Have you ever danced with the devil in the pale moonlight?

Turns out I did not go unscathed after I fraternized with Bleach the other night. I thought I had been very careful, but true to form, Bleach sucker punched me . . . this time in my favorite pair of pajama bottoms. Well you see, that is what I was wearing when I gingerly applied bleach to the mold in my bathtub. Didn’t matter how meticulous I was though. You can’t walk too close to the flames and not get burnt or get smoke inhalation.

I don’t think I need to tell you that I am a little distraught over this. I value well worn pajama pants just about as much as I value the sleep I get while wearing them. They had the perfect amount of wear in the knees and the butt, giving them maximum comfort and cozy-bility. They were also perfect for cartwheels, and the splits too I imagine if I were flexible enough.

I took the liberty and marked the crime scene

But now their lovely pale blue hue is spotted white, on the upper right thigh. Completely noticeable to onlookers and myself. And notice the spots I do, every time I look down at my thighs, which turns out is quite often. I’m so mad I could spit. And what can I do about the infernal bottle of Bleach just sitting there laughing at me? Nothing. I can do absolutely nothing because Bleach is useful. The mold may return. I have to be ready!

Sort of like how you can’t kick a crazy relative out of a family reunion because he/she is the only one willing to do the cooking. I’d rather endure the hardship than starve. That’s always been my motto. Turns out it’s applicable in many of life’s icky complications.

Don’t think for one second though that I will discard my beloved PJs just because they now have a little surface damage. No. I will wear them until holes appear in various places, making them immodest, just as I do with all of my clothes. It’s one of the many few male qualities I possess.

And this reminds me, I’ve been meaning to do a post about pajamas and comfort clothes. The Husband needs to be reminded of the subtle differences that exist between the two. It matters. Stay tuned for that one.

The Rhythm Is Gonna Get Ya

Miracle of miracles, I actually went out this weekend. And I do mean WENT OUT. Physically and mentally, sans kids and Husband. The cause of such an occasion was my sister had a birthday or some such nonsense. I should have warned fellow party goers that I have not been OUT in awhile. Yes, I really should have had more forethought and compassion.

For what unfolded was an unholy purging of all my pent up energy. Not too unholy though. I was da belle of da ball. Whatever that means. Here’s what I think it means: It means I was crackin’ jokes left and right. Receiving hearty laughs in return, mixed with odd stares. Dancing in the streets. Turning everything into a song, including “I have to go pee.” It was a catchy tune that got stuck in the brains of all those who were privy to my performance. Wish I could remember it now though. It was really good. I swear.

Most of my pictures turned out like this. I think it’s all just too funny not to share.

I can’t say that I was a one woman show though. Others who also had the propensity to act foolishly when surrounded by food and fun were my accomplices. We were running off pure joie de vivre, without the aid of spirits. I don’t drink. And I shudder to think what kind of semi-human thing I would turn into if I did. No. Apparently all I need to shed my awkward shy layer is a little Mexican food, and a waitress that speaks so quietly she could make a fabulous relaxation CD consisting of just her, reading passages from the dictionary.

You’re probably wondering what I ordered. Verde Burrito. Works every time. Of course I removed those green discs of blasphemy. Of course I did.

After we paid a visit to a local comedy club we made our way back to our vehicular transportation sometime after midnight. I may or may not have danced part of the way back, performing such dance moves as The Sprinkler, Spank the Monkey, and One That Shall Have No Name. It must have attracted some attention though because out of nowhere a car pulled up alongside us pedestrians. They seemed to be asking for directions. It was a harmless looking young couple so I approached them with an average amount of caution. Then they asked me where they could find a good place to make out. I thought it an odd thing to ask a stranger, but who am I to judge and stand in the way of love.

So I told them they might as well just stay right where they were if it was so important to them. They said they would prefer someplace where other lovebirds go too. Now I would be lying if I had told them I didn’t know of such a place, because I do know of such a place, in myth. Personally I’ve never gone there. Well, okay. I have gone there, but purely for the panoramic views of the city. I swear.

So not wanting to lie, I told them about the place. Then they wanted to know how to get there, and now I was getting fairly bored with all this communication and wanted to tell them to GPS it or something. They must have sensed my disinterested mood because then the guy promptly asked me if I would like to get in the car and show them how to get there and then we could all make out.

Dang my fiery dance moves. They always get me into situations like this.

You better believe I gave them a huge eye roll and exhibited signs of disgust. Lucky for them they drove off. Why are people such freaks? That’s what I would like to know. And I’m not referring to myself.

Anyway, to end the night on a high note, as we were driving home we witnessed three men dressed head to toe in spandex, one red, one yellow, one blue, frolicking across the dark deserted street. Did you know such a thing exists? A spandex suit that covers everything . . . ? I just never imagined the possibility or the necessity.

Then I realized that this tomfoolery is what I miss out on most days, as a married mother of two younglings. And most days I’m just fine with that. Some things are better left unseen.

Don’t you think so?

You should be dancin', yeah

I wasn’t going to blog today because I’m a lazy blob and because I didn’t particularly feel like trying to be funny. Come on! I can’t always be in the mood, no matter how much you want me to be. Truer words have ne'er been spoken.

Never fear though. Something totally hilarious/depressing ended up occurring today that went along so well with the post I did yesterday about my aging body, I couldn’t not post about it. It's kismet really.

So practically everyday I dance around the house with my boys like a complete lunatic. Music is a necessity round these parts. It offers exercise, bonding, coordination skills, instrument and tone awareness, and passage of time. Hence we do it everyday because I’m a good mother and such.

Anyway, Bosco thought it would be fun to do an impression of the way everyone was dancing. So we did The Bubba and nodded our heads to the beat while flinging our arms from side to side. Then we did The Bosco and ran around like a headless chicken while sticking our tongues out. Then it was time to do The Mommy. Interested in how Bosco would interpret my dance skills, I sat back and watched. This is what he did.

He bent down and grabbed his ankle and said, “Oh my gosh. Ow. Ouch. Oh my gosh. Ooooo.” Then he hopped around on one leg while still bent over clutching his ankle.

I must give him credit. I did do this. He was very observant and his reenactment was spot on. But it’s a pity that my son is confusing my aging and klutz-like tendencies with dancing. Pity indeed.