Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Lord of the Dance Battle

Style matters when it
comes to the Dance Battle

Friday: Tom and I went to the theater and saw Silver Linings Playbook. I came away mighty inspired by the Dance Move whereby a crotch was thrown squarely into the face of a crouched sexy man. (Spoiler alert, there). In that phantasmagoric moment, I knew there would be a Kinnect Dance Battle in my future. I vowed to line up some worthy foes.

Saturday: I bided my time, went through my closet, readied a headband. Carbo-loaded on whiskey beneath a decadent forest of fake pine boughs, sparkling glass icicles and baby dolls strapped firmly to the ceiling.

Sunday Morning: At the crack of noon, I hit the streets, on the way to brunch with Ron, Gina and a posse of onlookers. Ron sat across the big round table in a flannel shirt and tough-guy jeans and talked about jack hammers and building permits but i was not fooled. I know Ron has a bachelors degree in ballet and he can jump in the air and kick his legs really fast. That is badass but I was not daunted. 

Ron got served immediately with my Dance Battle Challenge. Ron's acceptance had a ring of ambiguous sincerity; nonetheless, I snapped into action and began imagining my Dance Outfit… This year, I've hardly shown up to anything wearing tartan hot pants. A solid option. I will not deploy lace meggings. That's just reckless.

Later… on Sunday night: Over Dinner, I silently observed Andrew, my longtime Dance Battle Nemesis. You can observe a lot by just watching. With the beady eyes of a true competitor, I noted that Andrew has been slacking at the Dance. He's been hanging around, kickin it. Wearing khakis, using a landline. Ha ha ha. I will surely make short work of his glee-ful body roll freestyles. I am as fierce as a honeybadger and ninety percent of this game is half mental. 

Now I must run. I'm going to take a powerbath and plot my strategy. I need to select a song to really showcase my moves.

Sunday, January 13, 2013

My Magical Week

So far, in 2013:

Campbell Apartment
  • With no introductory small talk of any kind, I informed two strangers at the very fancy Campbell Apartment on 42nd Street that I have nightmares about losing my cell phone. Both muttered sympathetically and may have considered patting me on the shoulder had I not darted off with their cocktail menu.
  • I heard a distinguished gentleman call a mouse in a mouse competition an "ivory satin buck" and describe this mouse as being "racy," "manly," "hairy of foot," and "in lovely condition."
  • A client mentioned he once was arrested for pushing a wrecked Suburban SUV over the border in Tijuana.
  • I met three random Italians and said to each the only Italian phrase I know: "The chair is upholstered in corduroy." One was impressed, two were not.
  • Over some Caribbean chicken, a doctor we know brought us up to speed on his latest research investigating the impact of penis size amongst gay and bisexual men. I fucking love science.
  • I asked someone how to say, "non-raping tranny pirates" in Swedish.

Sunday, January 06, 2013

drunk [druhngk]. Not an entirely child-friendly dictionary word.

"Aunt Stacey, what does drunk mean?"

The Highline, featuring
drunk people railing.
It all started innocently enough. Jack and I, up on the Highline on a Saturday afternoon. He wanted me to unfold the kick scooter I had slung over my shoulder. I told him that the sign by the staircase clearly stated:
  1. No alcoholic beverages; and 
  2. No bikes, roller skates, skateboards or letting your nephew stand on the front of your kick scooter while you weave in and out of tourists at top speeds like it's a crosstown sidewalk.

So naturally the kid's next question is, "What is an alcoholic beverage?" 
"Beer," I answered.
"Why can't you drink beer on the Highline?"
"Because they don't want drunk people running around up here," I replied. (You can see where this is going.)

When Jack popped me with the grand finale "define drunk" query, I was flummoxed. I certainly did not want to see my face on the cover of Bad Aunt magazine, so I knew I had three options: 
  1. Resort to trickery and deceit (a mainstay of my non-existant child-management approach) 
  2. Pretend to fall flat on my face and whoop something like "A giant boogie is stuck in my nose!" (It is true I am known for my moments of comedic genius when it comes to distracting the under-ten set); or
  3. Say something really fast and hope the problem goes away.

Probably, I should have stuck with #2 in hindsight. After all, I was well prepared having spent the majority of Christmas week making up names for different kinds of farts with my father. In the spur of the moment, I went with #3. I declared, "Drunk means when a grownup has too much beer and gets all crazy in the head."

Not my finest work, I'll admit, but I knew if I didn't answer in T-minus three seconds the pregnant pause would advertise Drunkenness as a wonderful topic to bring up at Montessori school. I peered out of the corner of my eye to see how my explanation went over. Jack's brow was furrowed in thought. Not a good sign. 

I pointed out some pigeon poop, hoping to knock Jack off the drunk-talk with some wholesome feces conversation. Not likely. 

"I can see how the crazy drunk people might FALL RIGHT OVER THE RAILING!" Jack informed a ten foot radius, waving around his arms with tremendous vigor. We discussed the resulting mess. There would be splatter all over tenth avenue.

I glared right back at those two frowning women decked out in the finest sweatsuits money can buy. It is totally true that the falling crazy in the head drunk people would in fact make a crazy huge splat explosion if they went over the railing.

drunk  [druhngk] adjective
1) pertaining to or caused by intoxication or intoxicated persons.
2) being in a temporary state in which one's physical and mental faculties are impaired by an excess of alcoholic drink; intoxicated: The wine made him drunk.