Bikram, Blood Pressure and the ER

I went to a Bikram yoga class today. Bikram is 26 yoga poses in a room heated to 105 degrees, for 90 minutes. I’ve done Bikram a lot … I recently went five times in a week, one of those “All you can sweat out of your pores for week for only 20 bucks!”

I went today because I had been up at a cabin for a week, working on my book enjoying the silence and high desert beauty in between writing sessions. Larry came up on Friday and we drove back this afternoon. It was great. But I was ready to come home.

Nothing gets back into to your old routine, like doing your old routine. Like sweating your hiney off for 90 minutes.

A lot of the poses are designed to cut off circulation to a certain area, then when you release, the blood flows in, muscles and ligaments are envigorated, they release the toxins stored in the muscle mass and they relax. My friend Tom had terrible arthritis, to the point he could not make a fist. He’s been doing Bikram for a couple years and his arthritis symptoms are gone. Some students get dizzy, especially the first few classes. the teachers say, “that’s common, it’s your body detoxifying. Just take it easy.”

Well I've been doing yoga for a while, doing Bikram most recently and I never got dizzy. Until today. About 25 minutes into the class , after one particular pretzel maneuver, I stood up and felt weird. I took it easy alright. I laid down and curled into child's pose on my mat while they went on with a few moves.

I sat up, an I felt okay. Stood up, did not feel okay. I laid down again. What should I do? Just sit here until they get to the floor poses and I don't look like an idiot? No. So I sat up, felt ... okay. Stood up. No did not feel OK. The room looked blotchy. I get light headed all the time, my blood pressure is low. but I knew this was not going to resolve. The class had moved on to a second or third pose, so I figured I needed to leave. the bathroom door was closer than the front door. And it was normal temperature in there.

So I shuffled over to the bathroom, but the bathroom door was locked. How could it be locked? No one had gone in there during class. This made no sense. What I didn't realize was that I was trying to open the supply closet. The bathroom was to the left. I had lost my peripheral vision and didn't even know there was a door.

You know when you have a dream, there could be a rapid succession of images or impulses, but then one image is clear and still. Well, I had a dream with one clear image. The yoga teacher staring up at me when I regained consciousness.

Yeah, fainted. Fainted clear away. The teacher called the paramedics, and so came the fire department, paramedics and a police car. They ran my vitals, probably dehydrated.

Ma'am, do you have a history of fainting or low blood pressure?"
"yeah, both. I fainted in Times Square once. And yes, I've got a naturally low blood pressure and pulse."
What I didn't tell him was that the ambulance sent me to some crappy midtown hospital where I lay in a hospital bed for 12 hours. The staff never pinpointed anything except that, "you fainted."
"Yes, I am aware of that. Any uh, suggestions?"
"Go home and drink some Gatorade."

I did NOT want to go to no ER today.
Sir, my blood pressure is always low.

"Ma'am, your blood pressure is 82 over 52. We're taking you to the hospital.
Can’t I just sit here for a while and drink some electrolytes?

We got an IV for that. Come on girl, you getting in the van.

Once in the van and away from the studio, they started in on me. Asking bout yoga, what kind I did, what studios I liked the best. And how insane it was that the room was 105 degrees
One guy laughed, Girl moved away from New York to get away from that weather. What you doing paying for it?"

My fiancé does Bikram, she tried to get me to take it. I’m calling her right now telling her about you.

Actually they made me laugh and I felt okay. Until we got to the ER. The paramedics had already started me on an IV and my vitals were almost normal. I didn't want a 12 hour redux of that crappy Hells Kitchen hospital off times Square.

I left my wallet and my phone in the car's glove box. The yoga studio said they’d call my husband. Hoped they did. Because I didn’t want to be tied to a stretcher and dumped somewhere in downtown LA when we were done.

It must have been a slow night, because I was fortunately only there for about an hour and a half. The other patients I saw were mostly middle aged obese men. One guy had to have the paddles. When they say ashen, that’s really what they mean. His skin was the color of gray ash, or dirty mop water. It was sobering. The other patients consisted of a few frail old ladies and some transients. One of my paramedic buddies saw a transient in the aisle and said, “hey Randy, Remember me? I picked you up off Figueroa on Tuesday. You back again?”

I was put into a semi private room. In that there were only two beds instead of eight. I didn’t see the patient when they wheeled me in, just the person sitting by the bedside. A young Asian guy. Maybe the patient was his mother? But when the patient spoke, the voice was gravelly and low. The more it spoke, the more pained and whiney and cantankerous and melodramatic the voice became.

Judging by the conversation, the patient and friend went to the same church. Tell everyone to pray for me. I mean, I don’t have any secrets you know that. But I don’t like to talk about my pancreatitis. I’ve had it before. Last night I just felt like I had really bad gas. Yeah, that really horrible bad gas where you feel like your intestines are going to explode. AAAH, there it comes!

Finally my valiant husband showed up. By then he knew I was OK, but it still had rattled him. He sat and waited with me, and almost immediately he too was curious about the voice. We decided it had to be a man. But the more he talked, the more he sounded like an overweight young man with some gender confusion issues.

The friend had been sent away to collect items from the invalid’s apartment: things for his stay at the hospital: several pairs of clean underwear and a bible. Then a pastor arrived, a young buffed out Asian guy who, judging by the look on his face as he went in, it had been a long day at church today, or he’d had a long history of dealing with Pancreas Boy.

The paramedic came back to give me some paperwork to sign. He said something to cheer me up, and we laughed. Pancreatitis Boy screamed “SSSSHHHHHHHHH!” and went back to retelling his story to the pastor, from previous bouts to the recent feeling of intestine wrenching gas, to today and his upcoming venture into in-patient living.

Nurse, Nurse! He yelld toward the nurse assigned to me. I need something for the pain! When am I going to be admitted? When are they coing to move me? My nurse went to try to answer his questions, the nurse didn’t know or have any control over it. Nurse made the mistake of trying to explain: it had to do with how many beds there were, it might take time to clean them up, etc etc. This only made Pancreas boy more agitated. The nurse returned with morphine to make the patient feel more comfortable. And maybe to get him to shut the FFFF up.

I was as I suspected, fine. Low blood pressure and loss of fluids make for fainting. Go home, he said. What, I gotta unhook myself?
Yeah, we’re a self serve operation.

When we got home I got a little scared about the whole thing. just had to hug Larry. I mean, every time he walked by me or I walked by him. I just had to stop and hug the guy.

Well one, he's so huggable and yummy. And two, I can no longer do my life without him. When I was still single, I'd have those morbid thoughts, "If we break up, I'll survive. I survived all these years with out him, I've gone through bad breakups before. I'll get through it."

Well no. Not any more. Larry is too much a part of my life. I depend on him, not in any needy codependent way. But in the way that where I used to have to do everything on my own, like grow spiritually or try to write a book or get home from the ER. I used to do all that myself. I had great moments and horrible ones, alone. It was just me, doing all of it alone.

Well now I have the best possible person ever as my husband: my champion and friend and lover and inspiration and confidence. My safety. Home. Larry feels like home. So when I walked by his desk, or he brushed by me, I just had to grab and hold him. Thank you God, that I am OK, that Larry is OK. That we are OK. Thank you thank you.

Larry pointed out that twice today, I had near misses in the car. Driving home from the cabin, an old geezer in an LTD sedan came around a bend right at me in my lane. I honked and braked, he braked and swerved. I looked in the mirror to make sure Larry wasn't freaking out. The LTD went back to using the whole road.

Then on the way back from the hospital, A guy ran a stop sign and could have hit me. He corrected himself and I was fine. but it was just kind of weird. Two near misses with drivers, and a trip to the hospital. Hmmm.

Lord, thank you for protecting me from whatever's going on.
Keep both Larry and me SAFE.

Web Discoveries: Yoga Dawg, Creative Little Daisy

Yes the internet can be a terrible thing, all manner of crime and fraud, and much worse. But it's also a great thing. Take, for example, research. Who needs the public library, with all those kids on myspace, when you can stay home and read wikipedia. And if you're Bill Gates, you can use wiki as false advertising. Ooh let's not go there.

But here's to the good stuff. It was on the internet that I discovered my husband; through emails I fell in love with his words, and his love of words, and him. And on his blog I found more of who he was and more to love.

I've discovered some terrific blogs, too; like The View from Wood Road. For more, check my LINKS at left.

My Latest Discoveries: I love yoga, but yoga can be as dogmatic as church and as cliquish as high school. You know, you gotta have the right clothes, yoga mat bag, hair, the right mantra. So it was with sniggering delight I found the Yoga Dawg Website and his blog: My Third Eye Itches. Check out his page on Yoga Styles where he satirizes the too-serious, too-hip yoga joints, like his skewering of the "hot yoga" school. The "Crombies."

This school of Yoga has managed to blend all of the things America love most: a limited set of yoga poses for the attention deficient Yogi, sex scandals, copyright litigation along with hot, sweaty and half naked bims and bimbos in a tropical heat. Combine this with a swarmy, smelly studio led by a loud-mouth, swaggering Yoga Star swinging a big dick with a couple of radioactive balls and you have a winning formula for the Yogic success in America.

And his page on Yoga Fashion, where you too can look like a winning yogi, including getting your yogic beard extensions, and Super Shakti Yogi Loin Cloth.

Hey, it's all in fun!

I was doing a search for "aqua and brown," the color combination I used for my website and then my wedding. From this search I found some really cool images, and more: gorgeous purses at Creative Little Daisy. This woman makes amazing tactile art in the way of handbags and other usable delights.

And if you are looking for a way cool yoga mat bag, visit Wendyloo.

Not that I'm doing any internet shopping or editing wiki for money. Not now , I'm too busy writing.

Tired of Tofu

I've been a new food plan that's good and clean and healthy. And for the most part it's been good. However, I am tired. Tired of tofu. Weary of its tasteless, boring, bleak appearance and texture. I know they say that tofu can take the flavor of anything you put on it. But I can't put chocolate sauce and whipped cream on it. Not on my new food program.

I'm also tired of cooking. Tired of cooking and chopping and chewing. I'm especially weary of chewing. One good thing about a Snickers. In four easily swallowed bites you've downed 300 calories. But try downing 300 calories worth of carrots? Or red peppers? Man that takes time. And chewing.

The good thing is, bed time is only two hours away, and a new day on the other side. And that means, OATMEAL. Which is so much more flavorful than tofu. Especially with sugar.

No, Susan NO.

I Hate Diets

I haven't been on a "diet" in years. Not a real one where you have to stick to a food plan and someone weighs you once a week.. I've done my versions of diets in the last years: the cigarette diet, the lemon juice-maple syrup-cayenne pepper fasting diet. Except I allowed myself treats. Like a piece of sugar free chocolate. Which became fruit juice sweetened malt balls, or carob almonds. SO no it really wasn't a fast. I did lose weight. But I felt like crap. I'm not good at rules. I’m not good at dieting either.

The first diet I went on, I was a junior in high school. The only thing I remember was that I had to eat two apricots at 10:30 am on the second day. A strange thing to ask of a high school girl, to eat two apricots at precisely 10:30 AM. Why not figs or prunes? And why 10:30? I guess we need rules.

The next time I went on a diet was during my first year of college. It had been a horrible year. I'd broken up with my boyfriend, John Lennon got shot, and was stuck at a school I hated: UC Irvine. It was like going to school in a test tube. Sterile, uncreative, depressing.

So, four weeks shy of my 18th birthday in March, I decided to really go on a diet and really do it right. At least I'd have something to be happy about. I picked the Scarsdale Diet. It's a low carb, high protein diet like Atkins, but with fruit. You do the Diet Plan for two weeks, then do a maintenance plan for two weeks. Two weeks on, two weeks off.

After the first two weeks I'd lost so much weight, I just kept on the Diet Plan. By my 18th birthday I had lost nearly 15 pounds. My food was so "clean," that when I ate ice cream on my birthday, I got nauseous and threw up.

And so an eating disorder was born, and the rest is a middle class white girl's history. Overachiever girl, obsessed with perfection, finds her life is out of control, so food becomes the one thing she can control. It started out great. I felt great, I was exercising, I felt good because I was eating clean food. And I lost the weight I wanted to lose. But that addict thing in me clicked, and I became obsessed. My lowest weight was 92 pounds.

Slowly with the help of counseling, Overeaters Anonymous, and just being sick and tired of dieting, I got better and put some pounds back. But I had issues with food and body image from then on. I suppose I always will, our culture doesn't exactly promote healthy view of normal body weight.

I stayed very slim until I got my monthly cycle back. Oh yeah that was another byproduct of being so thin. I didn't buy Kotex for years. My doctor patted me on the shoulder and said, "when you start dating again, you'll start your cycle again."

This proved to be true. I met this really hot guy, we dated for several months. He lit my pilot light and Bob's Your Uncle, I was back patronizing the Women's Hygiene section. But with it came the extra pounds, and so began again the weight battle and all its attendant issues.

This time, instead of controlling my weight by controlling my food, I started smoking. That, and because I was pissed off at God at the time, so cigarettes worked with the weight and God-anger issues.

After a few years I put the cigarettes down. But I would pick them back up on occasion, especially when my boyfriend at THAT time made comments like, "you gain weight when you're on your period, right?" My response was to walk out, not talk to him for two weeks, and go on the cigarette diet(cigs, and chocolate malt balls). Which also works with weight and boyfriend-anger issues.

This same boyfriend inspired another diet a couple years later. When we finally broke up, it propelled me into what I refer to as "the Heartbreak Diet." It hurt to eat. It hurt to breathe. I starved myself down to a size Zero, but I didn't even want to live to enjoy the clothes.

Well, that was four years ago. And today I am mighty glad I broke up with the guy, but wish I could replicate some of that heartbreak lack of appetite.

It's been a terrific year. I met the True Love of love of my life. And he loves me just as I am. I also quit smoking for reals, interestingly enough, about the time I met him. I'd been off cigarettes, but resorted to them in a pinch, ie moments of stress, or feeling HALT: hungry angry lonely or tired. When I stopped the cigs I chewed the Nicotine gum. But that changed a year ago when I met Larry. I quit altogether.

And I gained 10 pounds.

Our friend Doug says that this is natural when you get married. He says it's because your entire single life, you carry around the tension of being single, and this burns calories. When you get married your body relaxes and it slows down. And you gain weight.

I came back from the honeymoon fatter. Well, we kept a huge bag of Costco trail mix in the car, that was part of it. But since Larry and I have been married, I swear I haven't been eating any more than before. Maybe less. I quit my late-night eating too. But I kept putting on weight. What was up, man?! Well, OK the occasional (often) dip in the "fruit juice sweetened carob almond bin at the "health food" store. But come on, man!

By Christmas, I had gained two pant sizes since my Heartbreak Diet days.

So I'm on a new fitness regimen and "food plan." Food plan is waymobetta to say. And to do. I'm eating all healthy food. I even gave up my Atkins protein bars.

I'm also back taking lots of yoga. A studio opened up the street called Your Neighborhood Studio. The classes are great, inexpensive, and I love the proprietor, Denise. They have amazing teachers, including some of the teachers who taught at the place I was driving to and from in Santa Monica. I like Power Yoga for the physical challenge as well as the relaxation. But the drive to and from Santa Monica was so maddening ( blogged about it here), that it canceled out any relaxation I'd gained. So walking six houses down to the studio is a no-brainer.

So I'm committed to eating right and exercising. At least for the next four weeks. I'd like to give Larry, and me, a really nice Valentine's present.

I Hate The Westside

A great way to appreciate what you have is to leave it. We were in Oregon, for ten days. And man that place is depressing in the winter. Cold, dark, raining. Moss grows on everything. On your roof, under the eaves, on the hood of your car. If I lived in Portland I'd have to go on anti-depressants, wear ultra-violet light bracelets, or go to the tanning booth just for light therapy.

Now, we met some really cool people too. Aaron Donley and Jordan Green, both of the Burnside Writers Collective. These talented creative artists have learned use the winter melancholy to fuel their art. And who've learned to use Zoloft and tanning booths and alcohol. Remember, Elliott Smith lived in Portland. Look what happened to him.

In any event, it was great to get back to Southern California, back to the warmer weather and sunshine. Back to the West Side, where the air is clean, we've got the beach, a pedestrian life, yoga, social consciousness and sunshine. It was fantastic.

Until I got into my car.

The Westside always had too many apartments in search of a neighborhood. But back in the 1990s commercial production moved into the warehouses. MTV and Universal and Sony moved much of their administrative offices in. And now it's just way too crowded with commuters going in and out of the area. I'm sure if you bike to work and take your hand cart to the market, and you're a few blocks from your yoga studio, it's fantastic. But try to get anywhere in your car, and it's over. The illusion of the "laid-back west side" is destroyed.

Another thing you can get by leaving is a more objective view. You can live in a hovel and get used to it. But go away and come back and you think, "Man, I'm living in a hovel!" Until you get used to it again. But, once you consider the possibility of moving away, then your mind is free to experience how bad the place is. "Man this place sucks! What a hovel! Was I ever aware of what a hovel this is? How hovelly this is? Geeze GET ME OUT OF HERE!" Of course if you then decide not to move, it's up to you how you handle your new-found awareness of your hovel. "As hovels go, maybe it's not so bad."

Entitlement
If there's one thing I notice coming back to the west side is the sense of entitlement. The drivers, usually men in BMWs and women in BMW SUVs, speed and weave down two lane streets, using the parking lane to pass you. Cutting in front and doing whatever they please. Because they can.

Yesterday I was driving east on Washington Blvd, in the left lane. A Honda Civic was waiting to turn right onto Washington, and behind it, a large Lexus SUV. The Lexus was pissed it had to wait for the Honda, so the Lexus screeched around and careened onto Washington, into the lane where I was driving. I had to honk to get him to see me. Then I realized, he DID see me. he was just expecting me to screech to a halt to let him in. But I didn't. He had to slam on his brakes, and for that he honked at me. I hate the drivers on the West Side. And it's not that much better when they get out of their cars.

The Whole Foods Fetish
I was at Whole Foods on New Years Day, to get some Kumbacha tea, because I am enlightened enough to know that I too, can achieve Nirvana through enzymatic therapy and vinegar tasting drinks. But as for those OTHER shoppers ... I went during the Rose Bowl, figuring it would be less crowded. But what kind of raw foods, organic-eating, spiritually enlightened upper echelon folks watch football? It was crowded, alright. With the rich, beautiful, lonely, angry westsiders: agents who meditate, investment bankers who do sweat lodges, real estate women who juice; rich young mothers with bluetooth phones who don't even hang up when they're checking out.

I was looking at the sushi case, and a man in a baseball cap and close gray beard place himself an inch to my right and shoved his face into the case, forcing me to step aside. I went to the other side and he moved that direction. Was he legally blind? Autistic?

A woman came up behind me, seething because she had to pass me on the left. Later I was walking down the main aisle. People funneling in from side aisles were pissed off that they couldn't just turn into the main aisle in front of me.

"Out of my way asshole, you're blocking my path to spiritual enlightenment."

Take money, privilege and beauty, add a little spiritual enlightenment and you get the worst subculture ever: A culture of entitlement.

I'm sure there are as many brats in Beverly Hills and Encino and Pasadena. But it's worse when you don't think you're a brat. (I know I'm a brat. that's why I need Jesus)

Ex-West Siders
My friend Tony and his wife now life east of the 101. They used to live very close to the beach, but they left for the same reasons. The bad attitude. My friends Scott and TJ live in Atwater. They're looking for a new place and one thing they insist on: East of the 101.

I realized something. There're more than just good air quality. Who wants to breathe clean air if you have to be around spiritually filthy people? (This I discovered through my own spiritual insight gained from Kumbacha)

So Larry and I have decided we are going to move. Somehwere east of the 101, somehwere closer to his new job, closer to some of our NY expat friends who have escaped the tyranny of the West Side life.

Let's hope I don't take my sense of spiritual superiority with me.



PS: Bits of Aaron Donley ... Check out Aaron's "Bits of Life" pieces on the BWC archive. Funnier than Deep Thoughts by Jack Handey. Here are a few...

I think the most terrifying thing about medieval times that even the goriest of movies are afraid to show you is the unforgiving, relentless body odor of everyone present.

I felt weird telling those people at the party that I peed my pants from laughing so hard. Because I knew deep down it was just a little dribble.

If I was a proprietor of an opium den I think I would just sort of casually set out free poppy seed muffins in the kids' play area. And if any of the parents came to me and asked, ‘just what the heck I thought I was doing,’ I would say, ‘Oh yeah, like you’re a good parent or something.’

PG Tips Tea

The first time I had tea with milk I thought it tasted icky. I was raised in Southern California. Tea was supposed to be clear. Tea with milk was murky and icky. But there lot of things that seem icky the first time, and you end up loving them. Girls, you know what I mean: Yoga. Caviar. Outlet malls.

Good thing I had my "milky tea" initiation before college, because I took my junior year abroad in the UK, and that’s the only way one drank tea in the UK: with milk. The Brits in college didn't drink coffee, except for instant. If you got “proper coffee” it was out at a fancy dinner. And you only got one cup. This was the 1980s. Long before Starbucks.

In the UK you drank tea. It kept you warm, it kept you awake, and it kept you social. I arrived at this teeny liberal arts college in London, made friends with a group of Brits in a church club, learned to drink tea, and I was set. Weekends we did pub crawls but weeknights we went on tea crawls, from one person’s dorm room to the other, dragging along their electric kettles, a pint of milk and a box of tea bags. And it was always PG tips.

I know you Americans may think “tea is tea,” because you’ve been ruined by Lipton. I don’t know why Queen Victoria bothered to knight him Sir Thomas Lipton. Maybe because he found a way to export the crappy tea out of England. Americans are used to the crappy Liptons, or the overrated Twinings, or Celestial Seasonings passion flower/cranberry zinger/lotus blossom/eco harvest. That’s not tea, that’s what your lawnmower ran over.

Tea and Caffeine

If you use the word “caffeine” as a generalized word for stimulant then yes, tea has caffeine in it. But Caffeine comes from the bean of a coffee plant. Coffee: Caffeine. But tea comes from the leaf of a camellia bush. It’s not a fruit or a bean, it’s a leaf. The chemical structure of a camellia leaf and a coffee bean are different. Both are stimulants, but they are not the same. And they affect people differently.

For me, coffee stimulates me physically. It wires me, it makes my nerve endings light up. It enervates me and constricts my blood vessels which raises my blood pressure and heart rate and makes me feel awake. It’s great. Which brings up a point: it’s not just the caffeine: it’s the sense memory association of groggy, tired, coffee smell and taste, wake up, blood pressure up, life is good.

Tea stimulates me mentally. The buzz is more subtle, and affects my brain more than my body. Tea never makes me jittery. It only makes me feel awake and humming.

Which brings up another thing. Tea is the drink of afternoon visits, friends, sitting down for a visit to chat.. There’s a british expression, “A nice cuppa tea and a sit-down.” That’s definitely a tea association for me: sitting down with friends. Or sitting down to the computer to write. For me, tea is social, and creative.

PG Tips Tea
PG Tips is the best selling brand of tea in Britain. And there’s a reason. It’s just so good. I'm not sure why PG Tips is so good. PG says 's because they only harvest the top two new-growth leaves on the bush, or the tips. PG Tips is strong and full, but It won’t get bitter on you. If you brew it right. If you don’t know how to brew tea, Tips will still be better than the refuse you’re used to drinking. But you need to know how to brew tea.

Brewing Tea

First of all, you must BOIL your water. It needs to boil to get the best flavor. Think of that wimpy coffee machine at work that spews tepid water and weak coffee. Same with tea.

Pour boiling water into your teapot (or cup). Swirl it around so the cup/pot is heated. Dump that water out. Add our tea bags. Bring the water back to boil and pour new boiling water into the cup/pot.

Let it steep 3 – 5 minutes. Stir so the water can get in and around the leaves.

DO NOT dip your bag for 30 seconds til you get what you think is the right shade. Tea needs HEAT and TIME to develop the whole range of flavor Think of your tea like a Polaroid. It needs time to develop the mid tones and the edges. Better to get an overly dark cup of tea in five minutes ( you can add hot water) than the right shade but wrong color in 30 seconds.

After five minutes, take the bags out so it doesn't get bitter. If you cover the pot with a "tea cozy" it'll stay warmer.

Pouring Tea
In Britain, one person “plays Mum” and serves the tea to everyone. Typically Brits put the milk in first, then the tea. Add sugar if you want.

Brits don’t put milk in Earl Grey. It's supposed to be drunk for the Bergamot flavor, which gets masked by milk. But whatever, Brits have a rule for everything. One morning I was eating breakfast when my British roommate giggled.
"You're eating your breakfast back to front.”
"I’m doing what?”
"You've eaten your grapefruit first. You're supposed to eat your toast first, then the grapefuit to clear the palate."
"And then go outside and smoke a Rothmans?"

Put milk in your Earl Grey if you want.

Just make sure you use boiling water, warm the pot or cup first, and let it steep for at least three minutes.

Give yourself the gift of a box of PG Tips, a nice tea cup, and a good half hour to really enjoy. Add a scone, a friend, and Bob’s Your Uncle, you've got yourself a nice cuppa tea and a sit down.

Here are some famous quotes about tea …

But we had a kettle; we let it leak:
Our not repairing made it worse.
We haven't had any tea for a week...
The bottom is out of the Universe.
~Rudyard Kipling

If you are cold, tea will warm you. If you are too heated, it will cool you. If you are depressed, it will cheer you. If you are excited, it will calm you.
~Gladstone, 1865

Never trust a man who, when left alone in a room with a tea cozy, doesn't try it on.
~Billy Connolly

You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.
~C.S. Lewis

Now if you think I've been persnickety about the making of tea, read what George Orwell wrote about it back in 1946 ....

A Nice Cup of Tea
By George Orwell
Evening Standard, 12 January 1946.

If you look up 'tea' in the first cookery book that comes to hand you will probably find that it is unmentioned; or at most you will find a few lines of sketchy instructions which give no ruling on several of the most important points.

This is curious, not only because tea is one of the main stays of civilization in this country, as well as in Eire, Australia and New Zealand, but because the best manner of making it is the subject of violent disputes.

When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. On perhaps two of them there would be pretty general agreement, but at least four others are acutely controversial. Here are my own eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden:

* First of all, one should use Indian or Ceylonese tea. China tea has virtues which are not to be despised nowadays — it is economical, and one can drink it without milk — but there is not much stimulation in it. One does not feel wiser, braver or more optimistic after drinking it. Anyone who has used that comforting phrase 'a nice cup of tea' invariably means Indian tea.

* Secondly, tea should be made in small quantities — that is, in a teapot. Tea out of an urn is always tasteless, while army tea, made in a cauldron, tastes of grease and whitewash. The teapot should be made of china or earthenware. Silver or Britanniaware teapots produce inferior tea and enamel pots are worse; though curiously enough a pewter teapot (a rarity nowadays) is not so bad.

* Thirdly, the pot should be warmed beforehand. This is better done by placing it on the hob than by the usual method of swilling it out with hot water.

* Fourthly, the tea should be strong. For a pot holding a quart, if you are going to fill it nearly to the brim, six heaped teaspoons would be about right. In a time of rationing, this is not an idea that can be realized on every day of the week, but I maintain that one strong cup of tea is better than twenty weak ones. All true tea lovers not only like their tea strong, but like it a little stronger with each year that passes — a fact which is recognized in the extra ration issued to old-age pensioners.

* Fifthly, the tea should be put straight into the pot. No strainers, muslin bags or other devices to imprison the tea. In some countries teapots are fitted with little dangling baskets under the spout to catch the stray leaves, which are supposed to be harmful. Actually one can swallow tea-leaves in considerable quantities without ill effect, and if the tea is not loose in the pot it never infuses properly.

* Sixthly, one should take the teapot to the kettle and not the other way about. The water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact, which means that one should keep it on the flame while one pours. Some people add that one should only use water that has been freshly brought to the boil, but I have never noticed that it makes any difference.

* Seventhly, after making the tea, one should stir it, or better, give the pot a good shake, afterwards allowing the leaves to settle.

* Eighthly, one should drink out of a good breakfast cup — that is, the cylindrical type of cup, not the flat, shallow type. The breakfast cup holds more, and with the other kind one's tea is always half cold before one has well started on it.

* Ninthly, one should pour the cream off the milk before using it for tea. Milk that is too creamy always gives tea a sickly taste.

* Tenthly, one should pour tea into the cup first. This is one of the most controversial points of all; indeed in every family in Britain there are probably two schools of thought on the subject. The milk-first school can bring forward some fairly strong arguments, but I maintain that my own argument is unanswerable. This is that, by putting the tea in first and stirring as one pours, one can exactly regulate the amount of milk whereas one is liable to put in too much milk if one does it the other way round.

* Lastly, tea — unless one is drinking it in the Russian style — should be drunk without sugar. I know very well that I am in a minority here. But still, how can you call yourself a true tealover if you destroy the flavour of your tea by putting sugar in it? It would be equally reasonable to put in pepper or salt. Tea is meant to be bitter, just as beer is meant to be bitter. If you sweeten it, you are no longer tasting the tea, you are merely tasting the sugar; you could make a very similar drink by dissolving sugar in plain hot water.

Some people would answer that they don't like tea in itself, that they only drink it in order to be warmed and stimulated, and they need sugar to take the taste away. To those misguided people I would say: Try drinking tea without sugar for, say, a fortnight and it is very unlikely that you will ever want to ruin your tea by sweetening it again.

These are not the only controversial points to arise in connexion with tea drinking, but they are sufficient to show how subtilized the whole business has become. There is also the mysterious social etiquette surrounding the teapot (why is it considered vulgar to drink out of your saucer, for instance?) and much might be written about the subsidiary uses of tealeaves, such as telling fortunes, predicting the arrival of visitors, feeding rabbits, healing burns and sweeping the carpet. It is worth paying attention to such details as warming the pot and using water that is really boiling, so as to make quite sure of wringing out of one's ration the twenty good, strong cups of that two ounces, properly handled, ought to represent.

Jesus Jargon, Yoga Jargon

I’ve made a stink about how Christians can talk and write so … Christiany: mission statements filled with buzz words and clichés, engaging the culture, unpack … Jesus Jargon. If you remove the Jesus Jargon, you’re left with writing that doesn’t really mean anything.

It’s also artists. We're plagued with this magnificent obsession to create, use art make sense of the world, to make a difference to others. Everyone wants to matter, but artists want to matter more.

So take the artist's obsession, add the religious burden, and you’ve got a recipe for either (A): profound and redeeming art; or (B) grandiose, narcissistic, megalomaniac, mediocre art. Jesus Junk, Jesus Jargon.

So why do Christians have to get so churchy about everything? I ask, self-satisfied and evolved. Well, it's not just artists, and it's not just Christians. Every group religious or not, has its own agenda -- I mean, vision. And they have their own jargon.

Take the yoga studio where I "practice." The people are nice, it’s pay by donation, and most people are there because they’re on a spiritual search.

However, Yoga people have their own Jargon. Spiritual practice, spiritual path, journey, evolve, set your intention, bliss, equanimity. I love equanimity, especially when my teacher trips over it. Yoga, he purrs, is about achieving equaninnim ... equanit... balance. Yoga is about balance.

A Buddha head rests on the side counter. I don’t park my mat near him. At the end of class, we say "Namaste" to the teacher. Namaste (nah-mah-STAY) means the god in me salutes the god in you. At the end of class, I look at the Buddha and say, Namaste: The God in me CRUSHES the god in you. No, not really. When they say Namaste, I say God bless you. if they say Ohhhhhhhm," I say "OhAAAhhhhhhhmen.

I stay away from the classes that get too Hindu. There’s this one really young yoga chick teacher who irks me -- not because she goes all Big Sur on me. It's because she gets smug. She sashays around, dispensing her 31-year old wisdom ... her voice all velvety smooth and blissed out -- from the triple nonfat latte with six Splendas I watched her drink at the Starbucks across the street. First time I went to her class she purred: Unlike Western religions, Yoga is rooted in the pagan tradition, which sees ALL life as sacred. WHAAAT? Hindus are very religious. They’ve got like 300,000 gods. And Christianity believes creation is sacred; matter actually matters. (Not that you'd know, the way the current "evangelical" administration is raping the environment.

I never returned to Yoga Chick's class. My other yoga teacher, however, is loving, humble, and open. She knows I'm a Christian. She wants there to be room for everyone. I like that. So, I stick with the yogis whose jargon I can handle. After all, I’m spiritually evolved enough to affirm them in their spiritual search, maintain healthy boundaries, and guarding my heart from psychos.

Namaste.