Tag Archives: dancing

Dance, Baby, Dance


And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.

Like Romeo, I’ve been making an effort to have my Rockstar forget any other home than ours; sadly, I work completely opposite hours from him, and so see him (if I’m lucky) a total of about eight hours a week. I¬†have feared that leaving him to his own devices so regularly should cause a rift between us that cannot be repaired.

Fortunately, the both of us wish our home to be ripe with bright colors and pleasant comforts, so neither of us has a chance really to become bored and listless. While my days at home with the dog are filled to bursting with painting of walls, and thinkings of painting of murals, his nights are filled with thoughts of luscious fertilized grass without bald spots. Our little time that is spent together is spent these days at Home Depot and Menards, where we have spent unmentionable sums of money.

This past weekend, we hurried to Menards for their Memorial Day sales and spent a goodly part of our morning navigating the aisles for things to make our house a castle. While I had the intention only of buying a few color-changing solar lights to brighten our sidewalk, my Rockstar insisted on buying a little bit of everything. $400 later, we exited the store with a lovely flower rug (which was his choice), 20 solar lights, garden edging, yard soil, and an outdoor swing. Sadly, I had to rush off to work for the day, so I was to enjoy none of our purchases immediately.

After spending a lovely day with my Auntie on Sunday, I arrived home to my Rockstar and his Daughter, who had decided that we must grill steaks on our new adorable grill. He approved of my mixing of alcoholic beverages for the two of us, and while his Daughter ran around with our Pup and her friends, we proceeded to get happily tipsy.

No drunk evening would be complete without a little Rock-N-Roll, which was filtered through our walk-out screen door. R and his Daughter have this little dance they’ve been working on since long before I was around, and I watched from our beautiful swing as they spun and twirled.

“You’re turn! Dance with dad!” His Daughter¬†urged when the song ended.

I arose from my swinging, and it didn’t take long for R to realized that Phil Collins stole his song title I Can’t Dance from me.

“You’re so stiff! Loosen up! Yeah, you’re not graceful.” His responses to my awkward gamboling just made me giggle. Well, that, and his forceful grip on my drunken ass.

A dancer I may not be, but hey. I cannot be perfect all the time. I do, however, know the steps to the waltz (because I am very cultured) and also the snake-like arm movements of bellydancing, so I coached R and his Daughter on these finer points of dancing. I chose to don a pair of my taller heels to better match R’s height, only to have him say I was better at my own height, because my belly more perfectly bumped up against his man-parts. (This too made me giggle.) When he tired of my unfluid movements, I danced with myself among my many rainbow solar lights, pretending that I was in an enchanted forest.

There comes a time when One has had enough drink, and must retire. When my time came, I crawled into my bed, intent on passing out until the morning, only to be wakened by a hard chomp on my ass. Too, no drunken night is complete without having a long-haired Rockstar whisper in your ear, “I want to hear you come.”

XOXO

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I Hope You Don’t Dance


After my drunken post about giving a lap dance last night, (Yeah, sorry about that) I have decided that I must come clean.

I am Sparklebumps, and I cannot dance.

Though the desire to dance runs strongly through my veins, I cannot, under any circumstances, compel my feet to move in time with music. On the contrary, any time I have been coerced onto a dance floor, my feet become oddly rooted to the spot where I am standing, and no amount of goading or pushing from onlookers can coerce my body to frolic or covort. This becomes achingly more apparent every time I go to a wedding, where I am dragged out and encouraged to dance. My stoic non-movement has actually caused other dancers to pause in bewilderment, which only adds to my mortification. But I refuse to be one of those people who attempt to dance when they have no business doing so. Resembling an epileptic is not for me.

I believe my lack of talent on the dance floor stems from the fact that I was brought up Baptist, and dancing is considered the elusive 8th deadly sin. Despite the mention of dancing in the Bible (ahem, Baptists), the church and school I went to strictly forbade it. Just thinking of ALL those familys with 7 kids who will grow up to be as dance-deficient as I saddens me…

When observing people dancing, I am utterly fascinated, paying special attention to their feet and the way they move them. I am a firm believer that you can learn something just by watching someone do it. Unfortuneately, I would need to spend every spare moment of the rest of my life watching people dance to acquire this talent.

That is not to say that I lack natural rythm; no, in fact, I have, on occassion, been asked if I used to be a stripper. I do not find this offensive as some would, simply because if I can move my body in a way that looks good naked, it matters not if I don’t look good kicking my feet up to that annoying song Celebration. However, it is safe to say that I shall not be showing off my stripper-esque moves at the next family wedding.

I am quite certain that when Lee Ann Womack sang I Hope You Dance, she wanted to add the lyrics, “Except you, Sparklebumps.”

P.S. Oddly enough, I get a very very high score when dancing to Honkytonk Bedonkedonk on that Wii game…

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