Finis

Cue the music.  In the saga of my 30-Day Non-Facebook Prose-instead-of-Pictures Challenge, it's been quite a while since my last entry.  A sage once told me, when blogging, never explain your absences and never apologize for not writing.  In that vein, this is my cheating entry.  Knocking out the last entries because, well, it's so confining having a meme to follow.  What was supposed to spark creativity has turned into a chore.  Read fast, I'm going for broke...

22.A picture of something you wish you were better at - Ballet
23.A picture of your favorite book - The Six Wives of Henry VIII
24.A picture of something you wish you could change - Christmas
25.A picture of your favorite day - Snow Day
26.A picture of something that means a lot to you - Genealogy
27.A picture of yourself and a family member - Me and Mr. Gaelic (sort of - I just like this clip)
28.A picture of something you're afraid of - Snakes (sorry no pics - even pictures of snakes terrify me)
29.A picture that can always make you smile - Stories I read as a child
30.A picture of someone you miss - My parents

So, yeah, I cheated.  And now, let's go on with the blogs.

Do You Like Me? Do You Really Like Me?

In the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge, there are hard challenges and easy challenges.  Today's is easy: 

18.A picture of your biggest insecurity

Growing up in a very small town in the South, you went to school with the same people you went to church with, did Girl Scouts with, took ballet class with, sang in the church choir with, and on and on and on.  So when one girl decided to turn all the other girls against me because she didn't like me, it made for a long eighteen years.  Thank God for college!  And that in my graduating class only five of us went away to a four-year college.  And my bête noire went to the cross-state rival.  Praise the Lord!

High school.  Ugh!  My cousin was the fun one.  My bête noire was the head cheerleader.  I was the smart one.  Plus, at five-ten in stocking feet, I towered over all but two boys.  I also weighed in at 110 pounds soaking wet.  Long and lanky.  Geeky is more like it.  Thank goodness I never had braces or wore glasses!

How many times did a guy from my high school ask me for a date?  Zero.

How many dances did I attend where a boy asked me to dance?  Zip.

Going away to college where no one knew me changed all that.  There was the sorority, the fraternity where I was a little sister, the college newspaper editor who wrote a front page story about me as a way to ask me out, the month I never made it home because I had an average of five dates (with different guys) in a weekend.  Yes, average.

But deep down there is still that little girl from that little town who is terrified of being alone, of not being liked.  And that, my friends, is my biggest insecurity. 

[Title taken from this.]

A Friend with No Name

I'm getting into the groove again with the 30 Day Non-Facebook Prose-Instead-of-Pictures Challenge.  Today's challenge:

16.A picture of someone who inspires you

Taking the easy way out isn't for me.  The answer won't be Jesus, or Mother Teresa, or Gandhi.  Those are all inspiring people.  But too easy.  To make it more difficult for myself, I remembered a sermon from several years ago about Pentecost.

What does Pentecost have to do with inspiration?  "All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other tongues as the Spirit enabled them" -- Acts 2:4.  Spirit.  Inspire.  They both come from the root Greek spīrāre, to breathe.  Inspīrāre, to breathe upon or into.  So what breathes into me?  Who makes me alive?

There are very few people who truly inspire me.  Suzanne Farrell, the ballerina, for her endless love of dance to the point of destroying her hips and knees only to have them replaced with metal, for showing me that there can still be the love and desire of something so beautiful but dangerous even well into one's sixties.  John Muir, the naturalist, for his devotion to nature, for teaching me that the land can be loved, and cared for, now so that future generations will be able to love it as we do.  Julia Child, the early television foodie, for introducing me to roast chicken which can still be saved even when dropped on the floor in front of millions of viewers.  And a friend who will remain nameless, for utterly breathing the spirit of creativity into my mind and creating new ideas and ways to view things, for making me look at myself as someone still growing, never accepting that this is all there is.

Having a friend with no name push me to push myself, to be myself, to be more than myself.  That is true inspiration.  The breath of life that creates new life within me.

[Title taken from this.]

Don't Wanna Be an American Idiot

Movies can be entertaining, funny, serious, thought-provoking, cautionary, even edifying.  Rarely is there a movie that drains whatever intellect is left in the brain second by second until the last frame.  This one ranks in the so-bad-you-don't-want-to-miss-a-second-of-it category.  Let's see if there are enough brain cells still intact and not screaming out in an agonizingly slow death-by-Hollywood to write this blog.

Tonight's feature film was chosen based on an online exchange with some folks about the dumbing down of practically everything.  One person suggested that the movie "Idiocracy" should be viewed more as a cautionary science fiction tale than a "Porky's"-like farce.  Having never even heard of "Idiocracy" it went to the front of the Netflix queue. 

The opening shots of mountains of rubbish taller than buildings reminded me of the opening shots in "WALL-E".  I know WALL-E.  WALL-E was a friendly little movie.  And Idiocracy is no WALL-E.

Both movies have a protagonist that is "not one of us".  In both movies, tender sprouts play a major role.  In both movies, humans have gone soft.

In WALL-E, humans play a supporting role to the robots and machines.  It makes watching the movie much easier because we identify with the robots more than the humans.  We can pity the humans for what they allowed themselves to become.

In being a comedy, Idiocracy makes it difficult to pity the humans.  It's difficult to feel any connection with the humans because humans are the story.  We're left to wonder if too many episodes of Beavis and Butthead accelerated the decline of humans in the movie.  Ironic, when you remember that Idiocracy was brought to us by the same creative team behind Beavis and Butthead.

Like a rubber-necker who can't turn away from the sight of a horrific and deadly crash scene, my eyes were glued to the screen until the after-credits scene.  My mouth may have been hanging open due to the badness (and not in a good sense) of the movie.  Afterwards it felt like I needed a shower.  And not just to shower off the dirt.  A mental shower to help wash out the trash and replenish some modicum of intelligence. 

My brain cells were begging for "American Masters", a good ballet, or Harry Connick Jr. singing old standards.  When did being smart or liking ballet and opera become a joke?  Does knowing O Fortuna at the first two notes make me an elitist?  If so, send me to Siberia or put me to work in the rice patties. 

Is It Friday Yet?

We pulled away from the house this morning at 7:40 a.m. and returned at 8:35 p.m.  You've got to be kidding me!  Five days a week, 48 weeks a year, for the next 13 years?  Lunch was eaten at my desk all the while still working.  This is insane!  Granted, we had to go straight from work to pick up Maeve from her ballet class.  But still.  Mondays will be long days.

Tomorrow Mr. Gaelic has to be at his office at 7:45 a.m.  We'll probably leave around 7:15.  No ballet, so we'll be home by 6:45 p.m.  Then the schedule gets better with "normal" hours of leaving around 8:00 a.m. and returning around 6:45. 

Eleven, twelve, thirteen hour days are the norm for people who work on Capitol Hill.  Once, in my first incarnation on the Hill, I was still in the office at 11:00 p.m.  At Mr. Gaelic's present office, he has even had days that lasted until 1:30 a.m.  Yes, that's almost an 18-hour day. 

God, it feels great to be back where I started!

One Good Turn

Have you ever worked and worked at something? Trying to get it right. Whether it’s a lay-up on the basketball court and putting some English on your backhand. You practice it over and over trying to condition the muscle memory.

For several months, my routine at the gym has been: 20-30 minutes of interval training on the treadmill, 10 minutes on the rowing machine, 3 sets of free weights (alternating upper body, lower body, and abs), then 15 minutes practicing my ballet turns before ending with a long stretching session. For just as many months, my excuse for not completing the turns crisply was either being too tired or being too rushed or having a stuffy nose and ears (inner ear disturbances through off your balance). They are just excuses. Because I wasn’t finishing the turns with technical accuracy. But then yesterday . . .

Nailed it! [Happy dance] Wow! You should have been there. It was an awesome feat. I was able to stick my tour jeté. That was the Best. Feeling. Ever.

I may never again be able to nail it like that. And I may not do much walking today. Too many celebratory pirouettes across the basketball court.

Pickled Ballerina's Feet

With my current job search bullying my dance craze to the backseat of the bus, attending ballet class has taken a nosedive.  Tuesdays and Thursdays are my buckle-down-and-just-do-it days to work on applications for the entire "business day".  Mondays and Wednesdays are spent doing my other full-time occupation of being a housewife.  Believe me, if there were any way possible, I'd keep my current job.  But it doesn't pay enough for college tuition.  In fact, monetarily speaking, it doesn't pay at all.  Except in the love and affection of my family.

That leaves Fridays to relax into a physically exhaustive exercise routine.  My only ballet class of the week these days. 

My ballet teacher is a wonderful woman.  She danced professionally from age 16 onward.  She was a Rockette at one time and danced in Sweden for a while.  Now she teaches ballet to pre-schoolers through pre-pointe.  Plus her adult class, her gal pals.

She's somewhat eccentric in certain ways.  She refuses to see Western doctors until she can barely walk.  She drinks Listerine before class every day.  And recently she's taken to drinking water mixed with cider vinegar. 

She's also gotten on the green bandwagon by buying a metal water bottle to carry her vinegar water.  Apparently, she just bought it.  At my last class I walked in and found her swearing about how her bottle had leaked all in her bag.  Both pairs of ballet slippers were soaked.

But she had nothing else to wear and, with her gnarled feet from years of pointe shoes, she won't dance barefooted or sock footed.  She just squished her way through class, leaving puddles where she stood too long while mentally choreographing each piece. 

The good thing about ballet slippers is that, even after all the blood, sweat, and tears, they still smell like leather.  Rule Number One in ballet is never to wear your ballet shoes anywhere but in the studio.  So they're not on our feet for more than a couple of hours at a time.

Still.  One has to wonder how the vinegar will affect the suppleness of the leather and thereby a dancer's ability to arch her foot.  Inquiring ballerina minds (me) want to know.

Billy Elliot, American Style

In the musical Billy Elliot, Billy travels from a coal mining town in Wales to London to audition for the Royal School of Ballet. Maeve, my youngest, wants to audition for our local school of ballet which produces some world-class dancers. Auditions are tomorrow.

One difference between Billy and Maeve is that Billy had to have a dance piece with music to show the audition board. Maeve only has to participate in a technique workshop much like a regular class where she’ll be assessed on her ability and age-appropriate standards.

If she attends, in two years she’ll begin professional classes with the possibility of performing in other cities. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But why must those bridges keep coming so fast? Can’t someone slow this shale car down?

Five, Six, Seven, Eight | Update

My post today was before class.  Class was Intense!  With a capital I! 

The class was Advanced Beginner.  I took ballet in high school, one theatre dance class in college, and a recent ballet class to keep in shape.  The website said that the Beginner class was for absolute beginners who had never danced before.  That's not me.  The next step up is the Advanced Beginner class.

That was no Advanced Beginner class!  That was Intermediate to Advanced.  She had us doing tour jetés and cabrioles.  She'd tell us a sequence then show us quickly.  She wanted port de bras in a full circle reaching to the wall, bending back as far as possible, away from the wall and to the ground. 

If that was an Advanced Beginner class, I need an Intermediate Beginner class.  But I stand by my first assertion.  That was no effing Advanced Beginner class!

Five, Six, Seven, Eight

Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Again!

Being a dancer means having a photographic memory. For verbal direction. And ballet essentially is spoken in French. Plié, rond de jambe, relevé, fondu, grand battement. They’re all French.

Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch...Right!

Different ballet dancers give different pointers and suggestions. “Shoulders down! Ears back! Look out over your cheekbones not from under your eyelids! Hips forward! Press down to go up!” They will position your arm and your gaze just so. “Soft hands! No teacup hands! This isn’t Fosse!”

That connects with...

My regular ballet teacher hasn’t taught an adult class since the week before the spring recital. All summer she was at home with her leg propped up on pillows due to knee replacement surgery. My ballet slippers haven’t seen the light of day in over two months.

Turn, turn, out, in, jump, step,

When a website that specializes in discounts at various local businesses offered a series of dance lessons at a new studio for less than the cost of my usual classes, I jumped at the chance. With voucher in hand, I typed in the web address to the dedicated registration site and clicked to sign up for a particular class. Success! It’s today!

Step, kick, kick, leap, kick, touch.

Before signing up for class, I checked the bios of the teachers. The teachers are much, much younger than my current teacher. Her children are my age. As for stamina, will I be able to keep up?

Got it?... Going on. And...

My teacher danced professionally in her teens and 20s, appearing as a Rockette for a period of time. These teachers dance with international ballet troupes. Not that ballet changes, but the athleticism is as much a part of ballet today as the aesthetics.

Turn, turn, touch, down, back, step,

I looked again at the list of classes. I’m not a good judge of my ability. In my regular ballet class, I’m definitely the star pupil. But a master class with one of Ballanchine’s protégés proved to my why I’m not a professional dancer.

Pivot, step, walk, walk, walk.

What class to sign up for? That’s the question.

Right! Let's do the whole combination,

Perhaps, hopefully, I’m just being humble. I signed up for the Advanced Beginner class. But I left it at one. I’ll go to class and see what the teacher has to say. See if she thinks I need to be in the Intermediate class.

Facing away from the mirror.

Wish me luck! Stamina, athleticism, aesthetics, passion. It takes a lot to be a dancer these days.

From the top. A-Five, six, seven, eight!

Said the Spider to the Fly

Two weeks of weather bliss!  Scotland clocked in with highs in the high 60s to low 70s.  London was warmer with mid-70s.  Rain or sprinkles every day.  Hey, you get used to it. 

Much better than the weather back home during the same time.  There it was over 100 for almost two straight weeks, so the rumor goes.  It's much "better" this week.  Highs in the low to mid 90s with chances of afternoon thunderstorms.  Those Three H's of summer - hazy, hot, and humid.  Ugh!

It'll be like stepping into a torture chamber for me today.  The director of the ballet summer camp is due for knee surgery this morning.  Which means I'll be teaching ballet and running the camp.  No sweat!

But I will be sweating.  Buckets.  The name of the camp?  Ballet In The Grass.  Yep, you guessed it.  We'll be outside.  Not only is my body still on Greenwich Mean Time, it's also still acclimated to British weather. 

Could the weather gods be persuaded to send some North Sea breezes my way today?

Caught in a Blind

I’m going blind. Blind, I tell you! A good friend told me that it happens at 40. Forty came, and went. (And don’t ask me how old I am. I won’t tell you. A woman who tells you her age will tell you anything.) But my eyesight was still pretty good, except for the nearsightedness brought on during law school.

But now! Just last night, going through a backlog of 2,485 emails (don’t ask), one caught my eye, “Key Music Group for Great Knees.” As a dancer, knees are very important. And as a dancer, music is again very important. My thoughts, when clicking on the link to the article, were of finding a new band’s tunes to download to my iPod for dancing.

Boy, was I surprised when I clicked on the article and began reading! There was nothing about music or bands or anything like that. Just information on building up your quads. Back to the email to make sure I clicked the correct link. Yep. Same article came up.

I was about to chalk it up as a bad bit of editing on the part of the writers. Until a closer look at the title destroyed any pretense of superiority. My eyes squinted at the screen,

“Key Muscle Group for Great Knees”

Blind, I tell you, blind!

Mulligan Goo

I'm taking a do-over on today. Complete with crawling back into bed with the covers over my head. Let's recap the day so far:

• It's raining.
• While on the phone, I walked out to get in the car not remembering that I was on the land line not my cell phone. I promised my husband I'd call him back on the cell phone when I was in the car.
• At ballet on the first plié, my tights ripped in the crotch seam.
• On the second plié, my knee popped and I ended up wearing a knee brace during the rest of class.
• After class in checking my email on the Blackberry, my lech of an archery coach wants me to deliver his Girl Scout cookies tomorrow morning.
• I finally remembered to call my husband back while running errands.
• On the way home, I drove right past the pharmacy and forgot to drop off my daughter's prescription.
• As I was changing from my ballet outfit back to my civvies, the cat pushed the door open right when I was buck naked and the three guys working on the gardening next door got a cheap thrill.

Methinks I should stop while I'm behind.

Agenda for Today

Hurry, hurry, hurry…

Before the next job…
Then there’s supper…

Why pancakes for supper? Because it’s…

Then home to…