Sunday, January 23, 2011

Hips Don't Lie. Maybe just some little white lies. Sometimes the left hip tells some whoppers.

So I was doing some panicky last minute Christmas shopping back in December at CVS, because people on my list only get quality, and I saw a box lying on the shelf next to the last shake weight and some pajama jeans, and inside the box was THIS:

I wasn't sure what it was, but it was clearly AMAZING, so I threw it into my cart, rushed home, and then forgot all about it.

Christmas went by and one day I found the box again behind the dresser. The outside said "Hoopnotica" and on the inside, what looked like fancy tent poles was actually a special "travel hoop". For when you go on vacation and have a mad hula hoop need. (Who hasn't been in that dark place at some point?)

I was going to take it back because I'm already one barn purse over my impulse-buy quota, but then I saw that it came with a DVD, so I put it in and there were some gorgeous women on it, and one tank-top man in the back, who were dancing beautifully with their giant hoops, and flinging them up in the air and catching them with their teeth, and  it turns out that hoop dancing has been a big thing with all the Hollywood stars, and also hippies, for a long time now, and somehow I was  never notified because I live in the suburbs.

I watched the whole DVD and then spent hours watching every single thing on Youtube about hoop dancing. It's totally hypnotic and addictive.  I learned from the videos that hooping can whittle your waist, and  free your inner creative goddess, and also help you poop, all at the same time. Sometimes hooping can get you on the Ellen show. That's a crazy lot of wonderful, if you ask me.

I also learned that probably at some point, once I get really good, I should wear my hair in dreads and invest in some feathery flare-leg  yoga pants with a hip skirt for when I meet the other hoopers at Burning Man, but that's a couple weeks down the road probably.

I watched the demo part on waist hooping and figured I had it down, so I changed into some natural-fiber clothing (for grip!) and put the hoop together, reveling in its shiny, circusy bling.  It didn't take long to figure out that the house is not really hoop-friendly, what with the animals, and lamps, and flower-arrangements from the oral surgeon, so I waited until darkness fell and took the hoop outside.

In the front yard I assumed the recommended position, one foot in front of the other, hoop positioned at the small of my back, and gave it a firm swing to the left. The hoop flashed in the glow of the street lamp, spun once around my hips, and, despite my feverish gyrating, landed on the grass. 

I tried again. Firm swing to the left. Feverish gyrating.  Hoop in the grass.  Again. And again. And again. I heard a suppressed laugh from behind me, and turned around in time to see the blinds in my son's room fall closed.

"I see you up there!" I yelled.
"Seriously.  I know you're there, spying on me!"
Then I heard a soft voice coming from behind the blinds.  "What if someone sees you doing that?" it asked.

I chose to ignore such negativity and went back to work. Ten minutes later the front door opened, and my son appeared, holding his old plastic hula hoop, which he laid down on the driveway.  Then he stood and watched me as I sweated and stooped.

"Car!" he announced, when an SUV turned into the cul-de-sac.
"I'm not in the street."
"I know," he said, " I just thought you might want to hide behind something until they were gone."

Then he casually picked up his old hoop and began hooping, effortlessly.

My son kept me under contemptuous surveillance for awhile, until finally his hoop ended up in the tree and he lost interest, so now it's just me and my hoop dancing dreams out under the street lamp.

I'm not giving up.  It's been several days, and every night I go out and spin my shiny hoop and get all sweaty, and every night it falls to the grass, but sometimes now it turns a few times first.  One time I spun it expertly, but accidentally, around my forehead when my foot slipped in the grass.   I see that as progress.

Someday soon you're going to see me on Youtube, my hoop a blur on my magical hips, my inner goddess totally revealed due to the "flow" I've achieved and maybe a recent successful bowel movement. That's going to be a great day.

Did I tell you sometimes they light their hoops on fire?

Sunday, January 09, 2011

Pimping out the Big Guy. Or, Not Everyone Gets Propofol.

Today I bought a container of cheese balls the size of an end table.

The cats have been supplementing their diet with a Taco Bell -inspired "Fourth Meal", only instead of getting drive-through tacos they just wait until everyone in the house goes to bed and then throw themselves repeatedly at their food bag until it opens. Then they eat until their eyes bulge and vomit the excess right outside my bedroom door.

Which is why I bought the cheese balls.  For the container, not the balls. It was cheaper and way bigger than the kitchen containers I found, and it buys us some time until the cats figure out the screw-on lid.

My intention was to empty the cheese balls directly into the trash when I got home, because they are an affront to nature, but they were discovered too quickly, and now the male half of the household is wearing a glazed expression and a coating of fine orange dust.

Once they've eaten until their eyes bulge, I anticipate they'll just vomit the excess outside my bedroom door.

Also while I was at Target I picked up some other essentials, such as a little felt purse shaped like a barn, and some farm animals to go with it.  Also, two Styrofoam swords, six pairs of novelty socks, and an infinity scarf.

All of these things seemed like a must-have when I put them into the cart, which is the genius of Target, but now I am home with the cheese balls and the farm animals, and the swords, and thinking maybe toilet paper and shampoo would have been good too.

Clearly things need to change around here. We need to economize. Make a list and stick to it! Say no to
impulse buys.  Even a three year old can resist a felt barn purse, so why can't I?  I know this because after I exclaimed, "Oh, look!  It's a little BARN!", a woman behind me stopped her cart to get one too.  She handed it to her daughter, who promptly threw it on the floor and sobbed, "I don't LIKE a barn!"

So.  Frugality is going to be my new watchword.

Either that or find a sugar daddy.

Which reminds me to ask you - does anyone know how much an oral surgeon makes? This is relevant.

Two days ago I drove my husband to the oral surgeon's office to get a a dental implant. After the procedure the white-haired nurse called me to the back.

"He did very well!" she said, patting him on the head affectionately. "The doctor gave him propofol! Not everyone gets propofol!"

Then the doctor bounded into the room like a rat terrier in a bandanna and scrubs.  "Hey there!" he said to my husband, who gave him a stoned grin and an eyeball roll from his recovery lounge chair.

Dr. Oral Surgeon turned reluctantly in my direction.

"You must be his driver," he said. Then he turned his back on me.

"So!" he continued brightly, looking into my husband's unfocused eyes. "It went great!" He paused, and his tone grew more intimate, more....playful.  "I nearly sewed your beard to your gums, Big Guy! Ha Ha!"

No response from the lounge chair.

The doctor moved in a little closer.  "I have to tell you," he continued, " I got to use my biggest implant today.  I don't get to do THAT very often.  You could take it, because you are quite the big guy, aren't you?  That jaw bone had plenty of room to seat that implant.  Impressive!"

Then he leaned over and put his hand on my husband's arm.  My husband looked confused, but pleasant.

I cleared my throat, and the doctor stood upright again, suddenly all business as he ran through the instructions. Then Big Guy was loaded into a wheelchair clutching his gauze and complimentary chapstick, and we were on our way.

I thought it was a harmless flirtation until two hours later, when the florist showed up at our front door with flowers for my husband.  From Dr. Oral Surgeon.

I have to tell you, I was kind of excited.  Maybe, if we worked something out, an open arrangement of some kind, the good doctor could help me support my felt barn habit.  All the Big Guy had to do was play along.

But then the husband saw the flowers and muttered, "So that's where my co-pay went," and I knew it wasn't going to be easy.

I think if the surgeon had sent my husband an ice axe, or a polishing chamois, the outcome may have been different.

I'm pinning my hopes on the follow-up appointment on Thursday.  My barn needs a litter of piglets.

Sunday, January 02, 2011

Possum Tarts, Your Time Has Come.

Because, what is it with you people and possums?  Lately there's been a swarm of possum-seekers to this blog, so either "possum" is a porn euphemism (Is it? There was one search for "hairless possum" which makes me especially suspicious), or 2011 is going to be the Year of the  Possum.  I'm going with the last one.  I think it's my destiny.

You long-standing blog friends have looked ahead with me to the day I would finally make my Possum Tarts dream a reality, and I think it's time to roll up the sleeves and get to work.  I'm going to the store now to stock up on filo dough and  frosting ingredients (what goes with possum?  A paprika glaze? White chocolate? Figs?) and then I'll just need to catch a possum for the filling. There's a little one my family has named Andy that hides under the car but I think there's a moral issue with cooking something or someone you've named. Not that that stopped my parents from serving us "chicken" when we were kids, right after our rabbits disappeared. Not bitter, Mom!

Anyway, as soon as I'm ready to do some market testing, (got to work out the gristle problem I'm anticipating) I'll be calling you all over.  Stay hungry.

Also, I think the whole domain name thing has finally settled in.  Just to clarify, I don't have a new blog, just the same old tired one, but the address is different.  Truestarr was right, the address is just, no "www". If you put the "w"'s in, the internet sends you to Siberia.  It's cold there right now, I'm pretty sure.  So, at some point it would be good to switch your link over to the new address. When you get a chance. I need you here so that my therapist thinks I have friends. 

In other news, my gazing ball neighbor has been boring me lately with his lack of attention to his yard.  This is because he has been busy single-handedly building a second-story balcony on the back of his house.  He's using long sticks, a lady-like hammer, a handsaw and my husband's infamous ladder.  He's going to be back there for years unless he falls off the ladder.

On the bright side, there IS one new addition to the flamingo/madonna/majestic lion-festooned yard!  It's a three-foot plaster swan next to the front door.  He's hung a life-preserver around its long neck.  I hate it when swans drown so it's good he's emphasizing water safety.

I'd post a picture for you, but he hasn't had a chance to whitewash it yet, and I know he'd want me to wait until it matches. It's so hard to wait.

I have to go grade research papers now, since school is starting back up tomorrow and I waited to the last minute, as usual.  My favorite paper so far is the one about the poem "Batter My Heart, Three-Person'd God", where the girl explains that the poem is about how the poet wants to be covered by God in sweet, sweet batter, like a cake.

Stupid high school students.  It's obviously more of a tempura-batter.  God's a deep-fryer.


Deep-fried Possum Tart.  Like a  rodent Monte-Cristo...

I think I need to go back to the store.