The Day of the Cackle…

I like to yuck it up.  For any of you that are part of the younger generation, that translates to LOL.  I am not afraid to giggle and guffaw in public.  I am that person in the movie theatre who isn’t shy to shriek and/or snort if there is a funny scene.  Yes, I am the obnoxious one who doesn’t care what anyone else thinks because if it’s funny then I will laugh out loud.  However, there is one thing that I did not expect would ever happen to me…the jovial laugher.  I now refer to this day as “The Day of the Cackle”.

I was a shy kid and always wanted to fit in.  If others weren’t laughing then I wouldn’t either.  I might smile, but no sound would emerge from my mouth (or nose for that matter.  I am also a bonafide snorter).  I might embarrass myself.  The more I got comfortable with just being ME, the more I went from smiling with no teeth showing, to wide-mouthed big smiles and finally to the contagiously loud laugh.  All was well in my amusing world until the Day of the Cackle.

I had met my BFF for lunch and we proceeded to share our hilarious tales of adventure that is our daily lives.  We started to laugh about something.  Suddenly a bizarre sound filled the airspace.  I tried to maintain my composure, but the sound irked me.  It grated on my nerves.  We continued with our fun stories and this time when I opened my mouth to let out the oncoming guffaw I heard that nasty caterwaul again. Suddenly a strange thought hit me.  Did that hideous noise emerge from my diaphragm?  I also had this eerie feeling that I had heard it somewhere before.  It wasn’t until I was driving home after our luncheon that it hit me.  I had been pondering giving my mother a call and the lightbulb switched on above my head.  Eureka!  But not in a good way.  I had shockingly realized that my previous melodious laugh had turned into the OLD LADY CACKLE!

I remember listening to my mother talking on the phone and hearing that abrasive sound.  Really, it was a sound I despised as much as nails on a chalkboard (*whole body shiver*).  I can clearly recall listening to her laughing with her friends, but all I heard was the sounds of chickens clucking and cackling.  Now….THAT’S ME!

I’ll be completely honest, it took me awhile to adjust to this.  I almost stopped LOL-ing.  It’s weird enough if you hear your voice recorded and played back to you, but to have a glorious, lulling laugh morph into the sound of chickens being tortured was not something I had prepared myself for with my middle age creeping up.  Now, besides the creaking and cracking joints, I have to listen to my nail-on-the-chalkboard laugh.  I actually prefer the snorting to it.  Ok, maybe I’m going a little overboard with my drama, but it was not an anticipated event.  In my usual Pollyanna way, I decided to find the positive in my negative situation.

First, I realized that I was the only one who seemed offended by my noise pollution laugh.  No one looked at me any differently.  No one stopped saying funny things either.  Perhaps it wasn’t that bad after all.  Getting old and changing is great!  I still have my faculties, and my health, and wonderful people in my life.  Super-great people actually!  I always try to be happy and share my joy with others.  I LOVE TO LAUGH!

SIDE BAR:  I laugh every time I watch “I Love to Laugh” from the “Mary Poppins” movie.  Seriously, I can try and sit there without laughing, but it’s just too contagious.  So, if you are feeling down and need a pick me up, just watch this.  I promise you’ll be feeling much, much better.  I Love to Laugh 

Back to my cacklephony.  New word.  It should be added to the Miriam-Webster or the Oxford dictionary soon.  So, I shall now let you click on the following links so you can hear exactly what I hear.  The first is a lovely video of “aged women” cackling with laughter.  Yes, I couldn’t help myself.  I laugh-snorted listening to them.  Such fun!  They sound just like me.  Cackling women.  The next is chickens.  Sounds quite similar.  *SNORT*.

Ahem…let’s get serious.  A synopsis of my laughing habits.  Young me…no laughing.  Teen years me…semi-smiles.  Pre-adult me…smiled broadly and learned to laugh…hoping I would not be an outcast.  The Day of the Cackle.  Etched in my mind for eternity.  No longer traumatic, more of a fun-fest-fact.  Wholesome F trifecta…booyah!  Does it bother me?  Honestly?  Oftentimes.  Does it molest my ears?  Occasionally.  How does it rate on the “Do-I-Care-O-Meter”?  Insignificant.  I find that I mellow with age.  Like a fine wine.  Meh…nothing to worry about.

Synopsis:  I love to smile, but even more, I love to laugh.  I enjoy being the happy person. Some may find me annoying with my constant happiness, but in my mind, that is their problem.  I want to be happy and hope I can be contagious enough to make others around me happy.  My newfound distorted laugh is something I am adapting to.  I am focusing on the positive and knowing that, although the sound may be ingratiating, I know that the Day of the Cackle is one more nuance of my mid-life budding personality.

The “Perfect Fit” Challenge…

You may be thinking that I am going to talk about relationships and what it’s like when you find your perfect mate for life.  Nope, it’s not that.  Then maybe it’s about diet and weight loss and finding that perfect fit for your body.  Nah…that’s been overdone.  Truly there are many things that could apply to this two-word challenge.  However, the one I am speaking of is one that I instigated upon myself.  It is the challenge of finding a container that will fit leftover food without leaving space between the food and the lid.  Let me give you a bit of background on how this obsession of mine started.

If you came to my house and checked out my pantry shelf in the basement and my fridge and freezer (yes I have extra appliances in my basement as all good Croatians do), you could probably go shopping.  I should supply little baskets.  Now, Wiseguy is always telling me to stop overstocking, especially now that it is only the two of us in the house.  I, however, disagree.  It’s not that we have fewer people in the house, we now have waaaay more people coming for meals now that the children are all coupled and have children of their own.  There is a need for more food.  (Please feel free to begin your own discussion on this matter).  This was a nasty habit I picked up from my mother.

My parents were raised in a village.  They literally grew up in tiny homes that were overcrowded with children (free labour).  When they came to Canada it was important to stockpile food stuff to ensure they would never be hungry again.  I myself did not grow up hungry, but that habit of my mother’s for being prepared was ingrained in my head.  However, hubby is always saying he can’t see the light on in the fridge because of all the leftovers and the potential “throw away” food.  There you have it.  My need to condense our fridge co-habitants.  Hubster will open the ice box and see a plethora of food and all I see are half filled containers of leftovers.  If we start making dinner using previous meals and a container is left half full, I will seek out a replacement that will fit the contents precisely.  My obsessiveness is actually something that I have passed on to the kids too.  They now challenge themselves when they help me clean up after a meal.  They even do it in their own homes.  Yes, my craziness has rubbed off on them.  It’s quite entertaining to watch Wiseguy watching his children mimic my obsessiveness.  I’m quite proud of it.  Anyway, you must be wondering…how is this a challenge?

You may think this is a simple thing.  Nay I say!  Have you ever had your spouse/friend/family member/acquaintance put leftover spaghetti in a container and it only fills half the bowl?  How horrible!  What a waste of precious fridge space.  My goal is to find the correct container…on the first guess!  Anyone can start putting stuff into a larger container than is needed.  Pshaw!  Way too easy.  How about the times you start off with a small container and you misjudged the interior expanse.  Oh me, oh my!  Not only do you need to peruse your cupboard for a new receptacle, but now you have to wash the one you had previously chosen.  FAIL!

Allow me to show you the difference between a PASS and  a FAIL.

100% FAIL!

This is how things used to be put into my fridge.  Egad!

IMG_3474

PASS!  

How lovely!  Might have even found a smaller container as there is space at the top

IMG_3475

Here was my most recent challenge.  I boiled macaroni.  Part of it was for a casserole and the rest was going to be leftovers for my lunch or perhaps even dinner the next day.

As you can see, macaroni in pot.  Next was my chosen container.  It was going to be tight, but I think I eye-balled correctly.

IMG_3501

IMG_3502

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IMG_3503

IMG_3504

 

Then halfway up the container and still more pasta to go.  I took a quick gulp and hoped for the best.

 

 

 

GAME!  SET!  MATCH!!  PERFECTION!

Seriously.  The cover fit.  All the elbow macaroni is contained.  NO…I did not eat any of it.  No cheating with this game.

IMG_3506

For all you OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder) darlings out there…this is a boon for you.  It may seem so simple and irrelevant, but once you start you will catch the bug.  It’s all about finding the “perfect fit”.  And if you are high falutin, you can rename it (as I used to call it) “The Tupperware Challenge”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Follow that runaway train…of thought?

I used to believe that I spoke and had thought processes like other people.  I would ruminate something, I would say it out loud, the other person would reply and there you have it!  Conversation.  So imagine, to my chagrin, when suddenly my friends and (most) family members could not understand me.  They would tilt their head to one side and stare at me, quite perplexed.  It was like I was speaking a foreign language.  I would then continue to explain my thought process, step by step, and then they would open their mouths slightly and melodiously say, “ohhhhhh,” whilst nodding their heads.  What had happened to my talent for great conversation?

As I said before, I can hold conversations with anybody of any age, any gender, on any topic.  So it befuddled me when it appeared that I was babbling incoherently.  It occurred to me one day that there were certain people who completely understood me and what I was saying.  My sister was top of the list.  My mother too.  My dad, most of the time.  My niece, however, gave me THAT look one day.  I gave her a questioning look back.  She calmly asked, whilst politely puzzled:  “What does Baba (grandma in Croatian) have to do with a glass of water?”  At first, this bewildered me.  Then the AH-HA moment hit!  Get ready for this doozy.

First, let me ask if you have ever seen the show Gilmore Girls?  I LOVE watching this show!  Why?  The amount of fast-talking conversation is incredible.  They jump from topic to topic in seconds flat.  Basically, they talk like I do.  There is no desire to scrimp on words and get to the point quickly.  It’s about conversation and language and using all kinds of words and comparisons and leaping from one idea to the next.  That was what my AH-HA was about.  I was speaking quickly, and as I spoke a new idea would pop into my head.  However, I might not say anything aloud about it, but then my next thought would be spoken out loud leaving a possible gap in the logical conclusion.  Get it?  No?  Ok, here is the train of thought explanation of the “Baba and the glass of water story”:

Me out loud:  Baba is in so much pain with her hip, but she just won’t let anyone help her.  She has to do it all by herself because she doesn’t want to bother anyone.

Niece out loud:  I know, even when I invite them over for lunch she says it’s too much work for me and that I have so many other responsibilities so why don’t we just come over to her place for a meal.

Me in my head:  She has always been like that.  So stubborn.  That’s why we never learned to cook because she had to do everything.  Even her brother-in-law told me that she won’t even have a glass of water in his home, but she expects them to come to her place for elaborate meals.

Me out loud:  Not even a glass of water!

Niece:  *dumbfounded look

Ok…now you are caught up with how my brain works.  There are the inner thoughts that are constantly in motion.  It’s like there are trigger words people say to me and my mind grabs it like a football and starts running for the end zone.  With every yard I pass, a new thought gets attached to it.  By the time I get to the end zone I have left the football field and ended up on the soccer field.  See what I mean?

I decided to do some quick research about this special phenomenon of mine.  With my Google prowess I typed:  the difference between male and female thought patterns.  DING!  There is quite a variance between the gender brain functions and thought patterns.  I will summarize it quickly if you don’t feel like reading about it.  Scientists study four primary areas of the brain:  processing, chemistry, structure, and activity.  With processing, it appears that males use more gray matter than white matter and with females it’s the opposite.  The gray areas are localized and lead to those gents having more of a tunnel vision so they focus on one thing until complete.  The ladies, with their white brain, basically have their brain networking with the gray parts.  Thus, women are able to multi-task fantastically.  Both are good in their own ways.  The rest of the article was interesting, but being a multi-tasker, let’s get back to the story.

I then explained to my niece how my brain works…as you now also know.  I still continue to speak in this way.  One day at my parent’s place my mother was telling me and my sister about this lady in the village.  The story continued about some surgery.  Then it went to some doctor.  Then something about pills.  Then how awful THAT man is.  She was shaking her head in anger and the rest of us just looked at each other.  My father asked, “What man?”  My sister and I burst out laughing.  We were prodigies!  After a few precise questions we finally figured out who she had been talking about.  Her whole story had involved words like “her” “that lady” “that neighbour” and “him”.  Once names were attached to the pronouns we had the final answer.  Way more fun than Jeopardy, but just as challenging!

Fast forward a few months.  I was visiting my niece again.  I was regaling her with some fantastic story and when I stopped she smiled and slyly said, “I actually followed that train of thought almost all the way to the end.”  Kudos to her!  I am bequeathing her with the gift of pursuing that runaway train…of thought!

fullsizeoutput_22e9

 

 

 

World’s Wealthiest Baba…

I am a non-mother.  I have been told many times that “you’re lucky you never had to go through childbirth.”  Yes, real mothers have gone through the pains of labour.  I did not.  I have never birthed a child.  I have never had a C-section.  According to my mother, my life is wanting and incomplete because I have never had a child of my own.  After years of hearing this definitive and repetitive chorus of hers, I have decided that I am a mother.  Perhaps, not called “mom” or “mama”, but the functions I have performed would absolutely qualify me as being a mothering type of woman.

My love of children started when I was young.  Coming from a large family there were always children younger than me running around.  In various photos you could find me holding one of the youngsters.  I LOVED holding babies.  I loved playing games with them and making them laugh.  This was not contained to just my family.  At school recess time, I would head over to where the kindergarten children were and play with the kids there.  I became something of a hero to these little tots.  Kids my own age would play baseball or soccer (I was never good at sports).  Then there were the mean kids who just played pranks on people.  I didn’t want to be part of THAT group.  So, hanging out with blissful people (children) was way more fun!

As I got older I started planning for the day that I would have my own children.  I started buying Disney movies.  I collected children’s books.  I was going to have lots of children because all my life I just wanted to be a mommy.  It would be easier buying everything while I had a disposable income and living at home.  I got mommy practice after my sister had kids.  I got to change them, feed them, bathe them, dress them, even potty training was on the agenda.  Yes, I was getting my mom-training hours in.  I would be the best mom ever.  As time passed I realized that you could be planning for your life to go one way and then suddenly there is a fork in the road with a tough decision.  You can decide with your head or with your heart.

When Wiseguy and I first started hanging out I knew he had three children.  He was not planning on having anymore.  I had always wanted many children and now I had a decision to make at this fork in my life road.  Should I choose to be with the man of my dreams who made me laugh everyday?  The man who understood me like no one else had before?  A man who loved to dance and enjoyed living everyday of his life?  A man who adored his children and wanted someone who could share his life as well as theirs? The other path was to leave this wonderful man behind, find someone else who would want to have children.  Would I find someone who intrigued and entertained me as much as Wiseguy?  Was my happiness more important than the prospect of a life with children?  What if I couldn’t have children?  As you already know, I followed my heart.  I chose love.  I chose Wiseguy and his (now our) children.

The kids did not call me mom.  I didn’t want them to.  They already had a mother.  We were (and are) “Dad and Maryann”.  I didn’t need a title.  I was an adult female who would do mommy things.  I would be there to kiss the boo-boos.  I would be there to apply bandaids.  I would be there to teach them things.  I would play with them.  I would guide them.  I would advise them.  Sure, sometimes I would beat myself up for things I said, but I grew up in the house of “tough love” and sometimes being honest is harder than being kind.  The truth hurts, but oftentimes it will get you so angry that you will persevere and move along in life.  Sometimes being hard and honest is what true love is about.

I do not accept my mother’s definition of a “mother” to heart.  I am not short-changed in life.  If anything, I am one of the wealthiest women / moms around.  Not only do Wiseguy and I have his/our wonderful children, but we watch (and happily cry) when we watch these youths (now adults) raising their children.  They do the same things we do.  They parent and worry that they are getting it wrong.  They think that maybe they are horrible parents.  To them we say:  if your child is clothed, fed, and happy then you are an absolutely incredible parent.  Parenting is so harshly judged. It is the the most thankless and difficult job to do day in and day out.  No rewards.  No awards.  No praise. No accolades.  Parents, be kind to yourself.  You are doing a wonderful job! Congratulate yourself on the small things.

As for me, the non-mother who became a grandmother or “Baba” in Croatian, I love and adore these children!  Each one has a special talent, gift, personality, and smile that wins me over.  I do not compare them to each other because each is unique.  They have their own personalities and talents and thoughts.  Ok, I’m getting teary-eyed because I am so captivated watching them become their own individual being.  There is the honour of being able to be their Baba and being able to love them.

As hindsight is 20/20, I can say that by following my heart instead of my head, following love instead of expected behaviour, I chose the right path when I got to my fork in the road.  I can also say that, although my bank account doesn’t show any lottery winnings, I am the World’s Wealthiest Baba.

 

 

 

The Quintessential Test…

I believe this is going to be one of my shortest writings.  It is something that I believe needs to be shared.  As I age, I do rely on past experiences to write and provide thought-provoking advice.  Hopefully those younger will find solace in my words.  Those who are older, I hope you can agree with me.  This particular article is about the quintessential test.  Though you may think it’s about final high school exams, or about getting your driver’s license…it is not.  Nor is it about a lie detector test…though it does touch on it.  This, I truly believe, is the hardest test and those who pass it deserve gold medals (or at least super kudos).  This quintessential quiz in our lifetime is passing the test of trust.

“Cross my heart / hope to die / stick a needle / in my eye”.  These were the solemn promised words of children swearing not to tell on each other.  “Don’t tell mom!”  And you would swear you wouldn’t.  No matter what.  True…it could sometimes come back as blackmail, but you always hoped it wouldn’t.  Later, it became the “pinky swear” or “pinky promise”.

As I got older, there were many things told to me in confidence.  From my mother, my father, my in-laws, and grand-in-laws.  Even my nieces.  In truth, even though I do not speak to some of them anymore, I have never shared any of their secrets.  We may not be on speaking terms, but when I make a promise, I will not break it.  Their secrets are safe with me.  I pride myself on knowing that I was there for them when they needed someone and they can always rely on the fact I am a “vault”.  NO information shall ever pass my lips.

This brings me to one final thought.  I am a vault, but others are not.  I have been betrayed in the past so now I find that I “test” people to see if they can be trusted.  I will make up stories and then I will share some kind of information.  It works well.  People trust me because I am trust-worthy.  However, when I hear that people have changed plans due to something I may have said, I know that the person I spoke with is no longer someone I can trust.  I sometimes create stories to see how long it will take for it to get back to me.  I am pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t as there are so many gossips in this world.  I don’t know why, but creating chaos is something people thrive on.

So, here is my humble advice to you.  Feel free to test those who you are unsure of.  It is nice to have a friend / family member you can trust.  Drop some made up stuff…arguments with family members, hardships at work, people you find difficult, etc.  If anything gets back to you, you will know who the spies are and you will know not to trust them.  Be honest with yourself.  This is not a witch hunt.  You are not out to expose people, but more of a “peace of mind” deal.

My short piece of advice is this:  Start off trusting people.  I still believe in the good of all people-kind.  However, if your have a niggling feeling or a gut reaction that there is something off-putting about someone, feel free to make-up a little story and see if it gets back to you.  If it doesn’t, there is a good chance you have someone who has been burned in the past by lies and stories and just has their guard up.  If your little tale has returned to your ears with some exciting embellishment you have found the culprit and also the person not to trust.

With the many tests you will have in life this is a valuable one.  If done properly it will give you peace of mind as you will know what type of people surround you.  For me this is the quintessential test.  Happy testing!  Happy living!

 

 

 

You think YOU’VE had a bad day…

I am sure you have heard the phrase that there are two sides to every story.  It seems like most of life is like that.  The yin to the yang.  The black or the white.   The truth or the lie. Up and down.  Left and right.  You get the idea.  Now, this morning was a little different.  I awoke (same as usual), went downstairs (same) and let my dog outside so that she could empty her bladder (same).  Suddenly, I noticed a dark mound in the back corner of the yard (NOT same as usual).  Before freaking out, I grabbed the wee mutt and brought her inside.  Something was not the same and it threw me off my usual game plan for the day.  What the heck was it?  How could my day start off so traumatically!

My mornings start off the same everyday.  I have awoken to barfing dogs, but other than that, nothing all that exciting happens at my house.  I went muttering through house “what is it, what is it, what is it…”  Being quite near-sighted (actually, way beyond “quite”, more like “extremely”) I went back inside and grabbed my glasses.  Another trip to the back door.  IT was still there.  I still couldn’t recognize what IT was.  So, back inside with another brilliant idea.  My camera!  I grabbed my fancy camera and photographed the invader.  I was trying to zoom in, but my brain was in a panic fog and I kept hitting the wrong buttons.  Grrrrr.  Finally, Wiseguy heard my lunatic mutterings and asked me what was going on.  I shared my information about the intruder.  He went out to look.  He thought it looked like a raccoon.  A deceased one.

How on earth did a raccoon end up in our backyard?  Especially a dead one.  We went all CSI: crime scene investigation.   What if someone poisoned the raccoon?  What if it got bit by a mosquito and got West Nile virus?  What if it was rabid?  How would we find someone to remove it?  After our propensity for asking unanswerable questions had run its course, it was time to actually do something proactive.  There were my first futile attempts, using Google:  Animal control.  Well if we had a LIVE animal we could pay them to remove it.  I found a few of those.  Finally my brain was calm enough to come up with the right search question for Google:  “Dead animal pickup, city of Hamilton”.  Ok, ok, I know it sounds morbid and maybe even juvenile, but I found the correct website and phone number.  Note to self:  be as detailed and accurate in your search description with Google.

Wiseguy called them and after he hung up he looked exasperated.  “What happened?”  I asked.  “We aren’t a priority,” he began, “they will get here when they get here.”  I took doggie Lucy, on leash, outside to do her business on our front lawn.  With that done, it was time for me to get back inside and get ready for work.  As I closed the front door, I looked at Wiseguy and he asked, “What about the turkey vultures?”  Oh NO!!!  Dead animals is what they love.  There are about six of them in our neck of this suburb.  YIKES!

I could not think about this anymore.  I had to get ready for work.  I hoped for the best and proceeded to leave Wiseguy and our two fur babies to wait it out.  At 8 a.m. I received a “call me” text from Wiseguy.  Good news!  The ‘coon was gone.  The lady who picked up the deceased animal said, “Oh, this is a small one.”  After numerous inquiries from Wiseguy with regards to the demise of our friendly neighbourhood stalker, the corpse remover declared that it could not have been West Nile Virus.  “More likely,” she said as she pointed to a large pole in our backyard with strings of wiring going from post to house, “it was electrocuted.”  Wow.  Our CSI skills did not even imagine THAT happening.

Well, that got me thinking.  I was having a bad day.  Having to worry about my dogs getting near a dead raccoon.  Imagine if my day started off as the raccoon.  I had tap danced across the fence, climbed down by the dog water bowl, and had a lovely cold drink of water.  The sun was up.  The birds were singing.  Ahhh…what a glorious day.  Then maybe, as Ricky Raccoon, I would’ve perhaps heard a dog barking and it was time for splitzville.  So, as Ricky I would dig my nails into the wood and begin my ascent up the post.  As I started skillfully climbing up and admiring myself for my wonderful intelligence in finding a convenient water trough I think … Ahhhh…life is good.  That would be my last thought as…ZAAAAAAAAAAAP!  BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!   FRRRRRRRRRRY!  My body would stupefy and fall backward to the ground.  Me…dead.

Ok, at first as I visualized this I thought of the Wile E. Coyote cartoons.  That was something that would totally happen to him.  Then it got me thinking about mortality and how life is short.  Really, Ricky the ‘Coon was having a great day and suddenly it was done.  Life was over.  You never know how long you have to live.  Appreciate what you have everyday.

My second thought was a little more common place, but still important.  I thought I was having a bad day worrying about a dead animal in my backyard and how we would get rid of it and what I would have to do to ensure the dogs didn’t get sick.  But…boy oh boy…I think being electrocuted is kind of more traumatic.  So yeah, I can almost hear Ricky Raccoon saying:

You think YOU’VE had a bad day…

Save the last dance for me…

This song has a special relevance for me.  I always believed I should’ve been born 20 years before I was born.  I was hatched in 1969.  Yup…quite a crazy year…but being a newborn, it had no relevance for me.  I have always LOVED music from the 50’s and the 60’s.  Actually I have loved music from the 20’s, 30’s, 40’s…well you get the idea.  Being raised in a European family, we learned to dance.  We learned to polka and waltz.  We did the “heritage/folkore” dancing so we had the dancing bug early on.  Now, imagine my lucky stars when I met Wiseguy and HE was also a dance fanatic!  This was not disco dance machine stuff…this was Polka at it’s best.  Really?  Really Maryann?  Oh yes!

I am sure you have watched…wait a minute…you probably haven’t.  There used to be an old tv show with accordion music where someone played “Roll out the barrel”.   This is not the same.  Wiseguy and I are all about the super circular speed.  We are velocitous (?) spheres spinning around the dance floor.  We are twirling around without a care in the world.  We dance, we spin, we have eyes only for each other…unless we might collide with other couples.  Very rarely.  The dance floors of today, with bodies only gyrating in one spot…booooooring!  Dancing is all about moving around the dance floor and just enjoying life.  Super sweaty time but so much fun!  Why do I mention this?  I had a recall moment of when I was going to leave hubby for three weeks to hang out with my dad in Europe.  It was the first time we would be apart for this long and we were at a fantabulous (my favourite made-up compound word of fantastic and fabulous…feel free to use it) family wedding.  The kiddies were with us and we were having fun, but also counting down the time to when we would be apart.

Songs and song meanings are very integral in our lives.  I am sure they are part of your life as well.  There are songs that are triggers.  They are reminders of events in your life.  As I mentioned, Wiseguy is a big song guy.  More 70s rock than anything (ugh), but then I am the yang to his yin with my love of pop music.  So imagine me and Wiseguy after two years of marriage, with kidlets in tow, knowing that I had to be at the airport by 2 a.m. to catch my flight to Europe.  Imagine my surprise when I heard one of my absolute favourite songs:  Save the last dance for me.   Initially this was a “Drifters” song, but then Michael Buble sang it…a bit more up-tempo.  Kind of more polka-meets-rhumba.  The last song of the night.  Wiseguy guided me to the dance floor.  Little did we know that our “Princess” (9 yrs old) was taking pictures of us the whole time.

Wiseguy and I have danced at many occasions (weddings, banquets, birthdays, etc.).  Wiseguy’s only rule is:  We are the first on the floor to start the dancing and the last to leave the floor.  We have survived waltzes, polkas, two-steps.  We have done the chicken dance and gagnam style and in the old days we did the YMCA. …ugh to these favourites.  We are glad that some songs have left the DJ list forever.  I now bring you back to this song of mine:  “Save the Last Dance” by The Drifters.  The songs they did have been remade over and over again because they are classics and still apply to every day and every time.  They were and are wonderful!

So, here we were, hubby and I, dancing as the wedding was winding down.  Many of the guests had already left.  No surprise.  It was 2 am.  They had music in the background as the band was starting to pack up.  Suddenly, I heard Michael Buble start singing, “Save the Last Dance”. I looked at my husband.  He looked at me.  We went to the dance floor.  I had removed my high-heeled shoes.  I, 5’5″ and he, 6’4″.   We began to dance.  The floor was ours.  We both knew I was leaving in about 6 hours and we wanted to enjoy our last night (morning) together.  Princess took pictures of us.  We didn’t know until we developed the film in our camera (yup…old day stuff).  Each picture shows how we moved with each other, silently, in the moment.  Joyous.

I do love many, many songs. There are songs to relax to.  There are songs to exercise to.  There are empowering songs.  Songs are here to feed us inspiration.  The reason why I love this particular song (Save the Last Dance) is two-fold:  1)  The beat is incredible and 2) The lyrics are all about love and trust.  Go flirt.  Go have fun.  Go enjoy your night.  I know you will come back to me and come home with me.  Why?  Because we are meant to be together.

Maybe to some it sounds like a stalker situation, but I find this song to be supportive of  a healthy relationships.  You don’t have to be glued to each other.  You can talk to other people.  You can dance with other people.  Why?  In the end, we both know that we love each other and will always end up in each other’s loving arms.  Trust, faith, love.  The bestest (my made up word that should be in the dictionary) kind of relationship.

Moral of the story:  DANCE!

Not “dance like no one’s watching” because everyone will be watching, but who cares?  Just DANCE!  Feel that music in your body.  Feel the buoyancy in your body!  Move across that floor and just live!  Your body is full of electricity and vibrations and it knows that dancing feel awesome!  And…as a small favour…Save the last dance for me.  XOXO.