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 backward...in 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.

addictions

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.

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.

The Voice

I've reached a point in life that makes me question my own sanity. A little. Okay, not much, really.
I've thought long and hard, and for many years, about the voice of God. Some people claim they can hear Him speaking to them. Moses clearly heard him. My Sunday school kids decided they had never actually heard the voice. And I had to agree...while there were several times in life I felt compelled by his will, I hadn't really ever heard Him speak to me.

Till recently.

I don't really know when it started. I think there were a few occasions when I asked God a question in my head, silently, and immediately a response, not in my own voice, came back to me. Then it became kind of....conversational. I would say something, mentally, and then a response would come. At first I thought I was crazy, and just answering my own questions and responding to my own statements. Then I realized I just wasn't. I can't tell you how I know it isn't just that, me talking to myself, but I just know it isn't.

So, I've started to pray differently. More frequently. More conversationally. Weird things began to happen.
For instance, not long ago, I was in a car wreck. A snow plow demolished the front of my van. I knew, ahead of time, that it was coming. I said it, this time out loud, as I drove. "God this snow plow driver doesn't see me!"
I know. It's going to be okay. You're going to be okay."
As I opened my door and realized my legs could support me, my arms could move, and no blood was dripping off me, I knew He had assured me of this. I was okay. But it was more than his assurance. I heard Him.


A few weeks later, we were having a typical Sunday night at our house. Sunday nights are brutal; it's as if the two days off from school was a year. No one knows where their hat or backpack is, or what they want for lunch. The oldest kid remembers, "oh yeahhhh..." that I am supposed to call parents to ask for volunteers for the upcoming Valentine party. The youngest simply doesn't want to go to school, and therefore, will not take a bath. Somehow, it equates, in his mind.

Frustrated, I head downstairs to feed the bunnies. I give them each a generous handful of hay, and watch as they attack it hungrily. Then something happens. Marley, the little girl in the middle, must have swallowed a piece whole. She begins choking. Gasping for air. Green stuff is oozing from her nose and I am freaking out. I try to open her mouth to see if I can dislodge something, but it's impossible for me to accomplish. She's fighting me, and fighting to breathe. I am shaking and panicking, and I run upstairs to tell my husband the bunny is choking and I can't do it. I really can't. I have this animal...thing. I love them, too much, and I can't see them in any sort of compromised state. I curse myself for even having pets; I am a nutcase when it comes to any sort of illness or injury for any of them.

My husband goes downstairs and stays down there for a long time. I am convinced she is dying, or dead. I am googling "rabbits choking" and getting all sorts of gruesome diagnoses. Death. Painful death.
There's a bunny heimlich option, but it's a long shot, and it's dangerous in itself.
In another half hour or so, Randy comes upstairs, presumably to give me the bad news.

"She's just sitting here, now, on the carpet. She hopped around a little and she's a little shaken up, but I think she's okay."

I race down the stairs, scooping Marley into my arms. She is panicked and seems weaker, but she is breathing a little better. I'm still worried she won't make it through the night. Rabbits are ridiculously delicate creatures.

The next morning, she is sitting up in her cage. She sniffs and eats a tiny piece of her banana, offered from my hand. She is timid, and she hasn't had any water or pellets all night. I let her out to wander the family room, which she does, but not as enthusiastically as she usually does. I tell myself she is still just weak and uncertain. Maybe her throat hurts. Maybe her stomach hurts. That night, she still hasn't eaten and I pick her up, cuddling her to my chest. She sniffs me curiously, but then lays her head down, defeated. I cup my hand over her tiny back and become angry. She was such a fun, adorable little bunny, just yesterday!
"God, help her! She is one of your creatures. Why won't you help her, she's scared. I know she's an animal. I know you have more important things to work on, but I am sooo bad at this. Please just help her."

Some creatures are stubborn about healing.

That's the response I got. Stubborn about healing?
I laid in bed, after putting Marley back in her cage. Again, I figured she'd be dead in the morning. I began my usual kind of prayer, not really starting with "Dear God," or anything formal:
People are stubborn about healing, God, you're right. People want it their way. They want control. They want sympathy. They want everyone else to be miserable. They want all sorts of different things, I guess. Sometimes, I don't even know that they want to get better. Could that be? I should say 'we'. I'm people, too. But animals? How do they even know to be stubborn?"

The response, clear as day:

"People need to want to be healed. People need to seek healing. Animals? They never want to feel bad. But they usually don't want your help, either. It's not natural. They don't understand the conflict."

This morning, I had my husband do the initial "bunny check." I can't go down and find her dead. I did that once, when I was about six years old...found our dog dead, in the garage. It stays with ya.

"She's eating hay, and sitting up." Awestruck, I filled the colander with fresh greens and banana slices, determined to see her eat. She nibbled a few bites of mustard greens and then ate most of her banana slice. It's her favorite. I felt a little better. Then she hopped 180 degrees and turned her back to me. Creatures are stubborn about their healing. Normally, I'd force her to turn around and try to get some more nourishment in her. Instead, I laid the rest of the greens on the cage floor, freshened her water and made sure she had some pellets, just in case.

"I'm willing to wait this out with you, Marley, if you're willing to try."

As I go through this day, I still don't know that she's going to make it. She looks better, but I know rabbits tend to look better than they are. It's a defense mechanism for prey animals. Being stubborn is sort of a defense mechanism for humans, I suppose.
Somehow, though, I have to realize it's just not up to me.

It's going to be okay. No matter what.

Annoyance, Bliss, and Carts.

I have developed a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. "You've posted about the grocery store before!" you might say.
You're right. I have nothing else to do in my tiny little life but tell you about my frequent trips to the supermarket.
And when I say frequent, I mean that I go at least three times a week. I'm one of those people.
First of all, I'm on Weight Watchers. It is yet another ill-fated attempt to drop poundage so that I might look like my eighteen-year-old self in a pair of shorts this summer. If I'm lucky, the shorts won't have a name like "crops" which mean, they skim just below the knee, a.k.a. culottes. I...hated...culottes as a child. Loathed them. Was made fun of because of them. My mother insisted on them though, in addition to "pedal pushers." Dear Lord, pedal pushers?
My goal is to wear a pair of shorts with the inseam measurement noted in the description. Preferably 5". Not 3". I'm not that crazy, and no amount of Weight Watchers will get rid of the road map that has become my thigh region.

Per usual, I have regressed. The reason I've mentioned the Weight Watchers is that it has spawned a new shopping obsession based on the Points Plus system. I must know the point value in my purchase. Say that five times fast. I drag along my Kindle (because I'm hip and fancy) and plug in fat, carbohydrates, protein and fiber. Or FCPF, as we cool people like to use our acronyms.

Yes, the calorie deprivation is altering my sanity even more. Keep reading.

Usually, I'm okay when it comes to regular food. Vegetables, fruit, meat, etc., I can handle. It's just that I grew up understanding that a prerequisite to bedtime was a snack, and that hasn't changed. Not in thirty years. I still need a bedtime snack. For a while I was hooked on a bowl of cereal, until Oprah said something ghastly about eating cereal before bed, (I can't remember what it was) and now I don't do that anymore. Well, usually I don't. Desserts have become a problem for me. I like desserts the way they are supposed to be: ooey, gooey, flaky, sweet and chock-full of calories. This business of replacing butter and oil with things like applesauce or pumpkin is really for the birds. Come on, you know it is.
But I try to convince myself I like it.
I like lying to myself, apparently. Again, it's the overall calorie deprivation.
So I meander through my favorite supermarket, which is kind of like Cheers, because everybody knows my name, and I look for alternatives and substitutes to my favorite desserts without sacrifice, which is really just laughable.
I become annoyed with aimless shoppers. They are clearly not with me on my mission. Husbands and wives are the worst.
"Did you get coffee last time?" (I'm already annoyed; I get coffee every time. Is this a real question?)
"I don't remember. I liked what we had, though."
"Should I get Michigan Cherry or Hazelnut?"
"Do we need dog food?"
"Did you hear what little Jack said to me this morning?" (Huh? Focus on the coffee. Or move, because I'm trying to plug in the FCPF on that Swiss Miss you're hovering over).

I am mended, immediately, as Greg Laswell's voice croons over the stereo system. It's just for me, I am convinced. I am blissfully aware of the energy I put into my mission here at the store, and Greg has reminded me. You never know, I could run into him this summer, in my 5" inseam shorts. Plug in those numbers, sister!

Calorie. Deprivation.

Thinking of Greg Laswell's deep brown eyes reminds me of chocolate chips and how I miss my love affair with Tollhouse cookies. How big of a sin would those be, on Weight Watchers. Might as well cruise the baking aisle to see the point-reality.

I settle on a box of something called Skinny Cow, picturing a heifer with an unnaturally whittled middle grinning seductively as if these treats, lacking in caloric bliss, will make me do the same. I doubt it.
And I don't know that she's a heifer. I just like the word.

As I battle check-out, my least favorite part, because twice now someone has attempted to slash my achilles tendon with their cart, I make a mental note to buy a pedometer next time.
All this searching has got to be earning me Activity Points. AP.

Wildly Inappropriate

I remember gazing into his big, dark blue eyes in the hospital bed, and thinking wow, how did I get so lucky?! And weeks later, cuddling up to the cutest duckie pajama-clad bundle as he cooed and kicked happily, thinking he was the most perfect, joyful little gift I could ever receive.

At around two, he would be engrossed in play, but he would frequently drop everything and run to me...well, charge at me like a bull, to fiercely grab my leg and squeeze me into a hug. Those tiny "I love you, Mommy"s are priceless, aren't they?

At three, we got a taste of his personality, destined for mischief. He found a bottle of baby powder, and not only redecorated the bedroom with its contents, but also covered every inch of himself, save for those blue eyes. "I stink!" he proclaimed, reeking in this exorbitant amount of newborn baby-smelling stuff, similar to an old woman bathed in Jean Nate'.

At five, he demanded we remove his training wheels. The air of cool confidence in his voice, and unwavering certainty when we told him, "once they are off, they aren't going back on" made me smile. He knew he would do it, and his determination proved him right. He rode on two wheels that very day, and now does it at lighting-speed, God help me.

Although I'm sure I read, back in my days of baby name books, that Isaac means "laughter," it is impossible, as a mother, to know if a name will really fit until your child is a little older. You pick out a name, and you hope it works. Ultimately, it's the name you like best, after several disagreements with your spouse, ruling out things like "Finn, Phoenix, and Calvin." Or at least that's what happened in my case.

Isaac means "laughter." Ain't that the truth?

I can't count the number of times this kid has had me in stitches, with either his wild antics or his tall tales. The dinner table, though, is perhaps my favorite locale for silliness. We have, by no means, a serious dinner. The concept that children should be "seen and not heard" does not apply in this house. Despite my efforts to serve gourmet meals on the lovely china, with well-groomed children using impeccable manners, it...well, it just hasn't happened yet. We aren't raucous or gross, either, mind you. We just have humorous mealtimes, usually spurred by Isaac saying, "today, you know what happened?"

"Mommy, today...you know what happened at school? The gym teacher told us to bounce basketballs against the wall and catch them. It was fun. Until it bounced at me and hit me in the nuts. It hurt soooo much. I couldn't talk in my regular voice."

Me (stifling a grin and trying to look concerned): "What exactly are your nuts?"

"You know, those things, on my crouch."

"Oh....yes, your crouch. I don't have those, then. Nuts."

"Yes, you do, Mommy. The girls at school said they do."

Gabe is laughing wildly at this point, as he apparently calls his "biscuits."

"Eat your dinner," I say, "and you go to school with some very interesting girls."

The boys continue giggling between bites, and Ella chimes in the best way she knows how, turning to Isaac and shrieking "Pull my finger!"

So, anyway, I guess I named him appropriately, even if he is, often, wildly inappropriate. He doesn't realize it's inappropriate. He was speaking earnestly, of a traumatic event during gym class!

He makes us laugh, and that's for sure. He's very smart, clever, and imaginative to go along with it, so there's great potential for his future.

But stand-up will always be an option, I suppose, if nothing else pans out.