Do it For the Magic

Today is Leap Day! I’m going to post today no matter what, because I won’t get another chance to post a blog post on February 29th for four whole years!

Sadly, for some bizarre reason this day is NOT a holiday at my work. I ask you, if a day which magically appears every four years, and then disappears just as magically, isn’t a reason for paid time off I don’t know WHAT IS. It’s like the calendar equivalent of Briga-friggin'-doon, for dang sake! What I should be doing right now is playing bagpipes and wearing a kilt and eating dang haggis!

Instead I’m at work. But I’m not letting this day go without some kind of festive acknowledgement. So how am I celebrating Leap Day? 6 words:

Free Pepsi and unlimited Red Vines

Someone had a Pepsi they didn’t want (don’t even get me started on the impossibility of having a Pepsi that you don’t want) so they gave it to me. THEN, not more than minutes later, someone else found one of those eleventy-thousand-pound tubs of Red Vines in their office which they ALSO didn’t want!

I left the tub in their office, so as not to seem greedy, but I think they’ve noticed that I come back in there every 8 minutes to get another handful of Red Vine goodness. Yes, they’re definitely on to me. But it really doesn’t matter, because by the end of the day I’ll have made myself completely sick on soda and Red Vines. Happy Freakin’ Leap Day, my people!

What did you do to celebrate???

Take two of my excuses and call me in the morning.

This is just hard!

So my arm, it’s still boogered up. (technical term) And I’ve got nobody to blame but myself at this point, because apparently I just can NOT follow directions. The PT says “ice it twice daily, exercises twice daily, take anti-inflammatory meds and DON’T USE IT.” But I hear “ice it once a week, and if you remember to do it a second time that same week you deserve a Pop Tart. Do exercises whenever you remember. If you don’t remember at all for one whole day you’ll totally make up for it by doing it 6 times the next day, and don’t worry if doing all those exercises in one day makes the arm hurt more. Anti-inflammatory pills are hard to take, so why even bother. Try to use it more than you think you ever used to use it; in fact use it pretty much constantly.”
The hardest one is to not use the arm. Because what that has made painfully obvious (yes, the pun was intentional) is how much I use my left arm. Apparently my right arm is the brains, but my left arm is the muscle. So if something takes dexterity or agility or any other “-ity’s” I use my right arm, because it is precise and careful and has skillz. (with a Z!) That means I use my left arm for carrying heavy things and pushing stuff and punching the bad guys. And it’s not like I can just stop carrying things or punching bad guys! That way lies MADNESS!

Also I just forget not to use it. I remember eventually, but mostly because my using it hurt something and at that point the remembering is just mockery. My day is filled with this:

• reach for big, heavy hospital door with my left arm.
• “ouch, that hurt my left arm pulling this big, heavy hospital door open!”
• let go of door with left hand, try to open it the rest of the way with my right arm.
• somehow get all tangled up in my own arms.
• look like a complete dork.
• rub my arm because it’s too late anyway and now it hurts.
• wonder how I don’t poke my own eye out with forks more often, given that I’m such a moron.
• buy corks to put on the end of my forks for future eye protection.
• reach for the next big, heavy hospital door with my left arm.
• repeat until crazy/crippled.

And then I go to my PT appointment the next week and I lie to her about how bad I’ve been. I lie to my Physical Therapist. How sad is that? She says “how has it been going?” and I start off honestly; I confess that I didn’t do my exercises as much as I should have. But she always wants numbers and facts and details! It’s like the third degree and I panic! All that pressure, people! (I can’t tell – are you buying these lame excuses?)

The end result is that I usually say something like “oh, I only did my exercises once a day several days.”

“Did you ice?”

“Um, sure! Bunches of times!”

“And have you been trying not to use it?”

“Trying. Yes, I’ve been trying that.”

…but I think she knows I’m full of it, because then she does some “massage” which is actually latin for “hurting, hurting, more hurting and if you hadn’t been a big liar this would feel nice!” Sigh.

(oh, and yes I did use both hands while typing this.)

(oh, and I think I completely forgot to go to my follow-up doctor’s appointment some time this week.)

(oh, and Tuesday I tripped on the same stairs. I didn’t fall, but I’m more sure than ever before that they’re out to kills me.)

Not a Morning ANYTHING.

Today I beat the sun to work. The sun. It’s so wrong I don’t even know where to begin. And so now I’m sitting here, and I thought “hey, this would be a good time for me to do a little writing!” and then I LAUGHED AND LAUGHED AND LAUGHED. Because the actual list of things that this would be a good time for looks like this:

1. Sleep.

Notice the distinct lack of a number 2? Notice? Yeah, I noticed that too.

The dude I dated used to try to wake me up early on the weekends (and by early I mean any time before 9:55am, of course) for a little morning nooky. The first time I truly thought he was kidding, and I’m pretty sure I punched him in the side of the head because morning is not a time for jokes, it’s a time for sleeping. And again, the whole thing is foggy because HELLO, SLEEPING RIGHT NOW!!!!, but I vaguely remember staring at him for a r-e-a-l-l-y l-o-n-g t-i-m-e once I got that he was not kidding at all. Because I couldn’t figure out what else to do, and staring was the thing most like sleeping that I could come up with. (Point in fact, I might even have managed some open-eyed sleeping at that point, just because I knew that as long as I was making some kind of eye contact he’d think I was thinking it over and leave me alone.)

This same person (I hope by now you already get how not at all meant to be he and I were) used to tell me that if I just went to bed earlier I’d be able to get up all cheery and happy and full of bunnies and daisies and rays of sunshine. Ridiculous. The day I leap out of bed with vim and verve is the day someone fills my mattress with stingy, bitey bugs. On fire. Carrying switchblades. And I could probably sleep through that anyway.

ZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz…

Diablo Cody, you're my HERO!

OK, so I’ve been doing this blogging thing for a while (and I think I’ve mentioned that I mostly do it for me and because I love it, because I’m essentially a selfish person) and I’ll admit that it’s got me feeling more and more like if I actually had a dream (which I don’t – blogpost on that to come soon. Watch this space.) it would be something around writing for a living. I love the writing, even when I’m not doing it so well (sometimes ESPECIALLY when I’m not doing it so well) and I do think that I do it better than the average bear (their lack of thumbs is no excuse!).

At the same time, rarely have I seen the career guide or online class or seminar called “Writing: it’s a totally easy thing to do for a living and a guaranteed source of massive wealth. Ask me how!” Like all the fun jobs, the really hard part is finding a way to be a truly successful professional writer. I’ve looked on this blog as a sort of “step one” – if I can do this pretty well and regularly than maybe there’s hope for me, blah blah blah, theme song to Rocky, sweep the legs Danielsan, It’s up to you, New York, etc… It’s the step two that I’m not seeing from here.

Until last night!

Now, thanks to Diablo Cody and her amazing, now Oscar-award winning screenplay for Juno, I have a plan. It’s so simple, and yet without her guidance I’d have never seen the path! It is like so:

1. Become a stripper
2. Blog about being a stripper (which is a plus for you guys, after reading this blog all about not being a stripper. What the heck was I thinking?)
3. Write a book about life as a stripper
4. Write an award-winning screenplay (doesn’t HAVE to be an Oscar – I’d take a globe all golden and lovely or even something from the people. (Of the people? By the people? Anyone? Anyone?)
5. Sit back and wait for the fame and accolades and money, money, money.

…of course this is just a rough outline of a plan. I need to nail down some of the details, but I feel better knowing that I have a real plan at last. Oh, and in case you were wondering my stripper name will be Dirty Mama Monroe. (I couldn’t make that one up.)

My alternative beverage lifestyle – let me show you it

So I’m a kid and I’m sick and have the classic cough and scratchy throat. That is, to me, the worst part of a cold: cough and scratchy throat. Little kid me is so frustrated with this long-time cough that I’ve decided (in the best example of 6 year old stubborn logic) that I am just NOT GOING TO COUGH ANY MORE! NOT GONNA! I HAVE SPOKEN! And so I hold my breath (because the first step of each cough is the attempt to breathe, silly me), but instead of no coughs I have several long minutes of tiny, stilted, choked off little sputter-coughs. And I also turn blue. And when I finally have to breathe it’s just aaaaaall cooouuuggghhss. Hack. Sputter. Stomp, stomp, kick the wall…

My mom, being smart in the way that moms are and that she especially is, wants me to drink some kind of warm drink for it would be soothing and helpful. The problem is that I don’t like warm drinks. Don’t like tea, don’t like apple cider, don’t like coffee (plus then all you really get is coughy, bug-eyed little me!), do like hot cocoa but only if made w/ milk, which is not helpful in this phlegmmy time. And no matter how helpful something might be, if I don’t like it I’m not going to eat or drink it. Not. So very, VERY not. I am stubborn, hear me roar. (and then coooough and cooooough…)

So my mom, seeing me trying to cure a cough through sheer force of will and having that mom-gene of “I will fix it, for it is my child and I will fix it!”, my mom turns to her Midwestern roots and she makes me a mug of Jello water.

Mmmmm. Jello water.

Jello water, for those of you who don’t put Miracle Whip on your white bread/turkey sandwiches or top your Tuna Casserole with Velveeta, is made with a box of Jello and 3 cups of hot water and only 1 cup of cold water. And you make it in a pitcher instead of a bowl, and you serve it in mugs. It’s hot and fruity and coats and soothes and totally solved every sore throat I remember having my whole life.

OK, now shoot through time with that woodle-woodle-woodle screen shimmer thing from tv and suddenly it’s this week. I have a cold with a whopper of a sore throat (courtesy of cough-cough-hack-choke-cooooooooough!) and I’ve got a big pitcher of Jello water, for medicinal purposes, sitting on my desk. Black cherry flavor. Which, coincidentally, looks just like blood when sitting in a pitcher. Or a mug. Or coating one’s lips. And I mentioned before that it’s warm, right? So here I sit, drinking my medicinal, blood-colored mystery drink. And as each person asks what I am drinking I explain that I’m sorry, I can’t tell you. No, it’s confidential and I don’t want to talk about it, and get away from that! Get away from my,… medicine!!! (mmm, tasty, thick and warm…)

Drinking tea has never been this much fun, people. (cough, cough, cough…)

Sniffle, Snuffle, cough-hack-DIE

I have a cold. I’m not sick, but I have a cold. It’s NOT the same thing.

If I’m SICK I stay home. I curl up on the couch (unless I’m REALLY, REALLY sick, in which case I stay in bed. But I have to be 2 steps from rushing to the hospital because a body part has dropped off or green stuff is coming out of every orifice.) and I keep a bucket, a thermometer and the phone within quick reach. I find things on tv to sleep through because I’m too sick to stay awake too long, so why get invested in something I’m going to miss? I probably take some kind of medicine for at least some of my symptoms. I’m SICK. It’s SERIOUS.

[tangent: one time I was really, really sick. Like I missed an entire week of work because the doctor said “you have to stay home this week.” And I said “I’ll try to come home early a few days.” And he said “no – YOU HAVE TO STAY HOME THIS WHOLE ENTIRE WEEK. HAVE TO. NO WORK. STAYING HOOOOOOOOME.” This was after I’d had a fever so high that I’d started calling out for the nurse to bring me some water, so very parched and thirsty was I, and called and called for Nurse, Nurse, oh NURSE??? for a really long time before the less crazy part of my brain remembered that I was in the house totally alone. And that I hate water. And luckily I was too fevered and addle-brained to be as completely freaked out by the hallucinations until 3 days later. Good times…]

Where was I? Oh yeah, not sick. I have a cold.

If I have a COLD I just have a cold. I still go to work. I do the dishes and the laundry, at least a little. I mutter through life, usually with a box of snot cloths in tow, but I don’t stop doing life stuff. Remember what the experts say about colds: if you don’t take it easy and really work on getting better you’ll have that cold for 7 whole days. BUT if you get lots of sleep, drink fluids, really take care of yourself the cold will be gone in a week!

In other words, no matter what I do, I’m going to have this cold. So I just live life. With a cold. But I’m not really sick.

Now trying to explain this to my co-workers.

In an effort to put a positive spin on this big, stupid cold I’ve used my nasty-looking and ughy-sounding symptoms to good use:

• By coughing LOUDLY each time someone approached I was able to keep from sitting next to strangers in the movies last night.
• Two people at work decided not to give me their latest mindless work for me to do after seeing the mound of Kleenex waterfalling out of my trash can – “what if she calls in sick tomorrow when I’m supposed to have this done?”
• People will not begrudge you the last 2-bite cinnamon roll if you’ve snuffled 16 times in the last 30 seconds.

Still, I’m looking forward to this Friday, when the cold should be moving on. (are you going to eat that? Snuffle? Snuffle? SNUFFLE?)

Look Ma -- one hand!

Previously on a very special episode of “Unlikely In Love”…

[Femtastic trotting down fire stairs, slippy-trips and grabs, grabs, GRABS for the handrail. “Aiieee, I fall! Curse you, gravity, you pushy betch!” she hollers as down she falls. She brags, cocky-like, “oooh-di-oooh, look how very unharmed I am! Look how I fall and walk away without a single scathe! Marvel at my indestructible nature and quake! Quake I say!” and then the next day “whimper, keen, oh woe is me and my poor, poor hurted wrist. Lavish me with sympathy if you please. And also bon-bons and free spendy cable…”A trip to a nurse who says “yup, that’s what happens when you let yourself fall down the stairs, dope.” Femtastic whines on her blog “woe is me, I’m all injured and sad.” The readers boggle at her lameness.]

OK, so the safety nurse said “Ice it.” and I did, and gradually it got some better, and then more better, and now it’s almost all better. And yay! But as the wrist was getting better the pain was creeping up and eventually set up camp in my elbow. But say I “so what?”, right? I just have to keep icing and eventually it will work its way up to my shoulder, and then my neck, and then my left eye (ouchies!) and finally a headache that will float up into the ether. No problem!

Unfortunately the ouchies really liked the view there at Camp Elbowatchatoozie and they’re enjoying s’mores and ghost stories and Little Bunny Foo-Foo and won’t move on! So for at least a month I’ve had this stabby little pain in my left elbow. I have it when I pick things up heavier than about 5 lbs. Or if I twist my arm hardly at all. And also when I scratch my back or open heavy doors or about 6 other simple, everyday things. The pokey nature has had me convinced that it’s a piece of something sharp which has declared its independency from a bigger thing and is now floating around inside my arm, reading Kerouac and sketching passing blood corpuscles. Into the Wild, bone-chip style!

I finally called the safety nurses, who sent me to the sad, sad worker’s comp medical offices out by the Costco. The doctor came in, and I told him my story and the evolution of the stabby pain and my theory of a roaming sharp bone chip. I also told him that I’d tried and tried but could find no specific place where I could push on the arm and make the stabby pain happen. And he reached over and said “What about here.” And poked this one spot and I fell over dead from the fantastic pain. Then he told me that there are tendons that connect to the elbow right at Camp Elbowatchatoozie and I torqued them when I tried to stop my fall with the hand rail, which is, by the way, super-similar to ‘tennis elbow.’ In fact, that’s even what he wrote on my file. So now I have a worker’s comp claim for bad backhand. L-A-M-E.

So to make the stabby pain go AWAY I should do the following things:
· Wear this strap on my arm.
· Ice the arm twice a day
· Go to physical therapy and do exercises twice a day
· Don’t use my left arm.

So far I’ve done the following things:
· Remembered the strap

I never remember to do the exercises and ice is so cold and hate to take any pills (thus dooming my future plans to become a raging Vicodin addict. That and the fact that Vicodin freaked me out with no up-side, so…) and what would be great is if it could just get over it please! Sigh. Bruises just go away. Cuts too. What is the deal with internal strains/sprains/idises/etc. that they just linger and loiter? Ridiculous…

Also ridiculous is the fact that every bit of injury from that fall resulted from my grabbing the hand rail. Which didn’t even keep me from hitting the ground. Basically I just wound up lying on the floor, my hand finally clutching the hand raid 3 feet overhead. (and, by the way, worst hand rail usage ever!!) Next time I’m just gonna fall and hope I don’t die. (too much.)

All of this was to say sorry that I didn’t write more this week. I was supposed to not be using my left arm and hand and stuff. And if I tried to write this without my lefties it comes out “Piouly on y pil pio o “Unlikly In Lo”…” Not so good. Hopefully the week off will be the miracle cure I’ve been looking for. (or I could do exercises and take painkillers and ice things. But probably not and also ouch.)

My lameness – let me show you it.

I get to my desk this morning and it’s been liberally sprinkled with things of a chocolate and/or heart-like nature. I think to myself “oh, how nice! My co-workers left me spontaneous chocolate! This must be because yesterday was such a rough day (which it was, but still) and thought I needed a boost. Big, sloppy heart-thumps!”

I look over at my neighbor’s desk. Where normally there would be a file sorter or box of tissue there has sprouted a great, big bunch of fabulous flowers. I think to myself “Wowzers! I wonder if it’s her wedding anniversary?”

A second bouquet of flowers comes through the door, and as I’m directing the lost delivery girl to the right office I marvel at the odds of two big bouquets being delivered on one day. “I will write this in my diary, so unlikely are the odds!” thinks I.

A third person wanders by dressed in reddy-pinky-rosey shades. I wish I’d worn the red shirt I almost picked out, except that it won’t fit over my arm therapy thing (I’ll tell you later), because then I would also be rosey-hued and wouldn’t that be funny!

I go to start my official list for the day and write “Thursday, 2/14/08” at the top. And then I bonk my head on the desk, because clearly there’s nothing in this big melon of mine to be damaged by head-bonking! Clearly any brains inside this piñata on my neck are ornamental! Clearly I’m as observant as a blind sloth on LSD, because hey, guess what everybody? It’s big, dumb VALENTINES DAY!!!

I return to wallowing in my lameness – I hope you got candies.

The Art of Foamy War

So who was Mr. Nerf? Because that guy? Genius.

My nephew’s official birthday party is tomorrow and one item on his list was a Nerf gun, which I put dibs on. Today I strolled through the Nerf section of the toy store. Strolled and considered how much of my 401k could I divert to Nerf products and still retire before age 90.

They didn’t have this level of cool Nerfness when I was a kid, right? I mean I didn’t miss out just because of the lack of penis? That would so piss me off! But I’m pretty sure that this was a reflection of the incredible progress that’s been made in Nerf technology over the last 2+ decades, right? There are MIT graduates and ex-members of the CIA and science fiction wizards from Hollywood all devoting their time and energy to new foam brilliance.

No kidding, there is stuff that glows and there are Nerf crossbows and bow-and-arrows and big, glowing balls. You can get battery–powered stuff but there’s also technology powered by hand pump (shut up, dirty boys and girls). The one I got for my nephew is the Nerf Rapid Fire 20. Here’s what I loved about it:

-Nerfness
-No batteries necessary
-SHOOTS 20 DARTS AT ONE TIME

Twenty darts. At one time. It’s like the Jackie Chan of Nerf guns, taking on all comers at once! You can shoot one at a time, if you’re being stealthy and planning your attack and are some kind of GREAT BIG NERF WUSSY! OR (and I really can’t stress this enough) you could stand on one end of the room and pump the gun full of all-powerful air and pull the trigger and send 20 tremendous Nerf missiles of soft, squishy death hurtling through the air to suction cup all over your enemies! I mean come ON! How COOL is that???

My nephew is going to be 10 but he’s already Mr. Junior Sun Tzu – he knew enough to specify that he only wanted one Nerf gun, because if he got more he’d be forced by his very fair-minded parents to share with his siblings. He’s the youngest of three, so it behoveded him to request this advantage. With the Rapid Fire 20 I’ve essentially given him two big guys who will travel with him everywhere and rough up anyone who annoys him. Except that they’re big foam guys, with suction cups for hands.

It’s 2:30am, I should have wrapped it already but I’m stalling. Because I’m still a little bit thinking of keeping it all for myself. For home security, of course. (man, I’m just so weak.)

Hello Internets -- Are you Ready to ROCK?!?!

I confess: I have joined the ranks of the Guitar Heroes. I didn’t want to, and I fought it. I tried to be all individual and jaded and “stupid Guitar Hero...” and sneer ala Billy Idol at those playing and bouncing around. This tactic worked great right up until they put the axe in my hand.

Damn you, Pat Benatar, and your catchy-yet-spirited anthym for the every woman telling the every man what’s what! One time through “Hit me with your best shot!” and I was hooked. (picture me jamming, while simultaneously shaking my fist at the heavens)

One of my preconceived notions about the game was that it just shouldn’t be that hard, because after all it’s not like you’re playing a real guitar! It’s 5 buttons and a toggle bar. And people, 5 buttons and a toggle bar does not a guitar make! (not even with the whammy bar and the snazzy, rock-centric stickers.) However apparently 5 buttons and a toggle bar are more than enough to kick MY ass! (stupid buttons)

By the end of the night, though, I’d found some kind of groove and jammed my ass almost 100% through Schools out for Summer by Ms. Alice Cooper (funny-looking girl, but lovely singing voice) in one shot. Lookit me, I’m a rock star! Take that Pete Townsend! Take that Edgey-poo! It ain’t so tough!

(What’s that? There are other levels beyond “easy”? No thanks, I’m good. Also I know there’s bonus points for free-styling and what not, but I’m apparently much more comfortable with my “no-styling” mojo. Thanks all the same.)

So THEN I go to my sister’s house. I wait patiently until those pesky children finally go to bed – then it was the grups turn to rock it hard, my friend. Because the sister, she has Rock Band. Or, as I like to call it, Guitar Hero and his friends Drum Champion and Master of all Microphones battle the evil Doctor Tonedeaf and his minions of no rhythm! And battle we did! Never before have Blue Oyster Cult or Nirvana been rocked by a more style-less, dorkytastic trio! All of the Rolling Stones were spinning in their graves; even though I think they're all still alive.

Now it cracks me up how I’ll hear a song on the radio and I’ll be listening for that awesome guitar line I totally know how to play. Play on 5 buttons. And a toggle bar.

Thank you, and good night!!!

Shuffle, ball, step, whizzz

OK, so I’m taking the tap class which you already knew. I’m so loving it, and I’m super-glad I decided to do it. Even doing the performance class, which does mean that in June my wee little class of 5 tappers will shake our booty on stage in front of something like 300 people. But I’ve been distracting myself from that knowledge by saying “that’s months away, and we have all this time to get it totally worked out in the meantime.”

This system was working really well up until last Saturday. But the stupid dance school had this stupid showcase. Where we had to do our stupid dance in front of stupid people. Big, dumb, stupid people! Also the closest I’ve come to wetting myself in front of an audience for years, so there’s that! (and can I also add “gleah.”)

So the thing that got me into taking the class, you may remember, was watching my 9 year old nephew do his performances the last 2 years. Plus I’d always come to his showcases to cheer him on, and I’d never really thought about why they did these showcase performances in front of people. But on Saturday I so had that lightbulb moment. This is pretty much just to give all us crazy dancing fools a chance to do this in front of people once or twice before we have to do it on the fancy stage. With the fancy costumes. And the fancy lights and maybe props and also the heart-wrenching terror and aneurism-inducing panic and stuff. So really it’s very smart of them. For being so stupid.

I am not a person who has ever suffered from stage fright (shocking, I know – I seem just SO shy!) and I’m not nervous about crowds (because I was raised by a crowd). Despite all of that, about 5 minutes after things got rolling I SO had to pee! Psycho-symatic nervous bladder if ever I’ve had one. I’d already peed at home, so I knew this was my body giving me the excuse to make a break for it! I resisted, though, and sat there and waited and nervoused and got that ulcer started that I’ve been putting off and putting off…

What I loved, though, was watching that young nephew of mine. This is his third year of classes and showcases and performances, so he’s the perfect picture of “whatever….” Blasé by age 9 – SUCH the cool dude. So I’m sitting in my row and we’re giggling and tittering and craning to watch every other group as they get up and do their thing. And each time they announce the next three groups coming up we’re hoping and dreading to hear out name, right? And there’s my nephew across the dance floor. And he’s reading. He doesn’t look up at the other dancers even once. He’s up to his elbows in some book and couldn’t be less worried if I’d paid him! He’s all ‘read, read, read, get up and do his dance without a single mistake, back to book, read, read, read…” Way, way TOO cool for any kind of school, my friend. I so want to be him when I grow up!

At the end of the concert— what? The dance? Oh, it was fine. I made a bunch of mistakes that I’ve never made before even once and felt stupid and afterward my adrenaline had me vibrating like… something that vibrates. Don’t go there. Plus we had to go right after this dance by the tap company which is made up primarily of class teachers and other dancing hotties and oh yeah the OWNER of the school, and the dance was so incredibly cool that I stood there, off-stage, with my big, dumb mouth just hanging open in gawkitude. A proud, proud moment. To be immediately followed by my mess-ups. And thank GOD we’ve got another showcase in April so I can have one more shot at doing this dance, this dance which I TOTALLY KNOW AND SHOULD NOT BE MAKING ANY MISTAKES IN, doing this dance in front of people without messing up. Because every single mistake was just me being flipped out about SO MANY PEOPLE. Like I didn’t know this was coming…

Anyway, after all the dancers were done one of the teachers calls my too-cool-for-school nephew up to the stage to tell everyone that it was his birthday (it was – 9-year old nephew no more, for now you are ten!) and have everybody sing to him. Which he stood and graciously took. And the second the song pittled off he turned to her and said “can I go now?”

Ten years old, going on thirty.