Kanye West, Super Genius

In a recent interview with Jimmy Kimmel, Kanye West said that he considers himself a creative genius, and that there is really no other way to word it. “I know you’re not supposed to say those things about yourself,” he added. “The truth is, a lot of people think that they are geniuses and nobody says it.”

Yes, that’s right Kanye. Even if we think it, we don’t say it. It’s called “not coming off as an asshole”, but whatever works for you.Kanye West, Super Genius | TheFurFiles

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Call It An Ounce Of Crazy…Or Two, Or Three, Or Twenty

This morning, I am alive – thank the man in the moon for that.

I almost didn’t make it through last night. It was touch and go there for a while. It was a close call, and I mean a really close call.

But in the end, the big red pot that sat on the stove overnight with the turkey soup inside that I’m making because Monday was Thanksgiving and we had two turkeys and something needed to be done with the bones, did NOT explode into a giant fireball, ultimately consuming me and my family in smoke and flames as we lay unconscious and charred in our beds, the firefighters unable to get to us because the blaze was just too intense.

Call It An Ounce Of Crazy...Or Two, Or Three, Or Twenty | TheFurFiles

Yes, I’m a little neurotic.

And as someone of this unstable ilk, there are a few things – OK, a lot of things – that bother the hell out of me. The first one – if you haven’t already figured it out – is leaving food to simmer on a ridiculously low temperature overnight on the stove, even if that food will spoil otherwise because there isn’t room for it in the fridge and it’s not cold enough yet to set it on the back porch. My feeling: you never know when the burner will go from slightly warm to inferno-level for absolutely no reason.

I also don’t like the toothpaste lid to be left off or askew – ever. It could fall onto the floor, and I could step on it while I was curling my hair with the curling iron, which I rarely do and which would be very ironic if I was doing it during that inopportune moment. This could accidentally cause me to burn off a hunk of my hair, and make me look either really crazy or like I was some kind of new-wave fashion maven or one of those older but still fairly cool MTV hosts. Sadly, I’m not that put together. My clothes wouldn’t match my head’s hip appearance. I’d probably just look homeless.

And it drives me batty if someone leaves a teaspoon or so of cereal in the box, or less than a cup of liquid in the milk container. Eat it or drink it, for Christ’s sake. As if that little bit is going to make a meal for someone else.

And fingerprints on the microwave or stove? Don’t even get me started on that. Damn you, stainless steel appliances.

Strangely though, I don’t care if there is cat barf on the carpet for a few days. What’s it hurting anybody? Just don’t walk there.

And I don’ t care if the shelves in that same fridge are stained or covered in sticky stuff in a few places either.

I guess we all have our pet peeves, and we all have things we don’t give two shits about. It’s the magic of being human.

A psychologist once said to me,” There is really only ONE important question that you have to ask yourself, and that is, do you think it’s OK to poop in your pants? If you answered ‘no’, then you are fine. If you answered ‘yes’, then you are either two-years-old, or a complete wack job. Since you drove here, I’ll assume the latter.”

Anyway, whose idea was it to make that G.D. turkey soup? That’s right, it was my husband’s. He is always trying to use our resources to their utmost potential, always trying to push me outside of my comfort zone. I guess we were made for each other.

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Some People Are Still Afraid Of Chucky

Funny how sometimes, one thing can lead to something completely different. Yesterday at our house, it went from carving large birds to killer dolls.

You see, Thanksgiving is coming, and like so many others, we are having a bunch of people over for dinner tomorrow, which means we’ve started cooking.

Potatoes, corn, asparagus, turnip, carrots, pumpkin pie, stuffing, and of course, turkey. We cooked one last night, and we’ll make another one tomorrow just so we have enough. People eat like horses around here. At least Charles does.

Anyway, we were preparing the bird, when the talk of big knives began…

“I wouldn’t want to be stabbed with a big knife.” It was my husband, stating what is probably a sentiment most people would agree with. I mean, I don’t think anyone likes getting stabbed.

“No, me neither,” I replied.

“Especially not by a little person,” he went on.

“Little person? How likely is that?” What was he talking about? My husband is strange sometimes. “Well, at least they probably couldn’t jab you very hard,” I answered. “Nor could they likely reach beyond your waist – like they couldn’t stab you in the heart – unless of course, they were standing on a chair, but then that would take time to organize. You could run away by then.”

“Chucky. I just don’t like Chucky.” His eyes were big. He looked afraid.

chucky

“That doll from the horror movie in the 80’s?” Ah, so now I understood. It was like he was reliving his childhood again, except when the movie came out, he was nineteen. I needed to help him out.

“Chucky is from New Jersey. How’s a toddler supposed to get to where we live?” Logic. I hit ’em with it every time, and it usually makes things better. Lucky for me, at that moment, it did, and we could get on with the holiday.

“Yeah, you’re right.” He let out a big sigh of relief, and went back to cooking.

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When Kids Are Hyper, You Spend A Lot Of Time Outside

When my kids were little, they were kind of wild. They pretty much popped out of the womb that way. Come to think of it, they haven’t changed much.

When Kids Are Hyper, You Spend A Lot Of Time Outside | TheFurFiles

I blame this propensity for barbarousness on my ADHD husband – he was on Ritalin when he was younger. It doesn’t matter that I should classify myself under the same heading.

Because of him (and marginally because of me), my kids were the ones climbing to the top of the swing set, forget the swinging. They were the ones running and squealing through the mall, and I don’t mean after we’d been there for an hour. I mean right from the get-go. They were the ones jumping out of the stroller or the wagon because “sitting” was not part of their vocabulary. They were the ones making snow forts in the dead of winter – didn’t matter how cold it was – because I (their mother, who was always outside with them, BTW) couldn’t take being cooped up in the house for an entire day with three such rabble-rousers. They were the ones that the checkout ladies at the library dubbed “the loudest human beings on the face of the planet” and then proceeded to ban us from coming in there – for at least a week until they forgot and then the whole sequence started all over again. That was the way it went for many years. “You can’t come in.” We went in. “You can’t come in.” We went in. Why the library had to put the children’s section right next to the senior’s quiet reading corner, I’ll never know.

I have so many examples of my kids’ crazy behaviour, the stories seem endless. Why, we were just reminiscing about one particular incident yesterday. This is a good one.

It was the day of my cousin’s wedding. The kids were pretty little still – four, three and one maybe. They were used to running around (outside mostly) like wild animals, because that is just how we lived. “Footloose, fancy-free, and often without pants” is probably a good description.

Now, the trouble with weddings is twofold – one, you are usually expected to dress up, and two, you are also expected to sit quietly in a church for an extended period of time, neither of which my family was very good at. They still aren’t.

We started with the clothes. You think kids, they’ll wear whatever you put on them. Not mine. And it’s not like I had them in miniature suits and dresses or anything. For the boys, it was a pair of pants and some clean t-shirts, if I recall correctly.

We managed to get to the church on time, which was also very difficult for us. Three little ones and a Jamaican husband – seriously, that’s a recipe for lateness. So there we were, sitting in the back, the boys fidgeting almost immediately, my daughter zooming back and forth across the pew. She was walking by nine months. By one, she could run.

And it was a Catholic wedding. You know how those go – long. I think we lasted about fifteen minutes (which was a miracle in and of itself) when my oldest starting karate chopping his brother, and Tess started hissing like a rabid fox for no apparent reason. “Shhhh, you guys. Watch up at the front. See cousin Karen in her pretty dress.” As if.

I’d also brought games and food and little toys. I’m a smart mother. Unfortunately for me, my children are about running and jumping, not playing checkers or colouring. You can imagine that car rides were a nightmare. They still are. If we travel, it’s usually at night, like bandits.

Anyway, long story short, at the wedding, we ended up on the lawn outside, the boys climbing the trees, my daughter jumping off a big rock. Basically, we were waiting for the ceremony to be over so we could go to the reception and wait outside again until it was time to go home.

With the kids playing, my husband and I tried to watch in the church door, to catch a glimpse of what was going on – so we could at least say we were there – which is why we didn’t quite see that our oldest son had taken off all his clothes and thrown them in the bushes. He was a fast little devil.

And just as he was sprinting across the grass, naked as the day he was born – his “nice” clothes shoved behind some forsythia – the people started coming out. “Oh my God. Get him,” I yelled to my husband. Too late. The guests had spied my little streaker.

Luckily, we managed to wrestle him down before the newlyweds emerged. Most everyone else saw him though. And of course, my cousin heard about it.

That’s pretty much it. People laughed, which was good. And now I have something that will make a really great mother-of-the-groom speech for when my son gets married himself.

You see how things work? What goes around eventually comes back to embarrass the hell out of you another day.

You can say you heard it here first.

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22 Reasons My Son Is Awesome

Today, my oldest son Zach – mister rock star himself – turns twenty-two. In honour of this special occasion, I would like to list twenty-two reasons why I think he’s awesome. I could come up with so many more, but these are just the first ones I can list off the top of my head…

First and foremost, he looks like a lion. And I love cats, so there you go. I meant to do that when I gave birth to him.

He has great hair, kind of like if Bob Marley and Lenny Kravitz had a baby.

mrrockstarHe can do an impressive Australian accent.

And a Jamaican accent.

And a not-bad, but possibly not completely convincing, English accent.

He owns a pair of “these look like they belong to the Devil” boots, and he wears them well.

He also owns a pair of army-coloured, tiger-striped jeans, if you can imagine what THAT looks like. They actually fit his personality perfectly.

He wants to make the world a better place. This is where I – as a parent – take partial credit.

He is a very fast runner. And he can jump like a large rabbit.

He loves animals, but then, how could he not with me as his mother?

He is a great cook. OK, I didn’t teach him that. It must’ve been my father – his grandpa – who passed along that skill, thank goodness. Now I don’t have to make supper all the time. I will say though, he’s not so great at cleaning up. Oh well, a person can’t be good at everything.

He can break kitchen chairs just by sitting in them. It’s a real skill to lean back and balance on the back legs for an extended period of time before then crashing to the ground.

He is genuine and caring; he is focused and determined; and he is very passionate about living life to the fullest. All these attributes were contributed by his father when I asked him to list three special things about his son. And yes, they are all true, but slightly predictable and somewhat boring. I was hoping for something a little more interesting, more revealing, so then my husband gave me this…

He can “Ninja Turtle” kick his brother in the head while eating a chocolate popsicle, which is also quite accurate. We have the video from 1996 to prove it, too bad it’s on a VHS tape. Someday, I’ll have to convert it to a Youtube video, and eventually post it – for all the world to see – on my son’s Facebook page.

He talks a lot during movies. He talks a lot in general. Sometimes, you just want him to shut the hell up. When he was in high school, he was banned from going on certain field trips, like to the National Arts Centre and such, where people are supposed to be quiet. He has trouble with that, and trouble sitting still as well. If you’ve ever seen the cartoon of the Tasmanian Devil, he whirls kind of the same, only in a happier way.

Because of this “Tasmanian Devil” type behaviour, he has ripped more clothing than you can possibly imagine, which isn’t always easy on the pocket book, but will surely keep him in style because he is constantly requiring new things.

He looks great in leather, but then, who doesn’t?

He can actually get himself to school on the bus. You laugh (because, yeah he’s an adult), but my other son – his brother who is a year and a half younger – isn’t always capable of doing that. (Charles has lots of his own redeeming qualities. Taking the bus just isn’t one of them.)

He can do a one-armed handstand. This is hard as hell. It also ruins my walls.

He is a free spirit. For example, he doesn’t mind streaking naked in front of a whole wedding party. He did that when he was four.

He has a six pack, which in and of itself is nice – I mean, the girls like it – but more importantly, it goes to show how hard he works at the things he cares about, his health being one of them. Also, the neighbours would like him to stop singing so much, or at least shut his bedroom window while he’s doing it.

He wants to be the next Freddie Mercury/Robert Plant/Bob Marley. That kind of dream is cool as shit. The neighbours will say, “I knew him when…he drove us nuts every single day, for four summers straight, until he moved out.”

He can eat a whole bag of Maltesers all by himself. Probably the most impressive of all the things I’ve said here today, which is why I saved it for last.

So there you have it, twenty-two reasons why my son is awesome. I wish him the very best on this wonderful day.

Now, if he could only learn to shut cupboard doors once he’s opened them, and if he could try to get his used dental floss actually INTO the garbage instead of on the floor of my car, that would be great.

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Living A Life That Is Perfectly Imperfect

In the very early years of my marriage – when I was young and naive, and just barely old enough to vote – I believed that having a perfect life meant having everything and everyone in its place. I thought it meant never arguing with my husband, and having clean and well-behaved children.

I thought it meant having back-to-back good hair days, and flowers on the table, and finding the right pair of jeans, and making a supper that everyone loved, and getting an A+ on an essay that I’d written, and birthing a ten-and-a-half pound baby without getting any stretch marks (like that was ever going to happen), and having a totally blemish-free complexion, and, and, and…

After many, MANY years of experiencing just the opposite – with kids running around behind me making mess after Cheerios-spilled mess, and a husband who didn’t think the same way I did on some fairly significant issues – I now realize that a perfect life means adjusting, and compromising, and not killing your spouse when he tells you that he wants shelves instead of light fixtures in that space in the living room – AFTER you’ve picked out the lights, and you thought the whole thing was a done deal. I’m still getting the lights. I don’t care what he says.

And yes, it has taken me this long to figure things out. I know, sometimes I’m slow.

Beauty, perfection, idealism, greatness, whatever you want to call it – it’s all fleeting. It happens in a split second, like when you win the big game, or when you capture an image of yourself at just the right angle (which for me, almost never happens), or when those shoes are all lined-up in neat rows in the mud room.

No, nothing lasts, and it’s those in-between times that make up the majority of life [she says staring at her favourite lamp that is now lying broken and in pieces on the floor because the cats were playing the “let’s tornado around the house” game again last night].

It’s not that I don’t want to strive to do well, or to look good, or to have a non-destroyed house, or non-back-talking children, it’s just that I know these things are elusive and transitory at best. As my oldest son likes to say, “Life is a grind that you just gotta push through.” You gotta try to enjoy the pushing, I might add, because there is nothing else.

I’m at peace with all of this – sort of. Looking at House and Home magazine – although I like it – doesn’t help me much. Neither does looking at Vogue or Cosmo. And Facebook is brutal as well. Too many things that appear perfect that I know are not. It’s about keeping things in perspective, and knowing what’s real.

So that’s it. Don’t fall for the ideal. Just live, do your best, and revel in the broken, damaged, messy, unfinished, funny-looking existence that is you and yours. MOST IMPORTANTLY, THROW CAUTION TO THE WIND, TRY TO HAVE FUN, AND DON’T WORRY ABOUT WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THINK. You’ll be so much happier that way. I know I am.

Life Is Perfectly Imperfect | TheFurFiles

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When Your Cat And Your Neighbour’s Cat Do NOT Get Along

Kevin is my neighbour. He lives three doors down from us. So do his cats – two of them.

When I go for walks with MY cats – yes, they DO walk on leashes, too bad it’s like walking with two schizophrenic and very disobedient dogs – I often see “Kevin’s cats” sitting quietly, calmly, on his porch. They look at us like we are very strange – “lock these weirdos up” crazy almost. So does Kevin. So do all of my neighbours, in fact. I could cat less. I just want my cats to experience life without getting run over by a truck.

I just want my cats to be happy, and I don’t mind being tortured while they pull this way and that to eat the grass and chase the odd bumble bee or squirrel. Why can’t people just let us live?

Last time we went past Kevin’s house, Kevin’s cats were nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, one appeared from around the side, near the eavestrough. His eyes piercing and determined, he looked like he wanted to eat my cats, and to kill me. He slowly walked toward us. Bravely, my cats took one step forward, and then – like they’d been shot or something – they took off in retreat, racing home with me in tow, making me look like the biggest loser on the planet. Lionel – in his distress – even tried to climb the street lamp and then he fell back down. It was not my proudest “I love my cats to a fanatical extreme” moment. There was even a girl who witnessed the whole event. She snickered.

Having been scared off by “Kevin’s cats”, I told my furry babies that soon we’d go back to seek our revenge, to reclaim our territory, to tell these “other” cats, who really owns this street. It will be Abyssinian versus Himilayan (or whatever the heck they are), short fur versus long, “bordering on god-like good” versus terribly, terribly evil. Yes, WE WILL PREVAIL.

And then the other day, THIS was on our porch. It was one of Kevin’s cats. Oh, no he didn’t. The battle is on!When Your Cat And Your Neighbour's Cat Do NOT Get Along | TheFurFiles

BTW, my dad says that Kevin’s cats have big heads with scrawny bodies. They shouldn’t be too hard to take down.

NOTE: I would NEVER hurt another cat, not even one who interlopes on my property to upset my own. I’ll just pat them secretly when mine aren’t looking, and then wash my hands thoroughly so no one smells the adversaries. No one will be the wiser.

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Love Letter, 1980’s Style

My husband and I fell in love in the 1980’s. It was a magical time. We didn’t see daylight for a good two years there. It’s amazing that we made it through undergrad. 😉

Right now, I’m missing him terribly. Well, not “terribly” terribly – like I’m not about to throw myself in front of a hay baling machine. And I am kind of enjoying the fact that I get to sprawl out in an x-formation across our bed at night.

He is away for a month doing some military training. He says that with my distaste for authority, I wouldn’t last a millisecond doing what he’s doing. He said that I would’ve spontaneously combusted on the very first day. He’s probably right. When I was eight, I couldn’t even make it though one Brownies’ meeting – too many rules. Anyway, all I can think about now – in his absence – is that one week is officially down, and we have three more long weeks to go.

This solo parenting really bites the big one. I was forced to eat celebratory pizza the other night at 1:30 a.m. after my son’s first show with his new band line-up. It was so deliciously hard to stuff down my throat.

But enough about me. This blog post is about my husband, and the circumstances surrounding his absence. Poor man. His hours right now are extremely long, and even though he brought this situation on himself by signing up for something when he’s already ridiculously busy, I feel marginally sorry for him [insert tiny violin playing here].

Last night, he asked me if I missed him.

Such a stupid question. “Of course, I do,” I said.

“Good, now don’t spend any unnecessary money.” He’s so romantic.

“I won’t. I might be looking for a dresser for our bedroom though.”

“Don’t.” He can be a real party-pooper. I just want our house to look stylish – not like the thrift store dumping ground that it usually resembles.

And that was the end of our conversation. It’s was lights out in the military barracks. I didn’t even have time to tell him that I’m thinking “mid-century modern credenza style furniture” as opposed to the typical “dresser” dresser.

All kidding/shopping aside, I miss my husband. And since we haven’t had much time to talk on the telephone, I’ve written him this love letter, which may or may not really just be the lyrics to a really bad 80’s song. I think it really captures the essence of how I’m feeling right now.

He should be able to read it tonight before he goes to bed, if he’s not off doing military stuff in the bushes somewhere (which I think he might be), and getting eaten by mosquitoes, but hopefully not by bears.

Love Letter, 1980's Style | TheFurFiles

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Another “Pets And Kids Destroy Everything, It’s A Good Thing They Are Cute” Story

I try not to let “things” control my life. I want to live simply, staying as healthy as possible, laughing lots and experiencing all the joy the world has to offer. I don’t need a Gucci watch or a Northland 72″ side-by-side custom refrigerator to be happy. Having said that, I also don’t want to live in a cardboard box. (And I wouldn’t turn down that refrigerator if someone just left it on my doorstep.)

Sometimes, I want nice things – nice pieces of furniture, and nice articles of clothing. Besides, nice things – or things that are made well – generally last longer than not-nice, cheap things. Can you say that stupid IKEA desk and those even stupider IKEA lamps?

Anyway, I’ve been doing a little shopping lately. We have a basement that is sitting pretty much empty, and we needed a new couch at least, and some chairs, and an end table or two, and possibly a coffee table, and there was this pair of jeans that I saw…

OK, OK, so one of the items that I bought was this beautiful coffee table/trunk. Now, here’s the issue. Because of the cats, we can’t have stuff that’s made of fabric. The cats destroy things like that faster than my kids make a mess of the kitchen when they are having a snack.

My husband says we could get rid of the cats. He says that somebody would pay a good dollar for three of them. He says the fourth, we’d have to actually pay someone to take, and they still probably wouldn’t. Jackson is just that strange. My husband is kidding – sort of. I gave him a hard shot in the arm after he said what he said.

No, any new furniture coming into our house can only be made out of leather, wood, or concrete. Yes, concrete. I’m not joking about that. As indestructible as possible would be ideal. It might not be comfortable, but it would definitely be a money-saver. My kids and/or my cats can wreck almost anything without even trying.

So yeah, I bought this coffee table/trunk type deal. It’s custom made, leather, and expensive – REALLY expensive. I wanted it to be something we’d have in the family forever, you know, to pass down to my children and my children’s children. It’s also a heavy motherfucker. And when I say heavy, I mean three hundred pounds of “the two of us could barely carry it down the hall and it almost crushed my foot” heavy.

Break in the story here just to say that what happened next is the perfect example of how things operate in my house.

The coffee table/trunk heavy son-of-a-bitch arrived the other day. My husband and I unpackaged it. We then struggled to get it inside and to put it into place. We’d just set it down – literally JUST set it down – and we’d turned our backs to clean up the mess of styrofoam bits and pieces of cardboard that had followed us down the hall, when Lionel (our one cat) came over, sniffed it once, and then dug his claws right into the top, leaving a few gashes in the smooth chocolate brown leather.

I’m still angry. I can’t even talk about it. Sure, I can write about it here on my blog, but don’t ask me to speak the words “my cat defaced my new coffee table/trunk two seconds after we brought it in the house” out in the open, or I just might cry. I feel like I’ve been abused or violated somehow, and by my best cat friend no less.

Ahhh, but he looks so cute…

Another "Pets And Kids Destroy Everything, It's A Good Thing They Are Cute" Story | TheFurFiles

And even though Lionel was sitting on my lap moments after it happened, and I was patting him and talking to him in that silly baby cat voice that my husband hates so much, not everybody in the house was calm. My husband “roiled” – I don’t know if that’s even a word, but it’s the best I could come up with to describe how he reacted – his way down to his office where he then sat plotting. Don’t worry, I’ve calmed him down since then. No one is going to the vet to have their claws removed. I’d never let him do that. He’d have to move out first.

I am however, off to the craft store to buy some pieces of poster board, and lots and lots and LOTS of double-sided tape. You know, to put on top of the coffee table so that if the cats jump on it, their paws get stuck and they immediately jump off. If you wanted to teach your cats to stay off your brand new leather, expensive, coffee table/trunk, what would you do?

Any suggestions are welcome.

P. S. The water squirt gun is on stand by.

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Flashback To The 80’s: Nerds Are People Too

I grew up in Cambridge, Ontario. It is a medium-sized city with a population of approximately 133 000 people. It is a very picturesque place with a river running through it, and a few old and very statuesque churches scattered throughout the downtown. It also has a wonderful farmer’s market and the best chocolate store called Reid Chocolates. If you are ever passing through, make sure you stop there. The “tortoises” (like extra-large Turtles) are amazing.

As nice as Cambridge is however, it wasn’t the most exciting place to grow up. Typical bush parties, and walks to the burger joint for a bowl of fries and gravy – that’s about as thrilling as it got for me as a teenager.

The only other fun thing we had was the town roller rink. “The Forum” as it was called, was the highlight of my world for about two or three years – from the time I was about fourteen until I was old enough to use fake ID to get into the scummy local bars. You see, “The Forum” – not to be confused with the strip joint that was located directly across the street – transformed every Saturday night into a huge dance party for kids my age.

Flashback To The 80's: Nerds Are People Too | TheFurFiles
My nerding it up with my little brother. We were making Easter eggs. I really haven’t changed over the years.

I remember getting all dressed up in my 1980’s outfits – one particular gem was a knitted red pencil skirt with matching top and shoes…and probably matching purse and hair accessories as well. No one ever told me that dressing like a tomato wasn’t attractive, so I went with it.

I remember waiting in line at 8:30 for the dance to start at 9 p.m. We all got there early. We had nothing better to do. I mean, what does life consist of when you are fifteen? For me, it was reruns of Happy Days and Love Boat, and my cat Nelson. Surprised? Probably not.

I remember finally getting in and then hanging around the edge of the rink, leaning on that half wall (the dance floor was the rink itself), sipping our drinks, scoping out the crowd. Were there any cute guys? It’s not as if they were going to talk to me, but there were always a few.

I remember dancing like a human pogo stick to songs like Pigbag and The Clash’s Rock The Casbah. I’m sure my “moves” didn’t help to attract any of those cute boys, but I was happily oblivious.

I remember the flashing disco lights and the faint smell of sweat. We were younger teenagers then. I don’t think any of us knew about deodorant.

I remember watching from the wall when the slow songs came on and all the cool kids were “close-dancing”. I wanted so badly to dance to Sister Christian’s “Night Ranger” or was it Night Ranger’s “Sister Christian”. Either way, I was a nerd. Nobody wanted to dance with me except for the fellow with the huge dental apparatus. He asked – spit on me in the process – and I said no.

You know the funny part? My husband used to frequent these dances too. He lived in a city close by. Whenever I tell this story he always says, “Thank God I didn’t know you back then. I’m not sure we would have ended up together.”

When he declares this, I always reply, “Look who’s talking.” He was a big nerd too with even thicker glasses, so what if he ran track and played football as well. I was a cheerleader – once. And then I quote Alice Sebold from The Lovely Bones – “Sometimes the dreams that come true are the dreams you never even knew you had.” And finally, I add, “It was destiny bitch, and there’s no escaping it now.”

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