Boogie Fever
Nothing compels movement more than the inability to actually move.
I have been mentally revisiting the halcyon days of my youth when going to dances and strutting what little stuff I possessed was a good time.
My musical confessional must include the various groups that appeared on American Bandstand, Soul Train and the Casey Casem Top 40.
Save for the few people who had actually learned to dance in a studio, most of us learned our suave moves from watching the dancers on television and thinking that we were exact matches of what we had seen them perform.
Don't confuse us with the facts, facts aren't important when you have sweet boogie down disco moves.
I don't dance now. I'm in fear of throwing something out and that something never coming back. I've always wanted to take dance lessons, but I don't think I want to dance with any of my sisters that much (no offense gals!) and Rick has informed me that the Second Coming is a more likely prospect than getting dance lessons.
I'd go by myself, except with my height, they'd pair me up with some old lady with a better mustache than I have because there aren't enough guys in the class. I know this for a fact because when I took a dance class in college, I danced with a lot of nice girls because we outnumbered the guys 10 to 1.
Play That Funky Music
Of course, the discovery that there was just some music that even now is a sort of a time transporter was awesome! I can listen to some music and remember the sights, sounds and cologne worn by a guy I finally got to dance with to some of the finest music on the planet.
Oh, to be able to go back and pick up the body I had then, but keep the brains I have now!!
That still isn't possible, is it. Dang it? I would have thought technology could have done a better job on that account. After all, this is the generation of microwaves and online banking!
Guess it's time to take my boogie fever on out to the car for my appointment.
'She's got the boogie fever (boogie fever baby) she likes to boogie down (get on down, get on down)'
Go get your own disco shoes and handkerchief dress, 'kay?
July 21, 2011
July 18, 2011
Nothin' Beats a Great Pair of Legs
I read with amused interest all the fooferaw about the Princess Kate wearing *GASP* sheer pantyhose on her whirlwind tour of the British Empire and The Colonies.
Big whoop.
Down here in the good ol' American South, it is considered downright tacky to be improperly attired when in a public setting. There are some occasions that simply demand hosiery. Formal settings and special circumstances mean that a chic, well put together woman hie herself down to the lingerie department and get some accessories for her legs.
To be clear on this concept, your average barbecue in the back yard with weird Uncle Nate and his lovely fifth wife Glorianna who has the mustache isn't a hosiery moment. Frankly, going to a barbecue is a jeans and t-shirt event for most people and in some cases, depending upon temperature, it may well be time to whip out the shorts and sunscreen.
Formality in public, however, is a different ani-mule entirely. Due to her carefully selected ensembles and attractive footwear, The Princess has sparked somewhat of a run on hosiery in the Empire (pun not intended).
Now, we see if this sense of public propriety will last.
I gotta tell you that I am not a fan of the chalky legs that I see around me a lot. It's like most women have never heard of lotion. Nothing is more unattractive than seeing the roughened, chapped legs and cracked, peeling heels of a gal who apparently doesn't know that pumice stone and a moderate soak with a fine spritz of scented oil can glam up her gams and tootsies.
I remember back a few decades ago, there used to be an entire industry built around an egg filled with a variety of hosiery products in various rainbow hues and textures. Now, the average woman is lucky to find a couple of pair in her size in her choice of "suntan" or "beige". No one is beige. And if they are, they need to seek professional help immediately! And frankly speaking, the "suntan" they are peddling looks like the crayon factory went wild on someone's legs because it just ain't natural.
Bravely, we push forward hoping to find the hosiery that will make us look "stunning" or at the very least passable in public.
I think in the passing years of hosiery madness, I have worn about every color they used to sell except for the unfortunate yellowy color that makes my legs look more Big Bird than hot momma.
And speaking of which, who in the devil thought naming panty hose Big Momma for a "big gal" was a good idea? I mean the gals on the package looked like calendar girls for the Krispy Kreme centerfold. Who wants to be reminded that even if the hose are the right size, you still look like a hippo wearing them?? Really??
Then there were the ads of the bygone days. A little brat, uh, I mean boy, is at the zoo with his harried and long-suffering mother. Said brat looks at the tired woman who has hiked the entire Zimbabwe trail with Junior about 70 times in 104 degree heat. Her curls have fallen out. Her makeup has long since run down into her collar and the ungrateful troll looks up at her and says: "Your panty hose are wrinkly just like the elephant's!" Rich comedy from a room full of MALE advertisers, I'm sure. I would have knocked that kid into the middle of next week for saying that to me after trying to be fashionably chic in a Serengeti Oven.
Of course, the whole point of doing any of this parade of hosiery sensation is to mask the true nature of our legs and feet. We want them to have some support, some color, some style. And we want the hosiery to make us more 'elegant' than 'elephant'. Sometimes, by the end of the day, we settle for any word starting with the letter "e"... try 'exhausted'.
Men don't generally have to struggle over how their hosiery fits unless they are the lead in the Joffrey Ballet Company. Even then, the women in the audience are not looking to see that his seams are straight or what color matches his tunic. They are much more concerned with just how he can manage move that way and not scream when he does the splits through the air.
Because I feel the need for full disclosure, I do hold the World Record for panty hose destruction. From package to legs to ladders in seconds, that's a lot of money wasted in a short amount of time. During the winter, I try to get dark colored tights to do the job with heavier skirts to keep warm. I am not a fan of freezing.
Sadly, some tights don't last out of the gates any longer than thinner hosiery. I am left to wonder what cursed evil is either on my fingers or on my legs? Do I have some odd hidden hair that is actually can opener sharp that whips into action to shred my hosiery?
Or do I possess a feral cat-like dew claw that is able to hide until just the right nanosecond in order to destroy whatever I am applying to my legs that isn't an athletic sock or an Argyle?
I know women with great legs. I even envy them. They have something I lack. They have legs that can turn heads for the right reasons. Maybe that is what the fooferaw is all about. People are beginning to rebel against the slapdash and looking for the polished. I sure hope so.
Or maybe they are sick of the glare and horror of chalky, flaky skin on the legs and cracked heels stuffed into fancy shoes without proper adornment.
Either way, I come back to that age worn but still true statement, "Nothing beats a great pair of legs!". Princess Kate is showing us all that adage may seem trite, but the fuss over the hosiery is proving it to be spot on, as the Britishers would say.
Time to go find your egg of hosiery. Just try not to dwell on what kind of bird laid the egg.
Big whoop.
Down here in the good ol' American South, it is considered downright tacky to be improperly attired when in a public setting. There are some occasions that simply demand hosiery. Formal settings and special circumstances mean that a chic, well put together woman hie herself down to the lingerie department and get some accessories for her legs.
To be clear on this concept, your average barbecue in the back yard with weird Uncle Nate and his lovely fifth wife Glorianna who has the mustache isn't a hosiery moment. Frankly, going to a barbecue is a jeans and t-shirt event for most people and in some cases, depending upon temperature, it may well be time to whip out the shorts and sunscreen.
Formality in public, however, is a different ani-mule entirely. Due to her carefully selected ensembles and attractive footwear, The Princess has sparked somewhat of a run on hosiery in the Empire (pun not intended).
Now, we see if this sense of public propriety will last.
I gotta tell you that I am not a fan of the chalky legs that I see around me a lot. It's like most women have never heard of lotion. Nothing is more unattractive than seeing the roughened, chapped legs and cracked, peeling heels of a gal who apparently doesn't know that pumice stone and a moderate soak with a fine spritz of scented oil can glam up her gams and tootsies.
I remember back a few decades ago, there used to be an entire industry built around an egg filled with a variety of hosiery products in various rainbow hues and textures. Now, the average woman is lucky to find a couple of pair in her size in her choice of "suntan" or "beige". No one is beige. And if they are, they need to seek professional help immediately! And frankly speaking, the "suntan" they are peddling looks like the crayon factory went wild on someone's legs because it just ain't natural.
Bravely, we push forward hoping to find the hosiery that will make us look "stunning" or at the very least passable in public.
I think in the passing years of hosiery madness, I have worn about every color they used to sell except for the unfortunate yellowy color that makes my legs look more Big Bird than hot momma.
And speaking of which, who in the devil thought naming panty hose Big Momma for a "big gal" was a good idea? I mean the gals on the package looked like calendar girls for the Krispy Kreme centerfold. Who wants to be reminded that even if the hose are the right size, you still look like a hippo wearing them?? Really??
Then there were the ads of the bygone days. A little brat, uh, I mean boy, is at the zoo with his harried and long-suffering mother. Said brat looks at the tired woman who has hiked the entire Zimbabwe trail with Junior about 70 times in 104 degree heat. Her curls have fallen out. Her makeup has long since run down into her collar and the ungrateful troll looks up at her and says: "Your panty hose are wrinkly just like the elephant's!" Rich comedy from a room full of MALE advertisers, I'm sure. I would have knocked that kid into the middle of next week for saying that to me after trying to be fashionably chic in a Serengeti Oven.
Of course, the whole point of doing any of this parade of hosiery sensation is to mask the true nature of our legs and feet. We want them to have some support, some color, some style. And we want the hosiery to make us more 'elegant' than 'elephant'. Sometimes, by the end of the day, we settle for any word starting with the letter "e"... try 'exhausted'.
Men don't generally have to struggle over how their hosiery fits unless they are the lead in the Joffrey Ballet Company. Even then, the women in the audience are not looking to see that his seams are straight or what color matches his tunic. They are much more concerned with just how he can manage move that way and not scream when he does the splits through the air.
Because I feel the need for full disclosure, I do hold the World Record for panty hose destruction. From package to legs to ladders in seconds, that's a lot of money wasted in a short amount of time. During the winter, I try to get dark colored tights to do the job with heavier skirts to keep warm. I am not a fan of freezing.
Sadly, some tights don't last out of the gates any longer than thinner hosiery. I am left to wonder what cursed evil is either on my fingers or on my legs? Do I have some odd hidden hair that is actually can opener sharp that whips into action to shred my hosiery?
Or do I possess a feral cat-like dew claw that is able to hide until just the right nanosecond in order to destroy whatever I am applying to my legs that isn't an athletic sock or an Argyle?
I know women with great legs. I even envy them. They have something I lack. They have legs that can turn heads for the right reasons. Maybe that is what the fooferaw is all about. People are beginning to rebel against the slapdash and looking for the polished. I sure hope so.
Or maybe they are sick of the glare and horror of chalky, flaky skin on the legs and cracked heels stuffed into fancy shoes without proper adornment.
Either way, I come back to that age worn but still true statement, "Nothing beats a great pair of legs!". Princess Kate is showing us all that adage may seem trite, but the fuss over the hosiery is proving it to be spot on, as the Britishers would say.
Time to go find your egg of hosiery. Just try not to dwell on what kind of bird laid the egg.
July 9, 2011
Field of Dreams
While saying I am weird should be enough for most people to grasp, I am apparently more weird than what is considered a "normal" amount of weird.
I love to mow my yard.
But right now, that is a joy which I am not able to experience. The sad truth is that I am compelled to watch as someone else treads upon the tender green that misses me. I'm sure of it. Because I miss it.
Although my yard will not win competitions from the neighborhood beautification committee, nor will Home & Garden show up for a photo spread in their August issue, I think that it looks pretty good after mowing.
My fantasy is to get my yard putting green perfect and the bushes all prepared to be perfectly aligned for height and width. It's kind of a strange fantasy for someone who has greenery more from dandelions than Bermuda hybrid and overgrown boxwoods instead of neatly trimmed new bushes that bear flowers.
I'd also like to have an actual putting green in the back yard along with a pitcher's mound. Yeah. I'm that weird. But I defend myself after having seen Rory McIroy's yard that has an assortment of golf's greatest traps, bunkers and pits to practice around. If he can have some cool yard features, why can't I??
Sure, I'm well aware that I'm not rich from having won so much as a two dollar scratch card and can't afford those kinds of lawn extravagances. But dreams are FREEEEEEEEE!!! Blissfully free!!
I imagine myself in the back yard with grandkids to come in future years teaching them the finer points of pitching a strike just over the corner of the plate or showing them how to chip the golf ball up onto the green for a sweet tap in for par. Sure, I'm perfectly fit, able and ready. Remember, we are in a dream state here, so be nice. You can dream about whatever makes YOU happy and I promise I won't laugh about it.
Back years ago, I pondered how wonderful it would be to own a literal field of dreams for baseball play. It would be a simple affair that would hark back to the days when baseball was still a feel-good game instead of a multi-millionaire's past time. I'd like to have an indoor practice facility that would allow for year round play... a facility that would always be filled because it would offer oh so much more than just baseball.
Fantasy on that field of ever blooming dreams would also include a family friendly place to come play all kinds of games and participate in activities that didn't have a hand controller involved. Tiny Indy cars could race laps around an oval, bowling, batting cages and all kinds of skating and sports rooms would surround a central hub where for a nominal price you could get pizza by the slice or a freshly grilled burger made to order.
There would be midget hockey and figure skating. Another area would have an aquatics center. You could sing and make a recording of whatever song your karaoke heart desired. It would be a star turn that would last a lifetime!
There would be a stage for plays, concerts and pageants of all kinds, and above all, it would be a place where everyone could live a few hours in a land of peaceful coexistence with everyone else and all would be right with the world.
But alas, someone else is compelled to mow my field of dreams right now and that distorts my view. My precious fantasies disappear in a cloud of flung grass giblets and the occasional sputter of smoke from an aging carburetor. And soon, that indiscriminate mix has rendered my vision of what could be into a mishmash of nothing special.
I try to take joy in the fact that the lawn is mowed. I really do.But I miss my lawn enriched fantasy. The joy that comes from walking along just letting my mind wander on my own private field of dreams.
I love to mow my yard.
But right now, that is a joy which I am not able to experience. The sad truth is that I am compelled to watch as someone else treads upon the tender green that misses me. I'm sure of it. Because I miss it.
Although my yard will not win competitions from the neighborhood beautification committee, nor will Home & Garden show up for a photo spread in their August issue, I think that it looks pretty good after mowing.
My fantasy is to get my yard putting green perfect and the bushes all prepared to be perfectly aligned for height and width. It's kind of a strange fantasy for someone who has greenery more from dandelions than Bermuda hybrid and overgrown boxwoods instead of neatly trimmed new bushes that bear flowers.
I'd also like to have an actual putting green in the back yard along with a pitcher's mound. Yeah. I'm that weird. But I defend myself after having seen Rory McIroy's yard that has an assortment of golf's greatest traps, bunkers and pits to practice around. If he can have some cool yard features, why can't I??
Sure, I'm well aware that I'm not rich from having won so much as a two dollar scratch card and can't afford those kinds of lawn extravagances. But dreams are FREEEEEEEEE!!! Blissfully free!!
I imagine myself in the back yard with grandkids to come in future years teaching them the finer points of pitching a strike just over the corner of the plate or showing them how to chip the golf ball up onto the green for a sweet tap in for par. Sure, I'm perfectly fit, able and ready. Remember, we are in a dream state here, so be nice. You can dream about whatever makes YOU happy and I promise I won't laugh about it.
Back years ago, I pondered how wonderful it would be to own a literal field of dreams for baseball play. It would be a simple affair that would hark back to the days when baseball was still a feel-good game instead of a multi-millionaire's past time. I'd like to have an indoor practice facility that would allow for year round play... a facility that would always be filled because it would offer oh so much more than just baseball.
Fantasy on that field of ever blooming dreams would also include a family friendly place to come play all kinds of games and participate in activities that didn't have a hand controller involved. Tiny Indy cars could race laps around an oval, bowling, batting cages and all kinds of skating and sports rooms would surround a central hub where for a nominal price you could get pizza by the slice or a freshly grilled burger made to order.
There would be midget hockey and figure skating. Another area would have an aquatics center. You could sing and make a recording of whatever song your karaoke heart desired. It would be a star turn that would last a lifetime!
There would be a stage for plays, concerts and pageants of all kinds, and above all, it would be a place where everyone could live a few hours in a land of peaceful coexistence with everyone else and all would be right with the world.
But alas, someone else is compelled to mow my field of dreams right now and that distorts my view. My precious fantasies disappear in a cloud of flung grass giblets and the occasional sputter of smoke from an aging carburetor. And soon, that indiscriminate mix has rendered my vision of what could be into a mishmash of nothing special.
I try to take joy in the fact that the lawn is mowed. I really do.But I miss my lawn enriched fantasy. The joy that comes from walking along just letting my mind wander on my own private field of dreams.
July 1, 2011
Storm Trooper Boot
 |
| Storm Trooper boot |
♫ ♪ Da da da dee dee dum dee dee dum ♫ Dee dee dee dee dee dum dee dee dum ♪♫
Sing along while wearing your favorite Star Wars regalia!!
I kinda wonder where my blaster went...
This phase of the recovery involves this boot which has an air pocket on each side that can be pumped up a bit to provide comfort.
It is just another part of the overall recovery. I still can't do any weight bearing on this foot/ankle. Three more weeks before I even get to start PT, but the good news is, I can now give the stinky storm trooper foot a bath and shave my leg which is not ready for primetime.
In deference to the Star Wars attire I will be wearing ad nauseum, Thomas gently says since I am a storm trooper, my Death Star is my 17-year old ancient van... Lovely. NOT. Then, he comfortingly he says "Let's just hope no one shoots anything up the tail pipe..."
HEY!! I remember that scene and it didn't work out too well for the Storm Troopers and their boots!!!
I love you, too. PIGLET!
Kindly, Thomas offers to defend me in his Tie-fighter, but then I reminded him that the Tie-fighters didn't DEFEND the Death Star at all... not one tiny shot.
I am not comforted by his evil laughter and begin to wonder if HE isn't Darth Vader after all... remember, he did use the force to choke that one dude on the Death Star who was less than cooperative to Vader's plans.
My only question now is, if Thomas is a plant for the Empire, why does he help me at all? Then I realize that he is like the characters in his video games who can't quite decide whether they are good or bad yet. The color of their light sabers is kind of unsettled... like their choices.
So is Thomas a member of the 'rebel scum' and just yanking my chain about my temporary storm trooper status - like Luke appeared while rescuing Leia - or is he a mole from the Empire seeking to use the 4th of July fireworks to blow my van to kingdom come??
Hmmm. That MIGHT be kind of fun.
Wouldn't have anything to ride around Jared in, but man alive, that would be flippin' awesome to see the van go BOOOOOOO!!!
Yeah, I know.
Control yourself.
Whatever.
But should you happen to be looking out into the the northern skies near Thatch and Clem Roads and see a van fly through the skies, I promise it was an accident.
That's what I plan to tell the insurance company and I expect you ALL to back me up.
We now resume our theme music...
♫ ♪ Da da da dee dee dum dee dee dum ♫ Dee dee dee dee dee dum dee dee dum ♪♫ Da dee dee da dee dee da deedle dee dee dum dee dee dum dee dee dum dee dee deeeeeeeeeee ♫♪♫
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