Sing Out Loud Fridays! “Dancing With Myself” Glee version

Given my recent mishaps on the dance floor, which you can read about in this post, I thought it would be an appropriate time to select “Dancing With Myself,” the Glee version sung by Kevin McHale.  I don’t think you have to be a Gleek to appreciate the way McHale interprets the Billy Idol song, which I must confess I never really liked.  But I fell in love with it when I saw the Glee episode “Wheels” in which Artie sings his very first solo, and it’s such a fabulous scene that I’m excited to post it.  Enjoy, and make sure to sing it out loud!

Dancing’s Most Embarrassing Moments (So Far)

Considering that I’ve only been doing this dance thing for about six weeks and I already have several terribly embarrassing incidents to report, this is clearly destined to become a Top Ten list.  But for now, here are three humiliating episodes listed from least embarrassing to most:

3.  Elbowing Dance Partner in the Face While Twirling

I honestly don’t know how this happened.  I didn’t think I was such a spaz with my arms, but apparently I am.  It occurred while dancing with one of my favorite partners, Jim, who’s very skilled and fun to dance with despite the fact that he’s substantially shorter than I am.  Which I guess explains how it was possible for my bent elbow to be at the level of his face when he spun me around.  All I know is I heard a loud *whack* and finished the twirl to see Jim looking shocked and dazed.  I expressed my profuse apologies but he insisted on valiantly finishing out the song with me, twirling me a bit less after that.  Needless to say, he didn’t seek me out for any more dances that night.

2.  Dress Comes Off  (imagine what #1 must be like if this is only number #2)

I thought my j.crew sanur convertible dress was perfect for dancing: lots of twirl, a super comfortable cotton and spandex fabric:

Cute, right?  It’s convertible, so it can be worn as a dress or a skirt, which is great… UNLESS it goes from dress to skirt in the course of one dance!  Apparently the heel of my shoe snagged the back of my dress during a dip, so that as I walked off the dance floor my dress was now below my bra.  Thank GOD that bra was roughly the same color as the dress and the lights were dim, so it’s possible that nobody noticed, and I was able to pull it back up pretty fast.  But oh. my. god.

1.  “Did You Bring A Towel?”

I’m not normally prone to prolific sweating, so when one of my dance partners asked if I had brought a towel, the only thing I could imagine was that he was looking for one to borrow for himself.  But that would be kind of gross, so why didn’t it occur to me to do a quick reality check on the activity of my own sweat glands?  Instead, I danced quite a few more songs before finally taking a bathroom break at which point I noticed that my shirt had prominent, massive sweat stains under my armpits.  And I must have flashed these armpits hundreds of times as my arm was lifted up time and time again for a turn.  Now, a quick investigation into the properties of various fabrics reveals that the “modal fabric” of the shirt I donned (modal is essentially a variety of rayon) is 50% more water-absorbent than cotton–  NOT an optimal characteristic when you’re going to be dancing for three hours straight.  Anyway, I was so mortified that I made a bee-line for the door, avoiding even saying goodbye to someone to whom I really should have said goodbye.  I wanted to bury my head in the sand.

So, to review:

Don’t wear rayon fabrics when you’re doing any sweat-prone activity.  If you’re going to wear a strapless dress dancing, do a “tug test” to make sure that the dress can’t easily fall down.  And finally, keep your elbows to yourself.

Sing Out Loud Fridays! “Breathe Gentle”

I first heard this one as a cool-down song in my Zumba class, and loved it right away.  It’s called “Breathe Gentle” by Tiziano Ferro, feat. Kelly Rowlands.  It’s hard not to feel relaxed and happy when you’re singing the words, “Breathe gentle, be gentle.  Don’t leave me behind cuz love goes faster…”  This song reminds me of the vulnerability and excitement of new love, and I thought it would be a good antidote to yesterday’s slightly pessimistic post.   Also, Tiziano Ferro is pretty darn hot. Enjoy:

Happy Marriage. Anyone?

Our boys were jumping gleefully in the bouncy house at The Play Fort and my friend and I were chatting, enjoying the air conditioning inside as it hovered around 110 degrees outside.  She had asked me if I still attended the activities of the local Mom’s Club, and I was giving her all the many reasons why I had not participated in a long time.  My final reason was a little tongue-and-cheek, delivered with the best emo I could muster:

“I just felt a little out-of-place among all those moms with their perfect, happy little marriages.”  Instead of the light chuckle I expected in response, a shadow crossed over her face, she locked her eyes into mine, and said urgently,

“There IS no such thing as a happy marriage.”

Now, I knew she’d been having some hard times with her husband.  And I thought of other friends of mine who had revealed their marital troubles, and I started panicking on the drive home from The Play Fort:

“Wait a minute.  If nobody’s happy in their marriage, then who was I to leave mine?  To audaciously bail on it like that, when everybody else is sticking it out!  To make my child grow up with divorced parents?!  Who do I think I am?!”  These thoughts continued to plague me as I chopped carrots for dinner, anxiously watching Mimo line up his cars and chatter to himself animatedly in the family room.

But then I thought it through a little more.  First of all, the premise is a false one.  I can’t believe that there’s no such thing as a happy marriage.  Maybe they are few and far between, but I’m sure they do exist.  My cousin and his wife are very affectionate and content after ten years of marriage.  My good friend Bobbi, who reconnected with her high school sweetheart in her late 20’s, is still very much in love.  So it must be possible, right?

Secondly, even if too many people are somewhat dissatisfied in their marriages, there’s unhappy and then there’s: UNHAPPY.  I guarantee you, mine was UNHAPPY.  Verbal abuse, physical abuse (even if it was rare and comparatively mild), feeling completely misunderstood, being isolated from family…. these are not things to “stick out.”  This is not the example to set for your child, who hopefully will be one of the skilled and lucky ones who does build a successful marriage.

So I think I’m over my storm of doubts about my decision to leave.  But I’m wondering what others think: How rare is a happy marriage?  This question matters to me even though I have no intention of ever getting married again.  I hate to think of so many married people being miserable out there.

Sing Out Loud Fridays! “Wind of Change”

Every Friday I’m going to post a song (warning– probably a cheesy one) that is designed to make you sing out loud: in the car, in the shower, anywhere.  These are songs that make me happy, and I hope they do the same for you!  I’m not sure why I like “Wind of Change” by the Scorpions so much, but when I heard it recently after many, many years it really made me smile. I love the wistful whistling.  And now I keep playing it over and over again. It sounds best when you sing it really, really loud:  ”TAAAKE ME! To the magic of the moment, on a GLORRRRRRY night…..!”

Wind of Change – Scorpions by joakpa

I’d be delighted if you made suggestions for future Sing Out Loud Friday songs in the comment box below.

Rex Missed a Drop-off. And He’s Living in Squalor. In My House.

We’ve only been separated for five weeks.  So I can’t believe this has happened already:  I show up at the usual Tuesday drop-off time, 4:30.  Nobody home.  I call Rex’s mobile, no answer.  Mimo starts breaking my heart by asking, “Where’d Daddy go?  Where’d Daddy go?”  The best thing I could think of to say to my 2 and 1/2-year-old was, “He probably went to the grocery store, lost track of time, and will be back soon.”

The good news is, this gave me a chance to sneak some pictures of the squalor in the house.  My house. (“Why are you letting him live in your house, your sole and separate property?” you ask.  Good question.  It’s a long story that I will explain later.)

Anyway, here’s a view of the kitchen:

And now a close-up:

Can you see the sticky, dried up soda that looks like it’s been there for weeks?  I don’t think a sponge has graced that counter-top since I was living there.

I considered taking a picture of the toilet bowl because that was really disgusting too, but couldn’t quite bring myself to do it.

Last week when I wandered into the family room, there was what looked like trash strewn about and I thought, “Oh dear, the dog’s gotten into the garbage again.  I better pick this up.”  And then I remembered, “Wait.  The dog’s at my place.  This is Rex’s work, not the doggie’s.”  Rex was in the room so I couldn’t take a picture.  But I did tell him my train of thought and he said, “I’ve had so much work to do, I haven’t had a chance to clean up.”

Now, this doesn’t sound like a guy with OCPD, a problem with perfectionism and unrealistic standards, does it?  Well, the thing about Rex and others like him is that things have to either be perfect… or he lets them go completely.  There’s no middle ground.  I’ve been reading that there is possibly some overlap between people with hoarding disorders and OCPD.  Even though Rex’s problem isn’t exactly hoarding, it’s a similar situation where you can’t walk across the family room or use the kitchen counter because it’s so cluttered with stuff.

It’s either perfect, or it’s a disaster.  For example, his laundry has to be perfectly folded, there is a very specific technique, and you are very much criticized if you don’t do it just so.  But on the other hand, he can let a load of washed laundry sit in the machine for days and days, getting stinky and moldy because he doesn’t have time to follow the task through to the end.  It’s very strange.

Anyway, at 4:50 after leaving two voicemail messages, I finally left the house with Mimo.  At 5:05 Rex called to say he was back home, had lost track of what day of the week it was (because the holiday weekend had thrown him off, you see) and I agreed to bring Mimo back.  I really didn’t want to bring him back.  I wanted to punish Rex.  If he can’t remember that his son is coming over, does he really deserve to see his son?  But I realized that this wouldn’t be fair to my boy, who had been asking, “Where’d Daddy go?” and was really looking forward to seeing him.

I’m starting to really understand how hard it can be to restrain yourself from saying inappropriate things about your ex in front of your child.  Like, “Wow.  This place is disgusting.  Does Daddy ever clean the toilet bowl?” being perhaps the most mild remark that was running through my mind.

So do these things make my case for physical custody any better?  I don’t know.  I sent an email to my lawyer and I’m eagerly awaiting her reply.

Fireworks Didn’t Go Over Well

To say that my son (who renamed himself “Mimo” and will therefore go by that name in this blog) didn’t like the fireworks would be an understatement.  Poor Mimo was inconsolable for the entire two-hour display (okay, I guess it was more like 15 minutes, but it felt like two hours).

We were way too far from the car to ditch our picnic spot on the baseball field, which just moments before had been brightly lit and full of joyous children frolicking.  Then it suddenly went black and, without warning, the bangs and ka-booms started and the sky filled with a never-ending stream of lights and sparkles.  Mimo was so upset, I wondered if it seemed like an apocalypse to him, even though both Rex and I had done our best to prepare him for the experience.

All I could do was hold him, walk him around, and try to distract him with stories about all his favorite animals: coyotes, rabbits, dogs, bugs.  I did manage to get a couple half-hearted chuckles out of him, but mostly he just whimpered, sobbed, and kept his hand over his eyes the entire time.

I felt so terrible and helpless.