Hi friends. Do you like to dance? I sure do. A few years back I decided I liked dancing so much that I was going to make an attempt to learn how to do it properly. Since I didn’t really have the funds back then to afford taking an actual dance class, I opted instead to rent an instructional video from my local public library. With all the different types of dance in the world, I struggled in making a decision about what was to be my niche on the dance floor. Did I have the grace to do ballroom? The endurance to give tap a go? Enough appreciation for jazz to try jazz? I was unsure of all of these things. All I knew was that the style of dance I had become accustomed to (boozy interpretive) was not working for me anymore, and a change needed to be made. 

And then, I stumbled across this:

That’s right. Christy Lane’s Learn The Dances Of The 80’s.
It was like heaven for me, and she was Jesus in a jean vest. Once I accepted her into my life, she graciously guiding me how to forgive my stiff joints, save myself from rug burn and make a running man out of a nearly immobile woman. Clarity had been reached, or at least it had been rented for three short weeks.

In an effort to get my hands back on this piece of VHS mecca permanently, I recently started doing some research on Miss Christy Lane. During this process, I found out that she is not, as I had thought, an 80’s dance purist; but rather has her toes dipped in several styles of bodily expression. It is here that I’d like to share with you a few of my findings, as well as an opinion or two.

First off, we have :

Christy Lane’s Learn The Dances Of The 50’s And 60’s. Simple enough. I’m not really sure what that miniature version of her is doing in the upper left corner, but whatever. She’s happy and he’s got his pants rolled. Worse marketing mistakes have surely been made.

It’s here where things start getting a little weird:

Christy Lane’s Surviving The Country Dance Floor. From the looks of this I’d think that all I’d need to survive on a country dance floor is a big hat and a little bit of sodomy. Both of which I’d be perfectly willing to invite into my life if it meant survival, unfortunately we all know that more is required on a country dance floor. Unless that dude is Christy’s cousin. If that’s the case, then yes, all bases are covered.

And here we have what I’d like to call a mid-life crisis:
 

Christy Lane’s Funky Freestyle. It may as well have been called Christy Lane’s Cherry Red Convertible And Oral Sex With A Married Co-Worker Whose Wife Doesn’t Appreciate The Fact That The Reason He’s At Work All The Time Is To Secure Their Children’s Future - And For The Record SHE Was The One Who Wanted To Have Kids So Soon In The First Place (He Wanted To Travel For Awhile). Although I suppose they’d have trouble fitting all that on the cover.
 
And then there’s this:

Christy Lane’s African & Caribbean Dancing. I don’t get it. That’s not even her on the cover. Is she even in the video? I can’t imagine she’d put her name on a product and allow someone else to do all the artwork. That’s not her style. Perhaps she couldn’t find a sweet belt to match her traditional African garb. Or perhaps her advertising executive came to work sober one day.

The thing about sobriety is that it rarely sticks:

Christy Lane’s Complete Guide to Line Dancing. I’ve apparently been watching incomplete line dancing routines, as I’ve never seen anyone go spread eagle in unison with others to the tune of Achy Breaky Heart. I know, I don’t understand why she’s not more popular either.

ring ring ring…

“Hello?”

“Hi Amanda!”

“Hi Mom. What’s up?”

“Oh, not too much. Say, I had a brain fart today, and realized that you don’t have any brown shoes. I’d like to get you a pair.”

“Oh, that’s nice Mom. Although you know that that’s not exactly the definition of a brain fart?”

“Oh right. Well maybe I sharted then.”

I admit, it’s kinda creepy that she knew I didn’t own a pair of brown shoes. The time spent thinking about that surely could’ve gone towards something more productive. And, in true form, she did go on to buy me like 4 pair of brown shoes- all of which were used – one of which wasn’t even my size – none of which I’m probably ever going to wear. If you can get past all that though, based on this conversation alone, you can see that my mom is pretty much the shit. Or the shart. Depending on who you’re talking to.

The other day I was picking up around my apartment and I found an old notebook. This wasn’t any ordinary notebook though, this was a notebook with a purpose. For you see, this was a notebook I had entitled “My Fitness Journal”. I vaguely remember hearing somewhere that if one wanted to get in better shape, it was helpful to keep a diary of daily dietary and exercise routines. Progress is much more easily assessed when it stares back at you from a piece of paper, and thus a journal becomes a motivator. The struggle for a less-sightly muffin top bound together by spiral wiring. Apparently at some point I followed this advice, and it is now the time that I’d like to invite you into the analog of my previous attempt at fitness.

The first page is pretty good. I documented my breakfast, lunch and dinner; as well as the workout I had done for the day. I also wrote about my daily fluid intake, and even wrote an inspirational quote on the inside of “My Fitness Journal” cover flap. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.” Good stuff. Chubby and cheesy. Lifetime movies have been made with less of a plotline.

Unfortunately for me, it seems as though on my thousand mile journey I took one step, passed out from heat exhaustion and woke up with a different expedition in mind. Page two of “My Fitness Journal” includes some doodles at the top of the page and a list of names I wanted to call my future dog at the bottom. One of which is Esther. Not too sure where that came from. The rest of the notebook entails what appear to be drawings from a rousing game of pictionary and a particularly articulate page with the sentence “I love sun glasses and balls on my face” scrawled across it. Classy, yes, but in no way helpful for cutting caloric intake.

Even though it got diluted through a combination of ADHD and a deep love for pictionary, I was still pretty impressed to see that an attempt had been made at the documentation of goals. I usually only go so far as to think about doing things like that, and it was nice to see that action had actually been taken – even though it was short lived. Who knows, maybe I’ll take another crack at tending to a goal journal. Re-living this experience taught me that some limits are clear while others are a bit hazy and therefore deserve further exploration – sometimes in the form of brushing up on state laws and other times in the form of keeping a progress log. Will I ever be Oprah’s personal trainer? No. Will I ever again have balls on my face? Based on this…well…it’ll probably be awhile, but at least there’s a window.

Reach for the stars people. And then wash your hands.

When I was in the eighth grade, I was science partners with a girl named Lori. Unfortunately for Lori, she had somewhat of a male likeness, and therefore several people in our grade called her Larry. I felt a sort of solidarity with Lori, because when I was in the fourth grade my mom took me to a hair salon and instructed the stylist to give me a haircut similar to her’s – short cropped to the ears and fluffy on top. It looked good on my mom as a middle aged woman, but on me - a pre-pubescent girl with undefined features and a penchant for wearing button-down tops – it made me look a bit…uhhhh…mannish. I spent about 8 months of my life dealing with remarks like “and what would you like to order young man?” and “hey, how come your swim suit has a top?!”

At any rate, I was getting fed up with people calling Lori by the name of Larry. My disapproval with it all came to an apex when, during class, a boy named Matt called her Larry and I rebutted in the form of calling him Mathilda. I wanted him to feel the same embarrassment and Lori did in the same situation, and perhaps learn to feel some empathy for her. As most of my attempts at this go, my retribution was unsuccessful. Matt just gave me a weird look, the middle finger and walked away. My disappointment was compounded when, as I learned through future experiences, Lori seemingly liked being called Larry and would in-fact encourage people to call her as such. I think she thought it was funny. My personal experiences with the issue did not allow me to agree with her.

This story does have somewhat of a happy ending though. I learned some time ago that Lori grew her hair out a little, got smaller framed glasses and wound up getting married. I think she may even have a kid. I only hope that she wound up naming it something gender-ambiguous. As for Matt, I haven’t seen him for about 10 years but I can say with confidence that due to his middle school mullet and general air of dirtiness he is presently living with gingivitis and at least a mild drinking problem. We’re probably soul mates. Dammit.

My mom loves to shop at thrift stores, which is a trait that happens to have been passed down to me. Something else that has been passed my way thanks to one of her recent outings is a HUGE book of the complete works of Shakespeare. This thing is seriously over 1500 pages long, and large enough to create a makeshift solar eclipse. I already have a book of Shakespeare’s complete works, but didn’t have the heart to tell my mom, and so now I have two. As for what I’m going to do with this new one, I have a couple of options in mind.

1.) Figure out how to use it as a defense mechanism.

OR

 2.) Purchase a housecoat, a home perm and a cd of someone playing the fife; put all my purchases into effect; and lock myself in my bedroom immersed in shakespeare and the regret of not locking myself near proper plumbing. If this option is the one I go with, people may try to intervene. If that should happen, I will protest and repeatedly say words like ’tis and hither. Ultimately I will surrender when the people running the intervention point out that the book, which will be on my lap, is cutting off the circulation to my legs due to it’s weight. I’ll realize how goofy I would look in a housecoat if I didn’t have any legs, and will promptly throw up my arms in abandon and sigh heavily. The group will heave my book out a window and crush a firetruck that will be parked by the curb. I will be reduced to a woman with a home perm, a fife cd, and the lost life of a dalmation on her conscience. Later, I’ll find comfort upon realizing that I still have one party pizza left in my freezer – which I will have newfound access to. I will offer my pizza to the intervention group, and then eat all of it by myself while they sit in my livingroom. I might not even bake it first.

If you can think of any other options for me I’d be pleased to hear them. In the meantime I’ll just assume you’re going to push for option #2 and get a headstart by calling the firestation. It’s probably best they’re over here anyways.

Right now I am at the laundromat. Two chicks just started rifling through my clothes that are in the dryer because, in the words of one of them: “Someone stole our shit.” She then swore to God, put my underwear back in the dryer and went back to folding her own laundry. This is part of the reason why I love going to the laundromat, and also part of the reason why I fear it. I love watching random people interact over dirty laundry, but I must say it was a bit frightening being in a starring role – at least non-voluntarily. Had the two of them not let up so easy about their “stolen” goods not being in my dryer things could have gotten heated. Voices could’ve risen and detergent could’ve been used as a sad but effective weapon. I would probably have wound up getting aggressive in front of my delicates, and they don’t need to ever see that. They have enough to deal with as it is. Emotionally AND physically.

mostly emotionally.

Another reason I’m glad that they backed off is because our battle would’ve been stacked in their favor. It would’ve been just me against the two of them, and I am wearing slippers. One of them has a neck tattoo, and I’m pretty sure that means she was born with a pair of brass knuckles. Some would say that my gold tooth cancels out her neck tattoo, but even after that equation is calculated into our grudge match I’m fairly certain I hit like Estelle Getty on an empty stomach. I’m comfortable with that as long as it stays in the realms of speculation.

Ah, who am I kidding? It is common knowledge that if these ladies had continued to go through my stuff, my reaction most likely would’ve been to run away screaming, only pausing in order to turn around and throw my purse at them. And probably my car keys. I am a lover, not a fighter; and that is a good thing considering the thin line I already walk between having a good time and getting deported. Adios.

Hello friends. In the past two days I have been witness to two of the most depressing things I think I have ever seen in my life. They’ve both been eating at me, and I figured it may be best to work out my feelings by writing a bit about the experiences.

The first one happened yesterday. I was at goodwill shopping for new pants, because when I buy new pants, I like them to have been gently-used by strangers first. I was waiting in the checkout line when I looked over to the other register where a woman was emptying her cart. It was only meant to be a glance. Short and sweet. Not creepy. Just basic. Things quickly took a left turn and my eyes were glued to her when she plopped onto the counter two ginormous bags of maxi pads. It didn’t help that the bags were hot pink. I only hope that they weren’t used. Because, unlike pants, there is no way that one could “gently” use a maxi pad. Girls, youknowwhati’mtalkinbout. 

At any rate, I’m pretty sure there’s a name for the act of buying sanitary napkins at a thrift store. It’s called rock bottom.

The other situation of peril I stumbled into happened today at a gas station. I was buying bottled water and cigarettes (balanced lunch), when the two checkout clerks started up a conversation. It went as follows:

Clerk #1: So I was thinking about your trailer idea.

     Clerk #2: My trailer idea?

Clerk #1: Yeah, me and my husband are gonna sell our house and buy a trailer.

          Me (in thought): NOOOOOOOOOOO!

White trash of the world (in jubilant unison): YESSSSSSSSSS!

-end scene-

Clerk #1’s title has now been demoted. The coveted #1 spot cannot be bestowed upon someone who owns the deed to a double-wide. I’m sorry. I’ve been in several trailers before and most of them were actually quite nice. Unfortunately, I also used to work at a liquor store that was located in-between two trailer parks. I’ve seen the dark side, and I’ll have you know that it comes equipped with gingivitis and the phrase “No, you don’t have to put that beer in a bag. I’m gonna drink it during my drive home. Hiccup.”

And no, the trailers that I’ve been in are not related to the trailers that surrounded my place of employment. Well…except for one. Which is a story that I’d rather not talk about too much. I will tell you that it involved a very angry woman I worked with and her brother whose name was Lanny. At one point Lanny stated that the song “We’ve got tonight” by Bob Seger reminded him of his mother. That alone should give you enough insight as to how awesome my night wound up being.  

Anyways, I’m not really sure what the clerk formerly known as #1’s new title will be. Clerk#911? Clerk#40oz? Clerk#6969nascar? Who am I fooling? She’ll probably just be known as my neighbor soon enough. Karma is a big ol’ beotch, and I’m pretty sure that making fun of others is considered a bad thing. So, in closing, if you ever see me out purchasing maxi pads at a thrift store, expect an invitation to a “house” warming party to soon follow.

Hi everybody. Right now it is about 3 in the morning. I have a real-life dog at my feet, my favorite sweatpants on my person and season two of the office on the television. All of these factors compel me to ask the question:

Is this heaven?

Ah, right. Thanks Kevin. Sweet tuxedo by the way. And nice work actually getting an opportunity to wear a tux once in your life post-Waterworld. I’ve never had a reality check delivered to me so fancily. Well…except for that one time at the policeman’s ball.

At any rate, it is officially Easter. I am in my sister’s basement (or so I’ve been told) along with my mom who is snoring on the couch. Our roles will most likely be reversed tomorrow morning during the brunch I’m expected to be awake for. It’s all good though. At least I won’t be sleeping off a hangover (Paaa-raise the Loooooord!).

Whatever happens to me after sunrise, I just wanted to take a quick minute to wish you and yours a happy Easter. At the very least I wish you lots and lots of free ham. And if you make it a point to not involve either Easter OR ham in your life, I’ll do my best to make this blog up to you. Unfortunately most of my attempts at reconciliation usually involve dry humping. Jesus has risen. And so has my libido.

Keep it real, Jellybeans.