Fred and Ginger

In case you haven't heard, Hubs gave me a bunch of ballroom dance lessons for Christmas. This is something I was delighted over, as I have wanted to learn how to REALLY dance for, well, for ever really.

Until I learned that our fab package included "practice dances."

Oh goody.

I immediately had post traumatic flashbacks to high school dances. So not a time I want to relive. I would rather forget high school ever existed, in fact. definitely NOT the glory days, for me. Being a painfully shy , incredibly awkward kid just smart enough to realize how geeky she was, was so not the high point of life. In fact a few decades and several cross country moves later, the wisdom of experience lets me know I probably over-estimated how horrible it was. Time heals, blah, blah. Mostly. Somewhat.

So can you blame me for thinking up excuses to the first several "practice" parties? I mean I didn't go to my own prom, why on earth would I want to start now?

Yeah, I know what you are thinking...then why take dance lessons? See, I am the type of person who wants to be elegant and graceful but in reality is the type who can break a leg standing still in a parking lot. Yeah, the one who clearly was standing in the popcorn line when God passed out grace. But, I figured, once I mastered the basics, IF I master the basics, I would love to be able to dance...someday. You now, the day that comes right after the 12th of probably never. But it is fun and good exercise so I was perfectly happy in PRIVATE lessons.

The dance was so far beyond my comfort level there isn't even a scale that high. Get all dressed up in formal attire and then learn a dance with a whole group of strangers, all of whom clearly have been dancing for years. Plus due to Hubs never being on time for anything, arrive late and miss the first set of instructions. Oh, and be pushed into the advanced group since the beginner class was full. Nope, no room for disaster here. Being spread-eagled on a delivery table naked with your junk wide open for a room full of medical students to watch another guy reach into your pelvis up to his elbow was less embarrassing. At least having a baby doesn't require heels that cripple you. Plus you can usually score drugs.

Much like high school, at least for us geeks, a "practice party" must be done sober.

After suffering through most of the lesson I finally quit since there was as much chance of mastering the Viennese waltz in 30 minutes as there was of my playing professional football. As a linebacker. So I quietly ducked out and wished for Scotty to please beam me up!

Alas, once the lesson portion was over they opened up the floor to actual dancing. Almost immediately Hubs was snagged by some lady and off they whirled. Fred, unlike me, does not suffer from performance anxiety. He is perfectly at home in situations like this. Of course the only thing worse than getting asked to dance is NOT getting asked, so as I was weighing the odds of stepping out and spending the rest of the night doing something very mature like hiding in the car, my instructor Isaac stepped up and asked me to dance. I politely declined and explained with a grin that my instructor hadn't shown me this dance yet. To which he grinned and held out his hand. "Right, that's what I'm going to do." Oh crap! My "I don't know this dance" excuse wouldn't work on my instructor! Now what to do???

While I was wondering whether to fake appendicitis or actually break a leg, I forgot to panic and as usual he was so calm and easy going, that before I knew it he had me doing the Cha-cha. Sort of.

Despite one utterly humiliating dance with the visiting instructor when he begged me to quit trying and just walk backward, the night ended on a mostly positive note. I only had two smashed toes, and my pride had only been battered to a pulp, probably not a terminal injury, so all in all, I can't wait to do it again.

When you know where freezes, that is!

Tinsel Town Packing

The last of the Christmas decorations are down in the house and everything is shoved into, I mean packed up into, closets once again.

Of course our super obnoxiously bright and musical lights are still going strong. Yeah, we are those people. Like you didn't know that already, right?

Anyway, as much as I enjoy getting all the glitter and decorations up there is something very satisfying about putting it away as well. Probably because it is the only project that actually gets completely done at our house. Usually most things get sort of done, or done with what my grandma used to call a "lick and a prayer." Which near as I can figure means you do a pathetic job and pray nobody notices, or at least hope they pretend like they don't.

Christmas de-decorating is like pregnancy. It either is Christmas or it isn't. It is a finite job. Unlike laundry which reproduces aerobically thereby insuring that if there is oxygen available dirty clothes are reproducing faster than viruses on a dirty sink. You NEVER do all the laundry. It is impossible. I know. I tried. The kids still talk about the time they weren't allowed to get out of the tub for 5 hours just so I could say there was NO dirty laundry. Anywhere. Same goes for dishes. There is always a cup or spoon lurking around just waiting for the wash cycle to be more than 1/2 done to pop out and sneer at you. Dusting is so pointless I don't even attempt to keep up. We just double up on Claritin in this house.

Right. Now that I have literally and figuratively aired the dirty laundry I can get to the point. While I enjoy the return of "normal" as much as the next person I always hate when people yank down everything 16 minutes after unwrapping the presents. Heathens get a free pass since they may not know about Epiphany or why you are supposed to leave everything up until Jan 6th.

But people start putting stuff up mid-October so no wonder they get sick of it. In our fast paced life everything is hurry, hurry, do-ahead. Retail stores live in terror that we might not over spend on junk we don't need and thus they seldom wait til one holiday is over before attempting to separate us from our money for the next one. I wonder what would happen if we all boycotted stores that put up displays more than 1 month ahead?

Next up-my views on world peace, economics, and nutrition. That way when I rule the world you will know what to expect.

Also I will post the address where you can send letters to me once I am committed.

Sugar and Spice

Thanks to the miracle of modern antibiotics the Great Bladder Infection has been fixed. Now that I am back up to speed it is time to start the annual sugar-a-thon known as Christmas Cookie baking. My sister is coming into help (a project of this magnitude requires reinforcements!) but several recipes have to be started ahead of time. Plus there is only one oven thus 3 days and nights are needed to accomplish the whole enchilada.

Pray for us.

Pray that my kitchen appliances that are vintage 1960 can handle the strain.

Pray that I didn't forgot crucial ingredients that require a mad dash to Hades, aka, the grocery store.

Pray that I don't get so fat that I have to turn sideways to get through to the table where all the cookies are lying in stately splendor.

Pray that the kids don't spontaneously combust from sugar overdose.

And most of all pray for all the people who live in places where they can't even begin to imagine a country so rich in blessings that the weight of food literally sags the dining room table.

Twisted Christmas Shopping

I am not one to fight crowds. I am more the research the bargains at home and then dispatch Hubs to fight to the death-er-I mean find-the bargains. This year WalMart pulled a fast one and screwed up the Black Friday thing for me and so while I had planned to be completely done with my shopping, in fact I haven't started yet.

It is now 1 week til Christmas.

Is Kwanzaa later, because at this point I would consider changing holidays if it bought me more time. Anybody know when Festivus is?

OK, we are probably committed to Christmas at this point. Which means I had to get off my lazy butt and get it done. Having exhausted my Amazon-ability; everything else on my list requires shopping in an actual store, I headed out. Oh goody.

God blessed me with, as me call it in nursing, a 12 hour bladder. I can usually do an entire outing without having to brave disgusting public restrooms.

So how funny is it that I have to brave insane last minute shoppers, cranky with cold, and jacked up on holiday sugar, when I have a bladder infection? Me, who seldom, if ever, has to pee in public is now doing more toilet testing than a bored toddler.

Good times.

I had to stop at McDonald's before hitting the mall, and still had to dash off between mens' wear and household items. I had to slip into the john before tackling the boutique begged for by my precocious daughter. WalMart was having its usual super-sized crowds and inadequate checkers and I had to break off twice. Ick. Their bathrooms aren't great in the best of times but extra shoppers and slush is not a pleasant combination. In fact, they were so nasty for a -brief!-minute I considered stocking up on Depends.

Due to the constraints of an angry bladder I only accomplished half my list. Which means I get to go back out and brave the Madness again.

Is it better to wait until my Cipro kicks in, even though it will bring me closer to the big day, and thus escalate the pushy crowds/obnoxiousness factor or take my chances with unknown bathrooms?

To pee or not to pee, that is the question.

Cheer Drama

Part of being a team is learning to deal with people and get along even when you have differences, realizing that sometimes self has to be sacrificed for the greater good of the team. This is a very important lesson and one of the reasons we spend a lot of time and money carting kids to various team activities.

Younger daughter has chosen to spend the majority of her time in competitive cheer leading.

This is not a sport that existed as such way back in the dark ages when I grew up. Back then cheerleaders wore skirts and sweaters and cheered for their school team at assorted ball games. And the skill and the popularity of the girls was clearly delineated by the sport they cheered for. The football cheerleaders ruled the school and basketball cheerleaders were not as cool although they were better than the hockey girls. The poor suckers who cheered for the golf team were generally seen as losers only slightly better than the kids sneaking into science club. Of course now the science geeks own Microsoft and Facebook and are bazillionaires and the golf girls knew something the rest of us didn't grasp. Golf is lame but golfers generally aren't losers. Am I wrong? Would you rather own a house over looking a golf course or a football stadium? But that is another post.

The point is that cheerleaders cheered for other people. It wasn't a stand alone activity. Also they did a few tame stunts but mostly shook pom-poms, jumped around, and yelled.

Things have changed a bit.

No pom-poms for one. Now it is more like synchronized tumbling. It requires nerves of steel, quick reaction time, extreme flexibility, and advanced tumbling. Only very small kids do cartwheels and round-offs. Now by the age of 10 they are all doing back handsprings, most do tucks and quite a few do layouts and fulls. Kids as young as 5 lift each other above their heads and perform gravity defying stunts.

No sweaters either. It is all glitter, skimpy outfits, big hair, and goofy faces.

It is also the most dangerous sport. Worse than hockey, football, and rugby. When you toss someone 20 feet in the air and something goes wrong, bones break, and sometimes kids die or they don't walk again.

Which is why I still don't know why on earth I agreed to this activity. I can't even joke about it because it isn't something you can justify. Either you have a kid in it or you are crazy. It's an all or nothing thing.

Think soccer moms are bad? They don't hold a candle to cheer-moms. Think moms with manicures and nothing to lose. These women will take a stiletto to you if you cross the line, and they won't even break a sweat. They swear to drive the miles and pay the fees in order to watch their kids do crazy dangerous things. They agree to plan all other family events around the competition schedule. This includes weddings and funerals. After all the person is dead, why miss a comp for that? It isn't like they are going anywhere.

So imagine that one mom skips town in the middle of the night and takes off for home with her daughter who happens to be in all the stunts and tumbles in the front row. A crowd of liquored up rednecks in the 30's would have been polite to a minority person compared to the vitriol spewed by angry cheer moms. The only thing standing between them and first degree murder charges was the approaching performance time. NOTHING stops the show. You can barf in a bucket back stage, teeth have been pulled and bones have been set. There is nothing those women can't fix with hairspray, duct tape, and glitter. They just grabbed a sibling, ganged up in a huddle and emerged with a girl ready to fake it with the best of them.

It isn't over, and if the mom who left has a drop of sense she has already left the country and headed for a part of the world that speaks a different language and outlawed glitter. I'm not even exaggerating.

Cheer moms don't forget, they don't forgive, and if she ever shows her face at the gym again she will be choked to death with a sequined bow. Of course it will look like an accident and the mortician won't need to fix her hair, but trust me, nobody accidentally dies by ribbon.

So Long Bailey

Last night we had to take Bailey to the vet. As Hubs was getting him into his carrier I knew it was going to be the the last time I saw him. Of course I hoped I was wrong but even though we didn't cover pets in nursing school I know enough to recognizes the signs and I figured it was the last time I would see him.

I was right.

The vet confirmed that his heart was failing and giving him a quick and easy passing was the last thing we could do for him. Hubs said he was cuddling him and when the vet gave him the Valium to relax him first, that was the end, his heart was just worn out.

Even though he was an elderly cat, up until the last few days I didn't see it coming. Barney is the one who has had one serious crisis after another. Bailey hasn't been sick a day in his life. In fact up until the move Bailey always seemed like a much younger cat than Barney. In hindsight there were some subtle signs that things weren't perfect. A part of me thinks that he was really just holding out until Hubs got home from the desert. He was his cat, you see. So I'm sure Bailey was glad that it was hubs who cuddled him last. I'm sure that made him more comfortable.

I had been praying that he would just slip off in his sleep at home, but sometimes things don't work out the way we want.

This morning at breakfast Barney kept looking around and sniffing the house meowing the whole time. He was looking for his brother I think. It's funny how animals can tell when something is not right.

Whenever Barney would see Bailey laying on my lap he would come right over and chase him off. Yesterday, Bailey was sprawled on my lap and breathing heavily and Barney came up and for the first time ever he just licked him a little and then lay down beside him. I guess maybe he was saying goodbye.

I like to think that St. Francis has a special section of Heaven reserved for beloved pets.

Hubs and I were remembering all the cute things he did, like playing fetch with Q-tips and paper balls. How crazy he would get with catnip and how he would beg for attention and then hiss at people. How he used to chase the dog. How he would stand on two legs and do "Mere-Cat." How his too-long and fluffy tail didn't match his body.

I am so glad he is not suffering but the house is too quiet today and we will miss him very much.

Ho Ho Ho

It's beginning to look like Christmas in the house. The Christmas tree is up and mostly decorated. (That is it is excessively decorated down low and not so much up high, but the kids had fun, so, whatever.) Our house is bedecked in lots of lights that flash and dance enough to incite seizures and they do it in time to Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas music. My decorations have spread out to every available flat surface and any vertical one that would hold a nail.

My sister and I have plotted out the best strategy to accomplish the mountain of cookie baking needed and airline tickets have been bought to bring relatives from afar.

The annual missive is written and awaiting final approval from Scrooge-er-Hubs-who gets censoring privileges.

There is snow on the ground and the lights in the bushes twinkle through the snow at night. YES! Back in the land of White Christmases I am a happy camper.

Of course time is doing its usual disappearing act and minutes are flying by at an alarming rate, but, all in all, peace and goodwill towards man reign supreme.

Now to come up with just ONE surprise for Hubs for Christmas. The man gets crazy this time of year and seems to read minds at will, making it a challenge of epic proportions to actually surprise him on Christmas morning. My best bet is to wait until the last minute and hope he is too busy playing video games with his brother in law to apply his x-ray vision and mind reading abilities. Wish me luck!