Wednesday, November 4, 2009

So you think you can dance. Well, Billy and Susie, you can't.

Quick. I have to write this down before I forget my dream. Moments ago I woke up with a song in my head: "Take a Letter Maria... dadadada... Address it to my wife". That one-hit wonder was the music for my dance in the Tango competition, but I was having a hard time finding the spot on the *CASSETTE tape where the song began. (*If you have to ask what a cassette tape is, fuck off).

Of course, I went to an online dream interpretation site and apparently to dream of dancing signifies: freedom from any constraints and restrictions. (No bra yet this morning.) Your life is balanced and in harmony. (!??) Dancing also represents frivolity, happiness, gracefulness, sensuality and sexual desires.

Gracefulness. Sensuality. So we know that dream interpretation site sucks. And hey, wait... did I have a partner? I was dancing with someone. But who? Please make it be Colin Firth. Or a man.

Naturally, I went to the Halifax Dance site just to see if a gal wanted to learn how to Tango if that was even possible in this godforsaken part of the world. Apparently you can learn how to Belly Dance (Monday 12 - 1) Intermediate Flamenco (Thursday 1-2) Pilates (is that a dance? Tuesday 6-7) and Salsa Into the Fire, which sounds dangerous (Thursday 8-9). But no Tango.

I may sign up for Movement for People with Mobility Issues (Wednesday 12-1). That's perhaps more up my alley, and you could do it on a full stomach.

I could never watch Sesame Street on a full stomach and I noticed those little stuffed freaks just made it to 40. Jack hated Sesame Street thank God. Maybe it was because I always sat there next to him, biting the heads off his animal crackers making fun of Maria and Bob and all the other gender confused, likely Catholic, pedophiles on that show. Even Oscar the Grouch pissed me off. Cookie Monster? Challenged. And Big Bird. Don't get me started on that annoying waste of a chicken nugget – I don't even have my bra on yet. Miss Piggy was the only funny one and I think she's in Rehab.

And pity the poor puppeteer. No wonder Jim Henson checked out early. Imagine spending your entire career with your hand shoved up someone's ass, while they get all the glory and the expense account. Hey wait, that's advertising.

More coffee and further journalistic research has found I clicked on Free Lessons and got a cheesey video. No wonder their last posted dance class was May 2008. I guess Tango didn't go over so well in this land of Celtic jumping up and down 'til you puke or your kilt flies up.

I'm going back to bed. Maybe I'll dream of my mystery dance partner or horizontal folk dancing, or doing a choke hold on the Snuffaluffagus, or an episode of Sesame Street where Bert and Ernie (and Bob) finally come out of the fucking closet after 40 years.

Hey send me those I'm getting more emails about how hard it is to express yourself, yadda yadda. It's called alcohol people. Same juice that gets you up on the dance floor. Someone has to win Surgically Clean Air, and it could be you.

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