Dancing with the Inflexible

God Bless Evan at Fred Astaire Dance Studio in Bloomfield Hills who, for some reason, believes that there is a Tiny Dancer in me fighting to get out. Somehow I am competing in two Dancing with the Local Stars-type competitions this fall and Evan has partnered me with Tino, the Best Dancer In The Whole Wide World (no, really, Google it, he's got about a million national titles) who I think will manage to manipulate me around the floor in some version of The Hustle that won't look too bad as long as I can remember where my feet go. Poor Tino. I told him my daughter is a figure skater and why he thought that mean that I have any skills I don't know but I assured him that there are no splits or back handsprings in my repertoire and he managed to look only mildly disappointed but did change our music from something funky and sexy by the Pussycat Dolls to Walk This Way by Aerosmith and Run DMC so I imagine I will be doing less dancing and more stomping around and gesturing like the World's Clumsiest And Unflamboyant Drag Queen.

Or Kate Gosselin. Whichever mental image works for you.

Zombie vs. Vampire

"Mom, would you rather be bitten by a zombie or a vampire?"

"Would being bit by a zombie turn me into a zombie?"

"Duh!"

"Oh, then vampire."

"Yeah. Plus, being bit by a zombie just makes you ugly."

An Open Letter To A Bad Day

Dear Tiny Little Irritations:

I realize that you are tiny and by yourself you are meaningless and THAT is why you feel the need to show up in gangs and I know it's easy to act all big and tough when there are lots of you but let me tell you that I am in NO MOOD to deal with any of you today (although one of you did almost make me cry; note how I said almost because I refuse to give you the satisfaction) and I will slowly and methodically stomp you out like the bugs that you are.

It may not be today, it may not even be tomorrow, but consider yourself warned that I will be through with all of you by the end of the week (or, at the very least, the end of the month). ALL OF YOU!

Love and Kisses,

Stacey

Annoying, But Not Worth Dying Over

I know, I know. I shouldn't have honked at the guy who ran the stop sign and forced me to hit the brakes. Especially since I ended up behind him and happened to turn left down the same street so he decided to stop and get out of his car and perhaps confront me about why I was following him except I wasn't following him I was just trying to get to Meijer and I wouldn't have been behind him in the first place if he hadn't run the frickin' stop sign. So I drove right by him and his reflective crossing-guard vest, and why was he wearing a reflective crossing-guard vest at 1 pm anyway? Perhaps he just stopped to get out of his car and explain to me that he ran the stop sign because crossing guards don't have to follow the traffic rules like mere mortals do.

Guess I'll never know.

A Few Notes From Last Night's Aerosmith Concert

I was putting my sunglasses in the glove box in my husband's car and noticed that his glove box only contains Happy Meal toys and bubble gum. It's like his car is owned by a 10-year old.

When the concert was about to start Hubby said "It might get loud. Do you need earplugs?" Loud? Really? I've been on a bus full of 2nd graders on a field trip to the Detroit Science Center. Aerosmith didn't even come close.

There was a family in the row in front of us and at one point the mother leaned over to the daughter - who was sitting - to apparently ask her if she was OK or having fun or needed a drink or whatever. I'm only guessing, but perhaps the 12-year old girl was made uncomfortable by her plaid-shorts-wearing dad singing Rag Doll at the top of his lungs.

"Hot tramp, Daddy's little cutie
So fine, they'll never see ya
Leavin' by the back door, man
Hot time, get it while it's easy
Don't mind, come on up and see me
Rag Doll, baby won't you do me, baby won't you do me, baby won't you do me...
Like you done before"

Nice.

And, last but not least, are Joe Perry and Dermot Mulroney related?

Now What?

I'm officially dubbing this Limbo Week.

The kids are all registered for school. I have purchased the school supplies. We've taken all the appropriate vacations and have a day of outlet shopping planned for tomorrow. I feel like summer's over but it's not really over and I don't know what to do with myself.

I guess I could sell my house.

Anybody wanna buy a house?

Hi, This Is Emily. Would You Like A Smaller Room?

Our first night in Chicago was spent listening to the party in the room next door. All. Night. Long. At 4:30 in the morning I had finally had enough and tried to call the front desk, but neither of the phones in our room were working. I threw on my sweater and ventured into the hall where (luckily) I found a phone on the wall and called downstairs. We heard security knock on their door, then the party continued. At 5 a.m. my husband called downstairs. Again. The guys in the room left shortly after.

"I really thought things would quiet down after the guys left," my husband said the next day.

"Are you kidding? They needed to TALK about the guys for an hour after they left," I said.

And they did. Loudly.

Before we left on our adventures that morning we told the front desk about our dismay with the neighbors and the phones ("The phones were probably just on Off," the guy at the desk told me. "That's really not helpful at 4:30 a.m.," I said). The Guy At The Desk was less then helpful. Our option was to leave all our luggage with the bellhop and they would try to find us a new room when someone checked out. So we packed up and headed out for the day. When we straggled back at 3 pm, too exhausted to continue sightseeing, we were sent up to a room that was significantly smaller than the one we had left. It felt like we were being punished for having loud neighbors. I went back down to explain our predicament and ask for a larger room, went back upstairs with two new keys and skipped into the room singing "Who's the best mom in the world?" We grabbed our luggage and headed up four floors to a room that was even. smaller. yet.

Now, we've done quite a bit of traveling this summer, a little more than our norm. Every other hotel we've stayed at has OUTDONE itself with hospitality. When we checked in in New York the young woman asked if we were celebrating anything then sent up champagne and chocolate strawberries for our Anniversary. When we arrived in Las Vegas our reserved room wasn't ready so the next day we were moved into a corner room that was so big our closet had its own room!!

But, apparently, in Chicago they don't feel the need to be hospitable. Or helpful. Or even sympathetic. Were we offered a complimentary breakfast for our suffering? Did they send up a bottle of wine to ease our frazzled nerves? No. In Chicago you're on your own. If the neighbors keep you up all night, too bad for you. You're not a guest, you're an inconvenience. I did call down and complain. And we switched rooms yet again. For those of you that are keeping track, that's 4.