FUCKING MOTHER FUCKING FUCK
Yoga Studio Tales.
Old woman just came in the studio. You know, one of those that you can size up immediately. Ralph Lauren collared shirt, sleeveless. Khaki shorts. Pearl earrings (real.) Leather belt. Oh and she brought her dog - a white fuzzy number she let me know was her “pinky dinky do.” Right away I can tell, great, here is this privileged old bitch who will absolutely take up at least 20 minutes of my time and never come back.
Her first comment? “I do Pilates. I don’t really like yogurt.”
Clearly, her term for ‘yoga’ is ‘yogurt’ and she asks pointless questions (What IS Flow? What IS Can-do-leean-uh. How many people on Tuesdays? thursdays?) and proceeds to tell me about how her daughter swam with sharks. She then leans over to pinky. dinky. do. and lets this dog know (in a sing-song voice) that she is upset since the dog has “whiter teeth” than her own. “She knows I hate that,” she says.
yogurt yogurt yogurt yogurt yogurt.
I love this town. But I hate rich people.
Menu planning for Cinco de Mayo is difficult, in the fun way. I can come up with endless drinks to serve… it’s the food part that creates commitment issues. I always go so far over the top with this stuff. (But that’s what makes it fun, right?!)