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October 25, 2007
We're a couple alright.
After years of trying to get my fellah to enroll in some swing dancing classes, I realized that it just wasn't going to happen. Since I'm not the type to give up completely, I suggested some other alternatives: tango, waltz, foxtrot, polka, salsa or swimming lessons. He chose tango.
Tonight was our first class, and despite the insistence of people to smoke, getting that nasty, horrid, putrid cloud of persistent stench all over them and then having the nerve to be randomly selected to dance with me, the lesson was fun. Not only did we learn some cool tango walking, but I discovered that he and I possess the same urgency to hop on suggesstion.
The teacher was demonstrating a quick step in which the leader shuffles his step in hopes to walk as we walk: left-right, left-right, instead of right-left, right-left. She said "all you do is give a little hop" and just then, we hopped. 6 couples apart, him standing at 3'oclock to my 6'oclock, we both hopped.
36 other feet were firmly on the dance floor. No one laughed but us.
Posted by lysa at 10:45 PM | Comments (6)
October 23, 2007
Mooching off Jean-Pierre Jeunet
I had a bad day yesterday. Yesterday was a resignation-writing-but-not-submitting kind of day. It was the sort of day that usually ends up with delusions that I am Ginger Rogers or Fred Astaire, depending on mood and/or current feelings about the roles gender plays in our society.
This brings me to the topic of todays list: 20 completely feasible and potentially ridiculous things that make me smile.
. Hearing "Feeling Good" by Nina Simone as I am emerging from any place with a door, or any place that opens into light, such as ascending a staircase from the subway below into the street.
. Stoli Raspberry and Ginger Ale. 2 please, preferably served with some fried appetizer. At 3 drinks I pass happy and start showing people my tattoos and discussing the results of my purity test.
. Partner dancing. Maybe not of the square variety, but a waltz, tango or a good lindy gets a smile out of me, no matter my mood.
. Call me crazy, but I really like taking the lint off of dryer vents.
. Vanilla Egg Creams.
. Being described as "The Bees Knees"
. funny faces from usually serious people.
. making boys blush.
. acoustic guitars.
. old people kissing.
. the ridiculous hats on women in black and white movies.
. smooshing my ice cream until it's doughy.
. 3 part harmony.
. spaces before parenthesis. ( like so )
. Hearing an accent on a person you've never spoken to before.
. swinging scary high on old metal swingsets, the ones you could stand up on and bludgeon someone to death with.
. getting packages.
. strawberry ringpops.
. stories before bedtime.
. Quirky sound effects from quirky people.
. The unexpected: like short, thin women with barrier busting singing voices.
. xkcd.com
. wearing my hair in braids, which I'm going to do right now.
Posted by lysa at 9:47 AM | Comments (4)
October 17, 2007
Awww, Nuts!
Sorry for the wait, ladies and gents. The bag of nuts in question came to a grand total of $7.49. Fortunately the woman at the register was as enraged as I was and scanned the $5.00 can for us instead.
Sweet!
Posted by lysa at 4:20 PM | Comments (1)
October 9, 2007
The price is *NOT* right, Bob,
Ladies and Gents,
I'd like to present you with the first-ever, never before seen, blog rendition of The Price is Right.
Here are the rules:
1. Go to your local shopping mart and seek a bag of Diamond (of California), 8oz chopped pecans.
2. Take note of the price.
3. Come back here and write the state/locality in which you live, and whether or not you believe your nuts are more/ess expensive than the package I just bought.
And the answer is, yes, I am so absolutely aghast at the price of these friggen nuts it merits a study.
Posted by lysa at 8:33 PM | Comments (6)
October 3, 2007
Yo! I wanna get wit you.
I left work early today. The reasoning for this will be detailed shortly, but I needed an opening sentence, and that seemed good enough.
I was walking to the train with what could only be described as my complete "don't fuck with me" ensemble. I had on my sunglasses, headphones which clearly led to an iPod tucked into my front pocket.
I see this guy walking towards me, and he motions to me that he wants to ask me a question. I slow down, maintain my distance, take my headphones out and listen to him tell me:
"Hey baby, I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate your look and I want to be your man."
Now, forgive the pause in the dialogue, but this story just isn't complete without some more detail. Last night, I was at work until 3:30am. I had to be back at the office at 9am. I got 4 hours of sleep last night. This morning I threw my hair in a ponytail, slipped on some pink chucks, a pair of worn jeans and the plainest black shirt I own. By 3:30pm when I left work, nothing on me was glamorous. My ponytail looked like an imprisoned lion's mane with whips of hair escaping at every possible turn. I could have secured my iPod in either of the bags under my eyes, and I assure you, Sherlock Holmes couldn't find makeup on my visage with Watson, Spade and Mason assisting. In short, I looked like hell.
After running his opening line through my internal filter, I successfully translated "like your look into "nice tits", realized he added on a request to be my man and I managed to reply with "Sorry, that position is filled."
He tells me that he really wants to "get wit me" and I assure him that I have a very nice, kind, wonderful boyfriend whom I have no intention of trading in. I thank him for his compliment, tell him to have a good day, and go on my merry way.
I wonder, does this work? Has this approach ever succeeded? Sure, it's a lot better than "You got any fries with that shake?" or "I appreciate that walk" yet ranks way below the more acceptable "Good Morning".
I wish I wasn't exhausted, crabby, impatient and stunned because this could have been a fascinating sociological experiment.
Posted by lysa at 5:56 PM | Comments (10)
October 1, 2007
Jill Sobule and I both love our jeans.
I've always had a love affair with jeans. Jeans are my comfort zone. With jeans, it doesn't matter if I've shaved my legs and it doesn't matter that my knees are bruised. I don't have to worry about tucking in shirts, matching socks or pantylines. All that matters in jeans is that fall is back, and I have new boots.
If it were fall all year around, I would scrap whatever wool pantaloons or eyelet linen skirts I own and be confined to, but certainly not limited to, my jeans. I would joyously wear warm, fresh from the dryer goodness daily and save a ton on dry cleaning.
Last night I conducted a jean audit, and realized I might have a problem. I counted 21 available pairs, which is also like saying, i found a book with 21 stories. Ever pair has a story. Some stories were too tight, and I finally relinquished them to the charity bin. Some stories started in Paris, some in Italy and yet others spoke of trips to California. Most stories involved a vacation where I foolishly packed shorts to save room, instead of my trusted standby. I invariably would end up purchasing a pair or two while away.
This is a dedication to denim and a sad farewell to the ones that got left behind, due to my behind.
I guess they'll need replacing.
Posted by lysa at 9:32 AM | Comments (5)