Wednesday, February 23, 2011

Well, My Dream of Being a Backup Dancer for Lady Gaga Just Sashayed Off the Dance Floor

Posted by She Said

Oh, I truly believed myself to be a decent dancer. Good even. Sadly though, two things have burst this little fantasy of mine. First, that damn XBox Kinect Dance Central game. Don’t get me wrong, it is a blast. Great songs. Great moves. Great fun.

Until the replay.

Some sick, twisted geek at Microsoft thought it would be funny to let everyone see what they look like during a sped-up replay at the end of the song. Seriously, I did NOT need to see what I look like dancing during a replay. I know I look SO much cooler than that. In my head.

Second, I completed, and not gracefully, a hip hop exercise class at the gym this morning. I was all over the hip rolls, the attitude, and the sashays. That is, until I saw my reflection in one of the twenty hundred billion fifty mirrors emblazoned on every possible hard surface. As I step-tapped left to right while everyone else step-tapped right to left, I had to come to terms with the fact that I. Am. Not. A. Dancing. Queen.

If I were honest though, I could probably look to the way-back, known as my twenties, and discovered this a lot sooner. My friend, John, and I would drive to San Francisco in the wee hours to hit some hard-core thumpin’ dance beats. We’d dance FOR HOURS. Much of my time was spent with my eyes closed, dancing alone, stationed in front of one of the speakers. That’s right. I was THAT cool kid.

But I never, ever got a date out of it.

However, that might have been more due to the fact that the dance floor was filled with shirtless, sweaty gay boys than any misconceived ideas of my cool factor? Maybe I am just out of practice? Maybe I am still that cool kid dancer?

Ahhh, who am I kidding. I’ll give up thinking I’m all-that-and-a-bag-of-chips and just get used to the fact that people may giggle on the dance floor in my near vicinity. So be it.

Saturday, February 19, 2011

What the Hell?

Posted by She Said

What the hell has happened to personal responsibility? Seriously. I know there are people out there roaming the streets, just looking for that obviously icy sidewalk to “slip” on, hoping to cash in on a few. Or those that claim they had no idea they could gain a lot of weight from eating too many Big Macs and Super Sized fries and soda. WHAT? You gain weight if you eat lots of crappy food? I’m shocked.

I mostly thought these people existed largely as a means of feeding the sensationalist Interwebs.

Until now.

A friend of mine, she wants to be called Loretta, works in a grocery store, and it is her job to deal with any people that might come in with a complaint, or should I say a “complaint.” <eye roll> Here are some of the things she has heard recently:

I bought this avocado two weeks ago and it rotted.

What the hell? You mean if I don’t eat a piece of fruit, it will go bad!? GASP! That’s just bull. I would demand my money back, fo sho.

I brought in my bag last time, and the checker didn’t give me my bag refund.

What? You mean, if I forget, I can spend two bucks in gas getting back to the store and get my nickel? Oh, hells ya! I’m all over that.

I bought this piece of meat from you, and we cooked it last night, and it was terrible. Here’s my receipt.

Yeah, I got nuthin’ on the cajones it must have taken to actually pull that one off, but someone did. And they got their money back.

People, seriously. Take some responsibility for yourselves. Or I might just start suing your asses for pissing me off.

You are Going DOWN, Grandpa

Posted by She Said

Our family recently joined a gym, and as much as as it surprises me to say it, I am actually enjoying it. Originally it was the variety of programs for the kids that got us to step foot in there in the first place, but now Greg is training for his first 5K. And me? I took full advantage of the FREE month of Pilates given to me, a membership prize, so to speak. Now that my month is up and there is no way in hell I am going to shell out more bucks to continue Pilates, I have now turned to the world of the <free> group classes. My first (and so far only) one was the Body Push class which uses a barbell and weights during its THREE THOUSAND SIX HUNDRED seconds of torture fulfilling and body-bettering exercise.

Luckily, I saw a woman who has a daughter at the same school as my kids heading to the class at the same time, so I tagged along with her and got the scoop on what to expect from the class.

The class was incredible, truly. But it wasn’t the challenge of the class or the collective energy of the group keeping up with the chiseled and humorous instructor that was the most memorable part of my inaugural Body Push.


It was the 50-something man behind me asking me if the woman I was talking to when I entered the class was my DAUGHTER.

My daughter? Excuse me, Grandpa?

How <insert expletive of choice here> old do you think I am?

It must have been the daggers darting from my eyes that made him backpedal. Or maybe it was the tone of my answer, “No. We have kids at the same school,” I seethed, spittle and all. Which I am certain made me look even more youthful.

“She looks like she is about 16,” he about-faced.

OK, then, TECHNICALLY I could be her mother.

Shut. Up.