an ode to dance...

So, my 35-year-old, post-baby body doesn’t probably show it, but I used to be a dancer.  Not that kind of dancer, silly.  I started dance classes when I was 3 and I took classes several times a week until I was at least 18.  I took tap, ballet, jazz and what apparently is now known as contemporary.  I danced until my feet hurt and I had back problems and my hips began to snap, crackle and pop all on their own.  After I quit classes, I taught dance (mostly tap) for about 10 years.  Dance.  It was part of me. I loved it. I still do, although years of wear and tear on my body have resulted in my not being able to take classes or even try to do the things I used to do. 

I feel like I have to live vicariously through other dancers.  Which is why I’ve grown to love So You Think You Can Dance.  I have to be honest. I refused to watch the show for the first few seasons it was on TV.  Really, I was just so frustrated with my aging, creaky old body that I didn’t want to see young, vibrant dancers at the beginning of their careers heat up the stage and make me feel like shit.  I’m serious, and yes, I’m that jealous of people I don’t even know.  But through the years, I’ve grown to really love and respect what that show is doing for the dance world.  I love the amazing choreography, and how the program is willing to give choreography to former dancers on the show – what a way to channel amazing talent!

When I was probably 11 years old, I saw the Alvin Ailey American Dance Theater perform Revelations.  I will never forget the way the silk tapestry moved across the stage during “Wade in the Water” and I remember watching the late Gary DeLoatch perform “I Wanna be Ready.”  During the intermission, my sister and I snuck up to the side orchestra box at the Folly Theater to get an up close look at Mr. Alvin Ailey himself.  This was the defining moment of dance for me. I knew at that very moment that I wanted to dance, and that it wasn’t something that just interested me – it was in the very fibers of my being.  Later, as a dancer, I participated in some fantastically terrible competitions, traveled throughout the US and to Seville, Spain in 1992 to dance at the World’s Fair, and fought tooth and nail with my former boss to prove that gymnasts must also have a dance background – a fight I would not win in the end.

Years later, I now live with constant pain from deteriorating discs in my lower back.  I exercise irregularly, in tiny spurts, a process that both aggravates and annoys me to no end.  I do yoga when I can because it’s the only way to gain balance and to center myself without excruciating pain.  I try to explain this to people who knew me as a dancer and they just don’t get it. I don’t understand it myself, it’s like my spine has failed me.  And it sounds ridiculous, but I absolutely adore watching those kids dance each week on TV.  It makes me remember why I loved choreography.  I remember why I loved being on stage.  But mostly I remember why I was touched by dance in the first place – how the graceful, wonderful movements of the human body can inspire even those of us who can no longer move like that. 

I'm with stupid...

I’ve always prided myself a bit on pointing out the stupidity of others.  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think I’m better. Well. Okay, maybe I do.  But mostly I just feel like God gave me a knack for spotting ridiculousness.  Tonight I was telling Steve and Kelley about some things that happened to me today and I suggested that some people are naturally talented at things like, maybe singing, dancing, or coming up with a haiku on a whim.  Personally, while I might be really bad at sports and say, not spending all my money in one place (sorry, Dad), I am really good at a few select things: laughing, writing, drinking and…pointing out ignorance. Today gave me plenty of opportunity to do the latter.

What I’m saying is this: if the X-Men suddenly appeared in Kansas City needing help, the situation would go as follows: “Hey! Hero UP! What is your super power?” And the answers from others will vary: “I have sharp claws, I can teleport myself, I have a radioactive dog who can sniff out bad guys…” (Is it clear that I’ve fallen victim to the Super Hero Squad?) My answer? “Um...well. I am good at matching my clothes, I can name that tune in three notes or less, AND...I am fantastic at pointing out stupidity”.  And really? Isn’t that more helpful than sharp claws? Really. I’m not sure it will help me save the world, but I can certainly weed out the idiots who are collectively bringing us down on our way there.

Last night we were watching “Glorious Funniest Videos” – or what the layperson might call “America’s Funniest Home Videos” (we dance to a different tune at this house) and finally I looked over at Steve and told him I felt badly because really, the only thing funny about the show was that we were laughing at other people’s misfortunes.  They should call that show “America’s Biggest Dumbasses Who Didn’t See That Crotch Shot Coming” or “Seriously, What Is Wrong With You People???” The more people falling off of bikes and getting slapped in the face the better, I say.  It’s like Darwinism with a whiffle ball bat to the groin. My children love this show, and I am secretly thrilled that they like it so much because I feel like I might be passing down to them my need to laugh at morons.  I mean, really? Is there anything better?

"you can't have your cake and eat it, too in life..."

I’ve spent the past few nights with the lovely Beale ladies from Grey Gardens. Holy wow, you guys.  These two put a whole new spin on crazy, at least that was my first impression.  Initially, I became interested because of Drew Barrymore winning a Golden Globe for her portrayal of “Little Edie” Beale in the HBO remake of Grey Gardens.  I’m not a huge fan of Barrymore, but after watching both the HBO version and the original 1975 documentary, I will say she truly captured young Edie.  Both movies made me want to cry out, it was so disturbing, and yet, like a train wreck, I couldn’t seem to turn away or get enough of these two.  I hope that you take some time to watch one or both of these fascinating pieces.  I haven’t been able to stop thinking about these two women and their story and I wanted to explain why.

Edith Bouvier Beale (“Big Edie”) was considered a bohemian and was very much a part of the 1930s social scene in both East Hampton and New York City.  Her daughter “Little Edie” was at one time a New York City debutante who was eccentric and full of life. Eccentric is the key word, I guess, as in the end eccentricity was all that survived of their once lavish lifestyle.  After Big Edie’s husband (Phelan Beale) left her, she and Little Edie moved full time to the “country” home they kept in the Hamptons.  Grey Gardens is the name of the Beale’s home on East Hampton, and it was the only remaining piece of Big Edie’s Bouvier fortune, which is the reason she refused to sell it – even though it’s sale would have allowed her to live quite comfortably in her old age.  Instead, the two Edies took refuge in the mansion as it crumbled around them. It was not winterized, and at one point had no running water.  The women were also host to more than 75 cats, raccoons and other animals who lived with them and in the attic space.  To put it mildly, Grey Gardens had gone from a beautiful, sprawling 28-room mansion to a gigantic flea infested shack in just a matter of years.  In 1972, Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy Onassis (the niece of the Big and cousin of the Little Edies’) put up the money to save Grey Gardens from being condemned and torn down.  The two women continued to live there until Big Edie died in 1977 and Little Edie finally sold it in 1979.

Having watched both movies and gotten a glimpse of the Beale’s lifestyle, I had to know more about these two women.  I know that people live in this kind of filth, I know that there are people out there like these two, but seeing it, witnessing it on screen was at once so disturbing and fascinating, I had to know more.  Possibly also as disturbing to me was the “riches to rags” story, the story of aristocracy gone awry, it was as if the two Edies had no idea that they were no longer socialites.  Perhaps also unnerving for me was that neither of the Edies seemed to be suffering any sort of mental illness in their younger years. Yes, they were perhaps extravagant and eccentric, but not crazy.  Did living alone, with little contact with the outside world bring each of them to the brink of insanity?

I was driving down Ward Parkway Blvd. the other day, which is a stretch of beautiful homes in Kansas City, and I began to wonder as I looked at these homes, what exactly do we really know about anyone? I have driven down that road hundreds, maybe thousands of times during my life and many times I’ve thought about what it would be like to live in one of those sprawling mansions.  I never stopped to consider that those people might be just as ludicrous or absurd as the Beales’, or that all the money in the world won’t pay for sanity.  After watching what happened to those two, I started questioning my beliefs about the affluent families who lived in those homes I have so often coveted. It seems silly to most people, I’m sure, but I think the reason these films struck such a nerve with me is that I think we so often inexplicably tie money and happiness together, and both of the films so quickly struck down that idea in my head.  Those women, in the end, had nothing but each other – even the cats seemed to shake their heads at the Edies’ in disbelief – and while at least they had company, watching their relationship certainly made me wonder what weaves the human mind and spirit so intricately together.  

two all beef patties

People. Again, I feel it is my place to point out some jive turkey ridiculousness. Someone out there needs to tell me what the hell McDonald's is putting in their nuggets to make people act like THIS when they run out of them. This time in happened right here in KC and the local news is all, "hey! if you see this woman, call the TIPS hotline." Uhhhh. If I were to run into this lady I would run the hell away from her with lightening speed. Are you kidding me?? This chic is not messing around. Does it make you wonder what happened to her that morning? Does it make you wonder what happened to her in her entire LIFE to make her think this was a good decision? This is the reason I'm so torn about watching local news - on one hand, it's so, so, so, depressing and frustrating. On the other hand? Miss it, and you miss some pretty impressive stuff - see? You're welcome!

a-hole ink

Oh, people. Where do I even begin with this story?? Yesterday, I caught the tail end of a news story that shocked me. I was upstairs putting laundry away when I walked in and saw it, and because I was upstairs, I couldn’t rewind what I saw, so I spent the better part of a day trying to figure out if this story was for real. You guys. These people tattooed their five kids. Children – ages seven to seventeen – and they did it with a guitar string Magyvered into a little motor deal. Wait. What? If I’m doing the math right, these two booger eaters were smart enough to figure out how to connect a guitar string through a motor and use it to physically alter their children’s skin, but they never stopped to think that they might be doing something wrong? Seriously. What is wrong with people?

And this, THIS is why I completely believe in Darwinism. It’s called thinning the herd, y’all. When asked about the tattoos, the mother (who, if I did the math right on this, is only about 12 years older than her eldest child) says, “I don't understand why this got blowed up so big. I love my children. We'd never do anything to harm our kids.” I would like to go on about this, but I am struck nearly speechless by the absurdity of this story. And so, you should just watch for yourself. I will also remind you that I’m a girl who has five tattoos. Five. I’m certainly not opposed to them, I’m only opposed to morons who think it’s fine to make these types of decisions for their children.

the next food network star (is in my head...)

It’s started again.  I had been so proud of myself…until today. And one conversation starts me headed back down a road of ridiculous neuroses.  Let me rewind a bit and give you some background on what I’m talking about. I was throwing together a pot of chili tonight (I make a damn good one…dinner is at 6) and I had the Food Network on in the kitchen to drown out the sound of screaming little girls.  And I started thinking about what a funny world we live in. On one hand, we have a network dedicated entirely to food and cooking and delicious yumminess. And on the other hand, we live in a nation where we are constantly being told that we’re fat.  It’s a constant juxtaposition, and today I fell victim to the little voice inside my head.  The one I had kept at bay for several months, at least. 

It started with a harmless conversation with a friend about how she’s going to lose her baby weight. She’s started tracking calories and was telling me how hungry she is, and how excited she was this morning when she woke up and a new calorie day had begun!  And…that’s where it started.  The voice starts in on me (she’s a bitch – she sounds a little like me only she’s hungry) saying, “you’d better not eat that”, “you have put on six pounds since summer, do you really need that cookie?”, “if X is tracking calories and already back in her old jeans, don’t you think it’d be a good idea for YOU to watch what goes in your mouth once in a while?”, “Zoe is almost three – it’s no longer baby weight”…and ON and ON and…Mother of God – SHUT HER UP already!!

Here’s the deal. I never had to watch what I ate - really.  I mean, I’ve always been active and up until I was in my early twenties, I danced 3-5 days a week, which I loved, and working out isn’t a chore when you love what you’re doing.  It was never hard for me to keep weight off until I hit my late twenties.  And then I had babies, and…well.  I wish I could say that I was like so many of the celebrity moms you see who are back into their own clothes within a week and look better with each kid they pop out.  Not so.  I was back in my clothes quickly enough, but my body looked, at best, like someone had chewed it up, blown it into a bubble, popped the bubble and stuck it in my old jeans. And ever since, that voice has crept out whenever those jeans get the slightest bit snug.  What’s peculiar, is that in the past few months I’ve been thrilled that I hadn’t heard that voice. At all. I think I’ve been so busy with more important things that she took a vacation and left me alone.  Thing is, I was so proud of that that I started telling people I was done worrying about it.  My body just is what it is until I find extra hours in the day and that really, I’m fairly happy with the way I look.  I believed that. I did and I kind of still do…right?

So, why did she come back so quickly? How could she have slipped back in during that one silly moment? And better yet, why am I listening? I want my two girls to know it doesn’t matter what they look like as long as they’re healthy.  I don’t want them to hear me berate myself – even Steve gave me the raised eyebrow when he heard me talking about my weight for the first time in ages. “I thought you were over that,” he said.  Is anyone ever really over body image? I mean, really, even skinny girls? Kathy Griffin said in the stand up act I watched last night that she was hungry all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. And the skinnier she gets, the bitchier she gets. Who wants that? Why should we be constantly miserable? Because every magazine on the newsstand tells us so? Or because most female celebrities weigh well under what is natural or even attainable for normal women? Because size 8 is now considered “plus size”?? What the hell are we doing to our little girls, our future young women? How much is too much? 

Eeeek. I’m sorry. Clearly it’s disturbing to me, and part of why I was so thrilled with ignoring that voice is that I thought I had finally stopped buying into what I should look like, what I should weigh.  Here’s the thing: I have a not so secret crush on Paula Deen. And to be honest, her food disgusts me – who can use that much butter? It’s gross. What I love about her isn’t the food, it’s that she makes no excuses for who she is and what she looks like – she loves food. LOVES it, and isn’t afraid to eat and show that food can be used for entertainment, for nourishment, for bringing people and families together.  I’ve decided that the next time I hear that voice in my head, I’m going to channel Paula and hope she kicks her ass. Or at least slathers her with some butter and gobbles her up.

because maybe some of you got to go OUT last night

Some thoughts on last night’s televised New Year’s Eve festivities:

·      I’m just going to put this out there – I’m pretty sure that CNN was doing it’s best to out Anderson Cooper. Let’s review: Kathy Griffin gave him EVERY opportunity to admit he loves the boys, commenting on his name, his hair, his outfit – “Andy” had to do everything in his power to keep Griffin or the conversation on track as the night went on, and even then it was sort of like a train wreck you can't look away from. I did love the combination of the two of them, though - she's like a loose screw and he's so darn cute. Then, CNN sent the live feed to Key West where he had to interview a drag queen aptly named Sushi, who kept professing her love for Kathy and Anderson LOUDLY over a microphone she apparently thought was feeding to CNN, but was echoing over a club teeming with pretty boys in their undies – yes, please!

·      Jennifer Lopez and her sparkly catsuit. Need I say more? What the fuck was that unfortunate get up she was sporting?  Was she drunk? I mean, she should have just been nude. It was gross. And did anyone catch her stylist trying to fix that hair of hers? Um. Dude. You’re on TV.

·      Is Ryan Seacrest as big a douche as he seems to be? For real, that dude was such an ass to his co-host/correspondent – the Bachelorette chic.  I don’t watch that show, but if I was her and he’d have brought up the on-air breakup one more time, I sure as shit would have punched him in his neck.

·      I’m also going to say something terrible about Dick Clark.  Er…maybe a few terrible things.  First: every person I talked to today thought he had died earlier this year. So, I guess last night did something to help his reputation? I know he had a stroke. I get it. What I want to know is, who is the jackass on ABC who thinks it’s a great idea to drag him out every year? It was depressing and sad – so, if that was the point? Bravo! Also? He was pretty clear and understandable when the camera was on him, but when they’d cut away to the noisy crowd, Steve and I would just look at each other and shrug. I’m probably going to hell for saying all that, but whatever. I did it so you didn’t have to – you’re welcome.

·      And finally, after we were all assured that Dick Clark is indeed alive, ABC flipped to a pre-recorded NYE celebration with the Black Eyed Peas – and sadly, Fergie was unable to perform, but she got Carrot Top to fill in for her. For real, look:

Happy New Year, kids!