OmegaMom

University of Alaska-Big City recently opened a branch of Major Chinese Philosopher Institute, whose mission is to foster Amurrikan-Chinese relations and promote Chinese language learning for K-12 schools.  This means that we have more Chinese events to go to, put on by MCP Institute, if we’re willing to drive an hour each way.  (It also seems that we may end up having Chinese lessons here! in Suburban Alaska! coming up after January 1!  This is majorly exciting; the classes in Big City run from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. on Friday nights, which doesn’t work very well for kids that have bedtime at, say, 8:30 p.m., and also doesn’t work well when you have parents who are unnerved at the thought of driving on icy, snowy highways, in the dark, both ways, for months on end.)

MCP Institute’s latest event-with-a-capital-E was a performance of snippets of Chinese opera.  For free.

Well!  That certainly piqued my interest.  So I ran it by the dotter, whose response was an enthusiastic “Yes!”

Since OmegaDad is out of town for a few days (bummer), it was the two of us, motoring into Big City, dining on exotic food at the student union, and figuring out how to get into the parking lot at the theatre.

I had figured, with the six snippets, it would be about an hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half.

No.  It included the director of the opera company introducing each vignette, explaining what was going to happen, instructing the crowd on how to indicate approval and when (”Hao!” shouted out–enthusiastically–when the performers held a strategic pose now and then, or whenever you felt like the performers warranted it), all translated by a nice young Chinese lady who did a fairly good job of keeping up with him.

And!  There was audience participation!  After each segment, the director invited anyone who wanted to try something from the vignette.

One of the great things about getting older is that you lose a great deal of self-consciousness.  It seems to start around the age of 35, and increase to the point where you’re willing to do just about anything if it sounds fun, and not even notice that there’s an audience fer Gawd’s sake!  Staring at you!

At least, that has been my experience.  Last year, I danced with Native Alaskans at the Native Alaskan Center; this year, I happily scooched up onto the stage to pretend to be a dainty Chinese nun trembling in fear at getting into a boat.  I didn’t care that my hair was smashed down from wearing my winter hat, or that my jeans were lopsided from not being pulled down over one of my boots.

Anyway, with all the intros and the audience participation, we made it to two and a quarter hours–leaving while the last come-and-join-us portion was running.  The dotter was pretty game throughout; there was a certain amount of snuggling down into (my) jacket (not hers), an “I’m booored” or two, but every time I asked if she wanted to go, she would reply that she wanted to see the last performance, which was supposed to be very acrobatic and very funny.  So we stayed through the entire performance.

The first scene was the aforementioned dainty Chinese nun asking a boatman to help her chase after her One and Only True Love.  It was very funny; they did a splendid job of miming climbing into the boat and the movement of the boat; the old boatman was a flirtatious goat who tried to get the nun to give up on her OAOTL and run away with him…The Chinese nun:

The boatman:

The next scene was a young maiden feeding her chickens and then sewing.  Having had chickens for a year and a half now, I have to say you could almost see the chickens.  And her sewing was very delicate!

Then we had a face-painted general proclaiming his studliness to all and sundry.  Alas, he was moving so much that I couldn’t get a good picture of him–suffice it to say that he was quite grand.

Next up was some true opera drama:  Yet another general was on the losing side; he escaped and hid away, changing his name, marrying, settling down, and living a quiet life for 12 years…only to discover that his mother was leading an army against his new family.  He was full of lyrical Chinese misery.  He was also quite grandly costumed–get a load of those pheasant feathers in his headdress!

Next was another lyrical piece, wherein a young princess, who has been locked away for years as she grew up, is lured out into the palace garden by her maidservant, and discovers the wonders of nature:

And then, the piece de resistance, the reason the dotter wanted to stay:  a soldier is following his general–incognito–to protect him.  They stay the night at an inn.  The innkeeper notices the soldier, and fears that the soldier is an assassin out to get the general.  The innkeeper sneaks into his room in the darkness, and tries to kill him, but fails–and then there is a comic and very acrobatic fight, where they keep missing each other, then finding each other, then fighting, then losing their opponent in the darkness.  It was hilarious–and spectcular.  The soldier is resting for a moment, after–he thinks–chasing away the bandit; the innkeeper is hiding under his bed, waiting for his chance to get the assassin:

It was amazingly grand fun.  They had subtitles projected above the stage, which made following the stories much easier–though much of the physical action was stylized and very recognizable.

If you get a chance like this, by all means, take it!  It was a really worthwhile evening.

(And, of course, the audience was sprinkled with many families like ours…)

Oh, and all these pictures were taken with my new camera.  The old one would have been worse than useless!

• Ms. Vinegar Martinis asked me what kind of floofy drinks I like.  I admit a horrendous fondness for piña coladas, blended with ice, whipped cream on top, a maraschino cherry, and a little umbrella.  Another floofy drink I like–a hangover (har!) from when I was a wild-n-crazy young 20s-ish gal living in gay-town Chicago–is the Golden Cadillac.  Flavored margaritas, such as peach or mango, get a thumbs-up from me, as well.

  When we were living in Small Mountain University Town, on hot summer days, I would take the dotter off to the local outdoor swimming pool.  After an afternoon in the sun, we would stop at Baskin-Robbins.  One day, I noticed they had a flavor called Coco-Nutty.  Nom nom nom.  The next time we visited, I combined it with a scoop of lemon sherbert.  Nom nom nom, squared.  It was the ice-cream equivalent of the piña colada, and became my staple there.

• Noreen asked what the elementary school Sock Hop was like.  Let’s see…First off, the dotter’s elementary school has a new music teacher, Mr. L., who looks like he just got out of college from getting his music education degree.  He is, IMO, quite kewl; at the Christmas concert, for instance, he had forty fourth- and fifth-graders all playing in time and in tune on recorders.  Nothing too fancy, but it was quite an accomplishment.  Anyway, he seems to be the driving force for many newer musical adventures at the elementary school front.

  The Sock Hop featured all the lady school teachers in poodle skirts.  Oh, yes!  And a few of the girls.  My fave ’50s dress-up, though, was the stocky young man in the fourth (?) grade who had greased his hair, was wearing a muscle Tee, blue jeans, and a black leather jacket.

  When we arrived, the music blasting out was 80s rock-and-roll.  OmegaDad and I eyed each other dubiously; this was not sock hop material to us.  However, soon enough the DJ (Mr. L.) was rolling out fifties and sixties faves, requiring serious Twist and Swing action.

  There were hot dogs and chips, and a malt shop featuring root beer floats.  All in all, grand fun.

• Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa:  Shortly after we returned Buffy, our formerly broody hen, to Le Grand Coop, we had to remove Angie, our Brahma, due to the other hens pecking her legs bloody.  So Angie has been in our garage for a few weeks, recuperating.  Yesterday morning we returned her to the coop.

  I had thought the peckage was the result of Angie molting, and thought nothing of checking up on her.

  OmegaDad checks the chickens late at night, before bedtime.  I was reading in the dotter’s bedroom, finishing off Godel, Escher, Bach, when I heard OmegaDad muttering, “Shit!  Shit!” outside the room.  When I emerged a few minutes later, I found him downstairs in the office, on the computer.

  “So what was all the muttering about?” I asked.

  The sad tale came out:  He had forgotten that Angie had been returned to the coop, so had not checked during the day.  When he got out there, he discovered her beaten and bloody; the other hens had pecked out all her leg feathers again, and pulled out almost all the feathers at the base of her tail.  I went out to the garage to view our poor beat-up hen, and it was just gross; she looked like ground beef.  :-(  And I felt terrible, because I hadn’t thought anything of it, and felt like it was my fault she got beat up.  Anyway, Angie is back in the garage, recuperating again, and if we can’t figure out a way to get her back into the coop without the other hens savaging her again, we are going to have to find a new home for her.

• Unka Bill grumps about the PINKage of modern-day small girls.  I totally agree.  In fact, when the dotter was a wee one, she had very little–if any!–pink attire.  She wore cute little yellow outfits, and green outfits, and denim onesies, leggings in a variety of colors, cute little dresses in bright colors.  Alas, in the past two years, she has been quite firm in what she wants to wear.  The Borg has assimilated her.  All I can say is that most girls emerge from the PINK phase at some point in time…I hope the dotter goes Goth, or Emo, because she looks mighty fine in black.
• When the weather got cold, OmegaDad retreated from the ongoing construction around the north forty, and took to experimenting with baking.  We now have homemade bread on a regular basis, and homemade cakes, and (today) homemade brownies.  Our bank account has thrived as a result, but so has my weight.  I am eagerly awaiting the return of spring, not just for the sunshine and warmth, but so that OmegaDad will return to construction and stop feeding us luscious baked goods.  All the blue jeans I purchased early last fall, which were too big on me then, are now fitting quite snugly.  This is Not Good.

Later gators.

Because you’re all pretty kewl:

1. Eat your heart out, 2. I (heart) balancing rocks, 3. Heart with Flowers Pendant, 4. Mountain Dew Heart Whole, 5. Heart no. 1, 6. M&M Heart, 7. black hearts, 8. I Heart Flickr, 9. my heart, 10. free texture . heart bokeh, 11. This heart is a stone, Acid House Kings, 12. Human Heart, 13. ~ I give you my heart ~, 14. Drops and hearts, 15. More Hearts!, 16. With my heart on my hand, 17. My burning heart, 18. Heart with Hearts, 19. The Voice of a broken heart, 20. Flickr Hearts Fun, 21. Heart of flowers, 22. Heart of Glass, 23. a lost heart, 24. Mirrored Sea Shell Heart, 25. my heart is on your hands.

All are Creative Commons items, but you do need to go and look at the originals, and check out these photographers’ other works.  Also check out the “Hearts” Flickr stream; great fun.

The dotter dressed all in pink yesterday for school.  Pink, pink, PINK.  She looked mighty darned cute, but boy-oh-boy am I getting sick and tired of PINK.  She returned with cards and candy.  Then we had to go to the Sock Hop at school.  I did not want to go; I was feeling pouty (complete with lower lip stuck out!).  But OmegaDad whispered to me, “Please come.  I’d really like it,” in a sort of puh-leeze-don’t-leave-me-alone-with-screaming-kids-and-loud-music-puh-leeze!  I gritted my teeth and went.

And had fun.  Who’d'a thunk it?!

I have, sitting on the wainscot ledge by my computer, this:

It’s by a lady named Andrea Pratt, and it arrived this afternoon.  I love it.  The vibrant colors are just what I need in the midst of an Alaska winter.  I want to sink my teeth into the grapefruit, I want to hand some dripping kiwifruit slices to the dotter (she loves kiwifruit, I don’t), I want to be sitting in the sunlight with a plate full of fruit…It’s great.

It was the result of a sale where Andrea asked for bids.  I threw out a low bid–I knew it was low (though not how low, I’m really lousy at this kind of thing)–figuring she’d say no.  No-one else bid for it.  So there I am, the owner of this lovely painting, because for some reason it didn’t “grab” anyone else the way it “grabbed” me.

So since I’m feeling guilty about my purchase, I am asking y’all to go visit Andrea’s blog, Colouring Outside The Lines, and her online shop, Small Art, to see if there’s anything one of you might be interested in.  She also has an Etsy store, which is where I found her to begin with; the Summer/Dance/Birdland/Bloom quartet is similar to the ones I purchased a year ago, which are now hanging in our living room.

Another guilty pleasure, of a totally different sort:  Wilbur Pan, who is the Chris Brown of Chinese pop/rap.  For those of you who don’t (yet) know of Chris Brown (though you will as your girls get older) (I’m told teen girls swoon), think of a Chinese Michael Jackson-esque rap singer.  AmFam turned me on to him, though she doesn’t know it.  OmegaDotter loves his videos. 

Wu-Ha!

Remember how OmegaDotter told me that as soon as I left for my vacation, she and OmegaDad were going to have a disco party?

Unbeknownst to me, OmegaDad was sent off by his mother, lo these many years ago when he was a teen, to actually learn to disco.

The things you find out about your spouse.  First I discover he knows all the words to a variety of Carpenter’s songs, then I am blindsided by the fact that he actually knows how to disco.

In addition, while I was on vacation, he shared this knowledge with the dotter, who has been happily disco-ing ever since.

So, since New Year’s Eve is traditionally a time to party, I decided to share OmegaDad and OmegaDotter disco-ing around the living room.  Please ignore the dawg; please disregard the large blank spaces on the walls; please do not worry:  the Christmas tree has not fallen down yet, nor has anyone been impaled by needles, nor have Christmas ornaments been demolished.

There is one spectacular cartwheel.

There is no sound track of OmegaMom snickering helplessly as she recorded this scene for posterity.

So this is my wish for you, my readers:  That your life may be filled with as many pleasant surprises as mine in 2009.  And that you PAR-TAY! for New Year’s Eve.

I’ve purchased the tickets, and will be off to visit GrannyJ for a week before Christmas.  This leaves poor OmegaDad holding the reins of the household (and OmegaDotter) whilst I am gone.  He, being a wimp when it comes to Causing The Dotter Emotional Distress, said I had to tell her I was going.

So on the way home from swimming the other day, I broached the subject.

It was not taken with Emotional Distress, oh no.

“Yay!  Daddy and I can do whatever we want while you’re gone!”

I winced inwardly, imagining returning to a home more like a tornado has gone through it than normal.

“And we can have a party!  A disco party!”

I do not know where that came from.  Har.

Whew.

Ballet Recital Madness is over for a year.  Yay!

Friday we headed off to Big City at 5 p.m., and arrived home at 11.  Saturday, we headed off to Big City at 5 p.m., and arrived home at 11:30.  Amazingly enough, there were no meltdowns related to extreme tiredness.

There’s a great cultural difference between the ballet studio we went to in Small Mountain University Town and the studio we’re going to here.  There, there were kids all over, giggling and laughing and having fun.  You could watch other classes through the one-way glass, and all the little girls loved sitting in the doorway and watching the bigger girls doing their routines.  The teachers for the littlies were pretty relaxed, and there was lots of hugging and kissing. 

This studio currently has only one class going at a time, so there’s none of that mixing.  And it’s run by–as one of the other backstage moms put it–The Ballet Nazi.  This is Serious Stuff, girls!

So it wasn’t as fun for OmegaDotter, and there’s talk of switching to ice skating instead.  Jazz dance would be more fun for her, I think, but they start at 7 years old.

The atmospheric difference also showed up in the performance.

Which is to say:  Wow.

Really.

These were some awesome dances–great choreography and disciplined dancers.  Even the younger ones.  The end result was that it was a professional performance (almost).  So The Ballet Nazi comes through in the end.

We’re all dog-tired.  But OmegaDad, though tired, is on A Mission…he’s building a chicken coop in the stable attached to the Villa. 

(The moose was still alive when the pickup hit it.  It was not alive afterwards.  Luckily, it was a young moose, so the truck and the driver survived.)

Today’s dose of BRM:

Left house in Suburban Alaska at 1:30 p.m. to head to Fancy Performing Arts Center in Big City.

Hauled a heavy laundry basket filled with various supplies two blocks across downtown Big City.

Spent 6.5 hours with 8 five- and six-year-old girls in one small room.  Along with two other backstage moms.

Helped deal with a DVD player that didn’t have sound.

Coped with two little girls who missed their mommies.

Passed out copious amounts of string cheese, bottled water, crayons, coloring pages, and granola bars.

Scoped out Stage Right and Stage Left.

Helped herd little girls into costumes.

Fed little dancing bunnies imaginary carrots.

Helped herd half the little girls into Stage Left for the performance rehearsal while another of the backstage moms herded the other half into Stage Right.

Helped herd little girls all the little girls into Stage Right for the final bows.

Helped herd little girls out of costumes.

Watched the car in front of me at the garage exit try, for ten minutes, to come up with the right combination of dollar bills that the garage exit machine would accept.

Spent five minutes myself trying to get the garage exit machine to accept my credit card.  Then realized I was inserting it in backwards.

Avoided the dead moose in the middle of the highway, only a few minutes after the large old pickup truck had hit it.  Large old pickup truck was by the side of the road and quite crumpled-up front.

Stopped at Wendy’s for food.

Arrived home in Suburban Alaska at about 10 p.m.

For a few years, my running gag with OmegaDad was that there were Martians, and they just didn’t want us bothering them.

Now that we’ve had a few years of Spirit and Opportunity exploring the red planet, for a much longer period than originally planned (yay!), and now that the Phoenix has landed, I guess I have to say a sad farewell to that little joke.

Aside from that, we had Ballet Recital Madness–The Preview (aka the production run-through of the recital).  Some lovely dancing, some extremely tired but very well-behaved three- to six-year-olds, a few glitches, and some laughs.  Next up is Thursday, dress rehearsal.

I may actually have real content here tomorrow, but can’t promise anything on Thursday, Friday, or Saturday.

Just a moment to thank all those who have helped to protect our nation.

Our veggie beds are all filled with dirt and planted with seeds and plants.  OmegaDad, realizing what a tasty treat he had just set out for various varmints, is off to Lowe’s or Home Debit to get some orange construction fencing, which is reputed to scare moose.  Or he may end up with moose repellant.  (I never thought I’d be googling that phrase, but life is full of interesting surprises.)

This week is Ballet Recital Madness.  Tuesday evening is the full run-through.  Thursday is the dress rehearsal.  Friday and Saturday are the performances.  Luckily, the schedule is not as bad as I originally believed; someone in charge had sense enough to tell the littlies to come later.

I signed up as a backstage mommy for dress-rehearsal day.  That was before I knew that it was the Longest Day.  I will know better next year.

And if I ever complain about one of the dotter’s teachers, please remind me of this story and ask me whether it’s as bad as that.  I am far too mellow today to take that one on, but just let me say it left me speechless.

Ballet Recital Madness has started.

Today was photo day.

I got the dotter all dolled up in her costume, including makeup and hairspray holding the little wispies up off her forehead.  We got into the car, complete with a sheet covering the seat so that the (white!) costume didn’t get dirty.  We got there in plenty of time.  Only to discover…

…the photographer had left a Crucial Piece of Equipment at his studio, back in Big City.  So he was driving back there and back to the studio.  And there we were, half of the parental units having been contacted in time, the other half not, with dotters in tow, all costumed and made up…

…for two hours.

In white costumes.  Did I mention the costumes are white?

I had to re-do the dotter’s hair three times, with more and more hairspray, because the girls were running and jumping and having great barrels of fun.

A bunny:

More bunnies (with blurred faces!):

It took a lot longer than I had planned, and we didn’t get home until 1 or so.

And then this afternoon, OmegaDad arrived home early, removed the tarp from the Ginormous Mound o’ Dirt to transfer to the veggie beds, and this is the result:

Our thought is that we should have gotten a Ginormous Mound o’ Dirt many years ago, as a plaything for the child.  She could spend hours in it.  She gets tossed into the bathtub as soon as she gets inside the house.  Her friend K. is coming over tomorrow, and I have to warn K.’s mom to send a change of clothes, because between the chickens and the GMOD there’s no way on gawd’s green earth that she’ll be clean for very long.

(Bonus points to any commenter who recognizes the subject line of this post.)

When the dotter had her "I don’t wanna do ballet" month and decided to stick to it to do the recital, I was thinking like the recital at the last ballet studio:  One day, at the local high school auditorium in the afternoon, lots of fun.  Okay, the week before was crowded with rehearsals, but they were after work/after school.  And, okay, looking back I realize that the older kids did two performances…

This recital, however, is a production, and not a small one.

This dance studio is attached to the Big City Ballet.

This recital will be at the Big City Performing Arts Center.

We have a full studio rehearsal the week before.

We have a tech rehearsal the kiddlies don’t have to go to (thank heavens!), at the BCPAC.

We have a dress rehearsal the kiddlies do have to go to, at the BCPAC.  We have to be there at 2:30 in the afternoon.  It goes to (wait for it!) 9 p.m.

We have two performances, one on a Saturday and one on that Sunday, and the kiddlies are in both.  The latest I have heard is that we need to be there for these, also, at 2:30 in the afternoon.  The performances are at 7 p.m.  Everything ends, once again, at 9 p.m.

I foolishly signed up as a den mother for the dress rehearsal.  I thought it would be a few hours.  The idea of wrassling kiddlies for seven hours, while they all get tired and bored and restless, makes my eyes bug out.

The idea of dealing with the dotter after three days of this…it makes my eyes bug out even more.

I am having palpitations.  My breath is panicky.  My mind is an utter and complete blank.

Oh, yeah, and the kiddlies?  The "pre-ballet class"?  When does their piece show up in the performance?  In the middle of the second act.  Oy!  Good way to drive parents of six-year-olds insane, ballet studio!

By the way–Big City is an hour’s drive from here.

Can I also mention the talent show tryout tomorrow afternoon at school?  Or the "Ultimate Obstacle Course" competition at the gymnastics place in early May?  What about various photo shoots?  Oh, yeah, and the school picnic in late May.  And the "parent appreciation picnic" at the ballet studio in early June?  They’d damned well better appreciate us after all of this!

I am soooo looking forward to June, July, and August.  All I have to do then is schlep the dotter to and from summer camp, which will completely wear her out every day.

Gratuitous kid pic…the dotter goofing off on a lake a few weeks ago:

For many years, my mom took me to see the Nutcracker in downtown Chicago.  I am trying to follow in her footsteps by taking the dotter as well.

Big City Ballet was showing the Nutcracker, so I bought (ack gasp!) (expensive!) tickets for the three of us for this afternoon.  Unfortunately, OmegaDad got the creeping crud yesterday and was feeling like hell today, so it was just the dotter and I.

Of course, we had already purchased the requisite fancy Christmas dress…last year’s is much too small, making me forcefully aware of how much bigger the girl has gotten.  (As Miss C. said in her commentary on my last post, OmegaDotter is forever three years old in memory.)

What might not be immediately evident in the above picture is the fact that this year’s requisite fancy shoes that grabbed the dotter’s fancy are…

…are…

Well…urg…they have heels.  ACK!

Strappy black shoes with heels.  I felt like I was introducing an innocent to something like crack.  Or like a traitor to feminism and battling the patriarchy.  Additionally, I felt like a dreadfully wussy woman, to cave to the dotter’s pleas for these shoes, no others.  But, dayum, they did look mighty cute.

In honor of the occasion, I, too, wore heels.

Let me just say:  I am out of practice with high heels.  My feet have gotten longer.  And fatter.  And flatter.  My darling husband, my the Kozmik All forever smile upon him, eyeballed the shoes and asked me, “You are going to take some ’sensible’ shoes with you, right?”  Quickly disabused of the idea of wearing them all the way to Big City and back, I backpedaled and said, ”Oh, of course!” and crammed my tootsies into my nice, comfy, ugly faux Ugg boots.

Thank heavens.

Because wearing the high heels and walking the two blocks from the parking garage to the ballet venue made me quite aware of how out of high-heel-shape my feet are.  By the time we sat down in our seats, I heaved a huge sigh of relief as I surreptitiously kicked my pointy-toed high heels off.

At intermission, out in the middle of the lobby while looking at kewl Christmas ornaments for sale, I slipped them off again, and just carried them with us wherever we went.

There was, of course, a whirlwind of little girls dressed in fancy dresses and holiday finery.  I adore looking at all the girly girls in their Christmas splendor, and sighed quietly at some of the dresses which OmegaDotter had nixed (in favor of that triumph of marketing, the fancy dress with the doll-sized version of the fancy dress hanging off, ready for your 18″ doll to wear to match you).

The problem was, at the end of the performance (which was splendid) I couldn’t just walk back to the car in my stocking feet.  By the time we got downstairs and outdoors, I was mincing and wincing with every step.

So say bye-bye to the pointy-toed high heel shoes.  They are hitting the “donate to Goodwill” pile as of this evening.  Too bad, because they are quite pretty…but I will not suffer for beauty!

(P.S.  For those who are wondering:  Yes.  That is a Christmas sweater.  Not only is it a Christmas sweater, but it has glitter and beads, to boot.  I have admitted in many previous posts that I am an anti-fashionista, and I’m sure the very fact that I have a Christmas sweater, let alone wear it, consigns me to the utter depths of non-fashionable depravity in some people’s eyes.)

In a comment to the previous entry, Kate said I should try the Lindy Hop.

Come with me friends, to a time long ago, a simpler time, a time when OmegaMom was a carefree single living in Chicago…

There was (and still is) a “lifelong learning” organization in Chicago called The Discovery Center.  After many times flipping through their monthly course catalog and looking yearningly at the dance classes, I decided to take the plunge and sign up for a Swing Dance class, even though (being single) I had no partner.

It was a great class.

The teachers started out slow.  We partnered up with each other, and switched partners after every little bit of practice, and then, at the end of the evening’s class, they put on some nice slow jazz and we’d practice our mostly-klutzy-but-slowly-improving dance steps.

(Part of the idea, of course, was to introduce singles to each other.  Sort of a pseudo-mass-dating scene.)

It was an eight-week session.  By week six, Mr. Police Officer Into Nudism and I were heading out after class to Jukebox Saturday Night, on Clark Street, and tripping the light fantastic on the dance floor.  We danced well enough, I might add, that we got applause and had people asking us how long we had been dancing together.

(Let us pause for a moment while OmegaMom preens herself.)

It was grand fun.  Let’s put aside the fact that Mr. Police Officer kept a gun tucked into the waistband of his pants at all times.  And that he really, really wanted me to come to the nudist club with him for a weekend.  And that I was too uptight to even consider it.  I got some experience with a radar gun and some dates out of the whole affair, and we both had fun at the nightclub.

The problem is that this was at least twenty years ago.

The additional problem is that OmegaDad has the rhythmic competency of a piece of driftwood:  i.e., none.

The third piece of the puzzle is that, while OmegaDad actually can dance if he is very carefully handled by my cousin Sissy (I have seen this with my own two eyeballs), my cousin Sissy has the patience of a saint.  I do not.  So any practice would need to be done by OmegaDad and Someone Else.  But OmegaDad is finicky about things…for quite a while, he would get insulted if some cute thing flirted with him in the checkout line, because he was Married! dammit!  My explaining that the flirter probably didn’t see his wedding ring wouldn’t cause him to pardon her; she was automatically placed into the category of Bad Person.  Anyway, I can hardly imagine how he would respond to dancing with some woman who wasn’t OmegaMom.  Except for cousin Sissy, who is a special case.

Anyway, once upon a time, OmegaMom could dance quite well, and all the credit should go to the method of teaching, which was:  slow, steady, and practice over and over and over again.  And have fun.

Which is what I was talking about in my previous post.

And to all and sundry who said they’d take one of these courses if I started one, I will merely point out that I am in Alaska, Land of Wild Freedom, and you all are Outsiders.  (That’s what they call the Lower 48 here: “Outside”.)  It would be quite difficult to hold a class for someone who lives in Kentucky, someone who lives in NJ, someone who lives in Oregon, and someone who lives in Arizona.

But!  If we were all in the same neck of the woods…!  Hey, we’d have to just hire ourselves a dance teacher and have a grand ol’ time.

Right?

Sooooo…Did OmegaDad return home with the blue Spiderman backpack as threatened?

Well, no.  He returned home with a pink thing that, even though it wasn’t a “pully” kind of backpack, which she particularly wanted, had lots of compartments and a water bottle, so it fully satisfied the dotter.

Onto other things:  A few weeks ago, I signed up for a ballet class for adults at the dance studio the dotter goes to for ballet.  I’ve gone to one class.  Last week I fizzled at the last minute, blaming Halloween pumpkin-carving and dinner makings.  This week?

Well, I think I’m not going to go.

Why?

Um.  Y’know…I don’t really like ballet.

There.  I said it.  It just doesn’t do anything for me.  And the class was all bar work.  Lots of pliés and footwork.  In a word:  boring.

So I’ve been watching the dotter’s ballet class, and it’s fun.  Her gymnastics class is fun.  They don’t push the kids; they move them at a slow pace, repeating things, making sure they learn each new thing well, and making sure it’s just plain fun.

Why can’t they do that for adults?  The dotter won’t be stuck into bar work for another few years.  But she’s getting lots of dancing and lots of basic moves and having fun.

I wanna have fun.   I wanna take a gymnastics class that lets me bounce on a trampoline and run an obstacle course where you do lots of somersaults and walk on a balance beam (over and over and over again) at a very basic level before being asked to do more.  I want a basic class that admits that, yes, adults can be klutzes, and, like children, need to repeat the same thing over and over and over again before it sinks into the kinetic unconscious.  This is why I back out of aerobics classes or step classes that are too advanced:  they whip you from one combo to the next when you’re just starting out, and the next thing you know, while the entire class is be-boppin’ in one direction, you’re doing a box-step in the other direction.  I don’t get embarrassed by it any more, it’s just the way I am.  But I do get frustrated, and I do end up box-stepping right into someone who’s be-boppin’, and it just isn’t fun.

But, when I do get a class where they take it slow and let klutzes like me learn the basic combos a bit at a time, and rehearse, rehearse, rehearse them before moving on, I do have fun.

Klutzes of the world, unite!  We need to demand fun classes that are slow-paced in the learning aspects, but not slow-paced in movement!

Woohoo! Join me, fellow rebels!

I was originally planning to do a post all about people to whom “status” is paramount.  I was going to be witty…cutting…pithy…

The best laid plans.

Did you know that OmegaMom, that paragon of rational thought, that believer in “pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again”, lover of practicality, is, in reality, a sentimental marshmallow?

Yes, it is true.

Why do I bring this up?

Well, today, at the dotter’s ballet class, we were given schedules for recital stuff.  (We’re talking five meetings/rehearsals within one week in May!)  Teachers were scurrying around getting measurements and weights for the kids.  The jazz/ballet company (girls around 12 who had to audition for the company) was rehearsing in the big studio.  Miss Elaine had the primary/kindergarten class scuttle into the big studio and practice their routine right after the jazz/ballet company did their big production.

And I was just a mess.

It took everything I have to not dab at my eyes and start sniffling.

I was on the verge of sobbing.

This recital is designed to yank at heartstrings in multiple ways.  First off, it has a patriotic theme.  The p/k girls are doing their routine to a slow version of “My Country Tis Of Thee”.  The jazz dancers are dancing to Neil Diamond’s “Coming to America”–a tear-jerker if there ever was one.  A whole slew of other patriotic songs follows.  And then there’s the fact that they’re just so damned cute.  And it’s the dotter’s first recital.

(The p/k girls are adorably uncoordinated.  I fully expect them to be turning in opposite directions, some to be stepping forward when they’re supposed to be stepping back, and a few collisions.)

If I’m like this for a silly class, just because the dotter is well on her way to her first recital, what on earth am I going to be like for the Real Thing??

Mush, I tell ya.  Mush.

I’ll do “status” tomorrow.

Technorati: Ballet, recital, sentimentality