As you may have noticed in my last post, I’m on a bit of a spiritual kick. And, I know, that doesn’t explain a thing about WHAT THE HELL that post was, but that’s the point (or the non-point). Maybe “spiritual” isn’t the right word. And hopefully this isn’t a “kick.” Because, as I said in that last post, I’m happy — happy not trying to be happy. Because trying to be happy presupposes that I’m not happy. And if I step outside my bumbling brain for a bit and look at things as they are, I’m damn happy. Yeeaahh.

“Spiritual” is definitely not the right word either. I’ve sort of been-there-done-that, and it didn’t stick. It was definitely a “kick.” I don’t even really care if the psychic across the road from the big bookstore I frequent is really psychic or not, or even if I have a “spirit guide,” and what his name is, or if my dead cat is communicating with me when I’m sleeping. Because, at least for me, it doesn’t matter. Matter.

Regular yoga practice is teaching me this. How good practicing yoga makes me feel doesn’t matter. Matter. What matters is what’s here, what’s clear. My cat sitting on my lap, purring, now turning to me with stinky wet kisses, the click-clicking of the keys under my fingertips, my daughter upstairs serenading her dad: “it’s not my fault, the police gave me a ticket once because it’s not catching up to you, na-na-na-na-na” (#wtf?). Time passes quickly, and I’m done squandering my life.

So there are things to let go of. Me, the clinger. Addictions, fears, desires, anxieties. This doesn’t mean I plan on repressing or transcending these things, or never-ever-having-a-Starbucks-soy-no-water-tazo-chai-ever-again-EVER. It just means watching, noticing, observing the patterns, the wanting, the cravings — human stuff that we all get sucked into, stuck in. Not caring where it all comes from or why.

This is all a little something I’m learning from him (ignore the old caption — try)…

…and through him (who happens to have been my best friend when I was around 4-6 years old — so, kind of kismet)…

One day, I’ll have the guts to go to Michael Stone’s studio, maybe take a class, maybe let him know the impact he’s had on my life and, so, the lives around me….

Don’t worry, I’m still loving The Real Housewives. Just dancing more to the beat of my own drummer. And maybe even to a little Alicia Keys, because…

…because that’s what my girls are playing because we’re going to NYC — Blogher ‘10 — this summer with a whole bunch of other fabulous people whom I genuinely love. Come with us!? God help me, my family’s coming, too! But they’ll be staying with Josh’s sister and husband in Brooklyn. Yes, it will be quite the roadtrip. And I expect to overhear many a backseat conversation, such as this little nugget from today:

TANGENT!!!!!!!!!!!!!

All that matters: my amazing family, good friends, authenticity (but not the cliche kind), the world, this earth, “this ground.” What doesn’t matter: “big bloggers,” stats, twitter followers, fame, what-if’s, what so-and-so thinks of how my kid behaved in the restaurant, or what so-and-so thinks of what I’m wearing (again)…. None of it matters. Too much squandering. Squandering.

So, basically, while I’m not going to give up squandering altogether (you’d have to PAY me to give up Housewives right now, and, hmmm, twitter), I’m a little more focused on what matters, on what’s real, here, and now, on this earth.

One more tweet for the road – because it came out of nowhere last week and is, dare I say, très apropos….

It’s about being here and now and balanced within an extremely unbalanced society, ecology, economy, etc., etc….

Kind of like this wonderful boy, my blog friend (and fellow T-Dot book clubber) Sandra Diaz’s eight-year-old son Zachary, raising thousands of dollars for assaulted women, and volunteering any way he can for other important charities. He was honoured at Disney on Ice the other night. That’s yoga — as opposed to “blissing out” in hot pink lululemons. I got to take a picture….

Though it’s a fabulous workout and great for the nervous system, the heart of yoga is in the here and now. In not escaping but being present and active anywhere that you’re needed. Most people don’t realize it. Most people don’t realize how enlightening it is to really be in the here and now — through yoga, meditation, and even just reading (maybe even a blog post?) about it.

Bottom line in 140 characters or less? I don’t care about small stuff anymore. Dunzo. (Okay more than 140 characters.) I will continue to wear my flaws on my sleeve. But I’ll let them be. I’ll go with the flow and focus on what matters. Really matters.

It’s a work in progress…, of course.

People ask me about yoga and yoga books/dvds all the time. So, basically: Michael’s books (he has three of them now) — Cheaty RECOMMENDS.

Love!

xo Haley-O

Someone has a crush on the Monkey. MY HEART, Gorgeouses — IT MELTS. I’ve been hearing for a few months now about how much she loves this boy and that boy, and, mostly, this boy. And I’ve heard about how this boy calls her “little,” and I’ve assured her (based on my own experience) that usually when a boy teases you it means he LIKES you. This, of course, doesn’t make her feel better. So I’ve also assured her that “good things come in small packages” and that (based on my own experience) it’s “fun being little.”

But, never mind. There was no speculation required when I picked the Monkey up from school the other day. Someone has a crush on her. (We’ll call him M.) Immediately, as I walked in to retrieve the Monkey, there was M, all over her. “Is she missing a tooth?” he asked me, dazzled by the apparent gap….*

I chatted with M’s mom for a bit, and she was so excited to share the news: “Haley, he talks about her non-stop. I’m not kidding.” We turned to look at him, and there he was trying to hug my little Monkey.

Although this makes me endlessly proud and all fuzzy inside, the Monkey acts like she hates it: “I don’t WANT M to like me. NO, Mama, NO!” So I’m trying not to make a big deal about it. The boy talks are starting, and I have to plant the seeds for good communication! I never want to make her feel uncomfortable or embarrassed around me when it comes to BOYS. And I THINK I want her to tell me everything. So, I act interested but nonchalant. “M loves Monkey,” I say, “How cool is that to have someone think you’re extra special? So, what else happened today?”

For me, Kindergarten was, like, every little girl’s dream. I remember it vividly. FIVE boys had a crush on me. They’d line up in front of me during playtime — me, in my pigtails and favourite Olive Oyl t-shirt. I was to choose which boy I was going to play with after school by pointing at each of them, chanting….

Eeny, meeny, miny, moe,
Catch a tiger by the toe.
If he hollers let him go,
Eeny, meeny, miny, moe.

Of course, I liked Jason best and promised him that my finger would land on his knee in the end…. And it did. And we played with my dog after school, crouched under the dining room cabinet.

And (segue par excellence), SPEAKING OF CRUSHES…, who else has a humongous crush on Matthew Morrison… (or at least his voice)? BUST IT!

Move over, Justin Timberlake. I AM TELLING you!

Also — CRUSH — Sidney Crosby!!!!!!!

GO CANADA!!! Or, as the Rascal and Monkey like to say, “GO RED!” Best Olympics EVER!!!

LOVE!

xo Haley-O

*It is only an apparent gap from an old injury…. Long story.

The Monkey’s been asking The Questions — The Questions, that is, that I’ve been waiting for.

When I was a little girl, The Questions came first thing one morning. It was like a bell went off — DING: I realized I, and everyone around me, was going to die one day. My head started to spin as I went through all the people I love. All of them were going to die one day. My Great Grandma Fanny was already 96! My DOG Belle was 8! My PARENTS! OMG, MY PARENTS!

I ran to my parents’ room, gripping my favourite doll, “Marcus Mouse” — who happened to have a bell attached to his paw. DING DING DING DING DING. I ran to my parents’ room and jumped into the bed between them, and sobbed.

“When am I going to die? I don’t want to die! Belle’s already 8 years old. And soon she’s going to be 9 and then 10 and then 14 and then she’s going to DIE-HIE-HIE-HA-HA-WAHHHHH!” I don’t remember a thing my parents told me to pacify the anxiety and sadness. I just remember realizing that I was going to have to figure out how to live with all this new knowledge.

I now know how helpless my mother felt that morning. I was probably in Grade One already. The Monkey is only FOUR.

She’s been obsessed with death and dying since we lost Tigger. She would taunt me with hard questions about Tigger’s death, and laugh because she knew she was being a nutball…. She never reflected it all back on herself, thank GOD. Until now.

Yesterday, in the car — it happened. As she asked me Question after HARD Question (in panic and tears), I couldn’t help but notice I felt half there, and half transported back into my childhood, to that day when I realized that my life was finite. I can’t even bear to put her questions into writing.

I had to think quickly. On the spot.

“We die when we’re ready,” I said, “when our souls are ready, and usually when we’re really really old.”

“One hundred and ten, Mama?”

“Or one hundred and fifty! Who knows. But, in one way or another, you’ll be ready, so you don’t have to worry, Monkey.”

But this didn’t help, and the questions got worse, and more intense, and more horrifying. And, in the end, all I could say was this:

“Monkey, I love you. I’m here. I’m with you.”

And it worked.

She was having major anxiety — and, thankfully, I know anxiety. I needed to bring her back to the present. Since then, The Questions haven’t returned. So far. Today.

There are NO good go-to answers for The Questions, I don’t think. When they come, they’re here to stay, emerging now and then, like waves of the ocean. The only thing I can do is bring her back, say, 150 years, to now — to the present and to love.

*On a lighter note (GAH!), if you look closely at the picture above, you’ll see a little blond untamable shock of hair. Her little brother is oblivious to all the Questions…. Ignorance is bliss.

There are three potential first lines to this post:

1. Then again the apple never tasted so sweet.

2. “Mama, are you going to put it on your website?”

3. Dogs are such extensions of their owners, I mean, look at Bethenny Frankel….

I mean, while all the other Real Housewives are sporting chihuahuas, she comes up with this hunk of a bruiser. OY, LOVE. And her name is Cookie. I mean, does it get more compatible than that. They’re perfect for each other. And, me? I have him….

…WHOM I, proudly, rescued from a vet who didn’t seem to care much about him. Really, I’ve never said much about Minden’s origins. But, Minden was the sweetest, most affectionate cat I’d ever met, and he was spending his kitten days locked in a cage on top of his litter box. The vet and staff hardly recognized him when I brought him back in for check ups — and that makes me want to cry. THREE MONTHS Minden spent with them, and they didn’t recognize him when I brought him in. I switched vets, needless to say.

Are Minden and I compatible like Bethenny and Cookie? Just say YES.

I have countless pictures of me and Minden. Me in my big red hat and, what is that, an iPad? And my fancy shiny legs and big New York smile. I’m a little obsessed with Bethenny — and I don’t care if that’s sad — I think she’s hilarious, and I love her frankness (her Frankelness…heh).

That whole Housewives series is just a HOOT. Just yesterday, I thought, I’m NOT getting into The Real Housewives of New Jersey, I will NOT! I want to salvage at least SOME of my brain cells. But, then I saw this clip…, and I was hooked, lined and SINKERED:

OUTRAGEOUS! It’s just so outrageous. It’s not everyone’s cup of tea, I know. Some of you are probably, like Josh-O, totally disgusted right now. And, I know I should be spending my time finishing this month’s fabulous and VERY intellectual T-DOT Blogger bookclub book…. But, if you’ve spent two nights in a row “praying to the porcelain god” because you have the worst stomach flu you’ve ever had in your entire life, then a TV show like this is a GODSEND. Yes, The Real Housewives of Atlanta, Orange County, New York and New Jersey have helped me get through this flu in one piece, sort of.

And 5 pounds smaller — hoorahhh!

OH! And the brand new Project Runway………looooove.

I’m still not out of the woods. I haven’t been able to eat dinner tonight. And I’m freezing, and there are no Housewives on tonight.

But, the sliver of  apple I just sampled never tasted so sweet. AND, the Monkey is actually excited for me to post her favourite dolls “on [my] website”…. She’s starting to have a voice of her own on this blog. And it’s really cool to see that li’l evolution.

But, I’ve run out of steam, officially. Getting cold, and feeling another HURL coming on. You’ll have to wait for the dolls until next time. And, I assure you, whether or not that sounds lame, that you will love it.

You know, sometimes I get really anxious, and the weight of motherhood and the world just gets too heavy to bear. As shameful as it may be, the Housewives are an escape. These women worry about nothing outside of their own self-created dramas. It’s LIBERATING to watch, and hysterical. And the makeup and clothes are OUTRAGEOUS. OUTRAGEOUS, I tell you.

After reading this post, can you guess how high my fever is? I may just be…DELIRIOUS?!

LOVE!

xo Haley-O

P.S. Many thanks to all who participated in the To Haiti With Love benefit (ends midnight tonight). It was an HONOUR to be a part of it.

I’m back home from Florida, but with a bit of a heavy heart. Isn’t it always SO HARD coming back from a vacation? Isn’t it always SO HARD coming back to the snow and cold from a warm and OCEAN-y vacation?

Rascal: Mama, I yuf buhds. I yuf buhds. I yuf buhds. I yuf……… (Trans. “I love birds.”)

I’m welling up just writing this.

It was a weird vacation. It went really quickly, but really slowly at the same time — as if it was an entire lifetime, a flash of an entire lifetime. I’m not sure if it was the podcast I was listening to: yoga lectures by a guy who happens to have been my best friend when I was 4-6 years old, which totally resonated with me in, like, flabbergasting ways. Or, maybe it was the fact that I was surrounded by family the whole time. Or, maybe it was the fact that, relatively speaking, I didn’t do much work. Or, maybe it was that I didn’t so much as LOOK at my blackberry the whole time….

Maybe it was my aching throat that kept me up all night EVERY night, listening to stunning podcasts by my best friend when I was 4-6…. Maybe it was my aching throat that sent me, crying, frustrated, down the stairs for some tea in the wee hours of the morning, and that sent my mother down right after me. With back rubs, a blanket and some Tylenol.

Maybe it was this Monkey at the Bibbidy Bobbidy Boutique in Cinderella’s Castle at Disney World. “It’s the best style, Mama!”….

Or this dog (Quincey!)….

Or this Rascal on this beach in these over-sized new clothes (TARGET)….

Or this new hoodie (TARGET)….

Or this new Superman shirt (TARGET)….

Or So You Think You Can Dance in this, our very own, living room….

Or my dad and The Monkey collecting shells on this beach….

Or this man in that Speedo whom I spoke to for a half an hour about banks and business and Long Island (I know, what the what?) while the extreme waves pushed and pulled and played tricks on me; or, that thing in the water that stung me on the ass and made my skin burn and forced me, finally, to dart out of the water (my friend in the Speedo probably thinking it was him), but was so worth it….

Or nightlife….

These trees….

This foot (Rascal)….

I don’t know what it was that made this trip so confusing, so life-changing and difficult to process as Monday emerges and I embark on ROUTINE again.

I’ve made it so my blackberry no longer blinks at me….

I’ve scheduled specific work hours for the week….

I made lentil and barley soup….

I’m going to bed before 11:00 11:30….

I’m breathing in and out and in and out.

My throat still hurts. It isn’t strep. But I feel rested and happy and exhausted and heavy-hearted, and new….

LOVE!

xo Haley-O