MELODIE’S MEDLEY

by Melodie Johnson Howe

Not to beat a dead horse (what a terrible expression) or a dead Mildred Pierce but the HBO series is sloooow and shot in amber or dark shadows. I feel like I need a flashlight to watch it. The director Sidney Pollock invited Billy Wilder to see his version Sabrina. (Wilder had directed the original starring Humphrey Bogart and Audrey Hepburn.) Pollock sat nervously next to Wilder wondering what he was going to say. When the movie ended Wilder turned to him and asked, “Why is the film so dark?” And that was the only comment he made.

However there is a new mystery series on AMC titled The Killing. (Not to be confused with Ernest Hemingway’s short story that was turned into a great movie staring Burt Lancaster and Ava Gardner.) This is a good series. It has been compared to Twin Peaks, but only in it’s edginess. This is a quirky well-done detective story with superb acting. A must see. Yes, the lighting is dark, but since it’s shot in Washington State where it’s always raining there’s a reason for it.

I had to go back to yoga. My body wasn’t running to fat, it was sitting to fat. Getting older is bad enough, but I in a profession where sitting down is a major requirement. I spend most of my time in an ergonomic chair (whatever that means) that makes be feel like I should be wearing a seat belt when I’m settled into it. It has arms that go up and down and a back that has an adjustable lumbar thingy. One came with a headrest but I put my foot down. I hate them in cars and now they have them on desk chairs? The only whiplash I get is when I receive a rejection letter. The chair is supposed to support me in all areas of my body except my stomach. It does nothing in that area at all. The salesperson told me curtly that I would have to take care of that myself.

Also I was told that I am not sitting properly in my chair. My feet are supposed to be flat on the floor, and my body straight against the back of the chair. I start out that way, but I end up teetering on the edge of the seat while hovering over my keyboard with my shoulders hunched and my legs curled around each other. I am unaware of this contortionist position I have gotten myself into until I try to stand up. There is a moment of horror where I think I will never be able to unknot myself. Once I do I am left with a body that feels like it’s been sitting in a stern Presbyterian pew for a week.

So I went back to yoga. I have written about my yoga experience before. I love the stretching movements of yoga, but I am not a calm personality. And I have trouble with Sanskrit. At the end of a class when the teacher says Namaste, I thought she was saying, have a nice day. I had to be gently corrected. Okay, I thought it was some kind of wacky Southern California interpretation of Sanskrit.

The teacher thought it best to have a private session before I entered a class. She knows my over achiever personality forces me to compete with the other students, and she didn’t want me to hurt myself the first time out.

She came to the house and we stretched slowly. When we got to my favorite part the corpse position, or as the yogis call it savasana, she grabbed the throw from the sofa and covered me with it. Then I heard her gasp. I knew she wanted me to be in some kind of tranquil transcendental state so I only opened one eye to peak at her. She had a very disconcerted expression on her face.

When the session was over and I was picking up the throw, she asked, “Is that fur?”

“What?” I’m looking at the dogs that have now bounded into the room now.

“That.” She’s point to the throw.

“Yes. It’s mink.”

“Mink?” The disconcerted look was back.

“Mink fur.”

“It’s fake, right?” Nodding at me, hope fills her eyes.

A moral quandary. Do I lie to her and say yes, or do I tell her the truth. And if that weren’t bad enough, I’m feeling a little offended, in a very petty way, that she thinks my mink is fake.

“It’s real fur. I had it made from a coat I had that I wasn’t wearing because . . . ” I stopped, deciding it wasn’t smart to get into the whole PETA thing. Taking another direction, I continued, ”Back in the eighties when I bought the coat we thought fur was okay to wear. We thought a lot of things were okay to wear including shoulder pads that were so wide you entered through a door sideways. And if you think about it, the minks that became my coat, had they been allowed to live, would be dead now anyway.”

She looked confused and so was I. But I went doggedly and defensively on:

“When you think about it, I was recycling, which is a environmentally responsible thing to do. Because it saves other minks from being killed if I had . . . ” I finally gave up and asked, “You think its bad karma, don’t you?”

She laughed, “Not for you.”

She left with her symbols, restorative bolsters, and special oils. The smell of lavender oil lingered in the living room as I sat on the couch snuggling under my furry throw.

“What’s that odor?” My husband sauntered into the room sniffing the air.

“Lavender.”

“It smells awful.”

“Oh, God, we’re hopeless,” I sighed.

Now he looked confused.