Our first morning of “serious” ballet with an actual dress code. 😂 Annie asked if there would be stuffed animals to lay on like her last class.
Our first morning of “serious” ballet with an actual dress code. 😂 Annie asked if there would be stuffed animals to lay on like her last class.
Last night was the girls’ little recital where they show off what they learned. They asked a parent to come up and do a dance with them. Part of the dance includes tap and now I’m desperate to find a class for adults. But of course MY recital had to happen on the same day I texted a friend that I needed a personal shopper. So I was feeling a little…. masculine… amongst all these tutus.
Annie, not kidding, talked the whole time, making comments about everyone. I wanted to get her attention and give her the shhhh sign, but Ryan whispered that he liked how into it she was and if the teacher wanted her to stop she’s say something. Ruthie sat next to her, never making a peep, almost to the point of me wanting to get her attention too. They’re at both extremes.
But can you hear Annie in the video when the teacher says, “Point your toes!” Annie: “I am!!” 😂 let’s just say, we’ve been having our own power struggle in the house too. But that’s for another post… maybe once I survive.
I’m luckily in a position where I can run up to KC and visit family while Ryan goes on business trips. Holding Ruth in my six-month pregnant arms while squatting over a gas station toilet because gawd forbid I take the time to put down toilet paper and then lifting my six month pregnant leg to flush the toilet even though in two seconds I’ll be washing my hands at the sink sometimes makes me question if it had been a good decision or not.
We normally make a couple stops to various Walmarts to walk around and have a change of scenery. But in general, she’s a good road tripper. On the way home, she slept for two hours and then sang nursery rhymes with me (and the cd) for the last two. No stops,
no not much crying, and content for the most part.
I normally try to start the trip right before her afternoon nap, but Ryan’s flight was in the morning and I was just itching to go. So after playing with her next door neighbor on the sidewalk for a few minutes, we took off. And am I glad we did. Because not three hours after we arrived, she got sick. Like, unidentifiable chunks down my shirt, in her hair, everywhere sick. I had to strip down to my birthday suit in front of my mom and jump in the bathtub with Ruth.
I told myself it was just a practice run for when she (hopefully) arrives at this next one’s birth. I think back on Ruth’s birth (click here to read it) and am amazed that I literally walked around buck naked with no care in the world. It makes me cringe. And now you’ll cringe with that image in your head… and my work on this earth has officially been completed, goodbye.
After our bath, Ruth slept on my chest the rest of the night. It was nice to snuggle her normally busy body.
The next day we started to see a glimpse of the old Ruthie, but her eyes still looked tired. Or maybe she was just sick and tired of me pointing out circles everywhere, including on grandma’s sock.
Ryan’s trip lasted 5 days and by the third day, Ruth was officially back to her old self again.
And by old self, it meant that she would have nothing to do with me or grandma but only wanted grandpa (“papa”). We tried everything. Grandma put on some cds to try and dance our way into her heart. We thought we had her too, watching her stand in grandma’s shadow. But really I think she just wanted to stand as close to the kid-unfriendly fireplace as possible.
Again we thought we had her when she started playing with the little people. On her knees she started rocking to the music. It made grandma laugh, but no dice from her end.
So we each got up and tried enticing her with our dance moves.
I even put my pregnancy at risk by jumping around with her on my shoulders. What I won’t do for acceptance.
But then she went to papa and all was well.
He even got kisses. Whatever, Ruth.
And he was followed while trying to go to the bathroom. Double whatever.
I have a suspicion it’s because they have the same sleeping face. Evidence A:
In other news, literally, Ruth got her first dose of O’Reilly’s talking points. We rolled out the little TV into the living room because I’m lazy and demanded it be done from the cocoon I created in the love seat. Ruth was quickly taught how to turn it on and off. Her hair acted as the antenna.
At first she was excited but it quickly went sour when she actually started listening. That’s what the news will do to ya, Ruth. Don’t become cynical just yet. At least wait until you’re two.
I tried to take her mind off of it by building a mini village for the little people. I’m tempted to get on ebay and just order a large lot of these, I love them so.
The toilet and vanity are my favorite. Hope he lit a match.
But Ruthie preferred to press the applause button on this little remote thing. She is officially her mother’s daughter.
When we first arrived, before she vomited all over my chest, I did my little joke for the grandparents.
Ruth, what does a cow say? Moooo
What does a sheep say? Baaaa
What does mommy say? NO!!
Later, I expanded and asked: What does Daddy say? NO!!! What does Grandma say? NO!!!
Then, What does Grandpa say? Papapapa
Yep, Papa was spared the Mommy Dearest interpretation. Mom suggested I get it on video before it becomes too rehearsed. So here it is… but little did I know that Ruth had already discovered the secret world of making people laugh. Watch her look at grandma when we ask her the question.
As I told a friend the other day, I’m really starting to feel like Ruth’s my little friend now. She makes me laugh out loud, makes me pull out my hair, makes my heart hurt, and makes me want to give her kisses all day long. Her dad feels the same way, with less pulling out his hair, but just as many kisses.
Ruth’s middle name is Margaret if you didn’t know already. Named after this fine lady right here:
I was piddling around on Ancestry and found this info about her wedding. I love reading details like this. “Her only jewelry was a string of pearls, a gift of the groom.” Ah yes, Mary Margaret, we have simple jewelry tastes in common.
One of the loveliest of early spring weddings occurred this morning at 9:30 o’clock at Sacred Heart church when Miss Mary Margaret XXX,daughter of Mrs. Mayme XXX, and Mr. Walter XXX, son of Mr. and Mrs. James XXX, exchanged their marriage vows. The Rev. Isador Smith.O.S.B., sang the nuptial high mass and officiated at the single ring ceremony. The altar was decorated with hydrangea and other Easter flowers and wedding music was sung by the children of Sacred Heart school. Miss XXX was lovely in her wedding gown of white satin fashioned with a sweetheart neckline and aisle width train. The yoke was outlined in seed pearls and the long sleeves were pointed over the wrist. Her fingertips veil edged with lace, fell from a coronet of seed pearls and she carried an arm bouquet of white roses and white sweet peas. Her only jewelry was a string of pearls, a gift of the groom. Miss Irene XXX, Huron, cousin of the bride, was bridesmaid. She wore a dress of pale pink chiffon styled with a sweetheart neckline and short puff sleeves which were trimmed with lace. She wore a halo of pink flowers and veiling in her hair and her arm bouquet was pink roses and pink sweet peas. Aloysius XXX of Nortonville, was the best man. Following the ceremony a wedding breakfast was held at the home of the bride’s mother for the wedding party and immediate families. The beautifully appointed bridal table was centered with a three tiered wedding cake topped with a miniature bride and groom. Pink candles in crystal holders were placed on either side of the cake. A wedding dance will be held this evening at 9 o’clock at Sacred Heart parish hall for the friends of the couple. After a short wedding trip Mr. and Mrs. XXX will be at home with his parents, route 4. For going away Mrs. XXX will wear a rose colored dress with a blue coat, small black hat, and black accessories. The bride of today is a graduate of the Everest high school and was formerly employed at Dilgert’s. Recently she has been employed at Woolworth’s where she resigned her position. The groom attended Nortonville high school and for the past number of years has been farming with his father.
I like to wonder what the wedding dance was like too. Did my grandpa (infamously a non-dancer) waltz around with her on this special day? Did they do the Chicken Dance? Or form two lines and dance down the middle a la Soul Train? Wish I could have been a fly on the wall.
But we were able to connect with her in one small, special way, thanks to my Aunt M. A gown made for Mary Margaret when she was just a babe was delivered via my parents for Ruth to try on.
This was for her to attend a wedding and I can’t believe it’s almost 100 years old now. I love how Ruth is pulling up the dress to show off her ankle. What a rebel. I’ll have to keep my eye on this one.
I miss my grandparents and envy those that still have them. One time, when I was about 15, I asked my dad’s dad a whole bunch of questions on how they ended up in Kansas City from Arkansas. I remember thinking, you have to remember all of these details, Carrie! But of course, never wrote anything down.
And that’s what I love the most. The details. Was this person loud? Quiet? Obnoxious? Sweet? Sit on people’s heads and fart on them? Hide behind corners to scare their sisters? How did they make it through the Depression? What did they eat? What was dinner-time like?
All of these things. And more. I so wish I knew.
Last Friday we went to a masquerade ball. It was our first night out by ourselves since D-Day, or I guess it should be called R-Day.
And actually, it probably really was like D-day for everyone else. No one saw the Carrie-bomb that was about to be dropped on them. It was like I was 16 all over again, attending a senior’s party. Only this time with cleavage. And a boyfriend. And no braces. And a girdle on. And no job. And – okay, I better stop while I’m ahead.
But I’m probably a good 1% cooler now than I was in high school. Thank you milk production. Man, if I had only known then that all I needed was a baby. I could’ve had better fitting tops and my own MTV show.
Ruth was terrified of us. Or she can see into the future.
I literally acted as if I had never been let out of the house before. Letting my mouth, feet, and hands (I’m a gesticulator) run wild.
Couldn’t help it, though. First off the place was fantastic. Above one of our little downtown shops, in a space that was about to be renovated into apartments. The walls were cracked and crumbling, antique-y chairs were used as a lounge, mason jars with lights were used to illuminate. Ah, loved it. The juxtaposition of velvet chairs, wood floors, and crumbling walls? Candy for the eyes.
courtesy of someone on facebook
I forced people to dance with me (The band was awesome. Is there anything better than acoustic versions of Snoop Dog & Violent Femmes?), I about karate chopped a guy’s head off with my excited hand gestures, and completely put my foot in my mouth several times. The scariest moment came when I saw D, my midwife’s assistant, at the party. We hugged and another girl asked how we knew each other.
“How do we know each other? Well, she looked down there for 4 straight hours.”
And I may or may not have used the word hoo-haw.
Just keeping it classy, folks. Keeping. It. Classy. High school Carrie had edged me out at that point.
courtesy of someone on facebook
But, can I raise a glass of vino in my honor for one thing, though? When the time came for the crowd to get into the inevitable large circle, so we can break out in the middle with our favorite early 90s moves, I did not, I repeat, did not do The Carlton. Talk about self-control. Because that had been haunting me since J’s last shindig.
You know The Carlton, don’t you? Everyone knows The Carlton.
It was pretty much my first time meeting everyone, and much to R’s horror, I whipped out The Carlton. In an 80s prom dress. And high freaking heels.
Do you see what’s coming? Literally two arm swings in I landed wrong and had to stumble out of the circle in shame. We quickly left afterwards.
courtesy of someone on facebook
Not this time, though. I held back in spite of the possible redemption and R was proud. So I immediately said or did something to make him shake his head. Can’t let him wonder if I’ve changed for the better for too long.
And wouldn’t you know it, I ended up hobbling my way out to the car anyway.
Girl hasn’t worn heels (let alone dance in them) in what seems like ages. But the blisters were well worth it, my friends. Well worth it.
I don’t know how I snaked by. Unless it means that only mamas with hips can join. In that case, I was a shoe-in. In fact, I’m sure there’s an email in my inbox right now requesting that I be the spokesperson for that group of mamas with hips. If that were true, though, I don’t think the current clipart is appropriate.
Either which way, I’ve joined this local group.
It’s confirmed, people, I’m hip. So you can stop sending me emails on how to up my cool factor. It’s already been achieved. After I read the acceptance, I strutted around The Shack pointing and winking at everything.
Then I looked at Ruthie and she gave me her ‘I can see through you and you’re not as cool as you think’ look. Oh yeah, Ruth? Well, for your information I’m now a hip mama. Eat it. So she did. And after 15 minutes gave me the look again.
Whatever. I’ll show you.
But before I walk through this nerdy wardrobe into the Chronicles of Hipness, let’s take a look at my past life. My past awkward life.
Like how I forced R to participate in Thrill The World with me and another couple. It was a bid to try and have the most number of people dance the Thriller at the same time. People all over the world did it. See? I’m not alone. We showed up for the practice and were swarmed by 14 year olds.
If you want to watch the video, here it is. Don’t hate. We spent the day leading up to this at an Oktoberfest festival. It took me nano seconds into the first lager to forget the steps. My friend, J, and I are on the left side (I’m in the black dress and she is in front of me in pants and small jacket.) T & R are on the right, (T wearing a tuxedo shirt and R right behind him.) R’s favorite part is the high-five they did at the very end.
Or what about the time I slipped on stairs in college, landed on my back, and laid there as a high school tour walked by? That will never happen again. Because I’m hip now, ya’all. (maybe I should quit saying ya’all, then.)
If you’re interested in getting a glimpse into my disturbing psyche, in which I obsess over a graceful girl all through class and then try to emulate her, click on the photo. It will take you to the post.
And talk about disturbing. Me, in the woods, with a Jane Austen book. What would Jane think? And why would she be walking around with a copy of her own book? I don’t know, but she was cool… why couldn’t me reenacting mesmerizing looks not be? Well, that’s in the past now. I’ll only be throwing around hip looks from now on, which means I may or may not acknowledge you now that I’m several notches higher.
Click on the photo if you’re into the neuroses of a jane-aholic and would like to be hypnotized by my captivating stares. You’re getting very sleepy….
Upon being accepted into this group, I started looking around at the various meet-ups and found one that would fit Ruthie’s age. I remembered R’s word of advice: “don’t just throw all your cards out there at once, Carrie. Let people know you’re nice and then drop the weird jokes on them.” So I RSVP’d for an event, and told myself to write something short and sweet. Don’t always try to go for the laugh, Carolyn. They’ll get to know you soon enough.
To sum up:
All in all, a good time.
Here are some dos and don’ts of deciding to camp while attending a dance workshop on a blistery cold & windy weekend.
Yeah, go ahead and pack a really yummy healthy lunch. Some no-knead bread, a jar of carrot juice, maybe even some avocados.
And, sure, why not make a cozy fire to sit around.
Yes, of course use your new cast iron skillet skills for supper that night. You know, the ones you learned at this class. Only, try not to get a flat tire.
But do not.
I repeat, Do Not….
only pack skirts to wear, because you want to “look cute”. You will freeze your ass off and you’ll also get such a bad cold that it will threaten your Food Network getaway with a girlfriend the following weekend.
Just in case you were wondering, that is.
We fought the battle and won, my friends.
You know, the “weekend spent with 3 sisters, a sister-in-law, and a mother all in the attic of a bed & breakfast during their wine festival without killing each other” battle.
Any time a night hasn’t ended with a drink thrown in your face and the silent treatment, consider it a victory.
But it really wasn’t hard. And we were tested. Oh yes, we were tested.
Try going to the bathroom in front of four people in a space with no partitions.
No amount of magazines will help that situation.
But, to be true, we won probably because I paced myself….
..or because of the $20 lipstick complete with a built in lighted mirror. You know, in case you go spelunking in a cave with some girlfriends and need to freshen up.
This little gem just might have been the saving grace.
After our freshening up, we stepped out onto the front lawn to have a lunch while sampling the local vendors.
I’ve often wondered if I couldn’t sell at one of these events. With all the grapes left in the back of the fridge, some of them are bound to ferment, right?
After several moves around the lawn and a couple more samples, we hit the town.
Dancing? Why yes, but not us this time.
The Kansas City Marching Cobras happened to be in Carthage this particular weekend! My sister L looked on like a proud mother as she was the only one of us who had seen them before. She continually asked us if we were sure we wanted to go see them, and then afterwards thanked us all for coming as if she hosted the group in her living room.
The Marching Cobras was started up in KC as a way for inner city kids to have a positive outlet, while also having to maintain a certain gpa, etc. They were a nice addition to our weekend!
When we arrived back at the B&B, we convinced the owners to turn on the twinkle lights on the front porch. Oh, to have a spacious, stone front porch like this one.
I would invest in only white linen dresses, cinched at the waist and insist that my hair be pulled up in a loose bun. Sigh.
We sat around sampling more wines, shoving chinese food down our gullets,
while L put on more lipstick.
We talked around the table for a good couple hours before heading up to the attic where it felt like a scene from Little Women.
Why do I always have to play the role of Beth?
Unlike Beth, my heart did survive the night and the next morning we woke up to breakfast downstairs. This is the first time I’ve had to sit with the hosts and other guests at one table. It was awkward at first, since it felt a little intimate.
Luckily they were the talkative sort and kept up both their and my end of the conversation. Functional Introvert saved once again!
Mom had to wear her sunglasses because of the sun and I laughed inappropriately loud for so early in the morning. The host quickly served our first course after that loud guffaw.
A couple poems were read and some well-rehearsed stories were told by the hosts, then we parted ways from cute Carthage, MO.
Writing this post has made me realize that as soon as I do something, I need to write about it. I’m sure there were a ton of little nuances throughout the stay that made me come away with this feeling of having had such a good time, but for the life of me, I cannot recall them. But maybe that isn’t true. Maybe it was just the feeling of being together that left a good mark on my memory. Kind of like reading a book on a crisp sunny afternoon that resulted in a more refreshed version of yourself than when you first sat down. Nothing in particular, but just the whole of the experience.
Thank you girlies!
We’ve only just arrived home from our trip to Regency England (aka, Louisville KY) and am enjoying reliving memories from it….
…Like my senior portraits from the graduating class of 1798. I was voted Least Likely To Die During Childbirth.
Thank you, birthing hips.
And then there was the Regency Ball…
I think I may have set my expectations a wee bit high that I’d be dancing until my slippers hurt and I blame it on the Contra dancing group from a couple weeks ago. They had explained to me that it is considered rude to dance with the same person the entire night, even if he/she is your date…. Especially if there are more females than males, or vice-versa.
This was not the case Saturday night for little Miss Carolyn. Sigh.
When we arrived, a nice lady did ask me to dance for one of the first songs and I had to endure feeling like Sasquatch next to her petit little thing. She was exceedingly sweet, though, and I was grateful for helping me segway into a dancing mentality. I’m new to this whole dancing without caring thing. And since mom was out of commission due to a back injury, I was on my own.
Afterwards, I sat down and we eagerly waited to be asked for the next song. We waited. And waited. Ogled at pretty dresses… and waited.
Song number two came on, so I used this as an opportunity to get a snapshot because there would be like absolutely no time to do so when I dance the rest of the night away. Poor mom will be just so lonely having no one to talk to.
Song numbers three through six: Mom started to get worried. I was becoming convinced that the wallpaper behind me was also green with pink roses and therefore no one could find me even if they wanted to. So I stood up and paced for awhile until the song ended.
Song number seven: Mom is now despondent and almost irreconcilable.
I’d have given my right leg for someone to ask me. And I probably would’ve danced better without it, too. Maybe not as happily, but definitely with more rhythm. Instead, I sat gloomily feeling more like Mary Bennett than Elizabeth.
You know who Mary is.
Take a guess.
Looking back, why didn’t I ask anyone? If I’d had a glass of champagne in my hand, then game on.
But (in case you’ve forgotten) I’m a functioning INTROVERT, people. No way am I going over to strangers under flourescent lighting and lead them to the dance floor. If I had been with someone more shy, then I would’ve mustered up the guts to do something.
Have you met my mom, though? She is decidedly unshy and tried to get every living creature in breeches and dresses that passed our way to dance with me. My god, you would’ve thought our family was on the brink of financial disaster and she needed me to throw myself at anyone in a cravat. Yet, still no luck.
So instead of acting as my dance pimp, she suggested I improve my countenance. “You know, people are more likely to ask you if you’re smiling, Carolyn.”
Okay, so like this?
“No,” she said… “Try to add a touch of desperation to your smile. Dance partners love that.”
And what d’ya know. Within two seconds of my face exploding from sheer force of countenance, a guy came over and lamented that I wasn’t dancing.
He really acted the part too, which I appreciated. All gracefulness and toe-pointing.; I was taken aback by his unabashedness on the regency dance floor.
The night quickly ended, though, before I could come out of my shell. But I was happy with the dances that I was able to experience.
One note of worthy, however. A lady came up and asked my age. She thought I was 19. Let me repeat that, Nuh-ineteen. That’s for all my fellow gray-haired friends, you know which nursing home you are.
As for the dancing, this Saturday night is another contra night and I’m looking forward to sweating dancing in the rounds I missed out on at the Ball.
However, this time I won’t wear white. Okay, yes I will. Maybe it will ensure me a dance partner.
I don’t have nearly enough time. We have been busy moving, packing, playing cards, moving some more, packing some more, more cards and eating. In the middle of it all, we trekked down to Wichita to celebrate the fourth.
When I get back from a Regency-era adventure with my mom, I will sit down and write a proper blog post about the weekend.
Until then, here’s a snippet of our weekend:
And, yes, the car is still stuck in Wichita as of today. Didn’t even get to see a sparkler in action. Oh well, I got my barn dance in, so the weekend was still a success in my book.
I hear my parents on their way. A week in an RV with just the three of us.
R really does have an adventurous spirit and game to try most anything. Thank goodness too, otherwise being bossy wouldn’t be as much fun.
A co-worker had mentioned that she attends a contra dance once a month in Fayetteville and suggested I go. Well, it only took a few months to find the time to attend one, but last night R and I finally did.
My face positively hurts today from smiling so much. It was like my Jared Haase smile times a hundred. You remember the smile. It still haunts me.
I was pondering what to tell you to not do if attending a contra dance. Oh, how about wear an all white outfit with no second layering and then sweat like you’re in a sauna. Everytime someone put their hand on my back, I felt them pull away like it’d just been burned.
So while learning the actual dance routine, a conversational routine started to emerge…
- [hand jerks away from my back]
- “I’m so sorry. I never sweat like this. I don’t even have sweat glands.”
- [he smiles apologetically for so obviously showing his repulsion, but then realizes that my sweat caused a one person wet t-shirt contest (which I STILL lost, damn genes) and returns hand to my lower back.]
- “it’s okay, I know I’m disgusting. Please don’t shut me up in an dungeon somewhere a la Buffalo Bill”
- [his eyes widen and then immediately twirls me over to the next victim whether it was time to or not]
And then it just repeats. Embarrasingly so.
I finally figured out how to stop that line of conversation.
And then the tale of the father-son duo.
They. were. awesome.
I first turned to dance with the son (in the photo below) who is half my age and literally half my size. I smiled sweetly at him, thinking that the more mammoth of the two of us would have to lead.
He grabbed my hand, took hold of my back and twirled me like he was trying to start a fire on the floor. I have never. I repeat, never been spun so fast in my life. The first time I kind of just stared at the blurry faces going by and when he let go so I could dance to the middle of the circle with the rest of the girls, I literally stumbled over my left foot and skidded to the center.
No one made eye contact with me, which as everyone knows is much more embarrasing than if they had only laughed at me.
The next time I was more prepared and stared at his face the whole time. I noticed that he never quite looked back at me, but instead was watching the rest of the group and I finally realized it was so he knew when to spin me out to the next move. Professional. I was impressed.
Then the dad asked me to dance. Here we fricken go again. It doesn’t look like we were going fast in the above photo, but I was hanging on for dear life. It was so much fun.
Notice the Jared Hasse grin. And sweaty face.
I managed to catch R in action too. He really improved by the end of the night. I think I just might make a dancer out of him after all.
We both agreed that we are going to insist that our sons know how to lead on the dance floor. Shouldn’t that just be a basic skill learned by all men?
After three straight hours of dancing, we were exhausted. As we were putting the chairs away, the duo who were playing (a fiddle and a banjo — loved it), played a nice waltz. I was asked to dance and, really, what better way to end the evening than with a slow waltz.
This is definitely going to happen again… because I’m already coming down off my twirling high.
Dancing Weddiiiiing – Young and Sweet only seventeeeen. You can dance, you can jive, having the time of your li-i-ife.
Wow, this was a fun one. I’ve been to some where I stay for the meal and slip out the door; others where I sit at the table all night talking with friends without even so much as a glance to the dance floor; and still others where I play whiffle ball and serve guests bbq from a gas station.
Okay that last one was my own wedding. Yikes.
But this one. This one will be the dancing wedding.
We all knew K & D loved to dance, for them to see this all night:
It must’ve just made their day.
It made mine too, because I’m re-entering the world of dancing without caring.
R thinks he’s been duped. You see, in college our circle of friends would go to a place with a dinky dance floor. And while everyone else was bumping to the music, R and I would stand flat against a wall getting to know each other all the while avoiding drinks getting sloshed into our face by someone’s bad dance move. It was fun. Kind of like dodgeball meets dating. So, he thought I didn’t like to dance, which meant that there was no pressure on his end. And there wasn’t. Truly!
Until recently. If there is a packed floor and good music on, then I’m psyching myself up to get out there if I’m in the mood.
And I don’t care if I dance a little Elaine Benes-esque with my one-handed train conductor move, because if you can’t hear… Journey’s playing and it’s time to move.
So when R went MIA after seeing a good dance crowd, I turned around to find my good ole standby. Mom.
Whaaaaat? What is she doing all. by. herSELF?
Something drastic needed to be done.
So I ran to the DJ and requested Backstreet Boys, stat. HURRY. This is an emergency, my mom is sitting all by herself because she’s not really into House of Pain.
He gave me a sidelong glance and hesitated in the B section. “Are you sure it will go over well with this crowd?” I didn’t care, we had to pump some dancing blood back into Momma Pat and this was the ticket.
As the song started, I ran away from him so no one would know who requested the song. No offense, mom. But could you believe that people gave a loud whoop and clapped?
I grabbed mom and drug her out with me.
She was only a little excited.
By the way, nice bra, Carolyn. Jeez. I’m the classy cousin at the wedding with my unmentionables hanging out in every photo. Sigh.
We slow danced… Still couldn’t seem to find R, so had to make-do with taking photos of my sister and her husband.
And then there were dance-offs:
My nephew, W, partook in one and apparently won?
But grandma was cheering a bit too hard for little W, because the dance-off moved onto her:
And she was booty-ed off the dance floor. No one is safe during a dance off, my friends.
But not to be outdone, my brother-in-law (aka “roommate”) had one out with a groomsmen.
I don’t think anyone can compete with suspenders. Sorry N.
Oh, K & D. What a great wedding! I don’t know who this girl is nor why I took the photo, but I think it had to do with the drawing. Does it seem familiar to this old blog post? Click here.
And Dance. Discuss and dance. That’s pretty much how life goes anyway.
I hope so. My cousin’s wedding was a blast. It was the first time I danced all night without needing to be three sheets to the wind. Quite freeing.
It helped that the dance floor was absolutely packed, though. Most times it’s just kids out there, but not this crowd. They were ready to dance. And so was I.
I don’t know where the nickname Juice came from, nor did I invent it for her. But I was introduced to her in college with that name and it’s still stuck in my head. She and I ran around in the same group our last year at KSU and she was also living with a group of R’s friends. The first night I met her, I stayed up all night dancing watching people from the wallflower section of the dancefloor. The next morning I woke up next to people I only vaguely knew and she immediately made plans with me to eat breakfast where R was waiting tables.
Just like that. She’s just a tad friendly.
But little did I know how creative she was until we slowly became better friends.
She’s quirky and in my world, quirky = cool.
You know, people who aren’t concerned with what others think of them. I’m still trying to get there, but I have come long strides since my early 20s. This blog has helped.
So, she and her husband T (who both also did the Adventure Race with us back in November – click link here), both turned 30 recently and wanted to celebrate. They invited their friends and paid their way for a night of 80s Roller Rink Fun-o-rama.
And we made it just in time for the Limbo. whew!
Each of us took our turns getting reaccustomed to roller skating. I don’t think any of us had skated within the past 10 years, so the whole “balance” thing was a foreign idea.
Well, except for Juice.
She’s been practicing to join the local Roller Derby Team.
Anyway, some of us pushed off the wall and hoped to slow down at the Limbo line.
While others had to be helped by an outstretched hand. Eventually we all made it. It took an hour.
Now, this first experience on wheels really tested you. The length from the line to the actual limbo pole is, oh, about 20 miles. No, seriously.
I wanted to cry, it was so scary.
It was like your first jump off the high-dive. Once you started, there was no turning back.
So instead of actually skating, I did one little push and then bent over. I don’t think my head even cleared it.
The failure was promptly blamed on my high ponytail.
Then it was R’s turn.
He started off with feet parallel to each other and then somehow one foot started to split off and he couldn’t pull them back together. So the only option was to go with it.
Hopefully he can still sire children after that. It was painful to watch.
After our first run on the rink we were already sore.
R and N stretched it out for a bit….
While I chomped on Pop Rocks, provided by the hostess, and watched the show on the rink.
Every two seconds you heard someone scream and then bones breaking.
Like these three. I hope the horizontal guy is okay.
R stayed near anyone with a helmet thinking he could just fall on them and avoid the cement. Good thing this guy had one too. Man, he wiped out hard several times, causing the ‘referee’ (what are those guys called – bouncer? chaperone?) to blow his whistle and check on him.
It was awesome.
Others just breezed on by without a care in the world. Juice called ahead to ask if she could wear those fast special skates. They said yes.
What a show off.
We were jealous of her skills.
But I bet you’re jealous of my mad braking skills. That’s right ya’all. I could eat your brake for brakefest.
…and with that pun I bid you good night.
Later on, we skated the birthday girl into the bathroom (appropriately decked out in daisies) for a birthday toast. There’s something so liberating about having skates on while going pee. I’m not going to delve into that thought process, but I felt liberated.
We hung out for awhile until we were busted by the rink patrol. They were cool, thank goodness, and tsk-tsked us back to the rest of the group.
It was no use explaining to them that the bathroom break was necessary to..
Yikes. This should’ve been a recipe for disaster, but we both held on strong and whirled around. That was the thing I was most looking forward doing…. Spinning in the middle of the floor.
This had to be on of the most fun parties I’ve been to. We even broke out our Thriller dance when the song came on.
On SKATES, people.
And now I also want to take up skating as exercise… Forget running, people, skating will kill your thighs.
But it won’t kill your fond childhood memories. It only enhances them.
We used to do the Hokey Pokey, the coin toss, races and a bunch of other things. But I bet you all have some memories of your own.
Share if you’d like, I’m all ears.
What is my obsession with feet in photos? There’s no logical thought process since I don’t even take care of them, so why should I photograph them?
But I do.
And now you have to suffer.
Some of these I’ve blogged about (and have linked back to those posts) and others I haven’t, but wish I had.
Hot summer weekend trip in Iowa. Cool, sweet water.
Just prior to having a semi-heart attack on the Brew to Brew: 50 mile relay race from Boulevard Brewery in KC to FreeState brewery in Lawrence. The worst part was knowing that after your team drove past cheering you on, they immediately rolled up the window to say how sorry you looked. I know this, because we did it to every other person on our team. But I’m sure they didn’t do it to me. Right. RIGHT?
Hiking the Grand Canyon. What a glorious day, despite R almost dying.
Garage sale shopping with my mom. This was a terrifying flash forward of our lives when she literally parked in someone’s front lawn. Not on purpose.
What you don’t see above these feet is a girl dry heaving on Little Corn Island, Nicaragua. Apparently I don’t like heights?
After wearing heels for too long, asking R if I could borrow his shoes for a few minutes. No I wasn’t wearing socks either.
[collective groan / shrieks of horror]
Dancing the Thriller…in sneakers. If I saw a zombie coming towards me in white tennies, I’d either poke him in the eyes (and hope he doesn’t block me with the finger shark fin) or run my butt off. He might’ve died running, you know.
Do you see the steep stairs in this Irish castle ruin? And the rain water? You do the math.
Visiting our cousins in the Sunshine State. This is also a good reminder: Kids, always remember to put sunblock on your feet. Do not, I repeat, do not stop at your ankles.
Costume / Dance Parties. Oh, penny loafers.
Camping / Hiking – and facing my fear of the granddaddy spider of 2001.
And last but certainly not least… running through fields. I was apparently really excited to get to something…. probably food.
As I was looking around, I found even more feetsies photos. Oh yes, there will be a part two. Who sighed? I heard that.
*This is actually a false statement. Ever since starting this blog, I now have nothing to talk about in person (re: myself)
Luckily we had to leave for our Thriller debut before seeing that caveman spectacle.
But I did get to see (and experience) a Big Lebowski scene with R while getting ready for Thriller. Except this time it was baby powder and not ashes.
K: My first ‘real’ experience with live theatre was going to a performance of Grease. I loved the movie when I was young —
Carrie: And hasn’t stopped doing the gun-at-the-hips dance move since. Sorry, keep going.K: So I loved the movie and couldn’t wait to see the musical. My mom, sister, and I drove all the way to Topeka for the big show. We even got to eat at the Red Lobster.. which was a treat since Pinky’s was the only restaurant [a term used very loosely] in Courtland, KS. Nevermind that I ate my weight in shrimp scampi, threw up, and have never eaten there since. But I digress.
We arrived at the theatre, and oh my gosh how exciting it was! The lights, the performers, the music. I was in sensory overload. …And then, they announced that there would be —
Carrie: Wait!! I have to lead up to my experience. My mom won two tickets through her work to go see Grease and I was the lucky child who got to go. I didn’t know if it was because she knew I’d like it or because she felt guilty for forcing me to try out for ‘The Wizard of Oz” a few years prior. [Side note: The role of Dorothy had already been taken and so I was auditioning with 18 ‘little people’. Horrifying.]
K: Isn’t that when you sang “It’s a Grand Ole Flag”? You know… to show off your range?
Carrie: [Carrie rolls her eyes in an attempt to look like she’s annoyed that the detail was brought up, but is secretly glad that the focus is still on her.] Yeah, I didn’t have music. So I took my pre-fetus level piano book and pounded away at the keys while recording myself on a cassette tape. When I got to the audition, the lady did a slightly fancier version and I had no idea it was even the same song. Now I digress.
So we’re in the audience, whey they announce “There will be a Grease Dance-Off starting in a few minutes. Please come up to the stage if you’d like to participate.” A dance off?? Is this a dream?? So I turn to my mom and begin the list of reasons why she needs to do this with me, starting with “Remember when you never let me…” and ending with “..So you owe me this.” —
K: — I so wanted to do it… but couldn’t convince anyone to go with me on stage, so I had to settle with watching all the contestants take the stage. That’s when I noticed them. A mother-daughter team…
K: …dancing like they’ve never danced before. I kept my eyes on them, rooting for them all the way.
Carrie: Are you kidding, K? This has never been added to the story before. Don’t feel like you have to embellish for the blog’s sake. I know you were routing for the two 7 year olds. They were so quick on their feet.
K: The contestants slowly began dwindling as team by team were asked to leave the stage.
Carrie: Wait, wait. Now I know you’re either being sarcastic or can’t remember. My mom and I got 5th place. Out of five. It just wasn’t our night, guys. Our arms never really locked into place during the pretzel, and I stepped on her toe during the Cha-Cha.
K: Well, I do remember that you guys danced as if your lives depended on it. Maybe it did, for all I knew.
Carrie: What, like there was a bomb attached to one of us and we couldn’t dance below 55 mph?
K: Well, you do look like Sandra Bullock from the balcony.