Therefore, please go here and vote today! As of right now, I don't stand much of a chance, but I have THE AUDACITY OF HOPE to carry me through this voting process. (Whew. This campaign is TOUGH! Glad I got all of my yard signs out into the neighborhood tonight!)
Weekend Update #2: Jordan brought his friends home for din-din, and I did not poison them. Yay! They were very nice young men, and we got to meet his roommate for next year. Here is what I ended up serving, the main course suggested by Sara of Make Music from Your Heart to the Lord: A roast beef sandwich with provolone cheese dipped au jus (crock pot roast cooked in French onion soup, beef broth, beef consomme, which I don't even know what consomme is), old fashioned macaroni and cheese, baked beans, cole slaw, Sister Schubert rolls (thanks, Melanie) and TWO desserts: the Ken Lee Cake of all Cakes and Mrs. Smith's Apple Crumb Pie a la mode, which I intend to post about soon. I said, "Guys, I've been blogging about you, and I must take a picture so that all my bloggy friends can you see you eating and surviving this meal." They readily agreed, and then I forgot to take the picture! Ugh! I think I was intoxicated on Ken Lee cake. I know I said it before, but thanks for all of your wonderful ideas! You are good friends. I huggeth you, sisters.
And now, on to the "au currant" which is not the same as "au jus."
Saturday: Guess what I’ve been doing this morning? It’s a tiny little thing but something I never thought I’d do: paint my daughter’s toenails black. Yes, the little pink toes that I kissed and piggied and fitted in just the right shoes, I have been painting Goth black.
Let me back up and tell my back story before I get back to the future, back where we belong. Back.
When I was a little girl, before I knew there was such a thing as the life-changing international fame and glamour of cheerleading, where one can truly be a big fish in a small pond, I wanted to be a ballerina.
How I even knew such a person/profession existed, I have no idea because I grew up in the most blue-collar of backgrounds and was not allowed to go to movies nor was I allowed to dance, so where this wild idea came from, who knows. Some older members in the church would have probably said, “Satan.”
Anyway, the biggest cultural exposure I had was 1) “Special” gospel singers coming to our church (sort of like Don and Seymour, here) which I’m pretty sure would now qualify as the post-modern Catholic interpretation of purgatory 2) The Fort Wayne Zoo. Not even the Indianapolis Zoo. Just the Fort Wayne Zoo, which featured lots of raccoons. Because Indiana doesn’t have many live raccoons, just dead ones on the roads every 30 feet or so. So they took us to see live ones.
Anyway part 2, my mother bought me a chenille breadspread that had a life-sized chenille ballerina on it as its only design. In other words, her figure was sort of raised on a white background. The ballerina was blonde. Therefore, the ballerina was I, and I was she. We melded, kindred souls, one of blood and water, one of … fuzz.
I've always wondered why my mother bought that bedspread. Maybe she felt it made up for the disappointment of not being allowed gymnastics or ballet, a concession or apology. What it did was make me envy the life of a 2-D bedspread character. Pathetically funny.
Like Elijah and the dead boy, I would stretch myself out atop of that ballerina, arm for extended arm, knee for bent knee, head cast upward in an ethereal glance.
I’m sure I looked just like a real-live ballerina ... or maybe a dead one, just lying there, like a Hoosier raccoon separated from his eternal spirit.
I read ballerina books, I drew pictures of tu-tus, I danced around my churchyard after services when all the half-dead people would stand around talking. I flitted in between little caucuses of them, distracting them, catching chagrined glances, but I didn’t care. And I don’t know where my parents were, so I guess they didn’t care. Maybe they were trying to pretend the wayward dancing child was not theirs.
Now let’s go forward in time to about 1990. I have a four year-old little girl. Our church is offering ballet classes taught by one of our pastor’s wives, of all things. Katie wants to dance. I want her to dance. We are happy.
Oh, ballet pink ~ is there anything sweeter? Not hot pink, not baby pink, but a muted, dusty pink. And tu-tus! Oh, tu-tus, I still love you. I’m dancing on the inside right now. My little brunette girl was a-dor-a-able in ballet pink. And people, she excelled at ballet. [I knew it was in my blood! I knew it!] The first time we bought her toe shoes,
I wouldn't say she was living my dream, but ... you could say it and be totally right.
The years passed, and Katie kept dancing. I had a couple more kids, including another little brunette thing, Kristin, whom the dance teacher wanted in her class, and asked about enrolling her often.
“No,” I would respond, smiling and shaking my head, “She’s not ready. She’s not like Katie. She’s rowdier. She’s spunkier. She’s not ready.”
The teacher said over and again, “Yes she is! Oh please sign her up. She’s so cute.”
So I did, and while others twirled and pirouetted in class, Kristin twirled the pony tail of the girl in front of her. And even though you can't tell it in this pic, she does indeed have a neck.
Double fast forward: When the younger hit 5th grade, she discovered Christian hip-hop. She bloomed as if she had discovered a hip-hop dancer breadspread.
And people, she excelled at hip hop.
Hip hop dancers do not wear tu-tus or ballet pink. They do big production numbers where they pull giant sweatshirts over their heads and throw punches and kicks in the air and snarl and roll around on the ground.
One year, they did a Heaven/Hell evangelistic thing. And lo and behold, just what every mom wants to hear, one day Kristin, my baby, came out of class and exclaimed, “Mom, I’m gonna be a HELL dancer!!!”
Kristin is now 15 and still hip-hopping. And that's what we're doing today, going to a dance competition in Indianapolis, where she will jump around with black toenails.
I'm going to end Part 1 here, but there's so much more to say about the world of dance competitions. Moms of young ones--beware the snare of ballet pink. Sometimes it fades to black!
1997 vs. 2004 ... wait til you see 2008!