Monthly Archives: September 2013

I decided to take a ballet class this Fall.  The city offers adult classes through the parks and rec department, and I took almost nine years of dance as a child.  So, really, how hard could it be, right?  I was sure it would all come rushing back to me in a happy, caramel scented rush of warm, gooey memories.  Muscle memory would take over, and I would be gracefully pirouetting across the room in no time at all.  Please stop laughing at my optimism; it just isn’t polite.

So, the first night of class I motored over to the community center, bounced – literally bounced with excitement  – up the stairs and down the hall to the classroom.  Barres hung from mirrored walls, and blonde wood floors glistened with fresh wax.  The instructor was tiny, dressed in flowing skirts, hair secured in a tight chignon.   It was exactly how I pictured.  It was perfect.

Things  started well.  Pliés I could handle no problem.  Battements, no sweat.  It went along in this manner for about 45 minutes.  I thought I was in the clear, patted myself on the back.  Then came something for which I wasn’t prepared, something about which I had not thought: chainés – the dreaded repeated turns across the room on your toes, or at least I would have dreaded them had I thought to think about them.  Continue reading →

My sister-in-law leaned forward to turn up the radio.  “You have to hear this song.  The first time M (my brother) heard it, and Z heard it, at different times, they both thought it said the same thing.  Now I can’t hear anything else.”  And so, of course, I listened carefully.

The beat was catchy, one of those live animals that writhes its way into veins and pulses warm with each drum beat or electric guitar strum.  You find yourself dancing in your seat, bobbing your head as the guy in the car next to you laughs and points.  Yeah, one of those.

The refrain was, “We got all night to get lucky,” or something just as inane and offensive.  But J says, “Okay, your brother and your nephew thought it said ‘Mexican monkey,’ and now that’s all I hear.”

What?????  But you know, after she told me that, ‘Mexican monkey’ was all I could hear, too.  It made absolutely no sense; the song had nothing to do with Mexican jungles or monkeys in any way, and still, like Pavlov’s dog, play that music, and for me here come Mexican monkeys. Continue reading →

My nephew, Z,  is addicted to video games.  He’s limited to a couple hours a day on the iPad, but during his techno time, forget about distracting him with anything else.  Wanna go swimming? Nope.  Wanna go skydiving?  Nope.  Wanna learn how to rope a bull?  Nope.  Give the kid his video game.

One day we’re riding in the backseat of his mother’s urban assault vehicle, and he’s playing this game that has these caricatures of monster things scooting around the screen as he maneuvers the controls.  Z’s giggling as he sends the monsters into little shack-like icons then back out and around again.  I can decipher nothing else, but the kid is simply cracking himself up. I’m dying to know what’s so funny.

“Z, what are you playing?”

Mind you, he doesn’t look up from the iPad.  “It’s zombies.”

“Oh, uhm, well.”  What does one say to that?  Zombies???? So, instead I reconsider the picture on the screen and decided I am over the moon that the zombies look Herman Munster.  HE’S FIVE!!!!.

I’m a cool aunt – no, really.  I can handle the zombie 5 -year old conversation.  I try again.  “So, what are the little buildings the zombies are going into?”

Still looking at the iPad, “Outhouses.  They go to the bathroom there.”   Of course.  Little boys (big boys, too)  can’t resist that bathroom humor.

So, the coolness factor is slipping here because, I’m sorry, but reason is knocking on the door of this conversation.  I know, I know – it’s a conversation about zombies, reason doesn’t belong,  but please! “Z, if zombies are dead, why do they need to go to the bathroom?” Continue reading →

When my niece, K, -yes, she of the many tattoos – was 6 years old, she called me.  In the background echoed sounds of Sunday – football whistles from the TV, my brother fussing at referee calls and screaming “suggestions” at the QB, my sister-in-law clattering about in the kitchen.  K never called unless she had something weighty on her little mind.  So. I waited.

Finally:

“Tattoos are tacky on women, Rachael.”

Hmmm. . . I was a mite surprised as both K’s mom and her step mom, my sister-in-law, J,  had several.  Now, don’t fall over, but here I’m going to disclose that I, too, sport, um, body art.  I’ll get to how and where in a moment.  Wasn’t sure how to respond to this statement from my pint-sized chickie, but turns out I wasn’t required to just yet as she was plowing on.

“They’re tacky on the calf, the arm, the neck, the face- ” and she paused for the big wind up.  In a rush of breath she spit out, “And they’re really tacky on the back.”  Now my sweet girl K sat on the waiting end.  In fact, I’m pretty sure she held her breath.

Very calmly, very adult-ly I should add, I responded.  “K, I have a tattoo on my back.”

Her voice danced with glee.  “I know.” Continue reading →

One Christmas I drove to Texas to spend the holiday with my brother, M, and his family.  Now, anyone who lives in the latitudes above the sunbelt will entertain the notion that I’m a bit “off” when I say that it was just chilly enough for me to break out my coat and flannel PJs yet warm enough for me to run outside.  Fabulous Christmas weather!

I adore M’s kids; well, M and his wife, J, too, but really it’s all about the kids.  My niece is a teenager – much to my continuing dismay and astonishment as in my mind she will forever be three years old with bright shiny cheeks and strawberry curls frizzing at her cheeks.  Should I mention that since she has turned 18 she has also acquired an impressive number of tattoos – also much to my continuing dismay and astonishment?  The boys, Auz and Z, are much younger, and much more intense, both with dramatically impressive personalities already well-defined.  So far, they are tattoo free. Christmas with the kids is my idea of the way life is intended to be.

That year for Christmas, my brother said that Auz wanted something called “Moon Sand,” apparently the 21st century rebooted version of Play-Doh.  So, being the doting aunt I am, I high tailed it over to Target and bought the aforementioned dream toy, wrapped it in bright, shiny penguin paper, and tucked it among the already towering pile under (around) the Christmas tree. Continue reading →

My brother called this weekend and said that his younger son appears to be having trouble adjusting to their recent relocation from Oahu to Tucson – in July.  My immediate thought: you took the kid from paradise to h-e-double-hockey-sticks – where is the surprise?  Less than supportive, I know.  So, I clamped down on the gremlin in my head and instead murmured supportively.

Z, my nephew, is 5, and I adore him.   He’s bold and funny and fearless – all things I aspire to be.  However, his little flame has burned a bit low since the move, as first indicated when his mother asked if he’d made any friends at day care.  Very calmly, very coolly he responded with eyebrows arched, “I already have two.  I don’t need more.”  He meant the ones he’d left behind in Hawaii.  This did not bode well.

Z started first grade; the first week sailed by smoothly.  Those of us who had held our breath let it out and went about our business.  Then the proverbial  poop  hit the fan.  Z had discovered a new way to deal with frustrations at school; whenever his teacher – a saintly woman – requested that Z do something he was less than excited about, he’d crawl under his desk.  Yes, read that again.   Z now crawls under his desk when he doesn’t want to do something.  In fact, I imagine, he regularly bivouacs there much of the school day. Continue reading →