I've got to stop volunteering. I swore I wouldn't be the one completely in charge of my daughter's off site environmental field day for her entire elementary school. But here I am, completely in charge of it. In charge of finding volunteers, planning all the activities, scheduling all the events, preparing materials lists and then acquiring them. There's more, but I won't bore you.
From the last writer's meeting to this I've critiqued twelve chapters from three different people, wrote three new chapters of my own, edited them and sent them off to my crit partner and was well on my way to getting a jump on writing the next chapter. My writers' meeting is Saturday, and I rocked my writing goal for the month. I made some pretty good progress, yet now I've gone and tied up my time with a huge, though beneficial, volunteer project.
I think I'm self sabotaging. Maybe deep down in my subconscious I don't really want to finish a book and attempt to sell it. Maybe all this writing and working on craft and self education on the different avenues of publishing are all a ruse. Maybe deep down I just want to be . . .
Now I'm off to align state science and ecology standards with outdoor activities. Seriously. Somebody really needs to stop me.
In case you need to translate pirate speech, or otherwise learn
to speak pirate in a jiffy, I've searched out a site to assist you.
Because, you never know when you may need to speak or understand Pirate.
This one might actually do me in. But what do you expect from an evil fiend bent on taking over the tri-state area?
The Man and I celebrated our anniversary last Friday. Sixteen years now he's put up with my shenanigans. We decided to go with the theme that has been most prevalent at Chez Quinn over the past year (Hell, it could be the theme of our entire marriage) and took the Urchins to the circus as a celebration. It was quite fitting.
A good time was had by all. We go every year, and every year I leave saying the same thing. I really need to write a romance series about circus performers. I know the title up there says Tongue In Cheek, but I'm actually serious this time. A small circus where most of the drama doesn't happen in the tent. Like this.
I want to write about real circus. Intense, do-or-die struggles with momentary glimpses of euphoria. Grinding, sweat-covered, bone-jarring nights covered in a high gloss. The circus and all that goes with it.
So, the Urchins love to make Miis. If you're not familiar with them, they are little characters on Wii that can be players in some of the games. The girls have made over fifty of them. They love it. Go figure.
I don't mind it too much. It allows me ten or fifteen minutes of peace while they make one or two, and I can be in another room getting something done. But the music . . . It's killing me.
I usually don't register it right away (or I'd remember to have them turn the volume off). But it's insidious. Some time later, it strikes. It begins replaying in my head, and I can't get it out.
Soon, it takes over my brain like that thing Khan put in Chekov's ear.
And then things start to get a little hazy. I'm not always sure what happens next, but I fear it triggers some sort of Jekyll and Hyde type phenomenon in me.
So lock up your axes, Citizens. You never know when I might get loose!
Today we take a closer look at a very popular expression of male facial hair as we delve into the mutton chop. This in depth analysis of one of the many different categories of male facial hair builds on my previous homage to the art of the sideburn.
Mutton chops are long, sometimes bushy, sideburns that reach either the jawline or connect to a mustache. They can be trimmed and stylized in any number of ways. As such.
pic from brooklyndaily.com
It has been my experience that if a man has mutton chops, there are only four occupations he is able to hold.
1. Elvis impersonator.
Elvis did right by the mutton chop in the seventies.
And the impersonators know it. Have a look.
pic from lasvegassun.com
2. Lumberjack
I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay . . . with my mutton chops.
Motorcycle gang member
But let it be known that a mutton chop wearing member cannot rise in the hierarchy above the level of "thug". Leaders must make special facial hair concessions and have either a ZZ Top beard or a Fu Manchu mustache.
4. Horror film hillbilly extra #6
One through five being taken by other men with bushy beards or very scraggly mustaches.
So that's it on the mutton chop except to declare them magnificent. (Just like the mullet) And to prove my point, I leave you with this.
Nothing but mutton chops, baby!
Which career path would you choose if mutton chops adorned your mug?
Which makes the youngest Urchin Patient One. Yes, the flu hit her at around two this morning, and I got to relive it in all its technicolor and Smell-O-Rama (patent pending) glory.
Considering I'm not yet off toast and ginger ale, this could be a very long couple of weeks as Patients Two and Three succumb. The inevitability of two more cases is thick in the air, along with the scent of Lysol and some other unsavory odors.
I was really hoping this late in the flu season that it would bypass us. Especially considering we'd all gotten flu shots. Though, I know those are only for one strain. Now I'm left to explain to the disgruntled five year old why she went through the trauma of a flu shot and ended up getting the flu anyway. And that girl can hold a grudge like nobody's business.
Friday night I got the radius of my tracking anklet widened and met my best friend at a local coffee shop/bookstore. It was in a beautiful historic building. We were there to hear her talented friend play the harp, and it was a wonderful time. I was offered the opportunity to try out the woman's harp, which was a small dream come true for me. She was so generous. I strummed it to my little heart's delight, and even plucked out two songs, which I'm pretty sure sounded almost as good as this.
Then the bff talked me into going swing dancing with her afterwards. It's been years since I've taken dance lessons, and I'm, admittedly, not a very good follower on the dance floor, so I figured I'd go and people watch and listen to the music. But that was not to be.
When we arrived, the very German dance instructor got me out on the floor. I was a bit wary, as you can imagine. Ever since the hostile polka takeover of 2012, I am practicing constant vigilance. But he was very persuasive with all the schnell-ing. I did alright, and laughed at myself a whole bunch. Later, I danced with a tall cowboy, a spry seventy year old and a lumberjack with very stylized mutton chops. (He inspired a whole new post that will be coming soon.)
The dancers were great and the music was fantastic. They even played my favorite Ella Fitzgerald song, When I Get Low I Get High, which apparently you dance the Lindy to.
Dancing that night with the cowboy reminded me of another night out dancing with the bff, many years before. We were underage in this country bar with the bff's mom. She loved line dancing, and was determined to convert us. We were about sixteen or seventeen at the time, so she definitely had her work cut out for her.
As we're sitting at a table, a very large, burly cowboy comes up and insists I dance a waltz with him. The bff's mom, Mrs. S., laughing evilly, shoos me out on the dance floor and abandons me. Now this man had to be about sixty, with the biggest beer gut this side of the mighty Mississip. I fully expected Atlas, striking his classic pose, to be on the cowboy's large belt buckle holding up said gut.
So little city slicker that I was figured this was a bonafide redneck. My very first encounter, though as 'Possum Queen they have since become my people. He had the boots and the hat and the chunk of chew in his cheek.
Our primary exchange went something like this.
him - What's yer name, little girl?
me - Ava. What's yours?
him - Butch
me - *silence for about two seconds* Of course it is.
After stepping all over his feet, he did get a little surly and snapped, "A waltz is only three steps."
By the end I think he just put me on top of his boots and danced me around the floor.
Ahh, good times.
So, ever had any dancing related craziness? Do share! If not, what did you do over the weekend?
Posts
