Ananda, I am Vata hear me roar, Ganga Aarti

This morning we bade farewell to Hirsch, Mr. Jith, and Bala in Delhi, and flew to the town of Dehradun situated in the foothills of the Him-al-yas. We were met at the airport by our colorfully turbaned and thick mustachioed driver, who whisked us up the mountains to the idyllic site of the Ananda Spa. The Spa sits in the center of a sprawling mountaintop haven, owned to this day by the Maharaja, and which contains the Maharaja’s palace. Ananda is a serene wellness center where the staff to guest ratio of 5:1 makes for a luxurious and friendly atmosphere. The perpetually genuflecting staff call out “Namashcar” every time they pass you and the al fresco dining room waiters remember how you like your earl grey tea (with lemon thank you) and that you prefer sparkling water. Upon arrival we were greeted with flower necklaces and a traditional welcome whereby a small prayer was offered and a red saffron dot placed between my eyes to ward off evil while musician played the sitar and flute.

I then had my Ayurvedic and Wellness Consultation with the resident Ayurvedic doctor, Dr. Shabyran. The kind doctor explained that he would do a brief intake to assess my Ayurvedic body type (there are 3 types and depending on your type different foods are encouraged and discouraged) so that I could follow a special food and beverage regimen while at Ananda. I informed him that I knew I was not a Vata but unsure as to whether I might be a Pitta or a Kapha. Dr. Shabyran gave me a sideways glance, “let me be the judge of that” he seemed to be saying. A few questions later, the most embarrassing of which required me to classify the nature of my stool as “dry”, “oily”, or “moist”, and the good doctor pronounced that I was very clearly Vata. So there.

He then went on to describe in specific detail the telltale signs of Vata; she prefers to drink water at room temperature, often suffers from indigestion, suffers from knee pain, has skin that is highly sensitive and on and on. Dr. Shabyran gave me a deep knowing look, “nailed it!” his soft brown eyes announced. I was cautioned to never skip meals but eat often, to avoid cold foods, and to ensure that I had sufficient fat in my diet to combat my tendency toward dryness. This will now serve as my favorite excuse for why I must indulge in full fat cheeses and add cream to pretty much everything. I am also to avoid cauliflower and other “windy” vegetables and legumes such as lentils as according to the doctor “tey wheel tend to mek you even gahseeah tan you neture-alee ahr”. I assured him that I am no “gahseeah” than the next person and that even when I am gassy it doesn’t have an odor, in response to which the good doctor simply smiled and said, “Tis the sem for all Vata. Too much ayahr, too much weend.”

I then relaxed into a 4-handed Manipuri Massage, Ananda’s signature Ayurvedic treatment which is a full body scrub followed by a deep tissue massage employing two massage therapists as well as warm poultices filled with detoxifying herbs. After my massage, and feeling the warm post massage glow flowing throughout my every chakra, I changed and headed into the town of Rishikesh to attend the holy ceremony of Ganga Aarti.

Rishikesh is the yoga capital of India and the place where yoga is said to have been created. It is also the home of the annual International Yoga Festival which I imagine is like Lollapalooza for Yogis. The town is situated on the banks of the Ganges and pilgrims flock here all year long to pray by the holy river which itself is an incarnation of the god Shiva, and to cleanse themselves by ablution and dare I say it, the drinking of the Ganges water. Having been taking the precaution of drinking 2 tablespoons of Pepto Bismal daily as a prophylactic stomach protector while in India, I cannot fathom how anyone would dare drink directly from the river.

Our driver parked the van by the riverside, ditched his turban, and led us through the village past women selling flower and food offerings for the gods. We then boarded a small wooden boat and crossed the Ganges along with colorfully dressed pilgrims excitedly chatting away. We then disembarked and walked through the cow strewn streets (there are an enormous number of sacred cows in this country), taking time to visit the local Ashram where young Indian boys from Brahmin families are sent to live and study Hinduism and Yoga from the age of 8-18. The saffron colored robes of the boys are as immaculate as their carefully combed hair. I spotted one young man, so beautiful that he could have been a Bollywood movie star playing the role of a young priest in training at the Ashram. I may have come across as a bit of a camera stalker to the young man, who did look mildly uncomfortable when I trained my lense on him repeatedly.

We found seats on the marble steps beneath an archway leading down to the river and thus seated amongst the pilgrims, the boys and their Swami, enjoyed the hour long chanting and singing of the Ganga Aarti ceremony. Candles were lit, incense burned, offerings tossed into the holy fire and holy river, and the Swami’s muse led the crowd in melodic verses of “Om Shanti, Shanti Om”, as well as several stanzas of an old Beatles song (seriously who knew that “Hari Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hari Hari, Hari Rama, Hari Rama, Rama Rama Hari Hari,” were actually the words to a holy Hindu prayer sung on the banks of the Ganges at dusk). I sang along to that part with gusto, eliciting smiles from several of the younger boys. The boys swayed as they sang, hands above their heads in exultation to mighty Shiva, Krishna and Rama.

The service was magical (video clip attached) and as the sun set and the service came to an end, we made our way back across the river by footbridge, carefully avoiding holy cows and their patties, under the cover of darkness.

The Unfortunate Lamb Incident, Evil Genius Jeweller, and 12 hours in Agra

Yesterday afternoon Hirsch took us to a wonderful pashmina shop where the owner spent well over an hour helping us find the perfect color and “bery best qwaleerty for you meh-dem” shawls handmade in the Himalayas. Please note that Himalayas should be pronounced Him-al-yaz. Please also note that I have been referring to the famous mountain range as frequently as possible in order to speak the name with the correct pronunciation, which rolls off the tongue with great aplomb. The price negotiations for the Him-al-yan shawls were lengthy but amicable and in the end I paid slightly more than I wanted which was slightly less than the shopkeeper felt he could get. But we had some laughs, so he let it be, although he did let me know that if he hadn’t liked me so much he would have “fwound a whey to teerick meh-dem weert lesser qwaleerty”.

After posing for some photos with our Sikh hotel doormen, we went to dinner at the famous Dumpukht Restaurant in the ITC hotel. We arrived hungry and eager for a 5-star meal. The extensive menu posed a challenge, as there were too many dishes to choose from and none familiar. In the end we chose a variety of specialties recommended by the waiter. This would prove to be a strategic error. The first course arrived, the special Dumpukht lamb kebob.

The kebob bore an unfortunate resemblance to a rather large piece of dog poo (see pic) but I cut into it with gusto excited for the tantalizing taste sensation I was surely about to enjoy. I popped the morsel in my mouth and felt an oddly slimy texture not unlike gelatin, only grittier, slide down my throat. I looked over at Hilary who was uncomfortably trying to swallow the tiny bite she had taken. I sliced another small piece of the lamb jellostick and smothered it in mint sauce, but this tactic only served to accentuate the problem; as the mint brought out the severely unpleasant smoky flavor of the dish. The waiter appeared and inquired if the dish was to “meh-dem’s liking”, it is “berry femousse deesh from Dumpukht”. In a panic and not wanting to be inhospitable, I smiled widely and nodded my head vigorously, hiding the offending meat jelly as best I could in the hollow of my cheek. When the waiter had returned to the kitchen, I did my best to cut the remainder of the gelatinous kebob into as many odd shaped sections as was possible, and moved them about my plate thereby creating the illusion of consumption. Hilary, severely traumatized by the offending lamb jello, refused to touch the kebob in spite of my supplications, and left in lying on her plate in plain sight.

The rest of the meal was uneventful by comparison, although the two couples at the table next to us did insist heatedly on speaking to the chef in order to lecture him on some apparently serious issue with the preparation of the dal (lentil stew). I considered calling the chef over for a small tete-a-tete regarding the meat jello, but decided against it. After dinner, grateful for the case of energy bars we had each packed, we returned to the Imperial, and after a lengthy consultation with Hilary on the right kind of sleeping pill to take given our 5:00am wake up call, turned in for an Ambien assisted night of quiet slumber.

Mr. Dith and Hirsch fetched us at 5:30am and we headed for the train station. We piled into the “AC Chair Car” along with 50 other Caucasian tourists and 2 short hours later arrived in Agra. We met our new driver, hopped in his white van and made for the Taj Mahal. After declining a ride from the parking lot to the Taj Mahal by a camel driven carriage, we walked up the road passing wild baboons along the way. Soon we came upon a large archway through which I caught my first glimpse of the magnificent Taj Mahal. Built by the 5th Moghul King as a final resting place for his beloved queen (1 of 3 wives but clearly his very most beloved), the monument took 22 years to build and is made from impressive gleaming white marble, and adorned with precious stones inlaid as mosaics into the walls. Photography is strictly forbidden inside the main chamber where the Queen and Moghul King’s marble coffins rest, but not strictly forbidden enough for Hirsch who graciously snapped a low light photo of us in front of the tombs.

After an hour at the Taj we came to the realization that our train back to Delhi was not for another 11 hours and so we would need to come up with an aggressive plan for how to spend the remainder of the day. Our first stop was a marble factory where the art of using precious stones as inlay in table tops and small boxes is being lovingly preserved by a merchant whose style with his artisans was akin to a pharoanic overlord. He moved us through the various stations with great flourish explaining the origin of this dying art form with lyric language and enormous personal concern for the slow death of this cultural heritage, which is now “solely up to da gin-ee-roz-itty of ‘merry-can too-wris like meh-dem.” The work stations, which were no more than areas on the floor demarcated by different collections of tools, were occupied by squatting stone grinders, stone polishers, stone pacers, stone finishers, and master designers.

Our host grunted out commands which would spring one or more of the squatting workers into action like organ grinder monkeys, and it became readily apparent that the entire scene was solely manufactured for our benefit. I had little doubt that the moment we left the factory, the group would stand up remove their turbans and languish about on cigarette break watching Bollywood videos until the next van pulled up, sort of like a marble brothel. In spite of the fate of this art form being laid squarely upon our “merry-can” shoulders, we left empty handed.

We then informed Hirsch that it was time to visit a jeweler in search of emeralds, natch. We arrived in front of the steel gates of Kohinoor Jewellers, hidden behind 15 foot high armored walls and guarded by some rather fierce looking, machine gun toting men. This particular jeweler is not the one our tour company “has an arrangement with”, per Hirsch, but he informed us that this was the best jeweler in Agra and that if we would keep it a secret he would take us. We pinky swore, subtly aware that this was likely the jeweler that Hirsch had an “arrangement with”, but excited at our middle aged rebelliousness.

Inside the factory we joined a group of Swedish tourists who were hearing a lecture from a diminutive yet highly distinguished looking Indian gentleman of about 70 years of age. This we would learn was the famous proprietor of the business Mr. Ghanghyam Mathur. Mr. Mathur resembles the slightly egg-headed arch evil Megamind of the animated Disney film. He speaks in a deliberate and clipped manner with a smooth almost slick British English with only the slightest hint of an Indian accent, betraying his English boarding school upbringing. Mr. Mathur made quick conversation with Hirsch, looked Hilary and I up and down, and nodded in approval. He then announced to the Swedish group in a royal page-like fashion or perhaps more akin to the announcer’s voice at the Pyramids of Giza in the 1977 James Bond film, The Spy Who Loved Me, that, “We have the honor (pause) of being joined (pause) by these two (pause) lovely (pause) American ladies (long pause) who will accompany us into the Museum (pause) where we shall enjoy wonders (pause) the likes of which (pause) have (next part said with extra emphasis) never been witnessed (crescendo, pause) outside of our great city of (pause) Agra.”

Mr. Mathur then ushered us into a large, rectangular and very dark carpeted room. I could barely make out the framed built-in display windows in the low light but it was reminiscent of the Museum of Natural History’s animal encasements. Each display window was covered in glass on the exterior and opaque black velvet on the interior so that the contents were completely shielded from view. Mr. Mathur had us gather around the first display window and gave a rousing introduction full of “priceless”, “unique in the werld”, and “nevah before seen outside these walls” references before pressing some buttons on his remote control LCD panel, which he was very very proud of.

Instantly a spot light was illuminated from within the display case and the electric curtain lifted, revealing a 10x8 foot tapestry embroidered with the most beautiful silk depicting a large lifelike rooster and chicken and surrounded by a border covered in embroidery and precious gems. The room gave out a collective gasp, and Mr. Mathur smiled slyly, he knew he had his audience under his control now. One by one, in Dr. No style, Mr. Mathur revealed his precious collection of encased and embroidered bejeweled tapestries until we were left with no choice but to clap gratefully for the privilege of the exhibit tour. Mr. Mathur then invited us upstairs to view the Moghul Queen’s jewelry collection.

I volunteered to model the Moghul Queen’s emerald ring and Mr. Mathur seemed pleased with my performance before the Scandinavian crowd. He posed for a photo with me and even introduced me to his son and daughter who both work in the business. The son, a newlywed, spent some time explaining the virtues of arranged marriages to me and how living with his parents was a genuine pleasure. The daughter, a “famous Indian jewelry designer” according to her Papa, showed me some of her latest jewelry designs. Let’s just hope nepotism does not run too strongly in the family business.

With Hirsch’s help we managed to see every single sight in Agra including the Moghul palaces, the Third Moghul’s tomb, the spice market, the Oberoi Hotel for lunch, as well as the ITC hotel for tea. When at last it was time to board the train back to Delhi, we settled into the overly air conditioned rail car and shivered happily all the way home to the Imperial.

Delhi hi, happy holy, no shorts please, and Hirsch the Indian tour guide

Hello dear Reader, I am happy to report that I am setting off on another journey. This time, I will be visiting the magical land of India, accompanied by my dear friend Hilary. This is to be our own Julia Roberts-esque pilgrimage to the birthplace of yoga and cheap offshore engineering outsourcing. Leaving my darling husband and children back home, I am thinking of this trip as my own personal Eat, Pray, Shop. I must warn you that being on the 4th week of a 6-week sucrose detox (no rice, no naan, no delicious mango chutney); this adventure poses a particularly difficult challenge for me. I have pre-ordered a diabetic meal on all flights to ensure minimal temptation aboard the 2 long flights to India.


If faced with a warm scone and clotted cream prior to landing, I fear I may buckle. I am undaunted, however, and after settling into my comfy seat on a Lufthansa flight to Munich from where we will connect to our flight to Delhi, I am feeling excited and relaxed.




The purser, one Hehr Renner approached my aisle seat soon after take off and in a soft yet heavily German accented voice discreetly inquired as to whether I was “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein.” I nodded yes. “You heh-free-qvested dee-a-betique meal, jah?” Again I nodded yes. Hehr Renner then gently placed a hand on my cashmere wrap covered arm and looking deep into my eyes said, “Pleez do not hez-et-ate to ree-qvest helf for eny-zing et owl Mizz Boh-ren-shtein, vee are he-ah to helf.” I nodded again and smiled gratefully, realizing with some melancholy that his misunderstanding regarding my actually being a diabetic would likely serve as a full proof deterrent against my indulging in a glass of sucrose filled champagne. I wondered momentarily whether my not carrying an insulin kit might pose a credibility issue but then realized that my frequent trips to the bathroom would prove an excellent smokescreen.

A few moments later a younger male flight attendant wheeled his cart of dinner trays down the aisle and stopped at my side. “Mizz Boh-ren-shtein?” he asked surprised. I nodded. He produced a tray containing a cold, grilled chicken breast a top a small pile of iceberg lettuce and as he placed it down in front of me, smiled and laughing knowingly under his breath added, “no carbs,” before rolling his way down the aisle. A momentary sense of shame washed over me and I said a silent prayer that he would not rat me out to kind Hehr Renner. Needless to say I had no alcohol but a lovely sleeping pill helped ease me into a gentle slumber on the long flight.

After landing in Delhi some 20 hours later, we were greeted by Balla, a 25 year old South Indian fellow with a large scar across his forehead that might have been the result of an unfortunate encounter with a Bengal tiger. Balla wrapped sweet smelling jasmine and rose flower around our necks and ushered us into the waiting van. Our driver Mr. Jith (pronounced jee-th) nodded effusively in welcome.

20 minutes later we arrived at our sumptuous hotel, The Imperial, where a lovely hostess who placed a red bindi on my forehead between my eyes, a typical Indian greeting custom, showed us to our room. After showering and enjoying a cup of tea in the atrium, we headed for lunch at the Spice Road restaurant in the hotel. The hostess politely informed us that the restaurant had a “no shorts” policy and regrettably informed us that we could not gain access. I for one was in a pair of capri length cargo pants, which while not the most fashion forward of trousers, was most certainly not a pair of shorts. I smiled widely at the hostess and leaned in to explain to her that these were not shorts but well below the knee capris (I bent down and drew a line with my hand across my shins for emphasis) and assured her that they were quite acceptable. She gave me a concerned look and asked me to wait a moment while she inquire with her manager. She returned quickly and with a grand hand gesture welcomed us into the cool, ornately appointed and dimly lit restaurant. Lovely. We enjoyed lunch outside by the gazebo and fountains, attended to by a remarkably sprite and assertive waiter who insisted on refilling our plates and glasses himself. It made for an amusing pantomime of sorts with my reaching for the sparkling water or sautéed vegetables, and his sprinting across the courtyard to wrestle bottle or spoon from my tender grasp.

After lunch we met our guide, who introduced himself as “Hirsch.” He was most unlike any Hirsch I had met before; for one he was clearly Indian and for another he sounded Indian. I asked if I had heard him correctly and that indeed his name was Hirsch. He said simply, “You may koll me Hirsch orreh you may koll me Raj, dey are boat good nems.” I agree they both are. I decided to call him Hirsch.

As luck would have it, today is an Indian festival to welcome Summer and everyone we pass raises their hands into prayer position and calls out “Happy Holy,” to which I reply “Happy Holy to you.” It was only much later that Hirsch explained that the festival is actually called “Holi.” On Holi, Indian men, women and children throw brightly colored paint and colored powders on each other, covering their clothes, faces and hair with patches of paint. The effect of it all is that throughout the entire city it looks as though everyone has been involved in a serious game of paintball. Even the cows, which are considered to be sacred and can be found lying just about everywhere you look, are covered in swathes of magenta, fuschia, purple and green paint.

Hirsch took us to visit the Red Fort and we took a bicycle rickshaw tour through Old Delhi where hundreds of rainbow splotched and neon colored men teetered drunkenly in the streets. Happy Holi everyone.

Holiday Beading Success, Employee Abuse, Coke Zero envy, the greedy Astrologer, Tai Chi Master Surprise, Ms. Sanchez

It is hard to imagine a sense of satisfaction greater than that felt when the answer to "Where did you get that, I love it," is truthfully, "I made it." But indeed ladies and gentlemen, I anticipate many such exchanges to be on the horizon for yours truly, as today was a triumphant beading day for me. Unfortunately this cannot be said of the rest of the crowd in attendance at this morning's holiday beading class, a.k.a. The Bead Goes On or Don't Worry Bead Happy as it is referred to in the Ranch program schedule. The class did not start out on an energetically positive track as one of the guests, let us call her Martha, arrived a full 10 minutes late and swept into the Pavilion in quite an attention seeking huff. Martha, it is worthy to note, is in her mid-70's, and unlike the majority of Ranch guests, neither dyes her gray hair nor differentiates between her and her husbands sweatpants. Martha does however have a most vindictive nature, as you will soon see. Donna, the beading instructor, who incidentally was wearing a silver leather belt she had adorned with Swarovski crystals to a truly bedazzling effect, paused her in depth explanation of the difference between the metallic and ceramics beads to ask Martha if she was all right.

"Well, I guess you could say all right if you ignore the fact that I just spent the last hour in medical."

Without further prompting, Martha began a detailed and bitter recounting of the morning's events. While she was leaving the Clubhouse and walking behind an employee of the Ranch, a new guest appeared on the horizon and called out a greeting to the employee. The employee slowed down and responded to the greeting with an effusive and wide gesturing of her arms in a V-shaped air hello. As her hand flew with apparent jet propulsion up into the air, she caught the side of Martha's weathered face. The force of this contact was apparently sufficient to cause Martha to seek out medical treatment, and although there were no signs of injury on Martha’s face visible to the naked eye, she assured us all that her jaw was now clicking.

Donna quickly told Martha that she was sure the employee must feel terrible about the incident, to which Martha replied, “Well, you’d think so.” Donna tried again with a different approach; “I bet her hand must be hurting something awful.” This produced a visible smile across Martha’s face for apparently her clicking jaw injury had no effect on her jaw’s ability to support an effusive ear-to-ear grin. “I certainly think so,” was Martha’s official response. Unsatisfied with this, I leaned in toward Martha and asked playfully, “Do you mean “think so” or “hope so”?”

Martha winked at me with great pleasure and said in a fiery tone unbefitting her benign, baggy sweatpanted appearance, “Yup, you got it.” A few of the fully make-upped forehead sweatband sporting guests (think Olivia Newton John but 70+ and in tranny makeup with reading glasses) were seen to take a few discreet steps away from Martha. Donna continued with her explanation and I quietly moved my things to a table on the far side of the Pavilion.


I returned to fight my way through what can only be accurately described as a bead frenzy. Age spot covered hands were diving madly in and out of the many containers of beads spread out according to color on the tables. Beads were flying as the ladies’ acrylic nails clawed in the turquoise and red holiday beads. I avoided the frenzy almost completely by sticking to the pearl and earth tone beads, which were surprisingly unattractive to the Olivia impersonators. “Don’t cha wanna a-yedd a liddle culla fah oomph doll?” one Jackie from Cincinnati asked. I decided to sit next to Jackie for in spite of her black sweatband, I liked that she cared about the quality of my output. While Jackie struggled to find the holes in her ruby and turquoise beads through which to thread the wire, I quietly began stringing my bracelet together. Upon my asking Jackie from Cincinnati what part of New York she was from originally, Jackie dropped her bracelet in apparent shock that she still had a discernable accent. I helped Jackie from Cincinnati collect her beads as she explained how she was actually born and raised in Brooklyn but had lived in her adopted home city for the past 54 years.

When I had crimped my last bead, I tried on my bracelet and Jackie declared it to be “ah-eb-sa-loot-ly gohgess.” If you look at the photo attached, you’ll see it is hard to disagree.

After the toil of beading, I decided to sit by the flagstone pool near the Double U Café and read in the sunshine while sipping on one of the Coke Zeros I had smuggled into the Ranch on Day 1. My carcinogenic beverage acted like an open bottle of male pheromones and soon I had women of all ages and sizes approaching me to demand I tell them where I got the beverage and whether I had more. I had mixed emotions about this, for on the one hand I had empathy for these diet soda-deprived women, but on the other hand I felt contempt for these same women who clearly did not love their delectable slimming fizzy drink enough to have planned ahead and smuggled some in for themselves. I explained that they could get their very own by hiring a car to take them to the Circle K and eventually collecting my things and moved on; I knew I was no longer welcome as they sipped jealously on their unsweetened boysenberry iced tea.

I entered the Catalan Room excited for the lecture on Astrology. Katherine, the chief Astrologist at the Ranch was there and greeted me warmly, even offering me a piece of Dove dark chocolate, which I accepted gratefully. Katherine looks exactly like what I would imagine Terri Garr’s older, food obsessed sister would look like. She also speaks in a similar ditsy yet charming manner, employing multiple run on sentences that are colorful if often hard to follow. We were joined by Mona, a Ranch vet who appeared to be separated at birth from the new football coach on Glee, and Kelsey an adorable 20 year old from Atlanta visiting with her Mom.

Rather than teach us the basics of Astrology and how it is used to guide ones life toward enlightenment, Katherine spent much of the first 30 minutes showing us screen shots on the projector of various financial astrologers and talking about the incredible price increases in gold and silver. She then projected the chart of the United States of America and explained how it will be a full 12 months until we begin to emerge from the current financial turmoil due to the squaring of Uranus with various other planets apparently responsible for the movement of money.

At Mona’s behest she also pulled up the birth chart of Barack Obama, and paused in silence once it was on the large screen before us. “Well, you can certainly see how hard he’s working and what a tough time he’s having.” In truth I could not, I could see nothing but a series of numbers and squiggles. Fortunately, Mona had to excuse herself to prepare for some intense athletic feat and I left to join the lecture on Spiritual Anchoring in Turbulent Times next door.

The class was full and so I sat on the carpeted floor at the very back of the room. I noticed Hispanic Tom Selleck and his much older sugar momma sitting in the chairs in front of me listening intently to the speaker’s pointers on the importance of anchoring oneself with spirituality before allowing a situation to turn into a problem. I am still unclear on the distinction between a situation and a problem, although I am clear that a problem is much worse karma and dharma wise. I am also unclear on what dharma really is, but I digress. The fourth step in anchoring is to breathe. According to the speaker we forget to breathe and this is to our detriment. Having never personally forgotten to breathe, I can nonetheless imagine how doing so might prove problematic if not fatal. At this point Mr. Selleck raised his hand and asked the speaker if he might lead the class through a brief breathing demonstration that would underscore the power of breathing as well as its simplicity. Having always found breathing quite simple myself, I was curious as to how to make it even easier. The speaker asked how long Mr. Selleck thought such a demonstration might take, an experienced speaker move, and he said no more than time it takes to take 4 or 5 breaths. Permission was granted and we were handed over to Mr. Selleck.

As it turns out Mr. Selleck is no ordinary boy toy. He informed us that he is the 1998-1999 World Tai Chi Master and that breathing technique has been the key to his success. He spoke slowly in thickly Mexican-accented English.

“Feerst ju tekke a deep clensen bref, en led id ow bery bery slow. Nex’ ju pud jour ton on dee roof a jour mao, en exhale bery bery slow.” We all did as instructed. “Pee-chure in-chaling piss and ex-chaling war, pee-chure in-chaling love and ex-chaling chate, pee-ture in-chaling li’ an ex-chaling death.” After 5 such rounds he gave us a brief explanation of the physiological changes we had just undergone as a result of the “deep clensen bref’ and the room exploded into spontaneous applause. Mr. Selleck was very pleased and his blinding smile shone proudly.

Later at the spa, I was awaiting my 100-minute Ashiatsu treatment when Mr. Selleck’s sugar momma walked in. The door from the spa waiting room to the massage rooms opened and a woman with a clipboard called out for "Mrs. Sanchez, Mrs. Jane Sanchez," and Mr. Selleck’s sugar momma stood up, “Yes, that’s me.” And so, it became clear that Mr. Selleck was far more than the sum of his oversized pearly whites, he was indeed a true master. Kudos senor, kudos.

The Numbers of Your Life, DJ Dance Party, Tyler Perry encounter, Ayurvedic profiling, Tarot Tarot Tarot

I treated myself to a sleep-in this morning and sauntered over to the dining room for breakfast at 8:45am. The disapproving glares of the sweat stained masses as I was shown to my favorite table did not have their intended effect. Rather than feel "less-than" my compatriots who had no doubt already completed the 8 mile morning walk and an early spin class before their dry egg white omelet repast, I felt "more than". So superior was my mood that I requested a half order of the whole wheat banana pancakes plus a half order of the cranberry pecan gluten free french toast, plus an organic chicken sausage patty and extra warm maple syrup. The sniggers were silenced as I tucked into my feast. "Yes," their eyes said, "we want what you have oh lazy one."

After breakfast I attended a fascinating information session on "The Numbers of Your Life," which was a primer on Numerology. As luck would have it I was sandwiched between two sturdy Midwestern-looking sisters who seemed completely lovely. Of course what became clear was that the big sister (when i say "big" i am referring purely to age although it would be a fair assessment) had hauled the little sister to the session in order to encourage the Numerologist, Diana, to explain why she was unlucky in love so that their late mother could rest in peace knowing that little sister (again purely a reference to age) would be armed with that which she needed to focus on in order to finally settle down and have a family. Diana was somewhat uncomfortable at being thrust between the two pasty faced siblings in this manner, but carried her session out with grace explaining how the numbers are indeed the numbers of your life and you can choose to go with the flow and find the path to happiness or not. As for me, according to Diana, my life's purpose is to self-actualize and create something joyful to change the world. This will apparently become clear to me in the fullness of time but most likely in this lifetime, which is a giant relief as you can well imagine. While changing the world is apparently somewhere in my future, I hope in some small way my blog is currently bringing you a modicum of joy or at least the odd chuckle.

I then made my way to Gym 1 to take DJ Dance Party with a throng of fully make-upped, headband sporting 50 and 60-somethings in various sizes of Lululemon capris and ultra white sneakers. A myriad of chassees, kick-ball-changes, and grapevines carefully choreographed to the latest Rihanna, Katy Perry, and Pink ensued with mixed success. While the V-steps and getting-low moves were less than picturesque, the full upper torso shimmying was quite frankly a deeply disturbing part of the class from which I may require some hypnotherapy. You see dear reader, no matter how fit one tries to be, nor how many elective skin tightening procedures one undergoes, at 67 one's neck and upper arm skin vibrates in a most unflattering manner. Seeing 30 preternaturally tanned wagging wattles while hearing how California Girls are all Daisy Dukes and Bikinis On Top, is not for the feint of heart.

Fortunately, it is only a 45 minute class and soon I was out by the drinks dispenser filling my standard issue plastic Canyon Ranch water bottle with lemon infused water. Suddenly I spied a tall and rather wide African American gentleman, the rarest of guests at the Ranch which tends to the chubby east coast Jewess and the lanky Atlanta-bred Wasp. The occasional make guest is most often the significant other of the former two categories of guest. He looked somewhat familiar yet I could not place him. He might be a retired professional athlete whose erstwhile muscles had turned to fat, or a character actor from a quick cancelled cable sitcom. He approached a 70 year old Jewish looking gentleman with a partial comb-over and shook his hand warmly in greeting. That is when it struck me, this looked like a scene from a Tyler Perry movie where the old Jewish man would be played by one of the Wayan's brothers in heavy prosthetic make-up. And like that, I realized that the gentleman was in fact Tyler Perry, billionaire movie producer and frequent house guest of Oprah and Steadman. He is very friendly and has tiny little teeth that are bright white. He also looks good in royal blue basketball gear but between us is not a great shot.

Soon it was time for lunch and I noticed a number of 70 year old women with 50 year old boy toys. I don't know how I had missed this phenomenon before but it was as though a tour bus full of semi-attractive middle aged male escorts had just been dropped off to entertain the senior women. One couple caught my eye, she was Caucasian, slim, in her early 70's, and likely grew up in a warm climate where she was overexposed to the sun in childhood. He was a bucktoothed, Hispanic version of Tom Selleck from the Magnum P.I. era. His hair was dyed jet black to cover his graying roots and gave him a slightly comical air, as though he were dressed as a caricature of a somewhat upscale cholo boy toy. His prodigious overbite was rendered all the more pronounced by the nearly luminescent white veneers that covered all of his teeth. No doubt a present from his sugar momma. And though I found the scene largely hilarious and tried to imagine how an SNL skit might be constructed using this subject matter, it was remarkably sweet to see Mr. Selleck hold out his date's chair, share his frozen yogurt, and laugh at her jokes with his enormous mouthful of snowy white chompers.

I then enjoyed an Introduction to Ayurveda and found that I am a Pitta Vata Dosha, (same as Meryl Streep natch) which basically means that I should avoid spicy food, use plenty of sun block and avoid overly strenuous sports. Finally it was time for my Tarot Card reading with Laurie, the Ranch Tarot Card reader who happens to be the biggest Chicago Cubs fan in the world. As she sipped from her Cubs tea mug and jotted down notes on her Wrigley Field notepad, I could not help but wonder whether a Tarot Card reader of substance would remain a devoted fan her whole life to the losingess team in the MLB, knowing (as she must) that they would never win. I felt some skepticism as I shuffled the deck of cards set out before me. However, Laurie soon proved herself to be a worthy metaphysician with her excellent observations of my multiple unique talents and abilities. When she went off script to simply read my aura and declared my energy to be positive, strong and remarkably attractive to those seeking truth and higher meaning, I could hardly disagree. Cubs fan or no, Laurie has real Tarot talent.

Tomorrow I am making a Holiday Bead Bracelet, attending a lecture on Astrology as well as one on Spiritual Anchoring in Turbulent Times, and having at least frozen chocolate covered banana.

Alpine Muesli in the Desert, Hiking with the balance challenged, Dusty never forgets, Massage etiquette and Watercolor painting 101

I awoke at 6:30am and pulled on multiple ski worthy layers in preparation for my morning hike in the unseasonably cold 40 degree weather. For any one who has yet to discover the New Zealand based outerwear company, Iceberg, may I encourage you to hop online and buy yourself as many of these miracle wicking tops as your budget will allow. I donned my gloves and beanie (which in fact is more of a woolen gangsta rappa style beret), and grabbed my hiking sticks (yes i now bring my own and yes it impresses the other guests immeasurably) and made haste for the Double U Cafe. I noticed a new addition to the early morning breakfast menu, Alpine Muesli. Of course we are in the Sonoran Dessert and nowhere near Alpine country, and so I was curious as to what exactly made this particular Muesli offering Alpine-esque. The server who took my order had neither the faintest idea nor interest in the provenance of the name nor in my fashion forward hat.

After a hot cup of tea I joined the hiking group and our lead guide for the morning, Dusty. The Leki hiking sticks in my hand immediately set me apart from the other hikers and if that wasn't enough Dusty said how nice it was to see me again. We collected our packs and alighted the Ranch van but due to my urgent need for a final pit stop before leaving on the journey, i was stuck in the 4th row. This van positioning is problematic for two distinct reasons: first, i am hopelessly car sick; and second, all important ranch conversation is conducted in the first 2 rows. I opened my pack and removed the tupperware full of glorious trail snacks from it, and began unpacking the contents of the tupperware back into the pack while leaving the unnecessary weight of the tupperware in the van. Immediately heads from the front of the van were turning to see what I was up to and I did my best to pretend not to notice their stares. Soon several other guests began to copy my inspired snack ritual while other less daring guests who simply could not bear to part with their plastic containers began consolidating tupperwares with their friends, creating a more heavy tupperware for the "snack mule" which is both inconsiderate and foolish. But alas, I was too busy feeling nauseous from the lurching bus to point out the error of the strategy. So sick was I and so quickly that at the behest of another passenger with an enormous heart, Dusty pulled the van over and I was urged into the front passenger seat next to Dusty.

Within a few short minutes I was once again able to breathe with ease confident that my Alpine Muesli would remain one with my stomach. The trio of women in the second row began discussing the legendary group of Toronto women they had heard about who visit the Ranch each year in a pack and race up the hiking and biking trails with a vengeance. I turned to Dusty and asked non-challantly, "Are they talking about that nice group of ladies we hiked up Soldier with in May?" Dusty nodded. Now I had their attention. Jackie, the tall divorcee from Manhattan spoke first, "You hiked with them Lorna?"

"Yes," I replied cooly. "Dusty took us up Soldier Trail earlier this year." I replayed the hike in my mind and recalled gasping for air as we climbed and my trying desperately to keep up with those insane Canadian she-beasts without showing them my pain.

"Were they seriously intense? I mean we heard they are totally hard core and not exactly friendly," Jackie said.

"Oh, I wouldn't say they were unfriendly," although indeed they were completely unfriendly until they had been satisfied that i was not going to slow their sprinting pace down too significantly.

I continued the defense of the group, "They were just intent on keeping a pretty quick pace and worried about anyone who may not be able to keep up and slow them down," I began delicately tapping a hiking stick against my REI convertible hiking pant/shorts as I turned to Dusty, "Dusty remember that older woman who came on the hike, she was about 70, very tanned, and in great shape too?"

"Yup," Dusty said, "she stayed right up by my side the whole way and that's our toughest Level 5 hike."
"It sure is a pretty hike," I added, emphasizing my love of nature's vistas while the three girlfriends whispered nervously behind me.

"Dusty," Jackie asked, "this hike we're doing is just a Level 3 right?"
I had to stifle the smile that wanted to spread across my lips.
"Yup, just a 3 but a real nice one. Kinda short but you'll get some terrific views," he assured them.

We headed out on the trail and began our climb. Apart from the balance challenged guest who insisted on walking directly behind me so that every so often i was forced to duck for cover as she tottered in the loose gravel before falling forward, the hike was a pleasure. Back at the Ranch, I iced my knee and enjoyed some baked zucchini hot cakes in honor of today being the first day of Hannukah. Ordinarily one would enjoy potato pancakes deep fried in oil, but this is the Ranch. I saw the same elderly couple at lunch from yesterday and the wife (clearly feeling our friendship had attained a higher level of intimacy than i had imagined) told me in her sweet Atlanta accent that she was "gah-yassy, gah-yassy, gha-yassy" and then proceeded to ask me an important spa etiquette question: "What do y'all thenk I shud do eff I pah-yass gah-yass during my-eh meh-sauge darlin'?"

This is a serious question that any spa goer worth her mettle has contemplated on numerous occasions. I gave my honest opinion, "Well," I said, "if you really can't hold it in then you just need to laugh when it happens and move on with the treatment."

This seemed to satisfy her, although in truth i would fight to contain the offending toxins with all my strength to the point of endangering my life with the threat of spontaneous combustion of the colon, rather than simply releasing and trying to pass it off with a coquettish giggle.

After my mango sugar scrub and my rejuvenating facial, I grabbed a quick bite of rice pasta with turkey meatball marinara and a side of mashed cauliflower, and then made my way to the Creative Arts Center for a class in Introduction to Watercolor Painting. I am convinced that my finished masterpiece it is not a fair reflection on Jay's talent as an instructor. Please appreciate that i didn't have to share the painting with you but I am. And no I am not sure why my bird is wearing a blue chinchilla.

Tomorrow I may return to the beading class part 2, aptly entitled "The Bead Goes On" in the Ranch weekly activity brochure.


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