m braceable u

October 18, 2011 in Blog, Embrace Your Dork

The room is cram-packed with people in schmancy clothes, amazing food and wine everywhere.  I am so excited to be out, wearing high heels and spanx that I don’t even see her at first and very nearly run her down.

It has been a while (a long while) since I have been out.  I have been applying all of my energy to my oh-so-much-more-than full time position of new Mama.  On the extremely rare occasions when I do not nap during nap, or am able to keep my eyelids open for a few minutes after dinnerdancingbathbooksbed-time, I am busily working on my public speaking business.

My sister scores an extra ticket to one of the biggest charity fundraisers in town, then the stars align so that not only do I find someone who can look after my son, I actually find an outfit in my closet that has all it’s buttons, no baby food stains and did not split at the seams when I wiggled it on… much.

She and I arrive and start to “work the room” meaning, look for cocktails and any hor’douvers containing crab meat.  Being a local social butterfly, Jodi is immediately sucked into the ebb and flow of the meet-and-greet waves that swirl around us.

The thing about having a fairly public professional persona, is that no one believes I am shy.  And I don’t mean ‘Oh, isn’t that cute’ shy.  I’m talking hand-shaking-as-I-reach-for-the-entry-door, can’t-swallow-because-my-left-lung-is-squeezed-into-my-throat, I-think-my-hair-is-sweating kind of shy. As soon as Jodi disappears into the swells, I begin to feel the manic shouts of the small but mighty introvert that lives huddled down at the base of my spine.

I have perfected a trick to use in a room full of people I don’t know.  It’s called “the Subway.”   Riding the subway in NYC during rush hour is an exercise in the Absolute Elimination of Even the Smallest Vestiges of Personal Space.  I have been pressed up-against and into people so firmly, that in some cultures, we would be legally forced to marry upon exiting at 81st street.  I have been mere inches from bagel crumbs peppering the beard of the giant person whose arm reaches around me to grab the pole in such a way that would make tango dancers blush.  And yes, on two occasions I have had certain… um… gentlemen… enthusiastically embrace the situation and take full advantage of friction and placement.    UG.   Aside from THOSE incidents (in which the sharpest point of my elbow was called into action) I have been able to breathe my way though the situations with a combination of calming motivational mantras and internal primal screams.

AND, by following rule number one of subway survival: NEVER make eye contact.  New Yorkers are so gifted at this, that you can actually be standing next to a family member from Columbus Circle to Washington Heights and only realized it stepping over their grocery bags to exit and accidentally recognizing their shoes.

I was busily making my way around the room in my own personal Subway Reality when someone directly in front of me lunged to hug the person on my right causing me to swerve sharply to the left.  Being so intent on “not noticing” anyone around me, I was shocked to now find myself eyeball-to-eyeball with her, a woman I considered one of my personal idols.  It was the publisher of a local magazine.  I had been reading the magazine for years, even before I moved to the area, and stalking her on the internet, reading what she wrote, looking at the fabulous parties she hosted, and virtually crawling into her “perfect” life to try to escape mine, which felt anything but.

Now, here she was.  And, here was I… about to mow her down.  In the brief eternal moment it takes to realize who she is, alter my course to only cause myself to stumble, and complete a wine rescue, I am able to assess the situation in my head.  Naturally I do what every full grown, intelligent, professional woman would do in that situation.   I grunt and slink to my seat as fast as I can to slide down in my chair in the hopes of achieving invisibility.  Jodi, one eyebrow cocked “What’s up?”   Two minutes after telling her and receiving THE LOOK, I am up making my way back across the room (tin foil filling my thoughts – but, that’s another story.)

I approach and cringe inwardly as I see her cringe outwardly, wondering what to expect from this clumsy and possibly dangerous person walking toward her again.  I smile, square my shoulders, take a deep breath and blurt “HWiiiinnnaaahh, mmMnnNNoooo hhhaAErrhhhh” or something equally eloquent.

The happy ending?   She was as kind and charming as I had imagined, and also great at understanding foreign languages like the one coming out of my mouth.  She actually heard the words “professional speaker”, somehow believed me, and three months later booked me as the magazine’s Keynote Luncheon Speaker.

Go Tah-mi.  Go Tah-mi.  It’s yo birthday.  It’s yo birthday.  Un hun uh huh.

SO…  Knowing great things like that can happen when I meet new people, why in the world didn’t I approach the situation with joy, instead of being pressured (thank you sis) into it?   I’ll tell you why.   Fear.  Fear Of Being A Dork.  Fear of looking like a Dork, sounding like a Dork, and knowing in my heart she was going to leave our conversation thinking “What a Dork!”

I have really good news to share with all of you.  I am a Dork.  Imma Dork.

And so are you!

You are.  We all are.  Every single person on Earth has that place inside where they feel insecure.   The simple fact we are human means we have an Inner Dork, it’s part of the equipment.  The most “together” people in the world have a Dork at their core.   Einstein?  Dork.  Bono?  Dork.  The big O?  Dorkedy-Dork-Dork.

One of my favorite gal-pals is married to a man (I hope soon that will be a necessary clarification.)  This man is… Fan-Tas-Tic!  When my friend bellied up to the marriage table, the dealer hit her with a royal flush.  He is Kind.  Handsome.  Funny.  Generous.  Gentle.  Strong.  Sexy.  Smart.  Employed.  Romantic.  And he COOKS.  (Telling this story at a womens conference, someone shouted “Does he have a BROTHER?”)  Upon meeting him, you would think this man does not have an Inner Dork.  Oh, but you would be wrong.   Because, if you went out to a club with this man, you would have a front row center seat to Baaaad Daaaaancing.  Picture Ross Geller doing a Sprinkler/ Chicken/ Zombie Shuffle combo with great flailing joy. Total Dork!

But, here is the coolest thing about this man.  HE. DANCES. ANYWAY!  And do you know what that makes him?   Even better.

Oh, and remember the publisher from the story above?  Turns out to be one of the biggest, most fun Dorks I know!

Embrace your Inner Dork!  Give your Dork a big fat kiss and cuddle.  And then get the heck OUT THERE and start putting yourself into situations you have always dreamed about!  What is the worst that can happen?  You look like a Dork.  So?  Maybe people around you will be so relieved that you asked the dorky question first, or tried the dorky thing they wanted to try, that they will celebrate you as their Dork Leader.  Or maybe you will make a new friend, learn something wonderful, and possibly change the course of your life forever.

I promise it won’t be as scary as you imagine.  And truly the most tragic thing that has happened to me is when I didn’t even try to put myself out there.  And at the end of the day, I sat home alone wishing I had at least given it a shot, feeling like the biggest Dork of all.

Let’s stop trying to be someone we think people want us to be.  Be wholly fully youly you, and I guarantee… you will be adorkable.

 

 

About Mush

October 14, 2011 in Becket, Blog

“Heeeeere we GO!”  Becket squeals as the airplane slowly lifts off the ground and becomes airborne.   I have been on over 200 flights in my life, and I still find this moment miraculous.   I love that my son shares my penchant for the window seat and the amazing perspective it provides as we make our way across states and countries and continents together.   Becket is giggling so hard now as we rise into the air; even the woman sitting in the well-kicked seat in front of him has to smile back at us for a moment.  He is all boy – filled to overflowing with vibrating energy, sense of adventure, and unmitigated joy.

We watch evening-time Atlanta, Georgia transform from streetlamps, neon signs and zooming traffic into a velvet pocket filled with precious gems twinkling and winking and sending us on our way.  We smile at one another, sit back in our seats and breathe a contented collective sigh.

Then it happens.  “Mama, where’s Mush?”   It is as if the emergency exit door has just been opened and I have been sucked out into the barely breathable atmosphere.  My stomach lurches and I physically feel my heart stop.  I make a quick but futile search effort of our seats knowing all the while I will not find Mush.   While the interior monologue of my mind is keening over and over “Oh no oh no oh no oh no.”

Mushrif the Moose has been with me almost as long as Becket, and they have rarely spent the night apart from one another.  He is named after Al Mushrif; a Children’s Garden in the center of Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates, where we were staying with dear friends when Becket was four months old.  The garden is a lovely place for children that provides a blissful shaded oasis of trees in a blindly hot environment.   Mushrif the Moose is a mouthful for even the most eloquent of souls, so he very quickly became Just Mush.

As you may surmise from his origin, Mush has been all over the world with us.   He is well loved to the point of tatters.  He is a hot-coco color brown with two soulful, almost liquid black eyes, two bumpy antlers, and a jaunty red bow tie.   Mush began his existence with the softest of soft ribbony fur coat, the only thing that could substitute for tiny fingers wrapped around my own hair, in calming my newborn.

Now, after many a sanitary fiasco (including, but not limited to, landing in a mystery puddle in an international airplane bathroom – eeeeeeeesh) and many many scalding hot water “baths” in our washing machine, Mush looks more like a brown lump of matted oil changing rags.  However, he still wears his crooked floppy red bow tie with an air of shabby elegance.  He is threadbare and dilapidated and would be full of holes, but for several requested emergency surgeries.  “Mama quick!  Can you help?  Mush needs another procedure!”

I know it sounds more than slightly off-center to even utter this, but I do feel Mush a family member.  I don’t even think I could estimate the number of times I have uttered “Where’s Mush, have we got Mush?”  as we headed out the door to play-groups, shops, schools and adventures across the globe.

We have come close to losing Mush twice in the past.  The fist was London’s Heathrow airport where we noticed his absence as we were waiting to board a flight home to our then New York City abode.  We went racing back through the airport checking each place we had passed on our way to the gate.  A very kind custodian saw the look of frenzy in my eyes and asked if he could help.  I quickly explained the situation and gave him a brief physical description of Mush – strangely without the slightest inkling of embarrassment.  The gentleman looked at me with understanding and uttered the most hopeful “I might have seen a lump like that near the ticket agents.”  On we raced all the way back to the check-in desks.  Mush smiled shyly up from underneath the bench.  He looked a bit peevish, as though he felt sorry he had caused me so much trouble by not being able to speak up and call out to us as we moved away, our hands and minds full of the labyrinth of scrutiny and security ahead.

The second time was on a cold winter day in a hotel room at an indoor water park outside Chicago.  We were packed up checked out and buckled in, after an exhausting two days of over excitement and goose bumps and shrieks rebounding off of walls.  Becket was well overdue for a nap, and I knew he would sleep the whole way to our Lincoln Park town home.  Then I heard the fateful words “Mama, where’s Mush?”  We rummaged and scrummaged and came up empty handed.  I sprinted back up to our now neat and tidy room, which was pertly awaiting the next visitors.  I saw the tiny outline of a be-skirted woman pushing a cart all the way at the end of the seemingly mile long hallway.  “Hey wait!” and I was off at a run.    She was kind and sympathetic, but very firm that she had cleaned all the rooms on our side of the hall and was certain that she had not seen anyone of Mush’s description.  I begged her to allow me to search and followed her into the housekeeping area where I proceeded to work my way through the mounds of dirty and soiled (water, please let it be water!) bedding.  The relief I felt as my hand closed around a crumpled rumpled lump of matted fur brought tears to my eyes.   There is no doubt in my mind that the gathering of woman (most probably mothers and mothers of mothers) who watched me cuddle Mush felt my visceral joy, because they exploded into applause and laughter.

Now as we race away from the Atlanta International Airport (where we have, ironically, just spent the week with the same dear friends who now reside in the US) I search my mind for the last image of Mush.  It was of him lying on the seat behind Becket as we sat and waited to board our delayed flight at gate C3.  After that my Mush Mind is blank.  I know in my heart we had risen in our excitement to finally be on our way and looked only forward as we jostled with the mass of people trying to get on as early as possible in order to secure a bin for carry on luggage.

I stab my orange HELP button and wait while a slightly miffed attendant makes her way to our seats.  Becket looks up at her with Cindy Lou Who eyes while I tell her our dilemma and ask if she can do anything to help.  She deftly sidesteps any involvement and recommends we see the ticketing agent upon our arrival at the next airport.

I am happy to say she is the last unhelpful person I encountered in our quest to bring Mush home.   Three days, two amazing airline employees, several phone calls and a Federal Express truck later, and Becket is standing at the front door tearing open a cardboard box as the driver watches with a smile.  Mush comes sliding out of the box and is crushed in a two-fold hug from boy and mama.

I am struck by the POWER of “The Kindness of Strangers” (thank you Tennessee.)  The small amount of time it took for the people who helped, to help.  And what a profound difference it had on our lives.  If you are EVER presented an opportunity to help in this way – a dirty terry cloth blanket nearly ripped to shreds in the corner of an elevator, a locket of seemingly zero worth but filled with two teeny pictures inside the pried open heart, or any obviously well loved thing you may happen upon – and you know in your heart that it is not worth a dime, and will probably cause you a bit of an inconvience…  Please.  Please, for the small people or the elderly people or the sentimental people… or the Mamas of these people… Please take the time to turn the item in to someone who can help return it home.

It is only when we hold him back to smile into his shiny black eyes that I notice a glint of gold shimmering off his chest.  Somewhere along his journey home, someone has pinned on Mush, right next to his droopy dapper red bow tie, a badge of courage, a testament to his travels; his very own set of wings.

And I can actually feel the time, the love, the kindness of strangers.

Believe It Or Not It’s Just Me

October 10, 2011 in Blog, Relationships

The phone call comes late in the morning.  A friendly lilting voice saying hellohowareyou.  Then, the tiny waver that lets you know something is amiss.  “We are in a bit of a tight situation here this morning… we wondered if you could possibly help out?”  It is the conference director of the local Resort.  The afternoon speaker has called in sick, could I come and deliver a program… in two hours?

I immediately do a quick personal assessment:  Showered?  Check.  Speech?  Check.  Prior commitments can be re-scheduled?  Check.  Tights?  Leotard?  Cape? Check.  Check.  Check!

Hometown Hero reporting for duty!

Within a blink, I am up in front of a room packed full of eager energetic attendees who are all a little unsure of what to expect from this last-minute plug-in.   I take a deep breath and we are on our way, laughing and learning and having a grand old time together, and before I even feel I have started, it’s over.  Whoosh.

I LOVE to be the understudy!  There is such a rush that comes with sizzling in the pan when the burner is on high.  Don’t think!  Trust your training!  Trust yourself!  It is the true essence of Preparation meeting Opportunity, and when it clicks, it’s Sooooo Coooool!    So really, getting that phone call and rushing in to help was a joy for me.  Something I can easily do that makes a huge impact on the people who need my services.  I get to practice what I love to do most, and they get a Swooping Super Hero.

Now, getting up in front of a room full of people and giving a speech at the last minute is MY idea of a good time.  You, however, may have a few other choice words to describe that experience.  But there IS some ‘thing’ YOU do – some ‘thing’ you love to do.  Some ‘thing’ that fills you with such delight that, if asked, you would gladly set aside The X Factor AND an extra hour of sleep in order to be able to help out with your ‘thing.’   What makes it even better is when someone needs you at the last minute – you can step in, do your ‘thing’, AND be the Hero!

I’m not talking about the dream.  You know the one.  The lights are all off except for a blistering spotlight shining on center stage, the entire audience of five hundred people hushed in enthusiastic anticipation.   You are bemused to see your family among those people… and your boss… and your secret crush from college…  and s-l-o-w-l-y you realize the uncanny co-incidence that every single member of the audience is someone you know!   You stand innocently pondering this fact, hidden behind an impossibly heavy velvet curtain peering out at the dust pixies dancing through the piercing shaft of light when SUDDENLY a VERY official person in black, wearing a Madonna headset and carrying a clipboard hisses in your direction “GO!  GO!  You’re ON!  Get OUT There… YOU!”  You look around and see no one around you, and feel the nausea spring up and your blood turn to ice as it dawns on you that, YOU are “YOU” and this dictator is expecting you to actually walk out on to the middle of that apocalyptic wooden wasteland and perform!  What exactly it is you are intended to perform is always unclear, but you are innately certain it has to do with something horrifying, like…  juggling sharp objects…  or removing articles of clothing…  or Shakespeare…

No, I’m not talking about THAT.   When the timing is right, stepping in at the last minute and doing your ‘thing’ feels good.  It’s thrilling, It’s easy, it’s fun!    If you want a true boost to your day, look for ways you can do your ‘thing’ and be the Hero.  If you love to cook, bake a dinner for the family with the new baby.  Hero!  If you are a nurturer and see someone approaching a building with their arms full, run up and hold the door open for them.  Hero!  If you love to DIY, help the elderly person next door fix their wobbly porch step.   Hero!   Are you a minimalist?  Donate your lonely Foosball table to the local Fire Department.   Super Hero!

So, as you know how great it feels to be the Hero… how can you help someone else get that same feeling?   Who can you help be a Hero today?  Here is the trick – Look for ways to let people do their thing to help you.  Let the handy-person in your life rescue you from that crazy blinking florescent light bulb – then swoon over how much better the world looks under incandescent lighting.  Let your BFF pull you out of your grumps with her bad jokes and good stories – then send her a text thanking her for saving your day.  Let your mother tell you how SHE used to executive direct a family – then make sure to give her props when one of her “tricks of the trade” works for you… better yet, ask her advice when you are feeling overwhelmed.  You will make all of them the Hero!   And you will see in their faces the joy of being the one who could help, when help was needed.  And THAT feels even BETTER than being the Hero yourself!

When he gets home from school, I will ask my six-year-old to show me again how to fold a perfect paper airplane, and then I will listen carefully as he instructs me on how to best launch it to achieve the highest possible loop-de-loopage.  When I do it well, his little face is the Sun – he beams knowing he has saved me from a bleak existence devoid of proper paper airplane performance.   He knows in every fiber, he is my Hero.

And, just like that, I’m walking on air.

Au Revoir Fromage

October 5, 2011 in Blog, Healthy, Wealthy & Wise

I am in a toxic relationship.  It has been going on for years and it has to end.   The truth is, I have tried to get out before… multiple times, actually, but every time I do, something happens to make me dive right back in.  Usually, with a thin slice of baguette pinched firmly between my fingers.  I must end it once and for all!  I must break up with Cheese.

The dysfunctional cycle is always the same.  I wake up one morning feeling awful, remorsefully remembering the night before.  (Our dance of seduction is not pretty.) Removing the ramekin from the cupboard, cubing the Dashing Pepper Jack or the Debonair Blue or the Alluring Emmental, popping it into the nuker until it is all bubbly oozy, removing this domestic fondue and proceeding to scoff it down with the excuse of a pretzel or forty to ferry my paramour to me.

“That’s it!  I’ve had it with You!”  I determinedly toss out any remaining vestiges of  passionate Jack, perfumed Blue or that cunning Swiss one and vow to reform my nutritional values.  For a time, I only enter THAT part of the dairy section of the market to grab a few packs of timid amber slices for my son’s sandwiches.  This holds no danger for me – I find Colby submissive and not sexy in the least.    I don’t even make eye contact with ‘The Others’ and avoid the Special Deli Section COMPLETELY.   I truly start to feel better, a bit of confidence returns… and right about then, Cheese begins to surreptitiously infiltrate my fortress of fortitude.

I feel strong in my abstinence and rock solid in my resolve.  I am feeling cool, confident and cocky, and I make the radical error of thinking I can FLIRT with Cheese and walk away unscathed.  It usually happens at a cocktail party.  A heaving platter of erotic wedges wink and gaze at me as I chat my way around the room.  Near the end of the evening, and after I have spent some considerable time with Cheese’s cohort, Wine, I laugh haughtily and sliver off a fraction of that famously seductive fromage… Brie.    “Just a taste” I think.  The room spins and before I know it the round Brie Wheel is Ms. Pac Man in full open chomp.

I’m going to do it this time.  I am.  One week ago, I ended it.   I knew it would be near impossible to achieve this goal on my own, so I am engaging in group therapy with Cheese Anonymous… more commonly known as Weight Watchers.  The Grand Prize for this effort is that if I can end this lascivious relationship, I will gain an entirely (almost) new, super cute wardrobe hand selected by me!  And the good news is, it is all already waiting upstairs hanging in my closet!

My fellow NSA speaker Juliet Funt has a great recipe for downsizing, “It’s really easy.  If you want to lose weight you just need: Less Cake… or Less Couch!”  In my case… less Cheese and less chair.   I don’t want to be thin or anything crazy like that, I only want to feel healthy and to fit into the clothing that is waiting patiently for me.  I am not bitter, I have no hard feelings and truly I know Cheese has brought a lot of joy to this world.  We are just not meant to be together as anything more than distant acquaintances.  In the spirit of full disclosure, Cheese is probably not the only item in my diet I should be dumping.  But it does seem to be the gateway into Elastic Waistband Land so I am going to start here.  And I’m going to keep on starting… as long as it takes.

Come with me!  What in YOUR life should get an Eviction Notice?  You know what it is.  Just reading that last sentence, something popped immediately into your mind.  Isn’t it time to serve Walking Papers to your very own Cheese?  I’m not saying it is going to be a cake walk (ha), but I know it will be worth it, and I know if we make the choice and take the steps toward ending it, we will find others out there who will help and support our progress.  Ask yourself, what is keeping you in this toxic relationship?  Then make the choice and take the first Break Up step – Grab your Cheese firmly by the shoulders, look your Cheese straight in the eye, and tell your Cheese “I deserve better than you!  Leave your key on the table and get out of my life!”

I like to think someday, I will actually be able to have a respectful and healthy relationship with Cheese, that we might even be able to go out once in a while or share a civilized meal (yes, I HAVE been likened to Pollyanna, how did you know?)   But for the time being, I am going to focus on making sure my boundaries are firm, and doing some walking so a few other things are firm.   Which reminds me, it’s time for me to get up and get out…  Bonjour, sunshine!

Let Go of Your O

September 29, 2011 in Blog, Motivation/ Go. Be. Do!

I open my mailbox and my heart sinks.  Oh no.  Here is ANOTHER one.   I can tell by the mass, the tell tale-plastic wrap, and wait… Yes, there it is, that smile beaming from the front cover – once warm and welcoming – now…  derisive.

O Magazine!  With the arrival of this latest edition, I am now officially 10 months behind even cracking the cover.  Oh, how I used to thrill at the monthly arrival of this glossy volume of wit and wisdom and what-not-to-wear.  We were so close… Suze and Phil, Martha and Lisa…  People who regularly made it on to my “who would you most like to have dinner with” list. 

Independent, under employed, and living in NYC, I used to read O Magazine from cover to cover – often while I was riding the A train from 181st down to the center of Manhattan and back again for auditions.  Now, as a single mother and independent business owner living in beautiful Traverse City Michigan without a train in sight, the only time I can find to read is right before I close my eyes (pass out) at night, which takes approximately the same amount of time I would currently last in a spin class – 3 minutes. 

The neatly stacked pile of unread advice and insight mocks me.  Typically, I carefully place the latest copy at the BOTTOM of the pile, as I feel I must read them in order to glean the learning in a lateral sequence.  Surely there is a method to the release of information that demands that I read them according to the publish date?  This neglected O Pile feels like a short finger-waving heap of Motivational Guilt.  

As a National Motivational Speaker, I should be reading every word of every self-help, communication-improving, conflict-resolving item that hits the stands, right?  It’s what I give to my audiences every time I speak – the best and brightest ideas about life, delivered with my unique spin and embarrassing yet poignant personal stories.  How in the world could I possibly not have caught up with O in 10 MONTHS!?!

The idea of tackling this task causes me to develop Organizationosis.  As in, “I will start wading through this stack of magazines, but first I really should organize the refrigerator – my socks – my spice drawer” (as if I actually USE SPICES!) 

Last Wednesday, in a bold act of self-rebellion, I threw caution to the wind and grabbed an O Magazine FROM THE MIDDLE OF THE PILE to read on my flight to my next speaking gig.  Then, on the plane I flipped it open TO THE MIDDLE OF THE MAGAZINE and began to read the article that lay on those pages.  Guess what?  The world did not end!  And I actually learned a lot from the article and it was something I could implement and share right away during my event the next morning. 

The relief was palpable.  I do NOT have to read the O Pile in order, in order to benefit from the knowledge imparted between the ads for wrinkle cream and diet plans!  (Both of which I should probably heed.)  I am FREE!

I have decided to treat my stack of O Magazines as my own personal Tarot Card Deck.  I will draw out a magazine in random order and believe that God, my spirit guide, or the crazy Ju Ju that rules all things Crystal Ball will lead me to the exact volume I need at that exact moment.   I will do the same with the small library of E-books, Pod-casts, and Blogs that I have been yearning to digest for months.   Whether or not “Magazine Pile Guides” exist is a small matter compared to the freedom of being released from having to do everything in a precise manner. < Do you have your own personal “O Pile” in your life?  It might be your Thank You Card list, your desire to learn Yoga, or just to find out what all “The Good Wife” fuss is about.  Try this – Just JUMP IN!  Jot a quick note of gratitude to the first person that comes to your mind.   HuLu.com any old episode of a series you have been wanting to watch.  Fling yourself into Downward Dog!  (Well, on second thought, you actually may want to have one or two basic instructions before doing any yoga pose flinging – I speak from experience on that one…)

But really, let’s let go of “orderly fashion” and embrace “grab it and go!”  Now if you will excuse me, I am going to go toss this giant magazine randomly ONTO THE TOP of my O Pile – and while I’m at it, I might even root through the whole pack of Starburst just to eat the orange one first!