Month: April 2012

Five Years, One Night, Four Pairs of Heels

Presumably my father was being facetious when he suggested that I try on “every outfit” in my closet before heading down to Baltimore for my very first college reunion later this afternoon but just in case, I’m bringing four pairs of shoes and three possible ensembles for tomorrow night’s dinner. What my dad doesn’t understand is that reunions are all about looking fabulous.  And since I will never have a high school reunion (having been homeschooled…) this is my one chance to hold my head high and tell my former archenemies to go screw themselves. It’s not that I didn’t like college— I loved it—but I had a real love/hate relationship with the dance department.  My turn out was never good enough, my attempts at choreography were never “investigative” enough and it was with great relief that I realized I could skip up to three ballet classes a semester without jeopardizing my grades. Frankly, I wasn’t exactly the poster child of the dance department. (Until the chair realized I had a good relationship with the …

A Disaster in the Shower

I’m in bed, debating whether or not I should get up and make The Wedding Date a cup of coffee before he has to leave for work (or simply tell him to microwave some himself) when I hear him yell “Holy Sh*t!” He’s in the shower down the hall, and the fact that I can hear him from the bedroom tells me that this is something serious.  Something for which I should probably get out of bed. I stumble down the hallway and mumble, “Are you okay, sweetheart?” I can’t imagine that forgetting one’s shampoo in one’s overnight bag or dropping one’s towel in the toilet would warrant the use of profanities at 5:30 in the morning so I start to worry that he’s sprawled out on the floor, somehow decapitated or missing a limb or befallen by equally tragic but unimaginable fate. “What happened?” I demand. “Oh, sorry,” he replies.  “I forgot my cufflinks.” Cufflinks? I am simultaneously relieved and incredibly miffed that I got out of bed for this. (Then again, I do …

Are Those Roses Behind Your Back?

I know, I know: it’s been a while.  But it’s been one of those weeks and will continue being one of those weeks until about 10pm Sunday night (which is when the final awards ceremony of this weekend’s competition will wrap up– at least one can hope). I spent Monday and Tuesday night teaching, Wednesday night performing, Thursday night at the Wilma to review BalletX and that’s just the beginning.  I’m reviewing again tonight and tomorrow night and on Sunday, I’ll be spending all day in Valley Forge for my girls’ competition. Not that I’m complaining—how many dance majors actually end up working in their chosen field?—but I am exhausted.  So exhausted in fact that I was considering writing an entire blog post about the absolutely gorgeous bouquet of flowers The Wedding Date gave to meet after my company’s show at City Hall on Wednesday night but then I thought better of it.  After all, I usually want to stab people in the eye when they post pictures of their Valentine’s Day bouquets all over …

The “A” Word

So like I said: I’ve been keeping a secret.  It’s not a bad secret—in fact, it’s the complete opposite of bad, but I’ve been afraid to commit it to writing, lest in sharing it I somehow destroyed it.  But he’s said it.  And he’s said it again.  And I’ve said it back so it’s high time I brought you all up to speed. When I was seventeen and trying to determine whether or not I was in love with my first boyfriend, the Canadian I’d met at Not Back to School Camp, I turned to my best friend and asked, “How do you know when you’re in love with someone?” “You just do,” she replied. Even thought she was two years older than me, already in college and in possession of a perfectly nice boyfriend who she would eventually go on to marry, I didn’t believe her. “You just do?”  What a load of crap! I was waiting to hear something scientific, or at the very least something romantic (“A chorus of angels will descend …

The Case of the Missing Loofah

It started with my loofah—the gold travel-sized loofah that I picked up at Bath and Body Works last year. “You left you sponge thing here,” The Wedding Date informed me.  “Do you want me to bring it the next time I see you?” After some consideration (and several texts back and forth) it was decided that my loofah would remain at The Wedding Date’s house from now on (to be stowed discretely in the bathroom cabinet when his children are visiting, of course). Next up were my pjs: the black and pink set that I brought with me the last time I visited and completely forgot to pack when I left. “Do you want them to throw them in the wash when I do my next load of laundry?” The Wedding Date asked. “Yes.” These too have now joined The Wedding Date’s permanent collection. Then there was the almond milk—although I should note that I didn’t leave a carton of almond milk at The Wedding Date’s house: he bought it for me. And now he’s …

Why Singletons Should Save Chocolate Bar Wrappers

This week was supposed to be my spring break.  I was going to sleep in and read books and drink iced chai while commencing my work on the great American novel (whilst cursing the parents of Queen Village for ruining my literary endeavors with their precious little darlings) but who are we kidding?  I’ve got choreography to finish, articles to write, new costumes to source and… oh yeah… taxes to file.  The bane of my existence. If I didn’t have a night at the The Wedding Date’s to look forward to, I don’t know what I’d do. Actually, I know exactly what I’d do: I’d do the same thing I did back in grad school when I didn’t have a boyfriend to keep me company when I just couldn’t take it anymore.  I’d make something.  With chocolate. These are chocolate-covered marzipan eggs.  I never knew how great marzipan was until my flat mate from Belgium introduced me.  The good thing about marzipan is that it’s made out of almonds so you can convince yourself that …

A Double Date… with The Wedding Date’s PARENTS!

And suddenly, somehow, without quite realizing it, The Wedding Date and I have been dating for six months. We celebrated our anniversary unwittingly (six months came and went with our visit to the art museum) and it wasn’t until after the fact that we even bothered to calculate how long we’d been dating.  This, of course, prompted a debate on when we started dating—were we counting from July (when we first met), from September (when we went on our first date), or from December (when I finally came to my senses and stoppd seeing Date #7)?  We discussed the pros and cons of each date and, with the help of some revisionist history, finally settled upon the night of our first date, six months ago. Of course choosing your anniversary is the same as choosing a birthday for a dog you got from the pound: it doesn’t mean anything unless you make it mean something.  This, I suppose, might explain why The Wedding Date decided it was finally time to meet his parents (and why …