Dancing the night away

My parents gave up classic rock and roll when I went away to college.  My mom finally convinced my dad to take dance lessons, country western swing dance lessons.  After a couple of weeks, they realized their timing was off because my dad was listening to The Beach Boys in his head.  He gave it up for my mom.  Ten years later, they go dancing four nights a week dancing with the car radio blasting country, with my dad crooning songs as he listens to his MP3 player.

Good country music is all right, but I’m an alternative girl.  I spent my youth going to straight edge clubs, dancing to garage bands, moshing, skanking, free style dancing.  I love the rawness of it, the newness, the trying something different, looking for the new sound.  I love just dancing too it, though my dancing has been cut drastically since the boys, not to mention monitoring those adult content songs.

My mom is starting a line dancing class this Wednesday.  She has been scouring for more dances, calling all her friends and associates, making flyers, getting babysitting for the boys.  “You’ll come, won’t you? Your dad can watch the boys and bring them to the bar when the class is over.”  Um.  Line dancing?

It takes me several days of practice to get a dance down.  I hardly know my left from my right.  To remember all those steps, timed with music, it makes my mind swirl, and I end up looking as graceful as a cow.  I won’t tell you how many weeks it took me to learn to swing back in high school, which is all forgotten now.  I won’t bore you with details of the private dance lessons (because the husband doesn’t dance without a blood-alcohol level of .16) two months before the wedding.  Not to mention, line dancing?  What part of my music taste equals group coordination?  It’s all about not being a Tool, Raging Against the Machine, having a Green Day.

But it’s my mom.  She needs social approval, so if no one comes she’ll be crushed.  She needs moral support, so if I don’t come, she’ll be hurt.  Granted if her friends come, then I’ll be completely ignored, but I don’t need social approval.  To her it’s a gone conclusion that I’ll be there.  I don’t want to, but I feel I have to because look at all the softball, volleyball, basketball, Girl Scout, swimming, drama, school events she had to attend for me. 

Though this cow doesn’t want to, I’ll be there tomorrow night (unless I can come up with a good excuse) with combat boots on instead of bells (or cowboy boots).  Well, at least, I look good in a cowboy hat.  Just promise me I can still get the new Green Day album.

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Tiki Tornado E and Tiki Tornado S

Since the Disneyland trip, Tornado E has been running around the house calling himself a Tiki.  I’m sure he doesn’t know what it means.  Yesterday he put the laundry basket on his, and it fell to land mostly on his back, so that he looks like he has some sort of weird veil.  He loved it, yelling “Look, Mommy, I’m a Tiki!”  Tornado S ran after him.  Then Tornado E tried to sing the Tiki Room song, only he couldn’t remember all the words, so he asked me to sing.

“In the tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki room. 

In the tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki room,

All the birds sing, and the flowers croon,

In the tiki, tiki, tiki, tiki room.”

So now Tornado E tried to sing the song.  The tiki lines came out slow, and he always says the flowers grow.  Tornado S started to dance to his brother’s singing.  Then they began to stomp their feet as Tornado E shouted it was the angry rain gods.  After a little rain dance, Tornado E went back to singing the Tiki Room song.  Then after he has sang enough, he bowed and said “Thank you, thank you.”  If I don’t clap, he tells me I should.  Of course, Tornado S now knows with the first “Thank you” to clap.  Well, at least they’re playing together and using their imaginations.  I wonder if I should get them a Tiki.