Tenth Musee

A while back, I mentioned that I frequently bust a rhyme. It’s not intentional or anything, it just happens. Some people couldn’t just let me go on being mellifluous and they had to point it out to me, so now I’m acutely aware every time I rhyme. Like right then.

One thing I’ve always been aware of, though, is that I snap. You heard it here first… unless you’ve ever danced in my vicinity.  And in that case, I can only hope whatever you heard was drowned out by the music.  Every so often, for no reason whatsoever, while dancing to upbeat music… I’ll snap.

I’m not talking about a “hey-girl-drag-queen-oh-no-she-di’int-3-in-a-Z”  kind of snap  or even the timeless ‘When you’re a Jet, you’re a Jet all the way” style.  This is just your garden-variety “I dance like a tool” sort of snap. I try not to call attention to it because whenever I do it, I immediately wonder if I dance like an old white dad.

I’m not a belly dancer. I don’t flamenco. There is absolutely no reason on this earth — other than the fact that I find freestyle dancing somewhat socially awkward and an act I do only after several somethings with rum in it — that I should snap.

You may be picturing some sort of Elaine Benes snap-kick-thumbjerk dance move, but I assure you it’s nothing so grotesque.  It’s usually just a passing movement, generally when my hands are “down low” and it’s totally involuntary.

It could be worse. There was that time I may or may not have walked like an Egyptian.

Apparently, I rhyme. Not all the time, but sometimes I rhyme. This was something I never knew about myself until a friend pointed it out.  When Kathy was here, even she agreed.  I just naturally rhyme; it’s not something I foresee. I can’t do it when I write, it’s like I’m trying too hard. It comes off trite, like a greeting card.

But I do it when I talk and I have no idea why. Is it because I sing? It’s not like I try. Should I have been a writer? I guess I already am. Should I have been a rapper?  I don’t have big enough pants.

Ok, that last one was a stretch.

But I guess I really do rhyme when I talk and now I can’t stop hearing it.  I have to acknowledge when I rhyme now… “I was rhyming.” like anyone else gives a shit.  But I guess people do, who knew? It’s not like I notice when others rhyme, it’s not my business. I don’t have the time.

See? Right then I wasn’t even trying.  *sigh*

I noticed last night that in commercials for Oreo cookies, the people in different commercials all eat their Oreo exactly the same way: twist open, lick once, put back together, then dunk and eat. I don’t feel Oreo is best representing a wide cross-section of Oreo eaters. It’s like they’re trying to set some kind of Oreo-eating standard.  I have never in my entire life met anyone whose Oreo Process™ was that.

Oh, I don’t doubt they’re out there — those who absolutely must eat their Oreo just like they do in the commercial. But what about the artists? The rebels? What about those who just bite into it as-is?  What about those who (*gasp!*) couldn’t give a damn about the “creme” filling?  What about those who consume sans milk?!

Personally, my Oreo Process is as follows:

• Nibble off the top cookie in little bites like a mouse.
• Scrape off the “creme” filling with my bottom teeth in small bits. Never lick.
• Nibble bottom cookie at my leisure.
• Store on my thighs for Winter.

I’m not saying it should be done like this, per se. I just don’t understand why Oreo feels they have to force their belief system on the rest of us.  We’re buying and eating your cookie, Nabisco. What more do you want from us?  Our souls?

Yet another glimpse into a work day…

Joelle: So, have you ever caught yourself doing like some weird dance and then thought, “what the hell?” and looked around like someone was watching you?

Kathy: hahahaha.  yes. all the time.

Joelle: I was just totally doing a funky dance at my desk

Kathy: I did one earlier when i got out of the shower lol

Joelle: was it like a funky chicken or like a roger rabbit? cabbage patch? hustle? or just your own interpretive dance?

Kathy: it was kind of a version of a roger rabbit but with less oomph

Joelle: lol! mine was kind of a combo of the Snake and that 70’s dance where they look like they’re hitchiking. Kind of like a hand-jive, I guess.

Kathy: I was just doing the chair bounce as we speak

Joelle: sometimes it’s just the neck

Joelle: *neck*

Kathy: HAHAHAHHA *neck*

Kathy: speaking of… i need some actual music to do this to

Joelle: wait, you had no music?!

Kathy: no hahahaha

Joelle: truly the beat of your own drum, sister.  *neck*

So, it’s possible you’re thinking we’re a little weird or just found out you’re not alone.  Surely we’re not the only ones who’ve done this.  So… what’s your “move”? 

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So I’m pondering my dinner tonight and decide I want a PB & J.  It’s hotter than hell, I’ve already got the oven fired up doing some more baking and I just don’t feel like cooking an actual meal, so a peanut butter and jelly sammich seems like the easiest thing.

There’s an art to the PB & J, I think.  Sure, you can slap each on some bread, smoosh and you’re out the door, but one can craft a truly beautiful PB & J with the proper ingredients.  For me, peanut butter and jelly perfection consists of JIF.  Not Skippy, not Peter Pan and sure as hell not that Old-Fashioned-Oil-at-the-Top-Gotta-Stir-It-Reminds-Me-of-Olestra Laura Scudders crap.  It’s JIF and JIF only in this house.  Of course, I’m not inflexible.  I oscillate between crunchy and smooth—occasionally extra-crunchy.  More often than not, it’s smooth, though.

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I was absolutely appalled this morning to see not one, but two women open up her car door in traffic and spit.  I kid  you not!  Spit. I couldn’t believe it.  And they were within 10 minutes of each other, too.  When I saw the first woman do it, I thought to myself, “Ew.  That’s…vile.”, but chalked it up to it being a hoochie with 2 inch roots in a Tempo and went about my day.

The second woman really sent me over the edge.  A well-dressed, extremely put-together woman in her late 20’s, maybe early 30’s in a Lexus, while sitting at a traffic light, just flung open her door and hocked one right on the concrete.  It wasn’t even discreet or ladylike in any fashion.  I thought maybe she’d found something floating in her coffee or something, but even then, crack the door, be discreet, or hell! Spit it back in the cup and get a fresh one when you get to work.  Don’t make me have to watch it!  It made me thankful my mom instilled manners in me at an early age.  Gah.

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Statia mentioned this morning about weird food quirks.  Sarah and I had a whole diatribe on Food Procedures. Things you just shouldn’t eat without a ritual or ceremony of some sort.  Some things that fall into that category:

Oreos

Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups

Twinkies

Corn on the cob

Toast

PB & J sammiches

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