Tap Jam

The Monday before…

Last Monday I was in “a mood”. I woke up mad and I managed to stay mad for a good part of the day – no particular reason either – I was mad. My first order of business was to send my tap teacher a note, “Dear Brenna, I’m not going to your class today. XXOO Beth” I audibly ended my note with a big self-satisfied cranky “HMPH!” while thinking, “take that, tap teacher!”

I got to work and practically hissed at anyone who came my way. “Good morning, Beth” You can take your good morning and … - and I actually muttered at almost everyone. My favorite, a co-worker who asked, “Beth, can you show me how to do this again? I know it must get tiring.” That started the whole, “oh nooooo showing you for the 5th time is going to be as fun as when I have to show you for the 12th and then the 17th – it’s a !@# #!$!%% frikkin’ privilege to review this every couple of days – READ YOUR NOTES!” I said this all under my breath while glaring at her cubicle. So, you get the picture. Grumpy and delightful as always.

With about an hour left in the day I decided I should just stop and go to tap – it always makes my day – my teacher is great (she won Best Dancer in Austin, just fyi) and she’s funny AND she doesn’t mind that I never get better from year to year or that I have leopard print tap shoes just like she does. (I have a Christmas tree angel who also wears fuzzy leopard print dress – I have no taste.) I didn’t have dance clothes, but a quick trip to the store rectified that. Plus, I can wear my teacher’s extra shoes – no problem.

We got to tap and no one showed. My mood started taking a big dive and I was regressing to 7am Beth. However, Brenna offered an alternative. The dancers from Tapestry, their dance company, were meeting up at Ruta Maya, a local coffee house for a tap jam, – that’s where local musicians provide the beat and the dancers get up on stage and improvise. I was in.

Now my only gripe about this place – no Shiner Bock. In Austin I don’t see how a place can get away with it; I truly think it’s the official City Beer and if it’s not, it should be. And for the record, I think the place should be fined for not carrying it. Beer aside, the dancing was GREAT! It was not only fun to just watch Brenna do her thing (completely unhindered by a spastic tap class) along with the other dancers, but it was great to just be out in a coffee house doing something besides sitting at home. It reminded me of the me I missed – the live music listening, bar hopping me – the me that liked to go dancing – the me that could stay up past 10pm and the me that didn’t stalk into my office space snapping and hissing. Now don’t get me wrong, I also like the lazy me, but I think I’m going to try to get into the habit of going out a little more or at least to the next Tap Jam. You should, too.

We Got Us a Grill

My self-imposed project for the weekend was to assemble our newly acquired grill. I went into the garage, pulled out all the pieces and stared blankly at the very un-grill like mess in front of me. I broke out the instructions and read slowly and loudly the first step while eyeing the bags of nuts, bolts and clippy bits – I went back and forth from Fig. A to the pieces I had trying to make sense of it all when my project became Jay’s project. Although, I will say that I successfully assembled the legs – you can’t have a grill with the legs to support it – it’s an important part (or at least I keep telling myself that).

Now what we have is a charcoal/wood burning grill with a side smoker – not one of those sissy propane why don’t you just cook it inside on your stove grills that some others prefer (or as Dad says – why even bother cooking it inside – just locate your nearest BBQ place, order up and you can have all your brisket on a piece of butcher paper and for $1.99 more you make it a combo). No sirree, this one involves flammable liquids, piles of ash and no containers that should explode under pressure or too much heat. (Although, Dad once decided gas would be an amazing substitute and blew a sizable hole out of the side of our rock BBQ pit. The great thing about Dad, is you always learn something neat about science when he’s up and about. This lesson was brought to us by the amazing power of gas fumes – now THAT’S a fire! Although he was minus an eyebrow or two, Dad was pleased.)

I asked Dad earlier in the week for BBQ tips and he came back with rules on how to know when your steak is done. According to Dad, it’s done on a beer timer. A well done steak involves ½ a beer per side, whereas he prefers his steaks at a ¼ beer per side. He also offered up that once the steak is ready, you can move it off the coals and enjoy the rest of your beer – no need to neglect a good beer even for steak. I had to confess to Dad that when buying the charcoal, lighter fluid, fancy new spatula and the bean pot (you have to have a bean pot, although you can cook them in the can directly on the grill if you prefer, which I do prefer but didn’t want to have friends freaking out) that I had neglected to get a case of beer. Clearly, Dad needs to be in charge of my shopping lists.

So now we’re set. I have a hound, a grill and well unfortunately Jay isn’t a first cousin – my American dream is almost fulfilled.

Meet Lynn

[Picture of Lynn in her element - holding court at a convention giving everyone the Lynn attitude of "Look..." (I'll let Lynn fill in the rest of that very Lynn statement)- this picture captures the essence of Lynn.]

... and on our first day in Vegas, we (Jay, Jeff, Kendra, Buddy & Lynn) crossed some walkway either heading to the Bellagio or maybe it was Ceasar's Palace - it doesn't matter - I think we were hunting for food - and walking towards us was Gene Simmons. We did what any normal people would do upon seeing a rock god, we immediately turned on Lynn.

... and here's why:

A great story about Lynn as told by our friend Harry - I don't really have permission to print it, but he's the forgiving sort. Read fast just in case he makes me take it down.

Lynn's story.

We're at the pinnacle of geekdom, where geeks and pop culture clash like peanut-butter and chocolate, smeared on a brick, and thrown through someone's car window.

San Diego Comic Con.

Lynn, who has already once in the history of Con managed to turn both eyes in every one of over 40,000 heads in attendance towards Buddy (her husband) via the power of her mighty lungs, is tired. She is so tired, she has decided to sit on the floor, back against the wall, with her Mickey Mouse backpack sprawled on the ground and going through the fruits of her labors during the long and arduous hours at the Con.

Towards us walks a figure who, through decades of practice, through a lifetime of being told that he is the best (and proving it to himself, if no-one else) manages to make even his stride something to gaze upon in awe. He is a man who many call a god, others would call a devil, and most would not call a demon, but THE DEMON. Buddy, ever eloquent, looks in his direction and mutters, 'Hey, cool. Gene Simmons.'

THERE! Behold the name spoken aloud causing chaos and calamity! And more! The Demon spoke as well, though surely he spoke under his breath for the full force of the utterance of his tongue would bring forth women from the world over bearing gifts of boobies and arse! So spaketh the Demon, under his breath, 'Hey cool, Mickey Mouse.'

To which, Lynn, our fiery banshee of the unhindered voice... she who has the innate power to completely disregard the barrier between thought and speech, let burst forth a declaration of undying love and fealty...

(GASP!)'Sh... Th... THBBBBBBBT!'


Ah... yes. (GASP!)'Sh... Th... THBBBBBBT!' - Soon to be distributed to more people than the bible, for it, unlike any other religious text in the world, needs no translation. It is pure, uninterrupted (and unintelligible) language.

Thank you, Lynn. Thank you for showing us the light and the way.

I Want to Be a Ballerina

“When I grow up, I want to be a ballerina.” I was completely serious when I announced that to my parents. I was also completely 4 or 5. As I grew older my ambitions changed, “I want to be an architect! An archaeologist! A model! I want to raise horses in Ireland or maybe Nova Scotia (I have no idea why)! I want to have a mustang preserve!” And my personal favorite, “I want to be a mythologist.” I shared that with my cousin who openly scoffed as he replied, “you can’t BE a mythologist. That’s not a job.” Years of schoolyard debating prepared me for this sort of fallacious yap, “Yes, you can!” but he cleverly retorted, “no, you can’t – it’s not a job.” (There was an implied “loser” hurled my way, but that phrase hadn’t yet made its way into popular speech so he may have resorted to rolling his eyes. In my defense, though I thought, if you could add “-ist” to the end of it, then it could be a job and if it couldn’t be a job it could be a line of research. Hmph.)

“I want to be a chubby middle aged girl who spends too much time online, who never leaves the house and pokes databases,” never crossed my mind as a possibility. Yet, here I am.

I look at several of my friends quite enviously – they either knew what it was they wanted to be or they didn’t lose their sense of imagination when emerging from college as supposed “adults”. My good friend Angie, whom I met in 6th grade, told me back then “I want to be a vet.” She’s a vet. Another friend said, “you know, not everyone has the ability to be a doctor, but I do – I’m going to do that.” Now she’s a doctor. Another friend writes and trots around the globe. Yes, I know, I have a severe case of “grass is always greener…”

Still, I feel that somewhere along the way I either lost my sense of imagination or faith in my abilities (or both). I went from “I want to be a ballerina” to “I’ll take any job they throw at me as long as I don’t have to leave this city.”

I’ve tried taking those tests that are supposed to help you pair up your interests with your abilities through one of the local colleges. Both times it came back “your interests and abilities are all over the map; however, you shouldn’t do anything that requires assembly lines.” It turns out I’m quite retarded at quickly and accurately handling manual tasks. So, industrial dish washer is out. Working at the Toyota factory – out. No semiconductor work in my foreseeable future either.

When I self-assess my abilities, I come back with “I’m very sarcastic”. Now why can’t there be a job that plays off my one big advantage? Surely being bitter, cynical and caustic is needed somewhere other than in the Department of Corrections (or any state agency for that matter).

So, this big vomitous ball of introspection came about after a discussion about what I’d done in my past that I enjoyed the most and how I felt a bit robbed because I can’t get back to it. I followed that conversation up earlier this week, post vacation, by announcing to a friend of mine, “I need a job that I enjoy and means something to me.” I slumped back and couldn’t think of one. “What do you like?” (That’s not an exact quote, but play along.) I feebly offered up, “well, behavioral psychology… maybe doing environmental work” and left out “going to graduate school in music” because that felt lame, but not as lame as saying “… and I want to be cool” (of course, you’d have to know what I thought was cool – a bohemian existence after time spent in the Peace Corps – something along those lines – the kind of gal who could wear a sarang over a deep tan and ride a bike with a basket and a bell who also sings back-up in a samba band).

Well, maybe it’s not too late to be a ballerina.