The Saga of Radioga.

Radio-ga = Radio + Yoga = what this post is about.

Guys! Hey you guys! Guys seriously! Listen!

I did yoga!

Why was this such a huge landmark for me? I don't know. Why was I so damn nervous? Probably because everyone was barefoot and all the employees were svelte and wearing those trendy flowy pants and the studio was actually a converted house and there were a thousand varieties of tea in the kitchen (most of which I could not pronounce) and oh yeah I'm about as limber as the Lincoln Memorial and oh yeah also fat.

Except not! Seriously! Okay maybe still a little. Enough that I am "stepping up" my efforts (as the young kids say these days) because when I hit fifty, I'm throwing the Skinny Soiree. Fancy dress will be mandatory. As will the shots. One shot per pound lost?

But the total's at 36. 36, you guys! That's a lot! I mean, it's close to 40, and 40's a pretty big deal as far as numbers go.

And, for the record, in case anyone out there in the miasmic cosmos of the internet is concerned, no, I am not gagging myself, nor starving myself, nor depriving myself. Pinto and I go on very sweaty walks daily. My refrigerator is packed with what my brother termed "chipmunk food." But I'm very much trying to establish behaviors that I can actually maintain--aka retaining beer as something I can have. And an aversion to the gym, or any kind of activity that requires a specific outfit (scuba diving?). I'm not doing 600 crunches per night, though I did try to do some push-ups last night out of a burning need to be rid of my twangers, which made me realize that I a) have no upper body strength but b) have some sad little muscles that were crying out, "Please! Use us!"

So. I went to yoga.

And it was awesome.

Okay, no, not entirely. It was pretty silly, actually. All the 'align your chakras' and 'breathe away your waste' and the silly windchime music--that shit I could do without. I've encountered far too many people who are so Zen'd out all the time they come across as doped, and I have always been a caffeine and cocaine type. That's just a figure of speech. Really. It is.

But damn, son! It was an hour of crazy stretching! And let it be known that this was not even Yoga 101, this was like, Rudimentary Yoga, this was Yoga you go to when you can't touch your toes. Which I can't, but someday, by god, I will.

And afterward, I felt like about a million bucks. I'm pretty sure my legs acquired an extra inch, at least (and if you've ever seen my legs, they need it). So I'm pretty pleased. Not pleased enough to actually buy a yoga mat yet or to start reading the teachings of the Upanishads, but enough that I think I'll sleep like a baby angel tonight because my bones are content.

So there's the yoga. The radio is this:

It is a sublime form of torture to listen to your voice over and over again for an entire hour, repeating the same humdrum weather report, trying to sound "natural," especially when you are weirdly insecure about your voice. I don't know why--I think everyone has a weird reaction to hearing themselves speak, but I especially cannot stand my own voice, by which I mean the actual sound of my speech, and not, of course, the hilarious witty things I say all the time which my brother Matthew is so jealous of and I don't care because he doesn't read this anyway the fucker.

I spent at least one solid hour--that's 60 entire minutes--non-stop recording a piece of copy for the radio today. Do you know how long that segment was?

A minute.

So I technically made my public radio debut tonight, and it was pretty surreal to stand in my kitchen unloading the dishwasher and hear myself stumble over the word "thunderstorms" from my kitchen radio, but it was also pretty goddamn awesome.

So! I work at the radio now, as the meek little Broadcast Intern. I love radio a whole, whole lot, but my love had a lot more to do with "listen to all this awesome music!" and not "listen to me!!!" So it's a weird transition, going from WHCL, which was all live, all silly, all college, to WHQR, which is all business, all pre-recorded, all professional and shit. In the long and sundry list of adjectives I'd pick to describe myself, "professional" is not one of them. "Hardass" and "go-getter" and "unintentional bitch" maybe, but not "professional."

But if you want a good laugh, and want to hear my foolish NPR voice, tune in tomorrow here at 6:30 p.m. Eastern Time. I snagged the daily half hour of staff-picked music, recorded it today, and it's going to be either the worst or best thing that's ever happened on a radio station on a Thursday evening.

And, again, as I always seem to conclude these posts: things are good. I was a camp counselor for a week and had more fun that I thought reasonably possible without the aid of mind-altering substances. Pinto continues to become hideously oversized, but he can also stay in the house alone all day without destroying anything, and he takes up too much of the bed but I forgive him because he's my dog (and, as my mother pointed out, he kind of saved my soul inadvertently just by being a dog and loving me unconditionally through the Very Bad Times of these past months). I made some badass enchiladas two nights ago. I'm moving downtown in a few weeks. My dad'll be here next week, which means the following: oysters, donuts, BBQ, and more oysters.

As stated previously: Damn, son!

The Saga of My Life is Magical.

Yes, yes, in the vein of Fuck My Life and My Life is Average, I now present to you fine people who have so patiently waited for me to update this silly thing: My Life if Magical (MLIM).

Case in point: The small children next door. I think I posted earlier about this herd of tiny children that made instant buddies with Pinto, and how they were wondrous and made my day and kept asking if I had any candy (I don't, sadly). So yesterday after a particularly harrowing day of faxing my ex our move-out form because he left too abruptly to sign it (between that and the monthly checks and having to shove all the shit he left in corners where it is not visible to me, it's resembling a divorce more than a breakup) and sweltering in the 90+ degree heat and having a moment of pure undiluted absolute terror wherein I thought Pinto had finally discovered he's big enough to leap out the car windows (because he was in the backseat because he goes with me everywhere he's allowed and because I had to spend far too long in the copy shop trying to send the aforementioned fax), I go home and call Tulsa. The entire city. No, really, just my house, so I could relieve some stress to my mother (who has been remarkably understanding considering she was more in love with my ex than I ever was), but my father answers. And we're chatting, and it's nice, and then there's a knock on the door and I say I'll call him back and then!

THE TINY CHILDREN ARRIVE AND WANT TO PLAY WITH PINTO!

So we do, and they are again disappointed that I don't have any candy, and then they depart, and I call my father back and I'm all, "Never mind, my life is magical."

Case in point Redux: I went to Florida with my wisest dearest friend and her absurdly awesome parents and oh my god no one over the age of 6 should have that much fun at an amusement park. Here are ten tiny anecdotes to prove, once more, that my life is magical.

1. Orlando is full of alligators and fake British pubs, often right next door to each other. We saw a slew of gators at a mini-golf course right before we went and swung on the giant tall swing ride, identical to the one at the Prater in Vienna, only this one was better because there were at least 6,000 alligators down below our feet.

2. JURASSIC PARK. What more need be said? We rode the Jurassic Park River Adventure I think at least 19 times, not because it's particularly exciting or scary or even that good, but because every time we went through the giant gates and the theme music started playing, Karli and I got choked up. I kid you not.

3. HAPPY HOUR IN JURASSIC PARK. Yes, it exists. Yes, they will sell you a concoction called a Raptor on the Rocks. Yes, it is neon green and delicious.

4. RIDING ROLLER COASTERS AFTER HAPPY HOUR IN JURASSIC PARK. We decided that either this would be the worst idea (hangover, instant loss of buzz, vomiting) or best idea ever (most amazing roller coaster ride in the world). To be fair, we had ridden Dueling Dragons already a billion times--twice while being the only ones on the coaster and therefore automatic front row seats--and about 3/4s of the way through we both got pretty queasy, but I highly, highly recommend RWI (riding while intoxicated).

5. WOLVERINE. He said we giggled too much. This was true.

6. ALL THE JADED EMPLOYEES TRYING TO HAVE A GOOD TIME. On Dr. Doom's Fear Fall, we were privileged enough to experience some incredible improvised voice-over; I think usually they're supposed to cue up some pre-recorded ALL HAIL DOCTOR DOOM, but this guy began the ride with a simple "Uh-oh...Spaghetti-os." Needless to say I was too busy laughing to scream when the ride shot up into the heavens.

7. MY OVERPRICED FAKE SHARK TATTOO. Self-explanatory.

8. JURASSIC PARK. It was that awesome.

9. OUR 'SOUVENIR CUPS' = EASY WAY TO SNEAK BOOZE. Universal Studios has this crazy bar world that's basically a third park. Within this crazy bar world, there is something called Fat Tuesday's, aka The QuikTrip Lounge. Imagine a wall of smoothies of all colors and variety. Now imagine they are loaded with rum. Now imagine you dumped these into your souvenir mug. There you have it.

10. THE WOMEN IN THE HOT TUB AT THE HOTEL. Special props to them, because they were amazing and praised Jesus after every single thing. I told them I'd driven from North Carolina--they said "Praise Jesus for your safe arrival." I told them I was with my biffle Karli to celebrate her graduation. They said "Praise Jesus for her accomplishment." I said this hot tub sure is nice. They said "Praise Jesus, it takes the ache right out of my bones." Amazing.

Afterwards, Riggsie came back to old Wilmywood and we proceeded to have our own Senior Week, complete with shenanigans too insane to be recounted here, but needless to say they were amazing and we will never do them again. Four unrelated tiny anecdotes follow:

1. WE FOUND A ROOM OF REQUIREMENT. It was a karaoke bar. It appeared only so we could go down and wow the gathered patrons with our singing (Karli) and rappin' (me) skills. Seriously. I did the entire Jay-Z canon. I did. And we got to hold tiny dogs.

2. MIDNIGHT SWIMMING IN THE OCEAN. We saw Avatar outside at Carolina Beach, and afterwards, we hopped over to the actual beach and Karli leapt into the ocean. I stayed put. But it was still pretty fucking amazing.

3. KARLI READ BOOKS 2-6 OF HARRY POTTER. This is simply a feat worth recording.

4. WE ESCAPED. The details of this cannot be revealed. But I will tease you with these details: there was a bald guy named Willie involved. There was Shark Laugh. There was a hole in a screen, aka our getaway route. There was also this quote: "Karli I believe in you. If we were in Aladdin I would jump on the carpet." And I still mean it, to this very day.

In summation: My life is magical. I love my dog, I love the shorts I can now wear without feeling ashamed (though I did not realize how many bruises you acquire when you have a 40 pound puppy), I love that I'm beginning my radio job tomorrow, and I love you.