Dance Dance Evolution

Much apologies for my absence, but it was certainly for a good cause, so I hope you don’t mind.

I also hope you won’t mind if I indulge in a little story-telling this week, all of which will revolve around one special person, my cousin, Beck, who this time next week will step away from her rank as a single person and step instead onto the path of married life.

Beck has been in my life as long as I can ever remember, and has also been so amazingly supportive of this blog, that it feels only right to honor her. How? Why with embarrassing tales from our youth, of course!

Now, one of the things that has always bound Beck and I together was our love and taste in music. From as far back as I can recall, we often found ourselves bonding over shared musicians or songs that we loved, no matter who was the first to introduce it to the other. The Sundays, Ben Folds Five, Big Bad Voodoo Daddy, Dave Matthews Band, Save Ferris, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young; all were bands that Beck introduced to me and eventually their songs became the soundtrack to my childhood. I will always cherish them, and her, for that.

What we also bonded on was our dancing. Let me rephrase…Beck could (and still can) dance. She’s always been very graceful, even when she walks.

Now, on the other hand, I must quote another one of our favorites, Phil Collins, and profess, “I Can’t Dance”. But that didn’t stop us from trying to coordinate our own moves!

The first attempt at choreography occurred one night when we were about 10, while watching HBO; a channel we were probably not allowed to watch at an hour I’m sure we weren’t supposed to be up for. The feature presentation music began and Beck mentioned how much she LOVED that music.

Feeling silly and goofy, we both got up and tried to dance along with it. I ended up just trying to match what she did- each taking two big steps, followed by two quick steps, crossing our paths, and then doing a jazz-hand/punch combo in a make-believe box. Hard to describe, and probably harder to imagine, but if you ever heard the HBO Feature Presentation music, you’d get the idea. Still can’t see it? Someday you may get the opportunity. I’m talking to you, Paula Abdul- straight up.

Our next attempt was a tad more organized. Instead of getting creative, we merely copied. The Electric Slide? The Macarena? Well, we did learn those, but we focused a bit more energy on a far more relevant and wide-spread hit- the “Romy and Michelle’s High School Reunion” Dance.

I’m sure you are WELL acquainted with that masterpiece of a film, but Beck and I always enjoyed it, especially the scene when the two are in a club and seamlessly break into a cool dance to the song “Stayin’ Alive”. Of course, we had to learn it, and did- after surprisingly many attempts. From then on, whenever we were in each other’s company and that song came on, we’d immediately get into place and meet odd glances with our spastic foot kicks.

Sure those were good times. But my favorite memory that involves this trifecta: Becky, Me, and the dance, has to be when we got into our heads that we wanted to be like Riverdance. Remember when that was popular for about 3 months? Didn’t stop us from begging our parents to take us to Irish dancing classes.

Beck managed to get to practice more often, but I only went once- and it was because of that one time, I vowed never again.

Beck’s mom, my aunt, drove us all the way out together one night for our lesson. We walked in, and instead of a one-on-one kind of thing, it was a class with about 7 or 8 other girls. Beck, as I said, had gone a few times, so she knew some of them.

Meanwhile I, in my over-sized pink sweatpants and white socks, tried to act inconspicuous- a difficult thing, considering the ceiling-high mirrors. If standing in tight dance clogs, wearing basically your pajamas, in a small studio with other far more graceful and agile females doesn’t completely scrub away that pesky dignity, putting up giant mirrors so you can stare at your own ass and back sweat should do the trick.

And if that doesn’t work- try to actually dance! You’ll be on your way to a psychiatrist couch with more problems than an 8th grader’s math test.

Still, despite my own neuroses, we shared something in these dance experiences. We started to become the people we would be someday. Me, the overly sensitive and painfully critical smart-ass, and Beck- the dignified and adventurous woman she is today.

I'd Lik to Buy a Bowel - The Search for Poo

So after a sleepless night, trying to not hear Georgia's shivering, Joe and I got up and packed Georgia into Joe's car for her second visit with the vet.

As I saw them off I began getting myself ready for work, yet all I could think about was what the vet would say.

At around 10:30 a.m. I received a call from her.

“So we have Georgia here, and I just don’t like the look of that lump, so I think surgery is going to be necessary.”

My heart sank.

But I quickly agreed with her decision, and then proceeded to feel the onslaught of questions hammer into my brain once again.

Finally, at around 7 p.m., we were able to pick her up and take her home, with orders to bring her back again for a fresh round of fluids and treatment.

The night was rough; Georgia barely let us touch her and she seemed completely out of it. I was nervous not just because I feared hurting her, but I also feared that somehow, when she had gone under the knife, her personality would’ve changed.

The next day, after dropping her off again and another long day of anticipation, my fears were happily abated.

The vet led us back to see her and we were greeted with a super excited, tail-wagging dog. We were given some further instructions, a couple of medications, and, the piece de resistance, a plastic cone to keep her from licking herself.

We were also told to be on the lookout for vomiting or constipation, so for the past few days, we have been following and watching Georgia’s bodily functions. Luckily there was no vomit and in fact, her appetite had become ravenous.

The one thing we still hadn’t seen was her poop. I began to get obsessed. Every time Joe took her out, I’d ask if she pooped. I’d constantly watch her to see if she pooped. I was even hoping to come home to the smell of poop, just so I knew that her bowels were working again.

I was beginning to get sincerely crazy when Joe texted me that, hurray, she pooped!

I haven’t seen the evidence myself, though. So, even tonight, I found myself standing in my pajamas and bathrobe, feet in slippers, standing in my yard at 8:30 at night, watching my lamp-shade wearing dog for the slightest squat. Classy, I know.

Still, it really says something about how my priorities have changed, even just at 27.

I'd Like to Buy a Bowel?

Let's see if I can actually write each day of the week! Wouldn't that be somethin!

The reason for my absence has been mostly because we have been playing nursemaids to a one Miss Georgia B*** (yes, she has my last name and no, I didn’t ask them to give it to her. It was actually weird when I called the vet’s and they asked for her last name…I suggested mine and sure enough, they pulled Georgia B***’s file. Odd, like finding out you have a child)

Anyway, this all began after an innocent day when I arrived home from work. Georgia had vomited on the couch and was shaking helplessly. I tried to console her and ushered her outside in case she had other business to do, but still she would not stop shaking…or vomiting.

As Joe arrived home I related my concern to him, but not wanting to jump to conclusions (or a hefty vet bill) we decided to wait just a little longer to see if she snapped out of it. After one more round of vomiting, we finally agreed to call the vet.

I explained her symptoms and asked if they sounded serious enough to merit a visit.

“Well, that’s up to you, but if it’s a concern, then we can see you around 7 p.m.?” the nurse said.

Not wanting to risk it, we settled on the time and before long we were sitting in the examination room, waiting for the vet’s diagnosis. When she finally came in she looked Georgia over and in only a few seconds felt a golf-ball size lump on her lower belly.

“Have you ever noticed this before?” she asked. Joe and I, both speechless, shook our heads.

“Ok, well, this concerns me a bit so let me take her with me and get some X-rays done.”

Again, we both quietly agreed, and as she and the nurse carried Georgia away, I suddenly began to freak out. All these questions came tumbling into my brain: How had we not seen that? Is it fatal? What if there’s nothing she can do? What if she needs surgery and it’s thousands of dollars?

While I was playing a torturous game of 20 Questions in my head, Joe relentlessly tried to keep me calm. One way was in trying to guess what animal the skeleton in the examination room was supposed to represent. It did help; I am still convinced it was a cat, but Joe assured me it was a dog.

After what seemed like forever, the vet finally came in and told us to follow her to the surgical rooms. She had on her computer screen an X-ray of Georgia’s bowels- or should be. I was still reeling from all the questions and fears commandeering my head that I could barely understand what she was saying. Thankfully Joe was taking it in and later managed to explain to me what was happening.

Essentially, Georgia had gotten a hernia, which had swollen so large that her intestines had somehow managed to become entangled, preventing her poop to move through her. She suggested we try some antibiotics for the night and then the next day we were to bring her back for a follow-up. If the medicines were working and she improved, then she would be fine. However, if things began to look dour, surgery might be necessary.

That night, while petting Georgia and pleading with her to get better, I felt the weight of fear really engulf me. Though she was just a dog, there was so much more. She had been given up on and left in the SPCA, hoping someone would take her. She was still so young, barely out of her puppy years yet. And she was good, despite her occasionally chewing or jumping; she was a good dog.

It was then, as I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, with tears in my eyes, I made the decision that no matter what the cost, no matter the recovery, we would do it. We rescued her before- we would do it again.

Mother Hood and Her Merry Sisters

To put it simply, my mother and her sisters are Robin Hood and the merry (wo)men. Not totally in that "steal from the rich“, but more because they have ways of getting around obstacles set in place that are inherently unjust.

I had always noticed their capers- getting a refund on an expired receipt, or getting the discounted price on an item no longer on sale, etc.

But I have never been more amazed at their undermining than I was on a recent visit to the beach.

I should also mention that my mother and her sisters are glorified sun-goddesses and their temple is the beach. As long as I can remember, summer time excursions to the shore (which wasn’t really too much of an excursion since none of them live further than a few miles away from a coastline) were so commonplace we all practically lived on the beach. And being residents of these beach towns, my mother and aunts were able to enjoy these beaches with little frustration.

Until, that is, “King Join” (as in “join-our-membership-in-order-to-use-what-is-rightfully-yours’) came along.

More and more rules were established by local governments to restrict beach access, causing frustration from the tax-payers who resided there. My mother and her sisters were no exception. But rather than petition and plead to those who would not bother listening, Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters took action into their own hands. Their weapons? A loophole and a fishing pole.

They discovered that, by carrying a fishing pole with them when they went to the beach, they were allowed access free of charge. Somehow, somewhere, there was a loophole in the regulations that allowed free access to those who came to fish. And since no one bothered to ask why a group of middle-aged women wearing Ann Taylor sarongs were carrying designer beach bags and NOT tackle boxes instead, they were waved on and a new precedent was set.

From then on as word spread of this tactic, the townspeople, with fishing poles in hand, were once again able to reclaim what belonged to them, thanks to the Mother Hood and her band of Merry Sisters.