and has a slim but toned, flexible body as a result of her "practice" (I wish) -- know this: Yoga is making me fat. Actually, technically it is probably the chocolate I eat throughout the day that is making me fat, but I'm pretty sure it is the yoga that is giving me massive thighs. It's not a metaphor when I say I'm busting out of my pants. I have literally busted out of literal pants (once while I was shopping at Home Goods, where I will never show my face again, now that I have shown my butt).

And not only is it making me fat, I'm terrible at yoga. After nine months of going to between one and four classes a week, I can just barely touch my toes (although when I started, I could just barely touch my knees, so this is an improvement). The pose I'm best at is savasana, also known as "corpse pose" (Chris is under the impression that I get lots of exercise because I go to yoga so much, in spite of the fact that I've explained to him that it's more like preschool than aerobics: we lie down on our mats and take a nap at the end).

And though I know that as a yogini (as if) I should be tolerant of or at peace with or at least not completely judgmental of the people around me, I have an arch nemesis at yoga. Farting Man usually comes late to class, he inevitably plops his mat right in front of mine, and then he proceeds to fart his way through yoga while I fume and curse him in my head and wish ill upon him, which I'm sure the Dalai Lama would do, too, if he were stuck behind Farting Man for an hour and a half in a hot room.

But at this point I'm so desperate for yoga class, I wouldn't even mind if Farting Man tooted in my face while I was struggling to touch my toes. Well, I would mind, but I would summon the yogini within, stretch my massive thighs, and try not to let the toxic stench disrupt my deep yogic breaths.