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Archive for the ‘Just W’ Category

Aside

POST Traumatic Stress Disorder

Ok, so y’all remember about my crazycakes interaction with the not-a-nun, right?

 

I went to the post office today to check my PO box again.

 

And.

 

I saw a man, wearing a clerical collar, wrestling a HUGE box out of his car.

 

Needless to say, I RAN in the other direction.

 

Shew….

 

Who needs brown paper packages tied up with string when you have self-sealing envelopes?

A while back I posted a list of things that drive me crazy. Lest you think I’m a supercrab who only focuses on the negative, I thought perhaps we should have an equally obscure list of things that I adore beyond reason.  Let’s call it….

Things that make me unreasonably happy and sometimes I go on at great length about how much I love them:

  • Priority Mail prepaid flat-rate forever envelopes. Delivered to my home, for free. Or maybe they charge $1 to deliver, I’ve lost track, but still totally worth it for my work-from-home set up.  All I have to do is stuff them full, address them, and leave them outside my house for Mailman to pick up. Postage never expires. No waiting in lines. No fake nuns.  Woot!
  • Dropbox – It’s perfect for file sharing for work, since we’re in different locations. It’s perfect for volunteer work where people need access to the same documents. It’s perfect for accessing random crap from my phone, when I’m nowhere near my computer, like the list I made of movies that I used to own but no longer do but would like to again, in case I see one in a bargain bin somewhere. It’s perfect for everything. And it’s the easiest thing in the world to use. My mom was telling my about a medical emergency her husband had a few weeks ago (he’s fine, I promise) and in the story she had to leave the hospital to go home to email someone a document. My immediate reaction was, “I need to show you how to use Dropbox”.
  • Self-sealing envelopes. I know it probably seems that I’m obsessed with mail. I’m not. But I do like mail, and I do NOT like the taste of envelope glue. Plus, you know, George Costanza’s fiancée Susan. But mostly I can’t believe it took so long for someone to come up with these and now that they exist I appreciate the crap out of them.
  • Shazam. An app on my phone can listen to a few seconds of music and tell me what song it is and who sings it? THAT SHIT IS AMAZING! For this reason alone I consider my smartphone a worthwhile investment.
  • My scarf from Ireland. 3Names and I spent a marvelous week traipsing around and all I knew was I wanted to bring home some piece of knit something. I looked at loads of sweaters, but they were all big, bulky-looking affairs that aren’t my style and probably would have made me spontaneously combust. One day we were in a little shop on Inishmore, the largest of the Aran Islands, where it’s literally like going back in time. In amongst some of the more typical souvenir-type items, I found a lovely, soft, colorful knit scarf, long enough to wrap around my neck twice when it’s really cold. The tag said it was hand-made in Ireland. Was this a trap for a gullible tourist? Ha! When I took it to the clerk to pay she said, “Oh, my neighbor Maggie made this.” I wear the crap out of it, but gently, so as to extend its lifespan, and when someone comments on it, I get all happy-like.
  • Fuzzy Blankie, capitalized because that’s its name, not just a description. Fuzzy Blankie was a gift from Sunshine a few years ago and it turned me into Linus. It’s warm. It’s soft. It’s fluffy. It’s comforting. It’s soft. (It’s so soft it deserves to be mentioned twice.) It’s white, and somehow, miraculously, the Queen of Spill (that would be me) has managed to keep it remarkably clean. Dogs are not allowed to lie on it.  Fuzzy Blankie is always there for me when I need it.
  • Compliments from strangers. No explanation required.
  • When Ruby Dogwonkafonka sticks her face right up in mine and burps. I know that sounds disgusting. Ok, it is disgusting. But it makes me laugh every time. Partly because it seems so deliberate, and she never looks sorry. And her timing is impeccable.
  • This one set of hand-me-down sheets that my dad gave me. I have no idea why he didn’t want them anymore. (I know exactly why he didn’t want them anymore; they didn’t match his décor.) They are so soft and comfy that they have made all other sheets completely inferior. I am on a quest to find something that will be their equal, but so far I haven’t found anything. Or anything that I can afford. But. I. Will.
  • This video. I am not sure how many times I have watched it, but I would guess it’s in the neighborhood of 36,284 times. I think it’s hilarious. (FYI, you’re only committing to a minute and thirty-eight seconds of your life if you click the link.)
  • The infamous rainbow shower head.  
  • This blog post. It makes me laugh my ass off. After Beyoncé, it’s the thing I’m most committed to getting the entire world to read.

    He totally goes with the chair with the missing leg, no?

    He totally goes with the chair with the missing leg, no?

  • Tomás, the colorful metal t-rex Klondike gave me for Christmas. Whose boyfriend is better than mine? Come ON, I have a t-rex in my freakin’ living room.  (My style is, um,eclectic.)
  • My next door neighbors, Jim & Phyllis. They give me vegetables from their garden and chili and baked goods from their kitchen. They let me borrow tools and ladders and a power washer. They keep an eye on me. And my house. And my dog. In a nice, neighborly fashion, not a Gladys Kravitz way.
  • Crack cookies. They don’t actually call them that at The Fresh Market, but they should. They actually call them something like Heath bar cookies, and they are stupid delicious. I make people eat them so I can get them to concede that they are, in fact, freaking amazing.

As said when the other, negative list concluded, this is not all-encompassing at all. It’s just my version of Maria von Trapp’s raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. (When did this blog become so full of nuns??)  Personally I think my list is a little better than hers, but she had to deal with Nazis so I’ll cut her some slack.

Aside

Symptoms of Adulthood

Sometimes I have random thoughts like, “I wonder what would happen if I got in the laundry basket and rode it down the stairs like a sled”.  And then I remember how lame my health insurance is and I decide perhaps that wouldn’t be the best way to test it.

Klondike also just reminded me that the stairs are pretty steep and the landing zone at the bottom is small and full of walls and corners and things.

Bats are assholes.

Warning: this post contains a lot of f-bombs.

So. It’s that time of year again, apparently.

What time is that, you ask?

Bat season.

Sigh.

Many of you remember my prior episode with an uninvited house guest.

This one began in very similar fashion. I was awakened around 3 a.m. on a random August night (morning) to see the intruder flying into my bedroom, causing instant panic. I once again fled to the backyard to regroup.  My traitor dog hadn’t even waited for me to wake up and assess – she was already downstairs in the kitchen waiting by the back door when I got there.  Jerk.

A raccoon was hanging out on the fence in my yard when we got outside.

“No,” I yelled at it, shining my flashlight (and by “flashlight” I mean flashlight app on my phone) into his face. “No, I cannot even deal with you right now. Get the fuck out of here.” He acquiesced.

So there I was, once again pacing in my back yard in the middle of the night, thinking if there is ever anything that’s going to motivate me to get married again, this would be it.

I got super brave this time. My panic sweats led me to turn on the a/c, which meant I had to close the windows, which meant I had to walk through the entire house. Which I did. Clutching the tennis racquet that has lived next to my bed since the last encounter two years ago. I didn’t want to hurt it (mostly because the idea of having to then deal with a dead or wounded bat stressed me even more the fuck out), but I needed to have some defense just in case. The tennis racquet was useful for things like pulling back the curtains to check for Batfucker (yep, I named him) before leaning in to close the window. It was useful for things like reaching into a room and flipping a light switch. I went room by room through the entire house. I closed all the windows. And I didn’t see Batfucker anywhere. I left a couple of lights on and settled onto the couch, figuring out what to do next. And it occurred to me that I had only actually seen Batfucker once, when I first woke up. Was it possible that I had dreamt the entire thing? That there was no bat?

No. Ruby had fled the scene. She has never once left my room in the middle of the night, until now. Clearly she had seen it too.  And after about an hour of sitting on the couch feeling like I was going to cry or puke from nerves, Batfucker flew into and then out of the living room. I tried not to freak out. I have learned way more than I want to know about bats, and I know that all it wants is to get out. I scurried to the front door and opened it, and opened the screen door, hoping for a repeat performance from last time when the bat showed itself in somewhat timely fashion. Sadly, however, Batfucker had gone into hiding and refused to take advantage of the exit strategy I had prepared. I was a wreck. And moths were coming inside to have a party.  I closed the door and sat paralyzed, no clue what to do next.

Morning finally came. My friend Leonard suggested that Animal Care & Control would come if I called; this was news to me! I dialed, and yep, sure enough, they would send a team. An awesome team, who did a very thorough search, and were super apologetic that they weren’t able to find Batfucker. (On a side note, there are a lot of jobs that would suck. Having to go into someone’s house and look in every nook and cranny for a live bat would be the death of me. I just had a full-body tremor just thinking about it.) It was possible the bat had found a way out of the house. It was also possible the bat was in some tiny spot where they hadn’t located him.

Goddammit.

So now I’ve had three hours of sleep, significant emotional trauma, and no closure. (Sounds like most relationship breakups I’ve been through…)

I spent the day walking around my house like some kind of demented tennis junkie, clutching my racquet.  I knew it was unlikely Batfucker would make a daytime appearance, but it was my bat security blanket. I poked curtains, towels, clothes in my closet. I held the racquet in front of me, looking up, down, around corners before entering rooms. I was literally scared of my own shadow.

I tried to be rational. Batfucker wasn’t lying in wait for me. He wasn’t trying to sneak up behind me. He wasn’t flying around the house during the day. He might even have been gone.

Except he wasn’t.

I had gone to tap, even though I was so exhausted, both mentally and physically, that I had no idea how I was going to make it through class.  I got home just before dusk, trying to psych myself up to behave like a normal human in my own home. I was pissed that I didn’t have a certain resolution. My home is my haven, my favorite place to be, so to be scared of being there was crushing.  I took a shower (with the tennis racquet sitting by the tub). I got some dinner ready (with the tennis racquet sitting on the kitchen table). Dinner was in the microwave and I was taking a glass of water into the living room when Batfucker swooped into the room.  I am sure this will come as a tremendous shock when I tell you that I freaked the fuck out. However, I did try to keep my head screwed on in the midst of the freak out, and I ran for the front door, shouting at the bat what the plan was: open door wide, go away.

I stood, shaking, on my front porch, when I realized the gravity of the situation: I had gotten separated from both my tennis racquet (kitchen table) and my phone (living room couch). I was completely unarmed, and I couldn’t call for help.  But surely it wouldn’t be long before Batfucker would take advantage of the lovely egress I had provided, right?

Ha.

The Dumbest Bat Ever had infiltrated my house. I sat on my porch swing for half an hour watching through the window, as it flew laps around living room, totally missing the WIDE OPEN DOOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM. Surely Animal Control would be able to get it, if only I could call them.

And then he disappeared. Crap. Now my fear became what if Animal Control came and he had gone into hiding again. I crept to the door. I peered inside. I saw nothing. I dashed in, grabbed my phone, and ran back to the porch. I waited a few minutes in hopes that he would return to his circles around the front room. Nothing. No bat. Grr.

I called Animal Control. I explained the situation. They said they would send a team. I sat back on the porch swing. Moments later, an apparent miracle happened: the dumb bastard found the door, and flew out into the night. Batradication complete.

I ran inside and slammed the door behind me. I called Animal Control and said never mind, thanks anyway. I told myself over and over again that there had only been one, it was gone, and there was no reason to be shaking like a leaf, or scared of the dark, or still clutching my tennis racquet (which I had retrieved from the kitchen). Logically I knew it was over, but the heeby jeebies weren’t so quick to relinquish their grip.

I have had three bats during my 3.5 years in the house (y’all didn’t hear about the first one, it wasn’t much of a story, although it’s on the list of reasons why Mourtney is such a great friend).  So now I will pay a Large Chunk of Money to have my house professionally bat-proofed. And it will be worth every penny. And it better work, goddammit. (They guarantee it will, so there’s that.)

As I write this, 24-ish hours have passed, and I am about 98% back to normal. Normal, of course, means sleeping with a tennis racquet next to my bed.

Things I have learned/observed/gleaned this week:

  • I am not a shrieker. You know how Carrie Bradshaw screams all the freakin’ time, usually over nothing? That’s not me. I’m a yeller. When I saw the bat fly into my bedroom, I did not scream. I shouted, “MOTHERFUCKER!” (Of course I did.)
  • If you live in the city and you have a live (wild) animal in your home, Animal Control will send someone any time of the day or night. They’re staffed from 6 a.m. to midnight, but someone is on call those remaining six hours. I had no idea. I hope I never need to call again.
  • There is nothing on tv at 4 in the morning. (Just kidding, I already knew that.)
  • You can have your house professionally bat-proofed (thank fucking god).
  • My friend Leonard is a wealth of information about bat resources.
  • Bats are assholes. (I already knew that, too.)

Please, for the love of god, let this be my last post ever about bats.

 

Note: If you ever have a middle-of-the-night trauma and need someone to talk to, you can call me. I won’t come help you remove a bat, but I will offer moral support over the phone like nobody’s business.

Under the Influence – #3

These are lame post titles, I know that, but I figure I should make them easily identifiable and consistent at this point. I promise when I’m done there will be one called ”Butter Wrestling”. And if you don’t know what’s going on here, read this and this and this.

Moving on to song #3….

I’m Free – The Soup Dragons

This was a difficult decision for me to include on the program, because I was worried about how it would come across. Wait. I’m getting ahead of myself.

Firstly, this is a cover of a Rolling Stones song. I had no idea until a few weeks before recording the program, while discussing my song choices with a friend and he mentioned it. I promptly looked it up on YouTube, and did not care for it at all (which surprised me exactly zero %). The Soup Dragons’ version I love lots. I think my college roommate Charles (who no longer speaks to me, but that’s a story for a different day) introduced me to it back in the early 90s. It’s fun and funky and makes me want to chair dance (which I’m doing right this second, as I’m listening to it – Ruby is giving me her ‘’What the fuck are you doing?’’ look).

So one day a few years ago I was in a store, possibly in the mall, which is odd because I hate the mall, and I heard I’m Free being played on the store’s soundtrack, which was also odd, because it wasn’t 1994. It made me happy and I probably started bouncing my head or store dancing or something, and then something with the words just clicked:

I’m free to do whatever I want any old time.

That’s deep, man.

I had just split from my husband, and the song was like a revelation: I’m no longer accountable to anyone. And here we can circle back to why I was hesitant to use this song for the program. I didn’t want it to sound like I was at all restricted when I was married, or like it was a controlling relationship, or in any way reflect negatively on my ex-husband. Honestly, it had nothing to do with him – it was about me. I grew up, went to college, had roommates, a live-in boyfriend, a husband – I had never lived by myself or been completely on my own before.

I’m free to do whatever I want any old time.

When I got divorced, it was a delayed coming-of-age time for me. I think most people go through this when they’re younger, but I’ve always been somewhat of a late bloomer.  I lived with my dad when we first separated, but eventually I was able to move into my own home and it was fucking awesome. (Couldn’t say that on the radio.)  And to be clear, these aren’t crazy things I’m celebrating that I can do now. It’s things like I stopped making my bed every day. When I was married, I got up later than he did, and I made the bed every day. Not because he made me, but because when you’re in a relationship like that, you’re considerate of the other person (hopefully). But I’m kind of lazy and I don’t really care if the bed is made, so I still do it sometimes, but it’s not longer ‘’required’’. I fall asleep with the TV on. I leave dishes in the sink overnight.  I let the dog sleep on the bed. BECAUSE I CAN! Did I do some dumb things? Maybe. Did it matter? NO!

After having that light bulb moment in the store, I went home and made a playlist anchored by the Soup Dragons, built upon that ‘’footloose and fancy free’’ theme. It was called Phase 2. Phase 1 had been a playlist of angry songs. It was good to move on.

I’m free to do whatever I want any old time.

Under the Influence – part deux

OMG, I just listened to it! It was soooooo much fun!!!!!!!!! I’m high on radio right now! Thank you to my friends near and far who listened – it was a blast hearing from you.

(later)

What the hell is she talking about?

As mentioned previously, I recently had the opportunity to be a guest on a local radio program, Under the Influence, to talk about five songs that have left their mark on me in some fashion. There’s no podcast available at this time so you don’t get the fun banter here, but I did promise to share a recap.

It was tricky, picking the songs. I love music. (That seems like a really stupid, obvious thing to say –  I mean, doesn’t everybody? Except I’m not actually sure everybody does; I’m always sort of surprised when I discover that not everyone listens to music all day long. Talk radio? Pass. Books on tape/cd/other? Never listened to one. Silence? What’s that? Music. Music in the car, in the office, at night to fall asleep. Music always. Oops. I just digressed all over the place.) I have about 5000 songs in my iTunes library, so limiting myself was a bit difficult. The flip side being, a lot of my very favorite tunes don’t have any particular significance to me – I just like them. You can’t really spend an hour talking about, ‘Yeah, that song sounds cool. I like piano.’ Or I can’t, anyway. Plus, my memory is abysmal. My parents have two daughters. One of them remembers every detail about every thing that has ever happened, ever. The other one is me. So remembering something that moved me twenty or thirty (or forty) years ago proved to be a big challenge.

And, of course, there was self-imposed public pressure – this was for a radio show. Did I really want to subject people to listen to things like a marching band or a Broadway show tune? (Um….apparently!!  🙂 ) But yeah, I want you to think I’m cool, so I had to consider that factor also. Although as I said before, there also were no wrong answers, so I tried not to get too hung up.

We’ll talk later about some that almost made the cut, but now let’s get on with it!

Song 1:  Free to be you and me – The New Seekers
A looooooooong time ago, back in the early 1970s, Marlo Thomas pulled together a groovy project called Free To Be You And Me. It is a compilation of songs and poems and stories gathered in a book and recorded on a record (a RECORD!) and there was a TV program as well but I only remember the book & the record, which lived in our house. And according to the foreword, a book was Marlo Thomas’ original objective; the rest was gravy. She wanted a book to read to her niece that didn’t tell her what she should be, but rather, “a book of stories and poems and songs that would help boys and girls feel free to be who they are and who they want to be.”  There’s one about a boy who wants a doll. And one about not judging a book by its cover. And one about how the moms in commercials on tv look happy when they’re cleaning because they’re in a commercial, and NO ONE likes cleaning (except my friend Heather and she is CUCKOO) and so everyone should pitch in and help out.

And I have these super cool, liberal parents who also wanted that for their kids. I grew up thinking I could be or do anything, and it’s not just because of Free To Be You And Me, but I can remember sitting with my sister on the floor in our brightly colored basement listening to the record and reading along in the book over and over again. Hey, here’s my book!

 
My book!

 

I had kind of forgotten about all of this and then Marlo Thomas came to speak at Tapestry and I was planning on attending, and I thought how cool it would be if I could have my old book signed….if only I knew where it was. We had a house fire when I was growing up. And then in early adulthood I was storing a bunch of stuff in my mom’s basphoto 2ement and we had a flood. So I wasn’t even 100% sure I still had the book. But lo and behold, I did, on a bookshelf with some other surviving remnants of my childhood. (I’m pretty sure my sister has the record.) Anyway, finding my book and getting it signed put it all back on my radar. It’s available on CD now, so I bought a copy for myself and another one to send to a friend’s kids so I know another generation will learn to love it.

I didn’t realize at the time that not everybody growing up in Indiana was listening to this. Not everyone had hippie parents who raised them to be open-minded, idealistic, and full of GIRL POWER. I’m so thankful that mine did. And Free To Be You And Me is part of the solid foundation that made me the optimistic, idealistic, independent, badass chick I am.

Here, for your listening pleasure: Free To Be You & Me. I’ll be singing along at my end.

 

So, I was reading a really, really long blog post over the weekend and maybe I have a short attention span, but I lost interest and started skimming. To cater to my fellow OOH, SHINY! Syndromers, we’re going to split this up. Telling four more stories like that all in one post just seems too long. So that’s all you get for tonight.  See you back here soon  for song 2! 🙂

Under the Influence – part 1

Hey guys and gals! Have you (those of you who don’t know me) ever wondered what my voice sounds like? (Somehow I doubt it, and if you have, I might think you’re a little creepy.) Regardless, here’s your chance! I’m going to be on the radio. What??

Northeast Indiana Public Radio has this cool program called Under the Influence. Every week they invite “regular people” into the studio to discuss five songs that have had an impact on their lives.  And I am the regular person of the week!

I was charged with identifying five songs that have had an impact on my life, songs that have affected me to do something big or small, and songs that have shaped me into the person I am today.

Gah! Pressure!

Fortunately they never used the word ’’favorite’’ because that would have sent me into a full-blown panic. I’m not good at picking favorites. But songs that have helped me through a rough time or bring back special memories or help me fire up for something? Sure, I can come up with that list. Limiting to five was tricky, but I’m pretty sure there are no wrong answers (although I fully expect some of you to critique me).

I will share the songs and the stories behind them, but not until after the
program airs on Thursday, because duh, you should listen to it, and they stream it online so don’t give me grief about not being in the listening area. 😉  And we recorded it a few weeks ago, so you can’t call in to heckle me, sorry Charlie!

Thank you to my friend Samantha for referring me to Sarah & Rob, the hosts – it was definitely a fun experience, other than the anxiety about picking great songs and being prepared to talk for an hour. And worrying what I sound like on the radio, and whether or not I talk too fast or slur my words too much. Although once you put on those headphones, it does kind of bring out one’s inner public radio voice. 🙂  I think. I guess we’ll find out on Thursday!

Tune in: Thursday, April 4, 9:00 pm. www.nipr.fm.

♪♫♫♪♪♪♫♫  ♫♫♪♪♪♫  ♪♫♫♪♪♪♫♫  ♫♫♪♪♪♫  ♪♫♫♪♪♪♫♫  ♫♫♪♪♪♫

My shirt. Is black.

Due to my work-from-home pajama lifestyle, I haven’t done much shopping the last few years. I have a pretty solid collection of t-shirts and hoodies and yoga pants and, for dressing up, jeans and hoodie sweaters. So before our recent trip to Chicago, I decided I needed some actual clothes – something that you might not just decide to sleep in because you have it on an it’s comfy.  So I went shopping.

I tried on a heap of things, including a blouse/top/shirt thing that was a little more money than  I would normally spend on something like that, but it looked like my ideal shirt: cute, comfortable, sleeveless for easy wearing with layers or alone in warm weather, and black – goes with everything. I tried it on. It was perfect. Totally worth the more money than I would usually spend.  For a moment I stared at it intently in the bright dressing room lights. Was it actually dark, dark blue? Nope, I compared it to my (black) coat, my (black) tshirt – it was black. Woo hoo! Took it home and it went perfectly with everything I hoped to wear it with.

I took it with me to Chicago. Perfect for getting a little dressed up for the theater. Our hotel room had weirdly bright lights. Goddammit. Is it navy blue? I can’t believe it. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT.

“What color is this shirt?” I asked Klondike.

“Blue.” No hesitation.

GODDAMMIT!

I refuse to accept this.  The above incident never happened. My shirt is black. I am going to wear it as if it is black. You probably won’t be able to tell. It was so dim in the restaurant where we had dinner that night that I bet most of the other people at the table couldn’t even tell I was wearing ANY shirt, let alone what color it was. My shirt is black. If you ever see me wearing it and you think it might be blue, you are wrong. WRONG, I say.  And I dare you to say otherwise.

My shirt. Is black.

What’s on tap?

Until yesterday, I had never taken a dance lesson ever my life, unless you count things like when you’re forced to square dance in gym class in grade school.

Oh my god, that is a total lie. Before we were married, my ex-husband (of course, he was my fiancé then – I really get tripped up on terminology talking about someone whose status has changed) and I took ballroom dance lessons for about a year. I can do approximately two steps in each of the following: waltz, fox trot, cha cha, rumba, samba and polka. I can do maybe six swing steps – enough to show off at weddings. I can’t believe I forgot about that.

Let me try this again. I never took dance lessons as a kid. I’m not necessarily what you would call coordinated, or full of rhythm. And it wasn’t anything I had a burning desire to do.  I tried (and quickly abandoned) gymnastics, took lessons and played lots of tennis, went to photography and journalism summer programs, but don’t ever recall asking for dance lessons. (You’re welcome, Mom.)

As an adult, I have developed a fascination with tap. I just think it’s super cool. How can you not love the click click click?  So when Sunshine emailed some of the girls and asked who might be interested in exploring tap lessons, I was STOKED. Me, me, pick me, I’ll do it!!!!! I don’t even know what sparked the idea for her, but I’m so glad it was tap she wanted to try and not….anything else.  A crew of 5 brave souls was assembled. We purchased shoes. (I AM GOING TO WEAR THEM EVERYWHERE!!!!) And last night, we had our first class with Miss Anna.  (I’m not 100% positive her name is Anna. Let’s just say it is….nope, it’s Donna. Sorry Miss Donna!)

I was stupidly excited as I cruised across town to the school where our class is. How often do you get to do something new and goofy and fun, with a gang of cool peeps? Not often enough, in my world.

It was such a hoot; I had a total ball, and I can’t wait till next week’s class. As soon as I got home I put my shoes back on so I could bop around the house practicing what we’d learned. And fucking it up horribly. 😉  I’m really good at pretending I know how to tap, though. Just ask Ruby. I can make a lot of clatter with my tap shoes. I’m pretty sure that’s a sign I’m going to be awesome. Plus, tap dancers often look kind of stiff and awkward in their upper body, and I already have that part down pat. I’m totally a natural. 😛  In fact, I’m so good at holding my upper body still – some might say clenched – that my neck and shoulders were totally stiff and sore. I think it was from concentrating so. dang. hard. on what my feet were doing.

Anyway, this is my new adventure. I’ll keep you posted on when and where we’ll be making our big performance debut – bwahah!

Jon, one of the troupe members (yes, we’re a troupe goddammit!), sent me this video. I’m pretty sure this is where I’m headed. Ruby is a little more dubious.

 

(Can you believe how patient that dog must’ve been to learn that????)

Tap on, my friends!

Things that annoy the crap out of me

  • People who slow down wayyyyyy too much for speed bumps. (As in, almost to a standstill.)
  • The french fries at Steak n’ Shake
  • Nicki Minaj
  • Raspberry seeds. Also, when I get obsessed trying to dislodge a raspberry seed, and I keep trying even when it’s long gone.
  • When I forget that my bra has a teeny, tiny hole in it that allows the underwire to stab me.
  • Anytime someone on a reality TV show references his/her “journey”. Unless it’s The Amazing Race, where they are, in fact, “traveling from one place to another, usually taking a rather long time,” as in the actual definition of the word. Not when they are idiots going on fake dates or quasi-famous people learning to dance.
  • When I don’t throw away the bra with the teeny, tiny hole in it, putting it away to wear again someday.
  • People who treat Facebook like Twitter
  • Twitter
  • When autocorrect changes an ACTUAL WORD to another, no more superior, actual word. (Examples: gave/have, toes/ties, dog/dig)
  • That the laces on that one pair of cute black shoes won’t stay tied. It’s actually just the right shoe. WHY won’t it stay tied??
  • People who talk excessively about gluten.
  • People who are late for yoga on a regular basis.
  • My stupid flipper-shaped size 10.5 feet.
  • The fact that women’s shoes run in half sizes until you get to size 10, at which point they only come in whole sizes.
  • Nicki Minaj. I know. I already said that. But seriously.
  • That some passwords have to be no more than 8 characters long and some have to be at least 13 and some have to have special characters and some canNOT have special characters. How on earth are we supposed to remember which is which is which?
  • When people don’t turn on the turn signal until they’re already turning. It’s so I know you’re going to turn, not that you already are turning – I have eyes.
  • People who invade my space bubble.
  • People who say “wah lah” when they mean “voila”.
  • Couples who share a Facebook profile. Or an email address. Um, hi. Codependent much? THEY’RE FREE. Get your own, you lazy bastard. You’re married, not conjoined.

This list is by no means exhaustive. I’m confident I’ll think of five more things as soon as I hit “publish”. 😀   And I promise I’m not really a cranky bitch; I just needed to share.  (Plus, Nicki Minaj is dreadful and like nails on a chalkboard.)  What’s’ on YOUR list?