Let's Dance

It's possible that I dance every day. If you know me, you've seen it. I dance alone; I dance with strangers. I dance in supermarkets and I have left my footprints on more than one tabletop.

This is the part where I'm supposed to be sorry. Oops, I'm not. Dancing is who I am. I have been teased and shamed. It doesn't work. People who dance often make others uncomfortable. Here's a few things you should know:

I realize I'm not a good dancer. I don't care. The spirit moves me and I go.

I don't expect you to participate. I love it if you do. I am not hurt if you don't.

The true release of dancing is not always happy.

I can only speak for me but I feel sorry for people who don't know the soulful release of a good dance.

I had an iPod issue earlier this summer and I had to use my goddaughter and her boyfriend's good nature to fix it. I felt like an oldie because it was an easy fix but I needed young people to chart the course.

Now I am back in business. Flicking on my music and dancing to my heart's content.

Oh, %#*#@!!!

The other day I received an email from my girlfriend and she told me about her rotten day. Later she forwarded an email she received from her company's email techies -- seems they frown on using expletives on the company email. It is such a part of my vernacular that I didn't even notice it in the email.

I know better. I was taught (by parents, teachers, adults I admire)that swearing was unladylike and a cross between laziness and ignorance. I failed that lesson and I fail it often. (Although I am extremely careful around children and in business situations.)

There's an article in this week's Time magazine that quotes a study in the journal NeuroReport. The study found that cussing does more than vent frustration; it can actually reduce physical pain. The example used is women giving birth are far more likely to blurt out a choice cuss word -- or a string of them -- when the same woman would never use such language on a regular basis.

In a moment of complete insanity, I volunteered to serve as liturgist in church this Sunday. My recurring nightmare is flubbing something and then dropping the F bomb.

I won't. But my peon brain is having a party making me think about the possibility. I'd really hate to have to find a new church.

Gone with the Wind

Gone with The Wind was on last night. I love it. Not only do I own it but I watch it every single opportunity I have to see it on tv. (TCM runs it without commercials.) I also read the book once a year or so.

Every viewing or reading brings something different. For the most part, I fall in love with Rhett again (he reminds me so much of my soon-to-be ex-husband) and I relish the stories of family, the South, Scarlett, and of course, the pageantry of the whole thing.

Last night I was bizarrely frustrated with mealy-mouth Melanie. Would she please just take her drab self and go away? Not that I wanted Scarlett to end up with Ashley. Would he please just figure out that he's gay?

The most quoted line from the movie is:

"Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn."

But one of my favorites is the exchange between Rhett and Scarlett:

""You sir are no gentleman."
"And you miss are no lady."

The Scary Side

The other night I was sitting with my friend in the Flamingo Lounge, aka her family room. We were recounting our day. Mine basically boiled down to a couple of episodes where I wanted to scream, "Move aside incompetent people! I will handle this."

She calmly said, "That's your scary side."

I come by this honestly. Everyone is afraid of my mother. (Some of her friends pretend like they're not but they're not fooling me.) Even my goldies -- my friends who have known her since our childhood -- are still afraid of her. They tread softly. A wise choice. My father who was struck with the thunderbolt, freakish, out-of-this-world love potion of adoration for her knows when to clam up and move on.

I must admit she is still capable of scaring me with a look. I think all parenting skills should be modeled on the Boy Scouts/Girl Scouts. The scary look is a badge to earn.

We celebrated her birthday earlier this week. Then we had a minor health scare. In the heat of the moment, I forgot to keep my cool and my scary side came out. I believe I said something like, "Please stop doing your hair because when you're dead, they have people at the funeral home who take care of that."

Happy birthday to my scary mom and genuine thanks for the DNA.

Suddenly Single

Well, it's starting. People told me it would happen and I disagreed.

More than one man has requested my company on a date.

I hate it. I hate me for questioning motives. I hate that I have lost the protective cocoon of marriage. It allowed me to be friendly and silly. It allowed me to dance when the spirit moved me -- as it often does.

I know I'm not married but I don't feel single. I feel like a bratty 5-year old saying, "I don't want to date and you can't make me!"

I don't date. Don't ask me.

But put on the right song and I'll dance like a fool.

Don't Rewind

Many phases or decisions require a leap of faith. Some do it with a prayer while others adopt a "what the hell!" attitude. As I am continuing with my soul-searching, what-am-I-supposed-to-learn journey, I'm learning that it takes a dose of courage and a leap of faith to confront the icky underbelly of choices gone awry. It also takes a leap of faith to move ahead and believe there are better choices and days ahead.

Here's a lesson I'm pondering:

I've noticed that a lot of what passes for conversation only involves one party. The other person isn't interested or has heard the information before.

I am guilty of both sides.

And, it occurs to me that most of the spirited discussions toward the end of my marriage -- the last three years or so -- required neither of us to be there. We'd said it all before. We should've kept a tape of it so we could rewind, hit "play" and find something else to do.

There's a lesson in there that I'm trying to learn.

Look at me -- I'm leaping and learning.

Tainted Dolls

I played with dolls and especially Barbie dolls way too long. Loved the hair, the outfits, the playhouse and all the accessories. Another memory tainted! Mattel is introducing "Tattoo Barbie."

Tattoos are not my thing. But, in all fairness, I know some people who have some cool ones. My goddaughter comes to mind.

Dolls and playthings are supposed to give you something to aspire to. Ok, maybe that's absurd when we look at Barbie -- 6' legs, 16" waist and breasts that Dolly Parton might aspire to have -- but she was reasonably wholesome and her only fault was her relentless play time with dorky Ken. (In my childhood, we threw Ken away and paired her with GI Joe -- way cooler!)

So now Barbie has to conform with the times. She's free to maim her body with tattoos. I'm sure "Pierce me Barbie" is right around the corner, complete with needles and fun jewelry for all body parts.

Little girls will have enough time to experiment with tattoos, piercings and other things in Pandora's Box.