flightless hag

A chronicle of the adventures of birdwoman: a lonely, talentless freak who wanders the internet in search of entertainment.

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Location: Philly

I'm a 40-something married white female, survivor of weight watchers, avid reader of pulp. Dogs (not cats), extreme right (handed, not politics), ENTJ, alto, wanna-be knitter.

October 14, 2012

Dancing Machine

The dusty aviary is located on the Main Line of Philadelphia. Grace Kelley graced our streets once upon a time. There are those who hold on to that history with grasping, pinching, manicured fingers, even when it doesn't make much sense anymore.

Case in point, we got a postcard inviting our boys to join a Cotillion. A Cotillion. Isn't that some anachronistic dancing thing for rich kids who want to land a good mate?

{checks watch, clock, computer, yes, it is 2012}

And even if it still exists, you want MY HOBOS to attend? My boys, who wouldn't dance if you paid them in chocolate?

Case in point:

We were at a wedding this summer. There was the usual collection of frolicsome melodies (and some weird choices like Billy Idol...).  The boys sat, sipping Shirley Temples, glumly staring at the strange girls all dancing in the middle of the floor, glaring askance at me every once in a while. They still hold it against me, you see, that I made them dance with me when they wanted me to take them to the sock-hop party at their school. Anyhow, there was this little girl who was bound and determined to garner a dance partner. The first little boy she found was firmly plugged into his DS and making no eye contact. (side note, who lets their kid play a DS at a wedding?)

The next little boy was Stinky. As she looked at him, calculation in her eye, he gave her the full on Grumpy McStormcloud visage. She jumped a bit and moved on, quickly. Mothman also had a look of disgusted amazement on his face - kind of like the one I have when I see those people who eat like 70 hot dogs in a sitting. And his hair was pointing in all directions at once, while his shirt was half-tucked. I could see the shudder of revulsion on her face.

And then she saw Spaz. This kid was twirling and fingerpointing more than John Travolta during Saturday Night Fever.

It was a match made in heaven that made my boys both relieved and horrified. Someone had, after all, broken the dude-code.

It takes me back to 17 years ago, and change. We were planning our wedding, and our dj (my fabulous friend Jen) told us we needed to have an opening dance so others would dance. John was HORRIFIED. That ALMOST got him to agree with me that we would be better off just going to the courthouse. But his fear of my brothers put the dancing shoes on his feet. Not. We picked a slow song, and we stood, swaying.

Even though we didn't dance, it's stuck. We still don't dance, and we still have a good time.

Happy anniversary, a week late, birdman.


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