Yogi Me

Hey guys, sorry that I had gone missing for a few days with no word.  I was just hiding in the attic.  I mean the garage.  I mean a box in the attic in the garage. I did this for a show. No I didn't.

Ok, I got it out of my system.  I refuse to add one more you-know-what-boy link to the internet insanity (though I was totally sucked into it yesterday).  All I want to say is this: there is not a single reason I do not live in Fort Collins; there are quite a few. Yesterday I added one more. Oh Ft. Collins, your crazies carry guns on campus to stave off school shootings, wear sunglasses on the backs of their heads indoors, and send up UFO balloons with kids in them, or not, please send a helicopter.  As a town, you could probably use a little guidance. Boulder, on the other hand, knows exactly where it's going: Corepower Yoga, obvs.

Speaking of yoga, lately I have wondered what it would be like to go on a little yoga bender.  I have been at my current job for 15 months, in a row, and I'm already getting that old person swagger.  The one that comes from carrying way too much junk in your bag, so you don't get bored at your desk...err... on the bus.  The one that comes from uncomfortable shoes, unforgiving wool pants, and an ergonomic desk chair that is just not the right height for your desk and so you slouch all day.  I'm 23, but my hips are groaning and reminiscing of the days when Regan was in office (which I think is their way of saying I lean too far left for them. Zing!).

As some of you may know, I worked for the Yoga-store-to-remain-unnamed for about a year in college.  That little venture landed me free yoga classes at most of the local studios, and that is a lot.  Boulder must have the highest per capita yoga studios in a single town, someone google that.  At any rate, I really only have been able to commit to 1 maybe 2 classes a week, because it is a little out of my price range (while you're googling, look up Boulder's median income- and have a bucket near by) and I just don't think I've ever seen what yoga really can do.

(This little photo was in the paper, as alerted to me by one of my college professors at the time. There I am, in the gray, lunging across a gym with two of my managers from the yoga store.

One of the reasons I do not work there anymore.)

I am on a quest to get a studio to let me attend classes for 30 days straight, in exchange for me writing about what happens over that time.  Things such as:  if I notice any increases in my sleep patterns; joint mobility; stronger muscles; improved posture; or a need to dreadlock my hair and henna an apocalyptic dragon on my face. Wouldn't you read that blog? I would.

So far, I have had contact with a few studios and they all seem to kind of furrow their brows at me and stare blankly as if I have already henna-ed an apocalyptic dragon on my face.  I say "Guys, I'm awesome, you'll love me in your classes! You won't even know I'm here. Pretty please?"  And they are like, "Lady, please get off of my mat, I'm teaching right now."

Maybe yoga will help me with social boundaries. Fingers Crossed!

Item number 3: Wine

I am 50% Italian and 50% French.  Those are not exactly the right genetic representations.  There are other mixtures in there.  I am certain I have a lot of Irish blood, per my penchant for swearing when other words might do just fine. According to my mom, we have some Spanish heritage. But take a quick look at that photo to the right, and you'll see that even in a black and white photo, I'm scary white. Spanish is going to be a hard one to sell.  Anyway, back to my first statement:  I'm 50% Italian and 50% French. 

In college, I began studying Italian and my Italian-born professor was calling out the attendance sheet on the first day of class.  She called out the first few names, Anderson, Adams, Banks, etc. When she saw my name, her eyes lit up.  My maiden name (weird) is Baratta, and Baratta is the Smith of Italy. Add to that, my first name, Julia, is derivative of Giulia, the north eastern region of Italy.  Her face went from excitement, "Giulia Baratta?" (r's rolled and t's said individually), to bewilderment as she squinted and tilted her head and I responded "Si, that means 'yes' right?"  She immediately asked me to list all the Italian words I knew. High point: I knew a couple, Low point: all apparently inappropriate. Thanks Grandpa.

My Papa, or my great Grandfather, was Paul Walti and grew up in San Francisco speaking Frenglish. He was an Opera singer (typical), and every time we came to the city we dropped by the Basque cultural center to eat escargo or flit about in fashionable shoes or whatever French things we did there.  All I can remember is that was the place where if I had the stomach flu, I needed a sip of red wine.  A headache? A sip of red wine.  I was grouchy?  Have a nap, oh and maybe a sip of red wine. Red wine anyone?

Why am I writing all of this?  Well, with half of me identifying Italian and the other half identifying French, I love me some wine. I am writing out my life list, or my bucket list - I'm not entirely sure what I'm going to call it just yet.  Item #3: Build and establish a wine collection worthy of a cellar.  I know a few varieties, and vineyards that I like, but in order to build a collection with diversity I'm going to need some suggestions.

Internets, do you like wine?  Which ones?


Click here to here my Grandpa Singing the San Francisco Giant's Anthem (on the bottom of the page)

Frickin Freezing in Here

As I mentioned a few days ago, Colorado was heading into it's colder times of the year.  Little did I know Colorado was barreling head first into a giant wall of freezing snow and iciness. A wall of freezing snow and iciness on OCTOBER 8th, no less.  I guess we'll have fall next year.
 
Ultimately, I spent the weekend huddled around a space heater, or cuddling my cast iron soup pot.  I drank about 1.6 gallons of hot chocolate, and I'm still frozen.  This is likely due to the fact that I work in a building that was built in 1836 (yes folks, that is an eight right there) and live in a house built about 40 years later.  It is as if Old Man Winter has affixed himself to me, and has done so quite unseasonably early.  I think him coming in October is equivocal to my grandma waking up at 4 am, "just to start her day, dear"

I am committed to completing at least one of these two cold weather projects at some point this week.  This Lotta Jandsotter draft stopper seems to be a decent attempt at warming up room. At least we'll try, no?

But this Corn Pillow is a delightful bit of heaven.  I had one of these last winter, and it was the single best thing I owned when it was cold.  I have since gifted it to a friend of mine who, quote "Needed it, because he had to sleep alone, and if he didn't have one he could likely die."  Deep down, I knew he was right, so I gave away my beloved pillow.

You can find the DIY tutorial at Wily Wilco Craft Vixen.

You will have to forgive me today, I'm desperately tired, and I cannot think of anything to write. Why hello Monday.