I haven’t been practicing yoga that long—maybe about 15 months—and I know I’ll feel like a beginner for years, but I figured that I had one of the most basic poses mastered at least. Downward Facing Fog (or Adho Mukha Svanasana if you want to get fancy) is one of those poses that everyone seems to know whether they practice yoga or not. It’s a great stretching pose, it’s a relaxation pose and it’s a strength-building pose.

It was one of the first poses I learned when I started yoga. Except it turns out, I never really learned it correctly.

Almost every yoga instructor I’ve had has corrected my down dog. They all pull my hips up and back and I assumed it was because they knew I was pretty bendy and were trying to give me a bigger stretch than I could do on my own.

Turns out, not so much.

Last night my instructor corrected me again, so I asked her about it after class. I felt stupid asking her to teach me down dog, but she was excited that I asked and proceeded to give me very specific instructions about my hips, and, more importantly, my rib cage. Apparently, I puff my ribs out instead of drawing them in to keep my back flat. So I set myself up and she made some minor adjustments and for the first time I really felt what that pose should be.

That’s what I love about yoga. It’s all about making minor adjustments but feeling big changes.

I’m really trying to bring that concept into my life.

It’s no secret that I’ve felt stuck for a while. It’s not that I don’t know how to get unstuck—my problem is once I make up my mind to do something, I want it done now (Just ask Bill. “When you get a few minutes, will you take out the trash?” is really “Take out the trash! NOW! “). Patience is a virtue. It’s just not mine.

I’m an all-or-nothing girl. I like to make things happen and get frustrated when they don’t. The reality is, certain things take time no matter how hard I will them to happen.

I’m learning to be okay with that. I’m learning that small adjustments are really big. I’m learning that small adjustment add up to big progress over time.

Hey! Will someone remind me of that every once in a while?

My writing portfolio needs to get updated. I’m trying to generate some recent writing clips while making a few bucks on the side, so I signed up on one of those websites where people post projects and freelancers submit proposals.

Scrolling through the project listings is frustrating because the site is littered with requests like “100 blog posts in 3 days and we’ll pay 2 cents a word.” And the non-specific: “I have blog and need a 5,000-word article on dogs.” Or: “Earn $12 a day! Looking for a writer who can turn around 30 blog posts for .40 cents a post.”

And those are on one of the more legitimate sites out there.

I realize I don’t have to bid on any of those, but it pisses me off to see that people either don’t appreciate how much hard work goes into writing and editing (if it was easy, why wouldn’t they save themselves the two bucks just do it themselves?) or they figure that people are desperate. And I guess people are desperate because jobs like that have 10 or more bids.

The heyday of freelancing has passed. The days of $2 or more a word for an article are long gone. Especially for print publications. But some of these projects seem to exploit writers and editors. And not just people who are looking for a few clips to generate a portfolio, but talented, accomplished professionals. It seems wrong.

I don’t know the answer, though. And it doesn’t look to be changing any time soon. In this era of technology and instant connectivity, it looks like what I really need to do is start doing some good old-fashioned leg work—researching the magazines and websites I want to work for, find contact info for editors, craft eye-catching queries and keep at it until someone gives me a break.

I’m curious, though: Has anyone used any of those sites? Have you generated any legitimate work? Was it worth it?

You know the expression: “Shit-eating grin”?

That’s Penny and Gracie.

Yup—my dogs eat their own shit.

Joyfully!

I’ve tried every which way to stop them from doing it—sprinkling Forbid into their food (it’s a powder that’s supposed to make their poop taste nasty) and feeding them pineapple chunks and canned pumpkin (same idea). None of it makes a difference. It just leaves a nice garnish when they return to it.

Penny will stand behind Gracie while she’s squatting, watching intently, grabbing it before it hits the ground.

I started putting them outside one by one and stood over them with a poop scoop while the did their business, but they are fast little bitches. They can spin around and gulp it down before it even registers with me that they’re done.

They’re out of my site all day, hanging in the back yard, so I have no control over what they do then. I could crate them all day, but that seems mean.

I hit my breaking point when they’d ask to go out at 1:00 a.m. ON. THE. DOT. every night, and poop for the express purpose of having a little midnight snack.

I’ve done some research on it and half of the experts say it’s not good for them and half say it’s fine as long as they’re both healthy (and they are). In fact, this was completely normal behavior for dogs before they were domesticated. They had to live off whatever they could find—including the poop of other animals. So you could say they’re born to do it.

My favorite explanation for poop eating is “If you clean up after your dog while he looks on, he may misunderstand your intent and try to copy your actions in some fashion by ‘picking up after himself.’” Um, really? They’re smart dogs but not that smart.

I’ve switched dog food, thinking they weren’t getting enough nutrients. I switched again when I though they were getting too much protein. None of it made a difference.

I finally realized why they’re doing it.

They’re fast-eating poop lovers. They both eat so fast that Penny will have her bowl empty a second after I put it down for her. Those bowls designed to slow down a dog’s eating? Merely a brief roadblock. I’ve separated them at meals, hoping they would stop worrying that the other was going to steal her food and slow down, but they still forage in their bowls like bears in Dumpsters.

As a result, they aren’t digesting their food and when they poop, the food (and its nutrients) is still pretty intact—and apparently tasty as hell.

I give up.

They can eat all the poop they want.

Just don’t come to me looking for kisses.

This blog will be four years old next month. Honestly, I can’t believe it. I didn’t expect it to last four months, but here I am.

When I started The Daily Snark I wanted to create a fun place to snark about life and pop culture. I wanted to revel in the absurdity. This was going to be a place where I could escape to and just laugh. It felt safe.

As I got more comfortable with being online, I started to reveal a little more of myself—who I am, what I do, what I want, what’s going on in my life. It’s been a little like the hokey pokey, though—I’d put my right foot in, then I’d take it out, unsure if I wanted to jump in and shake it all about.

I was still trying to keep it light and funny. I was trying to make that my niche (raise your hand if you hate that word as much as I do).

But it wasn’t easy to maintain that.

Every so often I’d feel compelled to write something more meaningful, deal with issues that were still raw with me. I’d hit “Publish” and then I’d retreat, afraid of what I put out there. Afraid to own my feelings. Afraid of judgment.

Then I’d sneak back with something light and fluffy and try to pretend that nothing ever happened.

And something weird started to happen. I started to drift away from the light and fluffy concoctions and have tried to write more openly.

I’ve changed a lot over the past year or so. It happens I guess. (Growth is good, right?) I’m definitely less sarcastic now than I used to be (although I will always be a snarky bitch to some degree!). That caustic tone usually came from a place of negativity, and it went hand in hand with a lot of complaining (Pity the poor person who’d ask, “Hi. What’s up? How are you?” I’d tell them exactly how I was. In excruciating detail.) That tone was reflected in this blog. Sure the verbal diarrhea felt good for a minute—and it was definitely good for a laugh—but it didn’t actually solve what was bothering me.

Wallowing in misery just begets more misery.

It has taken me a long time to learn that.

Yoga has helped. Immensely.

I have been practicing pretty regularly for about a year, and I feel like I’m in a better place. I’m happier. More content. Less concerned with who has what and why don’t I have that? I’m more focused on what I have and being grateful for it. Because—not to brag—but I’m lucky. I could even use the word “blessed.”

And I think that’s the tone that’s reflected in this blog now.

(Don’t worry—this isn’t a going to become a shiny happy yoga blog, and I haven’t lost my snark completely! I’m still going to rhapsodize about The Real Housewives from time to time!)

So now I’m left with the decision to just move forward with this blog name and ignore the obvious division between content and title, or come up with a new name and forward this url to it.

What would you do?

(PS: If you have any suggestions for titles, I’m totally open to those!)

Bless me readers for I have sinned. It’s been 17 days since my last blog post. For this an any other sins I may have committed I am truly sorry. If I say an Act of Contrition will you absolve me?

Honest to God, I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days. I really have no excuse other than I’ve been busy. And lazy.

Mostly lazy.

But I’m feeling inspired today. Last night my girlfriend and I went to see the amazing Jenny Lawson, aka The Bloggess, read from her new book Let’s Pretend This Never Happened (A Mostly True Memoir) here in Los Angeles.

At the risk of sounding like a giddy fan girl, she was awesome! She was irreverent, hilarious and extremely generous, taking questions from fans and signing a gagillion books while taking pictures with anyone who asked. We waited in line for about 90 minutes and it was worth the wait.

I’m about halfway through and I simultaneously can’t wait to finish it and am trying to savor it.

Reading her book reminds me what I love about blogging—it’s about men and women laying out their vulnerabilities for everyone to sort through, sharing the blood and guts of life. The feeling of “Oh, I’m not alone after all. There are others like me.” It’s not about judgement; it’s about community. That’s powerful.

There’s a lot of discussion online about whether or not personal blogs are dying. So-called experts say that in order to be successful, bloggers need to have a niche, and I believe too many bloggers buy into that, littering their blogs with reviews and giveaways and sponsored content. Others have put up pretty facades that hide their imperfections and failures because, well, I don’t know why. Fear? Probably.

I just read an article in Entertainment Weekly where Aaron Sorkin, talking about the difference between writing for movies and writing for television, says that TV is “all middle.” In other words, it’s the details, the ongoing story that keeps viewers interested.

It’s the same with personal blogs for me. It’s the quiet moments, the small details, the highs and the lows that we all go through in life that pull me in, keep me riveted and bring me back. It’s about having the courage share our stories—warts and all—with honesty and integrity.

This post went in a completely different direction than I originally intended when I started writing today. I was going to write a happy, funny post about the reading last night, but watching Jenny put it all out there, and have people thank her for that, made me think about what I’m doing in this space. Or not doing.

I’ve had trouble finding my words lately and it’s because of fear. Certain areas of my life feel like a big mess right now and it’s hard for me to share that. I don’t like to admit that I don’t have it all figured out, that I’m as far from figured out as you can get. But if I expect honesty and integrity from others, aren’t I a hypocrite if I don’t reciprocate?

Yoga, an ancient but perfect science, deals with the evolution of humanity. This evolution includes all aspects of one’s being, from bodily health to self realization. Yoga means union — the union of body with consciousness and consciousness with the soul. Yoga cultivates the ways of maintaining a balanced attitude in day to day life and endows skill in the performance of one’s actions.” —B.K.S. Iyengar

I joke to Bill that I’m in the throes of a midlife crisis, but I’m not sure that it’s really a joke.

Don’t worry—I’m not about to run out and buy a sports car (already did that one! Heh!), get my boobs done and pull my face so tight I have to blink to move my lips. But in some ways, that would be easier. Ugly, but easier.

This is worse. I’m 42 years old and I can’t decide what I want to be when I grow up. One day I want to return to writing and editing for a living. The next I want to go through a teacher trainer program for yoga. The day after? I’m ready to join the circus or be a ballerina. Since this is 2012, I realize I could do all of those things and the options are overwhelming.

I always figured that I’d be settled at this point in my life. I figured I’d be comfortable in my career, counting down the years until I could comfortably retire and travel the world. And I can still do that. But maybe I don’t want to do the way I am now.

There’s a line in “You’ve Got Mail” where Birdie says to Kathleen, “You are daring to imagine that you could have a different life.”

And that’s how I feel.

I’m imagining a slightly different life and it’s scary and exhilarating and overwhelming.

As new-agey and hippy-dippy as it sounds, practicing yoga has shifted my perspective about what matters to me. My yoga mat is one of the few places I can totally relax and let go and clear my mind of the junk that clutters it throughout the day.

So I blame the yoga for this.

I’ve been slowly working out the details and putting my plan into motion. Last week I requested my college transcripts and when I looked them I got sick to my stomach.

I hate the story my transcripts tell, mostly because they don’t tell the real story. Not that the real story is any better.

On the surface I look stupid.

The reality is that my transcripts reflect a lazy, unfocused student who was so insecure that she was concerned with spending more time at her boyfriend’s college than her own.

When I graduated from high school my parents didn’t want me to go away to school. They didn’t think I was focused enough so they didn’t want to waste their money on an expensive four-year university. I will never admit this to them, but they were right.

I lived at home my first two years while attending a local community college. My grades were pretty good then (still waiting on those transcripts to arrive), so my parents finally let me transfer to a four-year university. And although I was in driving distance to a few good state colleges, I wanted to move away. I told everyone that I wanted to leave the Bay Area for Orange County because it was far enough away from my parents while remaining in state. But during my freshman year I met a guy who went to USC and we started a long-distance relationship. I moved to Southern California to be closer to him—not necessarily for school.

I (stupidly) hung my future on this guy, spending every minute I could with him. Yeah, I went to class, but I did the bare minimum to get by, and I was one of those people who really had to work at it. It didn’t come easy to me. At the end of my first year away at school I received a notice that my GPA had fallen so low, I wouldn’t be allowed to attend in the fall.

The next day, I got my grades from summer session along with a notice reinstating my position at the school.

You would have thought that would have scared me straight.

You would be wrong.

I spend the remainder of my college years focused on other things. Yeah, I did party a little bit, but I spent more time chasing this guy around, putting his goals before mine. As much as I’d love to, I can’t blame him for any of that. It was all me. I thought he was more important than I was.

I did well in the classes in my major, but the rest? Couldn’t have cared any less if I tried. I had a Philosophy class one year that I showed up to exactly three times—the first day, the mid-term and the final. And I missed the actual final. I had to go back and lie to my professor, telling him I was sick the day before and begged for a makeup exam. I was at my boyfriend’s college graduation instead (his grades were stellar, by the way).

Priorities. I had none.

I graduated, but I had nothing to be proud of. I was a screw-up and I knew it.

A few years after graduation, I took some anatomy, physiology and biology classes at UCLA for my job at the time and I got all A’s. And thank God because those are the transcripts that are going to save me.

I know I can’t go back and change anything, but really, if there is anything in this life I could change, it would be that. I wish I could go back and have the college experience that I should have—one at my own school with my own friends. I wish I had gotten more involved on campus and with my classes.

I’m kicking myself. I’ve managed to have a successful career in spite of myself, but that is small consolation right now as I’m trying to transition to a new one.

I do believe that everything happens for a reason in life, but this one escapes me. Maybe it’ll make me fight harder for what I want. I know it will definitely make me work harder if I return to school. It’s possibly a wake-up call. Too bad it happened 20 years after graduation, but better late than never, right?

We interrupt our self-centered, navel gazing for a brief rant.

**********

Last time I checked, this is still America. And as far as I’m aware, the First Amendment is still intact. Or did I miss the memo?

This story makes zero sense to me.

In a nutshell it says that the Los Angeles City Council “will debate a resolution on Wednesday condemning talk radio hosts that use racist, sexist and derogatory language on the air.” This resolution calls on KFI to reign in its talk show hosts.

This was brought about because local talk radio hosts John and Ken on KFI640 called Whitney Houston “a crack ho” a few days after she died.

Distasteful? Absolutely. Unnecessary? Totally.

The article goes on to say that “[The City Council] also criticize syndicated radio host Rush Limbaugh for referring to Georgetown law student Sandra Fluke as a ‘slut’ and a ‘prostitute’ after she testified before congress about contraception.”

Make no mistake: I think Rush Limbaugh is a misogynistic, racist, douche wind bag. Which is why I don’t listen to him.

That’s the great thing about freedom of expression. Feel free to disagree. And then change the channel.

I’m not the most politically astute person you’ll ever meet, but this whole thing seems a little out of the City Council’s purview. Shouldn’t they be more concerned with something important? Like homelessness? Or the unemployment rate? Or at the very least, filling potholes?

Last I checked, they are not, nor are they affiliated with the Supreme Court.

Seems a little out of their league to me.

When the ancient Greek soldiers (or was it the Vikings?) traveled across the sea to do battle, they’d immediately burn their boats, stranding themselves where they landed. With no way to make it home, victory was the only option and the soldiers were unwavering in their purpose.

I, on the other hand, am wavering.

I’ve been thinking about making changes. I’ve gotten excited about trying something new. I started to do the research to see what kind of challenge I’m up against. I’ve been talking through my plans with Bill (who, for the record, is behind whatever I want to do as long as it will make me happy).

But…

I’m getting in my own way.

Am I up to starting over? What will people think? Is this the right move in this economy? Am I being impulsive? Is this really the right move for me?

What if I fail?

That right there is the question that will stop this in its tracks.

I have left a trail of abandoned ideas and projects in my wake. I’ve quit or simply not started things because I knew I wouldn’t be good at them or they would be a struggle to finish. Flute lessons at 9? Quit after three lessons because it was too hard. Swim team? After competing for seven years I quit by high school because I’d have to work too hard to be competitive. I’ve even quit things because I’ve cared too deeply about what other people think of me. (Self-esteem: I have none.)

Avoiding failure is avoiding taking a risk.

And I don’t think I’ve ever really taken a risk. Not a true put-it-all-out-there risk.

It’s time to set some goals and attach a deadline. I have to name the worst-case scenario and put that into perspective. And I have to tell my inner critic to shut the hell up.

It’s time to burn the boat.

If you’ve been around here for longer than two minutes, you’ve probably picked up on some ambivalence about my career. But if you get down to brass tacks, it’s not about my job or my career at all. It’s about me and what I want my life to mean. It’s about doing something that matters and trying to make a difference. It’s about finding something that makes me happy.

After an abrupt career change 4 1/2 years ago, I’m contemplating going in a totally different direction again, and it scares the shit out of me.

The ideas I have, the things I’m thinking about pursuing will require a ton of time and commitment. Most likely I will need to return to school for a short period to complete a program that will demand all of my time and attention. And an ass-load of money.

I can think of a million reasons why I shouldn’t do this—I’m too old to start over, I don’t have the time—are two big ones. And they’re perfectly valid reasons. I can also think of a million reasons why I should—I want to feel alive. I want to be excited and challenged, to feel passionate and connected.

I’m extremely conventional. I’m not flighty. I don’t job hop, and I’m not one of those people who feels comfortable trying 9 million things, hoping I fall into something that moves me. I like stability, consistency and a regular paycheck, so even thinking that I could do something different—something unconventional—makes me feel dizzy.

I’ve been so paralyzed with indecision that I decided to put the idea on the back burner for the time being, convinced something would push me one way or another.

Last night something weird happened. I had a reading done by a friend who knew nothing about this, and the entire conversation focused on the idea of change, forgetting the past and moving ahead with ideas.

Yes, I realize having a reading done flies in the face my earlier statement of not being flighty, but honest to God, she hasn’t been wrong about anything yet.

I can’t help but think I have to address this again.

Runes