Big Sniff ahead

I can't believe my little girl is going to school this fall. SCHOOL. Riding a big yellow school bus to a huge building with lots of children older than she is. Carrying a backpack and a lunchbox and coming home with folders of homework about shapes and letter formations.

SCHOOL.

Sigh.

I remember my first day of kindergarten clear as day. Rode the bus and sat next to a "buddy" who was in the sixth grade. She was to help me get to my class okay. Got to school, the bus emptied, and I sat on it, refusing to get off. I cried and cried. Bawled my eyes out. I distinctly remember being afraid to be a big kid.

Now my baby is the big kid.

August 16th (which is NOT fall, BTW, but still summer, but that's a whole other issue) is the big day.

I fully intend to sit in my car at the bus stop, refuse to get out and cry my eyes out.

From Russia with love

So I take a dance class. Adult jazz and hiphop. I used to be a dancer, and thought with my new push for fitness, a dance class might be a fun way to get some cardio in. Going so well, in fact, that my teacher asked me to sub for the guy who teaches the Tuesday night class. It's been some time since I've taught, and didn't have anything prepared on short notice. Plus, I just don't feel right teaching these paying customers, when I myself am just starting up again after a long hiatus from classes. Betty told me no problem, but feel free to attend the Tuesday night class, since I need a makeup lesson from one I'll miss next week.

I get there early and start warming up. The other girls arrive (they are just about pubescent, so I'm thinking my class is the adults, and this one is the teen class). I am twice their age, easily, so they are looking to me to lead warmups. Betty told me the sub was running late, and asked if I'd do warmups. No problem. And it was fun. But then, THE SUB came in.

The SUB is a dancer in the Ballet Internationale. The SUB comes to us from Russia, where Ballerinas and Gymnasts are created and spit out into the wider world to kick Westerners' asses. An Old school, take no shit, balls to the walls Russian ballerina was Jacques, which I always thought was a boy name, but whatever.

The SUB walks in. She's probably the most beautiful human being I've ever seen. Tall,lithe, muscular, as big around as my thigh, but still with these amazing full boobs. Go figure. Long curly blonde hair pulled up into two buns clipped with sparkly buttflies, and green eyeliner done in the standard ballet style, into a cat eye.

She's lovely, I'm thinking. And quirky...hence the butterflies. But she means some business, this one.

She looks at me with the cat eyes and asks if *I* am teaching today. I assure her that I am not a teacher, just making up a class today, and Betty asked me to lead warmups. She asks "So did you warm 'zem up? "Ave you done zee floor work yet?"

Um, no. Eek. I didn't know there was supposed to *be* floor work.

So we sit on the floor, and Svetlana (as I have now renamed her) goes into some contortions that I haven't seen in real life. Ever. Imagine doing the Chinese splits, putting your left hand behind you and pushing your pelvis off the floor, while reaching back over your head with your right hand. Oh, and be graceful.

Then, the combination. I think the regular teacher told her "come sub for my class". What he didn't tell her was that the class would consist of an out of shape 31 year old, and four little girls between 11 and 14, whom have probably never taken a dance class before this one. It was like a Fantasia Dancing Hippo attempting pirouhettes in and around a bunch of newborn baby deer, trying to get to their feet.

I was really impressed I was getting it. A bit clumsy and couldn't do double pirouhettes, but I got it. And was trying to translate to the girls, who were seriously scared shitless. And was trying to make Svetlana feel as though SOMEONE was getting her and her artistic brilliance among all these amateurs.

Here is a snippet of what we heard for the next 45 minutes:

STEP FORWARD. You know, front, ya? TOWARDS THE MIRROR. Then RIGHT FOOT: Back-Side-Front. And prepare for a double turn...VHAT?? You have not done TURNS?? Hokay. So you do preparation:and Releve', and down. Then Tombe, pas de chat, and chene turn turn turn...and five six seven...GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS...you need to move your BOH-DAYS. DO you not go to zeh disco? Do you not MOVE YOUR BOH-DAYS?

I am trying so hard not to laugh, as these little girls are trying not to crap their pants...not only do they not understand "Dancer Speak", but I don't think Svetlana enjoys speaking the English so much. She speaks like she dances...fast, with abandon, and without regard for whom can follow her.

After the class ends, I am dripping. And sore. But elated that I'm Svetlana's favorite student.

I asked Betty if we could have her back, because I worked my ass off and got my money's worth. Plus, I can really move my BOH-DAY now.

Hold me back, baby.

Very Dirty Girls

See if Google finds me some loyal readers *this* way:

Blantantly stolen from a friend

Thanks, Mr. Antrobus:

Where were you . . . .

20 years ago:

I was 11, so I was dealing with some heavy crap. It was the year my dad left my mom. Moved out, took his crap in one truckload. My life really was never the same after that.

10 years ago:

The summer after I turned 21. It is all but a blur to me.

5 years ago:

I had just returned to work after a three month maternity leave. I was battling some serious post partum depression, but totally in love with my amazing little girl and the husband that saw me through it all.

One year ago:

Oddly enough, nursing a new small person in my home, settling into Stay at Home Motherhood, and tossing around the idea of sending the Princess back to school a few days a week. Preparing for the annual camping trip with my folks, WeeMan's first.

One month ago:

I was agaonizing over the choice of going to school this fall, or going to work. Fortunately the decision to go to school won, and I will begin September 12.

One week ago:

I was sitting right here, I'm betting. Staying out of the heat and trying to entertain small children.

Yesterday:

Cooking out with Kendra and August. My Kendra who is leaving this weekend to go back to MA for law school. Trying really hard to act like it was any other day, not a farewell party.

Today:

Doing laundry and dishes, getting together packages for tomorrow's trip to the post office. Trying really hard to keep busy so I don't want to sit around and eat. Staying inside when it's 100 degrees outside isn't easy. It's almost like Winter Cabin Fever that I had back in February.

Tomorrow:

Well, I am sad to say it will be a day just like any other. Just like today and the one that will follow. Ah, the life of the not rich and not famous.

"Dear God" Muffins

Called this because that's what I just said when I put one in my mouth. :)

I altered it from the original, which called for one CUP butter (!) and 1.25 C. sugar. These turned out great, with the alterations:

1/4 C. Butter
3/4 C. Applesauce
1 C. Sugar (I used half splenda, half sugar)
1 egg
4 ripe bananas
1-3 tablespoon instant coffee granules, dissolved in 1 tablespoon water (I used three)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour ( I used half whole wheat)
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 cup semisweet chocolate chips (this is a lot of chips...you could decrease it or omit and they are still plenty sweet)

Spin the wet ingredients in the food processor until completely blended. Add the dry and process until it's batter (about a minute).

Put into muffin tins and bake at 350.

10 minutes for mini muffins, 16 minutes for full muffins

This recipe made two full pans of minis and one pan of regular muffins.

The Royal Family

An ode to my new expensive purse

Oh, my dear violet one:

I am the queen of cheap handbags and shoes. I buy them like crazy, and give them to Goodwill two seasons later when the vinyl coating that was being passed for gen-u-whine leather begins to peel away.

But yesterday, oh lovely one...you called to me from behind the tan bag on the second shelf. A lone handbag, with a short strap, beautiful silver hardware, and a gorgeous eggplant color that seemed at once to be over the top and yet quite subdued.

Nevermind that I don't work and have no money. Nevermind that I will not be eating out for dinner, enslaving myself to an entire season of making dinner every.damn.night in order to afford you. You are worth it, my sweet.

I will make you my new fall and winter purse. I will carry you as a grown up woman, without trying to stuff diapers and sippy cups and baggies of cheerios into you. I will care for you and keep you as lovely as you were the day I brought you home.

And never will I need to use the Coach "buy back" guarantee, as I do not forsee you breaking, wearing out, ripping or peeling away.

I do not believe in love at first sight with humans.

I do believe in it with handbags. You may have just started me down a steep and treacherous path to handbag whoredom....but no...I will not stray. For you are the one. My most expensive purse, the one I will have buried with me.

And I will wear a complimentary color. Perhaps puce.

Photos from the beach

Ah, Beautiful Lake Michigan. Fourth of July the way it was meant to be spent:

Size twelve, people

I bought a pair of genuine Levi jeans this weekend. And they were indeed a size twelve. I have not seen a twelve since before I had the girlchild.

I cried in the dressing room, but no one was there to witness my triumph but a very puzzled wee boy sitting in a stroller, eating the yellow plastic tag with "5" written on it.

A twelve. ONE TWO, the big dozen. The lower end of plus size models.

I love my new jeans.

But I must never, ever wash them in hot water, nor EVER put them in the dryer.

Ever.

Whee, I'm back!

With a fresh new look. Come to find out Blogger doesn't even offer that old template anymore. That's why it was looking pretty sad. I switched over with help from my friend the Slacker, and now it's even counting how many posts I've actually made (instead of the 57 it had previously been stuck at for more than 6 months).

Does this new format mean that I will be posting new and exciting things? Back to my old humor, wit and style?

Not yet. But it does get you PICTURES, PICTURES, PICTURES! I mean, what else do you do when you have nothing to say?? You post cute pictures of your family and shamelessly fish for comments.

Back from the beach

Don't go camping with a small boy who can walk, but cannot understand:

No, don't go out into the road.
No, don't eat the sand
No, don't throw sand at your own face
No, don't touch the campfire ring, it's hot.
No, we don't steal the nice lady's beach volleyball and throw it into the lake
No, just because you can climb, you cannot sit on top of the picnic table
No, don't stand on the lawnchair you might....shit, too late.

Good thing the campground was twenty minutes from Grandma's house. The Prince spent a few quality nights with her, while we had an only child the rest of the weekend.