zen and the art of taking yoga seriously

i have never liked yoga.

in fact i would go so far as to say that at times the word 'hate' has been employed to describe my feelings towards the passe, tree-hugging pastime that continues to sweep the nation in it's various guises.

i have always been a firm believer that exercise should involve sweating, panting and booty shaking at the very least. and thus the only physical activity ever to qualify as worthy of my time has been dancing. and sex.

but since i have become a dedicated student of the art of the pole, i have decided that i need the stretching and the breathing and the zen-ing that only yoga can provide.

and i've finally found a class i like, and a teacher who doesn't make me want to douse myself in chemicals and set myself alight in the middle of the 'goddess chant'

and speaking of the 'goddess chant', i must admit i'm still not down with the chanting. i mean, puh-lease. we're in the middle of bondi, our cars are parked outside, and half of us are wearing 'stella mccartney for adidas'.

WE. ARE. NOT. ON. THE. BANKS. OF. THE. GANGA. FOR. FUCK'S. SAKE.

but apart from the fruity chanting i am enjoying the hardcore stretching and the breathing exercises. and i'm trying really, really hard to "zone out" during class.

the problem is, relaxing doesn't come very easily to me. i find it incredibly difficult to "switch off", whether during yoga, massages (which i have only recently started to be comfortable with) and all other 'inward' activities.

its really fucking frustrating. and kinda funny at times too.

and thus i present to you:

'la nadine's internal monologue during friday morning's 90 minute yoga class'

- mmmmm...lying down...gently breathing...sooooo goood....i could stay like this forever...

- oh, damn, she wants us to sit up now...

- i'm so not down with this chanting business...everybody else seems to be well into it...

- hey, isn't that guy a football dude...i think he is...i bet he's just here to pick up girls...he's pretty into the chanting...maybe he just really digs yoga...

- when are we gonna stop chanting and start stretching...

- oh, for fuck's i'll give it a go...

- ohmmmm...

- nup, not gonna happen...

- he he...they all look so funny, chanting with such gusto...

- 'gusto' is such a good word. i should use it more often...

- oh fuck, she caught me with my eyes open...

- c'mon, try and take this seriously...its good for me...

- geez the teacher looks like sarah jessica parker. although sjp probably wouldn't wear those leggings. or would she?

- yay! the chanting is over. THE CHANTING IS OVER!

- ooooh, dog pose...easy start...good...

- oh, so glad nobody is behind me right now...this isn't my best look...arse in the air...legs akimbo...

- 'akimbo'...there's another great word...i should try and incorporate that into a blog post soon...

- CONCENTRATE ON THE YOGA!

- okay, tree pose...i can do this one...but am i doing it right?

- wow, that girl is really flexible...and pretty...i want to be that flexible...and pretty...actually i'm pretty flexible...

- fuck my balance is off today...maybe cause i didn't eat breakfast...i hope angela and i go for breakfast after this...i really feel like parmesan scramble...

- oh fuck me i'm doing it again. i'm the worst concentraterer ever...

- i love these shoulder stand poses...i feel like a kid...

- ooooh, i never felt like this when i was a kid...

- woah, that's really sexual...maybe i'm not doing it right...but i think i am...oh, i don't know...

- i wonder if i'll shag anybody this weekend...its been a little while now...well, not that long, but long enough...

- oh, everybody is lying down now and covering up with blankets and eye masks...i love this bit...

- try and think relaxing thoughts...no more sex and food brain...think about peaceful stuff...

- are the others really thinking peaceful thoughts?

- or any thoughts?

- why do i have so much trouble with the not thinking?

- i wonder if the teacher can tell i'm bad at relaxing...she must know...

- oh, my fists are clenched...lucky they're under the blanket...she can't have noticed...

- is everybody still lying down? what if they're not? maybe they're all staring at me...

- oh, she just said to get up slowly, in "our own time"...

- that sux...i'm enjoying the relaxing...not that i'm really relaxing...but i like lying here...

- i'm going to try and relax better next time...

- oooh, time for parmesan scramble...

...

...

...

...

namaste.

*bows*

death by pole

i am a mess.

my shins are grazed. my hips are scratched. my legs and arms are covered in bruises. my index fingers are blistered. my knees are riddled (RIDDLED I TELL YOU!) with carpet burn. my right hand is taped up and bandaged. and i am walking with an ever so slight limp.

and yet despite the fact that i currently look like a human punching bag ("he doesn't mean to hurt me. he's just under a lot of stress. he promises he'll never do it again. HE LOVES ME!"), all i can do is count down the days until my next pole dancing class so i can bang my poor, mangled body up even more.

i. am. obsessed.

eat it!

those of you who have met (and eaten with) me in the past few years will find it hard to reconcile the la nadine of today with the the weight-obsessed teenaged la nadine i may or may not have told you about.

yup, sadly it's true, i once shared a mantra with mary-kate olsen ("i must, i must, i must not eat a crust") during which time i survived on an apple, a bag of carrots and a diet yoghurt a day.

i will not go into the gruesome details of my time as a devotee to the cult-of-thin, but let's just say it is not a part of my past i am fond of recalling (nor particularly able to due to the lack of oxygen that passed to my brain at the time due to a severe lack of nutrients in my system).

but now after years of therapy, and having since had problems to cope with much bigger than my dress size, i am now fully recovered.

okay, so maybe i will never be "fully" recovered, my relationship with food remaining dysfunctional at best, but i'm doing a pretty good job of eating my way to mental health.

in fact, i would go so far as to say i have become quite the bonafide foodie in recent years, overcoming not only my innate phobia of fat, but also my vegetarian lifestyle.

i have supped at some amazing restaurants (and some truly awful dives as well), obsessed over my recently discovered love of cheese (formerly believed to be "the enemy"), and been treated to some truly orgasmic home-cooked love by friends and family.

i even founded the carb army. i think that shows great progress, don't you?

and these days i can barely skip a snack, let alone an entire meal.

and now that i've made friends with food, enough anyway that i can now go to a friend's house or a restaurant for dinner without a predetermined battle plan on how best to avoid actually eating anything, i have decided it is time i learned to cook like a pro.

don't get me wrong, i can cook just fine. i make a mean spag bowl and some truly wicked tarts. i am just not very adventurous, nor particularly instinctive about flavours and textures like some lucky bastards are.

and i like most of my food so fucking spicy it would kill the average person, which is not very conducive to cooking for others (unless of course you hate them and wish to see them in intense, convulsing pain.)

thus myself and two of my similarly culinary-challenged friends - the lovely miss lisa and the other lovely miss lisa - have started a cooking club, the purpose of which is to teach ourselves how to cook (while at the same time getting drunk and bitching about boys).

and we need YOUR help.

please to be leaving your favourite (not too difficult) recipe ideas for our cooking club in the comments section of this post.

if we choose to use your suggestion, i promise to name the meal after you and toast to your health as we feast.

hell, you might even score an invite one day.

and now it's lunch time in nadstown.

bon appetite!

he's once, twice, three times amazing

i am about to divulge my current 'guilt free three' list.

i admit that this may in fact be a rather futile exercise, as i am currently single (and LOVING it, btw).

but hey, the format seemed to work well for this post, so get off my fucking case.

if you have been around these parts for awhile, you will know exactly what i mean by this.

however if you are new in nadstown, and you haven't a clue what the fuck i am talking about, read this (and this and this and this if you want) before you go any further.

are we all informed little chickens now?

right then. let's rock.

here is my 'guilt free three' list for today, tuesday may 16, 2006:

1) tim minchin:





















2) tim minchin:





















3) tim minchin:






















(honourable mentions for getting me all hot and jizzy today also go to gael garcia bernal, fabrizio moretti and ioyc)

tim minchin is a genius. he is an amazing musician and comedian with a wit to rival the unrivalable (i.e. someone very witty).

i was first alerted to his talents when he composed the (incredible) score for 'this blasted earth', a (brilliant) play written by the schmitz and cottonwood.

i then caught him on the telly a couple of weeks ago closing the melbourne international comedy gala with a poignant ballad about taking canvas bags to the supermarket.

and last friday night i had the privilege not only of seeing his current show, 'dark side', but i was also lucky enough to meet him. and hug him. twice.

THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES!

i touched tim minchin and he touched me right the fuck back. twice.

he also wrote the words 'nadstown.com' in his phone and pretended to be interested in checking out my blog*.

*swoon*

problem is though, i also met (and touched) his wife. which is not a problem in itself, as she seemed a lovely woman. a lovely, stunning woman who looks like penelope cruz's better looking sister, and smiles so brightly i think i may have got a sunburn from just looking at her teeth.

the problem as such is the fact he is already betrothed. and not to me.

so i guess a hug is as good as i can ever hope for from this insanely talented and brainy man whose show was so good that my thighs still throbbed with post-orgasmic delight long after the encore was over.

*sigh*

so readers, who's on your 'guilt free three' list at the moment?

*(UPDATE: he came. he read. he emailed. he liked. OH, HAPPY DAY!)

orphan-ku

so it's mum's day, huh?
thanks for rubbing it in, world.
'tis a hard knock life.

plugga

so apparently in exchange for talking to me and introducing me to a bevvy of hot boys who let me touch them innapropriately, the schmitz expects me to plug his creative endeavours on my blog.

oh well. its a small price to pay i guess. so here goes.

if you are reading this you are thus obliged to go and see '15 and then some', a fantastic piece of theatrical whimsy written by, and also starring, toby "don't mention the cooks" schmitz.

long time readers of nadstown will know of the schmitz from "back in the day", that being when i shamelessly stalked him and turned his surname into a verb until he had no choice but to accept my existence as omnipresent and be my bff*.

the schmitz and i share a passion for the written word, equalled only by his slightly girly beatles obsession and my love of talking about my breasts.

and this is exactly why you must go and see this play. 'cause the boy sure can write. not because i like to blabber about my baps. that has nothing to do with the play. keep up, will you.

so...

go and see '15 and then some'. go and see it now.

well, go and see it after sunday when it is actually showing and people won't look at you like you're loco for trying to see a play that has not premiered yet. whatevs.

go and see what ewa jaremkiewicz from 'the brag' proclaimed as "...an intense and fast tale of missed moments that manages to latch on like a lock-jawed pitbull until well after the lights come up."

go and see what la nadine from 'welcome to nadstown' proclaimed as "an incredible play written by and starring MY FRIEND the schmitz. i saw it last time it was on and i liked it muchly. did i mention that MY FRIEND the schmitz wrote and stars in it?"

not convinced?

wow, tough crowd.

well just in case you change your mind, here are the deets:


'15 and then some'.

dates: 14 - 25th of May, sunday - thursday nights only, 8pm.

venue: the east village hotel, 234 palmer street darlinghurst

tickets: $15/$10

bookings: 0412 155 950 or 9519 3308 or at the door

10 shows only


mention my name at the door and you'll realise just how much i talk myself up on this blog.

consider. yourself. told.

x



*bff: best friend forevs.

accentuate the positive

it tickles me seven different shades of pink that when a blog post is bereft of comments, the kids over at blogger have programmed it to read:

"no comments yet."

that 'yet' is just so reassuring. its just like a mother's smile or a lover's embrace.

after all they could have gone the other way and programmed it to read:

"nobody gives a fuck what you have to say, you untalented, self-absorbed hack."

but instead they chose the glass half-full option.

snaps for blogger.

snaps indeed.

shopgirl

last week a designer i bought some hot red shoes from went to great lengths to track down my phone number.

by "great lengths" i mean that she rummaged through the garbage bin in her shop in search of the layby docket with my name and number on it.

that's kinda great isn't it? garbage bins are yucky.

when she called i immediately assumed i had forgotten something in the shop, like my wallet or head. i've been known to forget both on occasion.

but instead she told me that the reason she was phoning was because she "sensed a deep sadness within me" and she wanted to make sure i "was okay".

and though i was a little freaked out, i told her she sensed right, and that yes, i was. or i would be. one day. i hope.

then she asked me to come back to the shop to see her. to be honest i was ever so slightly concerned for my safety, unused to random women calling me to tell me of the "strong impression" my presence has left on them. but i went all the same.

when i got there we made tea and smoked cigarettes in the change rooms and chatted away like old friends.

and then she offered me a job. which i turned down. but it was nice of her to offer all the same.

yup, it was just another strange ol' day in nadstown.

my brain hurts

(legal and ethical) things i did over the weekend:

- i celebrated the schmitz's birthday by getting horrendously drunk, swapping clothes with the birthday boy, and then winding up the night in the dodgiest of pubs unsuccessfully trying to instigate threesomes with people neither myself nor my new drinking bud wanted to see naked anyway.

- i awoke mid-afternoon one day, stumbled half-naked towards the bathroom, tried in vain to push open the closed door, only to be scared half to death by the voice of the plumber my sister had failed to mention would be around that day telling me "OI! I'M PISSING IN HERE!"

- i spent seven hours locked in a small, convenience store-lit room at my university, surrounded by several other shamelessly bleeding-heart tree-hugging students, entrenched in discussion about the events and aftermath of the hindmarsh island bridge affair.

- i did the above activity: ON. A. SATURDAY.

- i attended a party wearing a floral dress and ugboots, with a pillow shoved up the front to imply up-the-duff-ness, a black eye painted onto my face, and a packet of cigarettes permanently shoved underneath my hot pink bra strap. don't fret, it was a 'trailer trash' themed party. i'm not turning into britney spears. yet.

- i made nice with the boy who popped my cherry. not that kind of nice though, perverts.

- i met an intelligent, compassionate, SEXY boy who i cannot have because the gods of hot monkey love and attainable happiness don't like me very much.

- i wrote the following haiku:

i write awful poems
'poems': one syllable or two?
d'you see what i mean?

- various wonderful people cooked me various wonderful things including dumplings, sang choy bow, vegemite toast (don't knock the simple pleasures), bbq lamb/steak/sausages, pear and spinach salad, and cous cous and eggplant salad. i almost came after every amazing mouthful. almost.

- i blogged about it all because my brain is too dead to write anything more interesting than a recap of happenings in my own mediocre yet entertaining enough (for me) existence. and for that i apologise, readers.

- i went to bed. well, actually i am going to bed now. but by the time you read this i will most likely have been already. ya dig?

higher learning

i'm sitting in a university tutorial pretending to take notes but instead writing a post to entertain and inform my readers.

the class has been running for one hour and so far:

3 mobile phones have rung.

2 text messages have been received.

6 people have "gone to the toilet", trying to be discreet about the mobile phones vibrating in their hands (including me).

4 people have mentioned foucault.

12 people have used the word 'dichotomy' (including me).

7 people have also used the word 'commodification' in the same sentence as 'dichotomy'.

4 people have followed up 'dichotomy' and 'commodification' with 'postmodern'.

9 people have yawned (including me).

2 people have looked at me in a way indicative of a camaraderie of pain.

make it 4 mobile phones that have rung.

3 people have their laptops open and are almost certainly surfing the net instead of taking notes (including me).

10 people have shared irrelevant personal anecdotes about their mother's uncle's partner's gay dog.

make that 5 people who have mentioned foucault.

1 person has stated he is homosexual.

1 person has confessed to being a feminist.

3 people have made quasi-interesting points.

nobody has taught me anything new yet.

make that 3 text messages that have been received.

oooh, another use of 'dichotomy' takes the score up to 13.

oh lord i wish i hadn't promised my mother on her deathbed that i'd finish uni.

*dies inside*

what's in a name?

i have two middle names, jacqueline and simone.

one is official and on my birth certificate. the other is unofficial, but i like to use it from time to time anyway.

i was given these names, along with my first name, in honour of three french ladies who were best friends with my paternal grandmother in her native egypt.

unfortunately my beautiful grandmother is no longer with us, but the three ladies are still rocking on, living it up in france well into their seventies, possibly their eighties.

all three have remained spinsters, nadine currently residing in an appartment in the centre of paris with her ailing mother, and the sisters jacqueline and simone still living together somewhere in paris.

my sister and i are in constant contact with "french nadine", happy for all the pseudo-relative love we can get these days. she visits australia every few years or so and i desperately want to go to the city of love and visit her soon. she even named her cat "french toffee" after falling in love with my late kitty on her last visit a few years ago.

but we have never met jacqueline or simone.

sadly this is because nadine no longer speaks to jacqueline and simone. i don't know why this is, nor do i think i will ever be game enough to ask.

i do fear however that this breakdown of relations between the women i am named after may be at the root of my identity crisis, my eternal, self-indulgent longing to work out just who the fuck i am and what the fuck i want to do with myself.

i mean surely if jacqueline and simone have cut all ties with nadine, and/or vice versa, it cannot bode well for my inner sense of harmony and well-being.

maybe if i officially drop the jacqueline and simone from my name, all my woes will disappear and i will smile the smile of the reasonably happy once again.

then again, maybe i should just keep taking my happy pills and seeing my therapist and stop clutching at stupid straws.

something to ponder.