Ironically, she's a little Vixen

It has been a tough spring, what with all the bombings, natural disasters and government scandals. (Not to mention that Joran van der Sloot has given his heart to another). >sigh<

But what's great about life is that just when you think there is no end to the bad news along comes something that renews your faith in humanity, gives you a sense of enthusiasm and gratitude, and just makes you happy.

I'm talking, of course, about Prancercise.

If you have not yet heard about this, prancercise is a new fitness craze that's sweeping the nation a desolate pathway in some vague Floridian town. It is called Prancercise because it was designed to mimic a horse's prancing movements. And because it really is the only word that can adequately describe what you are about to see...

Please watch the video then continue on to the discussion questions below:

1.  Do you think she should consider calling this Pantsercise? Because, frankly, isn't that really the focus of the video?

2. Similarly, this story and the one about the beaver attack in Belarus were both in my news feed on the same day. I clicked on this video, mistakenly thinking it was the one associated to the beaver story. Is it understandable that it took several minutes before I realized my error?

3. Has it been your experience that the best way to determine the strenuousness of a workout is by whether it requires a coiffure, full makeup and a statement necklace?

4. If so, is Tony Horton totally missing the boat?

5. If you're prancercising east at 35 miles per hour and you pass someone prancercising west at 45 miles per hour, at what point do you both just admit that hallucinogenic drugs are frighteningly easy to come by at Century Village?

 

I will never look at the produce section the same way again

While in the midst of a long overdue hangout session with two very funny friends this weekend, one of these friends regaled us with tales from a Steampunk convention he had recently attended - a meeting that shared convention space with an alternative lifestyle group.      

(Yes, it is rather obvious how I make choices about the people with whom I opt to spend my time.)

We were eating lunch while we had this discussion and I noticed that he passed on one of the food items offered because it contained avocado -- claiming that he is allergic. I had never heard of anyone being allergic to avocado, so I asked, "really?" And he said, "Yup. Avocado and latex both."

To which I, of course, replied, "Well then, you must have missed out on a lot of the networking opportunities at the alternative lifestyle convention."

Not missing a beat, he said, "Oh...there were plenty of other rooms that featured tropical fruit/rubber product combinations."

And I inquired, "Like the mango neoprene room?"

And now I have a great suggestion if anyone I know becomes a drag queen and needs the perfect stage name.

Mango Neoprene's BFF,
Brutalism

Hot Pants

Not long ago, I was pulling papers out of my daughter's backpack that she brought home from school. As I started to look at one piece of paper, she quickly grabbed it from me, crumpled it up and threw it away.

Of course, as soon as she left the room, I retrieved it from the trash can, smoothed it out and read what she was so intent on hiding: a note to someone in her class. More specifically, a boy in her class. Most specifically, Noah B.

The note read, "Dear Noah B., this is how you get to my house: (and had directions to our house as best she knew)" Fortunately, first graders are neither a) great with directions nor b) can they drive. So I figured this was a harmless little flirtation.

A harmless little flirtation that we had kind of forgotten about until my daughter's class picture was sent home yesterday. She's a tall kid who would logically be in the back row of the photo. But instead, she is sitting up in the front next to guess who? NOAH B.

I shared this story with a friend and mentioned that I was going to look into a restraining order against Noah B.

She looked at me sympathetically then said slowly, "I don't know how to tell you this...but I don't think Noah B. is the problem."

Paybacks

Throughout our years as Dilettantes, the other Dilettantes and I have often owed each other money for purchasing tickets to events and classes and that PADDLE BOARDING LESSON THAT I BOUGHT MORE THAN A YEAR AGO AND THAT WE BETTER USE IN THE NEXT TWO MONTHS, DAMMIT.

As the reimbursements are pretty much the only checks any of us writes anymore (follow that lead retired folk who insist on going to the Safeway near my office at lunch time and using 433 coupons per shopping excursion and then writing a check for the (well-discounted, to be fair) purchase making your total transaction time equal roughly 17 minutes and 200 blood pressure points), we have found a way to derive maximum enjoyment from them. And that is through the competition to write the most embarrassing/juvenile comment in the check memo section with the hope of mortifying the depositor. (How else would we show we care?)

Naturally, these have involved a lot of references to underpants, derogatory statements about each other's hometowns, balances due for swinger and furry conventions, Scientology E-meter reading fees and one I received in the mail just yesterday:

My bank teller is entirely humorless which makes this little exercise that much more fun.

Doing anything for money,
Brutalism