Dance Fever

I love that my friends write this erudite poetry about me and all I can pull off is inane pop culture references from the 1970s.  I am not sure why they still talk to me. Solid Gold, Dance Fever, Denny Terrio – oh yeah, I pulled that one out of my deck and played it!  Suckas! 

I was supposed to go to the bridal shower of one of my oldest friends today and I had a flat tire.  Unfortunately, I don’t have a donut (because I am cheap like that) and can’t really cab it because it is in Olympia and I live in Seattle.  So I compromised and bought her insanely expensive wedding gifts.  You can throw money at guilt like you can at bad termination decisions – everyone is a winner.  Really.  But I still feel like I suck, I am sorry Tracy!  I hope you like the new car – it is a DeLorean or Mazerati or something!  (I am so poor, I can’t even spell those words – I am not permitted.)

Last night we had a dinner party at an old friend’s house.  I don’t know why he thinks that just because I used to work with him, I still work FOR him, but he put me to work cooking.  For his party.  It was fine because I got all nuts and made this bruschetta that had manchego cheese and dates stuffed with fig jam.  As well as some other stuff, but he is totally weird and doesn’t like mayo (which is creamy white heaven), so I had no options for the salmon cakes other than ketchup, pickle relish and mustard.  I was hoping to make an aoli, but instead it tasted like crab hot dogs.  Oh well! 

With enough wine, the party turned out great, despite my participation. 

By about 9 I was getting hyper.  I usually don’t do sugar, so wine makes me more “active” than normal.  I challenged everyone to a dance off.  By this, I mean, I made everyone dance with me to ABBA.  We had the oddest mix of people there – an IT director with metallic silver pants, a hippie double PhD with a penchant for caftans, the CEO of a company who likes mash up a little too much, an insanely smart bureaucrat/southern writer/married to the coolest woman ever and me. 

So we are talking a total train wreck here, people.  But it was fun.  And we all had the “white guy overbite” which is when you bit your lower lip while dancing.  Don’t freak, white people, everyone does it.  Walk it out.

When they read your obituary at your funeral, do you want them to say you were a great dancer or a good technician?  You were a dedicated accountant or that you made everyone laugh at work during staff meetings?  Do you want them to say that your house was really clean or that you went out of your way to give money to buskers?  You were financially solvent or your friends loved you enough to vote for you for president even though you would do a terrible job?  That you went to the gym every day or the people in the neighborhood knew you by name and you remembered their kids, dogs, spouses, partners, high schools?….  Yeah, I want to be the second kind of person.  Even though it isn’t profitable. 

So last night I danced my ass off to ABBA with a bunch of freaks (including me) and today I should be at a bridal shower but I am a dumb ass and don’t take care of my car, so I am just wishing you and yours a Gordon Lightfoot/Greg Gilles day, because that is what you deserve.  In a good way.