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Saturday, March 10, 2012

Moves Like Jagger

I had the privilege tonight to go on a DJ job with my husband; I do this from time to time. I particularly enjoy proms, because I like the pretty dresses, but I'm not really invited to those anymore because I scold the kids too much for bad language and other inappropriate things. I figured I'd like this event tonight; the age group was late 30's to 40's. Good fun. And oh, was it ever.
The dancing was raucous. I began documenting each "move" in my head...knowing I'd need to immediately share them with you. So, I will.

But one thing, first.

I'm not trying to imply, by any stretch of the imagination, that I'm a good dancer. I know I'm not, which is why I don't really do it in public. I'm also not here to imply that 30-40 something people shouldn't have a good time. I love having a good time. I'm just saying that my good time this evening came from observing them. And finally, perhaps you'll find yourself in one of my descriptions, and you'll get a little laugh. Remember, the more you drink, the less you care, and the more interesting you become to people like me, a blogger. Now then....

1. Finger dancing: These folks like to point at you when they dance, usually while attempting, unsuccessfully, at singing along with the song lyrics. When there are musical interludes, they will often point to the sky, and vigorously "jab" at the air around them.

2. Caboose on the loose: So you think you've gotta back it up. These dancers (and ladies, I'm sorry, it's usually you)will poke out their rear ends, regardless of size, shape, or adequate pant-coverage, and move it to the beat. They seem to believe they have an attachment to their natural rear end; it is suddenly deserving of its own territory, and can, seemingly on its own, bump other rear ends on the dance floor in a friendly "hello" type gesture. Amazingly, the gesture is well-received. Sir-Mix-A-Lot songs will trigger this every time.

3. Mom By Day, Rapper By Night: Okay. This is controversial. Ladies, if you want to rap, then rap. But, if you find that you only rap on a dance floor, after a few drinks, then it's probably not your calling. Furthermore, when you do it loudly in another dancer's face and he/she is doing it back at you, you should know that it appears hostile and frightening to sober people, and we might worry that you're actually "Bamboozlin' and smackin' suckers", except for the fact that you're not getting the words right. So, you know a little Salt 'n Pepa. You go, girl. Note: the Mom By Day, Rapper By Night is typically worsened by Finger Dancing. See above.

4. The Workout Dance: So you skipped the gym today. Or this year. And you've decided that tonight is the night you're going to burn those calories. Workout dancers like to remain in a squat position for the majority of the time, often with hands on their knees. You can tell it hurts; they sweat a lot. Nostrils flare...this is a nice touch. Sometimes, they'll clap once or twice; it keeps them motivated. If you're not sure you've seen this dance, or worried you might fit the description, wait until the next time you're at a party and the DJ plays "It Takes Two" by Rob Base and DJ E-Z Rock. Or just Google it right now. You'll know.

5. The Chicken: Okay, guys. This is usually you. This is a signature move, involving arms, neck, and feet. The feet do a chicken "scratching" thing, sort of kicking at imaginary dust behind the body. The neck works to pulse the chin forward and a pecking motion. The arms fold at the elbow and the hands, usually in fists, rest near the chest. Elbows tend to bounce in and out, as if trying to flap into flight. A similar version is the T-Rex; the arms stay firmly positioned without "flapping." It's easy to modify the dance from The Chicken to The T-Rex. Good, versatile option.

Finally (although I could go on)...

6. The Big Boy: This seems to be another guy-move. This apparently occurs when the upper body is too muscular (or you believe it to be that way) to move. The shoulders clench up near the ears, and when the music gets very exciting, the legs propel the body into jumping, repeatedly. Sometimes the arms flail around while the jumping commences; sometimes they go into a T-Rex. Either way, you are epic in size, and everyone knows it.

I should note, in closing, that all of the participants who unknowingly contributed to my dance descriptions were having a wonderful time and will forever remain anonymous.

Monday, March 5, 2012


I have an addiction to whiling away hours of my time, reading other peoples' blogs. I guess that makes me a good "blog supporter." Or a really good time-waster.

I'm addicted to cheese and chocolate. Hence the other addiction to entering the Points for everything I eat into a daily log on Weight Watchers. Do not misunderstand: I don't even like Weight Watchers to be a part of my life. Simply put, if it was not, I would be 400 pounds because I don't have that nifty little thing in my stomach that tells my brain when I'm satisfied. Sigh, sigh, sigh.

And bread. Add bread to that addiction I mentioned above.

I'm addicted to certain seasonal television. I watch The Bachelor and Big Brother, every time the shows air. I have no shame. I don't even try to hide it anymore.

I'm addicted to lia sophia jewelry, buying shoes, and good lipstick. They are three things that make me feel good n' sassy.

I'm obviously addicted to using the word 'addicted'. Which I've just now decided could be easily interchanged with "obsessed."

I'm addicted/obsessed with procrastination. I'm multitasking between writing a blog, looking at emails and checking out recipes online. Has anyone else noticed that hardly anyone says "online" anymore? Or "on the internet?" It's just assumed that everything is on the internet. I remember when it was a big deal.

I might browse the DSW website in a minute. Anything to prolong the time before I have to continue working on a 20 page paper.
I'm addicted to anxiety, apparently, as the deadline is fast-approaching.

Monday, February 20, 2012

An Exercise in Third Person

"What are you doing?" she asks the little one in the backseat.

"Driving the van," he claims, his hands balled into fists circling the imaginary steering wheel, "what are YOU doing?"

"Trying to figure out where I misplaced my eighteen-year-old thighs..." she mutters, popping another onion ring into her mouth, "but these aren't helping."

The little one bursts into laughter and says, through the forced giggles, "I have no idea what you mean."

The mini-Socrates, a.k.a. the older one in the backseat says "I know exactly what she means. She wishes she was younger. But Mom," he continues, "did you have us when you were eighteen? Because I don't think you did. And that's why you don't have your eighteen-year-old body anymore, too."

She agrees with him and slurps another drink of Diet Pepsi. The older one looks pensive. "This music," he says, shaking his head with distaste.

She glances at the display on the dash; the words "heart, heart" thump from the speakers, and she tries to think of the word that describes the figure of speech Ingrid Michaelson used with the lyrics of this song, called Ghost. She looks up at him in the rear view mirror as he continues, "This stuff is all weird. All lovey, but all sad, sort of. Are you sad or do you just like the music? Are you in love? That's gross. Does this make you think of your grandma? Or when my dad left you?"

She gulps and fumbles for another onion ring. Onomatopoeia? That might be it. This kid knows too much.

"I just like it," she says, "I'm not really sad."

"Lots of things have happened in your life, I guess," the older one says.

"And I have you guys, now, which is the best thing," she says with a wicked grin.

The older one presses his lips together so they disappear, and gives one quick nod of his head before he slips on his headphones and fixes his gaze out the window.

The little one returns to hysterical laughter, as if he knows something else. He clicks his invisible turn signal. "You could play that song that goes 'Boom Boom'!" There, that's onomatopoeia.

She smiles to herself and shifts deeper into her seat, concentrating her eyes on the country road that stretches in front of her.