What moves you to dance?
Bustin' a move to Rick Astley, 2008 in Ecuador. No, I'm not kidding, I am one of the few people that love his music. Why this picture is here is explained below.
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Spain – Random observation #269
They don’t have a drop box at the post office.
Now, I could just put the letter in the mailbox outside our apartment, but what if the mailperson has already come through and collected that mail? Then it would be tomorrow before the letter got picked up, and, I am assuming, late afternoon or even evening before my letter gets to the post office. So, it will be put in a big pile late Friday, most likely sorted on Monday. So, I hauled myself to the post office, a half-mile away, Thursday morning to drop it in the mail slot to make sure it was sorted that day and on its way to America before the weekend, instead of Monday.
And there is no drop box.
I take a ticket and I am number 110. The sign says they are now serving number 94. So I stand for 25 minutes, hand my letter to the woman who finally calls 110, and she looks at me like “Why are you here? This is all ready to go.” And I wanted to scream “BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE A DROP BOX!!!”
(Word is now highlighting “YOU DON’T” in green, signaling a grammar error. When I click on it for suggestions it suggests YOUDON”T. Somehow, I don’t think that’s correct.)
Then I head to the grocery store and, as is their wont, they have moved things again. It’s like a constant shell game with these people. They have even moved certain, but not all, cosmetics from the second floor, to the first. Today they have moved shallots from near the lettuce and onions to over by the eggs, ten yards away. Why are shallots near eggs and not onions and garlic? I do not believe that there has been one single time in my three years here that we have gone to this store and not found some item moved to another aisle.
Since we plan on having a few people over on Saturday I stock up on beer, non-alcoholic beer, wine, and some snacks. Plus some basics we needed at the house. Then I load it all into my little cloth cart and drag it home. Then, I pick the cart up and cradle it like a big wood log and carry all of it up five flights of stairs. Despite the fact that I have been working out since November, this is still a challenge. I get to the top, sweating , heart beating like a trip-hammer, gasping for breath and think to myself “What am I going to do when I’m 50? I’m 44 years old and I sure would hate to die from a heart-attack." Maybe I ought to rest between floors instead of being so stubborn. I rest for five minutes sitting on the steps and gasping before finally opening the door and dragging groceries into the kitchen to be put away.
The afternoon goes okay, struggling to reorganize and edit Secret Force before finally quitting at six when Wendy suggests we go to the Mercado de San Miguel for some wine, tapas and people watching. Considering we haven’t had a drink since Sunday, or done much people watching, I am very excited about getting out of the house and doing exactly that.
We sit for a couple hours, sip wine, talk, and eat some mushrooms on tostas as well as tuna with grilled red peppers which are just amazing.
We return home to one of the most amazing evenings of my life. I cannot stop grinning this morning.
Part of it includes a dance party that lasts for three hours as Wendy plays various songs for me that she is considering for the reception, the walk in, the first dance, the cocktail party and the dance mix for the evening. The most important part of the wedding for Wendy is the music. A former radio DJ and total audiophile, she has thousands of songs on her computer and hundreds of CD’s in two drawers in the house. She wants my opinion on certain songs and I respond with “God, yes!” or “I don’t love it, but if you want it, sure.” A plain “No. Sorry, just no.” or grabbing her off her seat and forcing her to dance with me. We dance for three hours. This is a habit of ours.
One that I will fight and die for.
There are songs that move me to dance. I have a good rhythm, but I wish I had more moves. I look good for about ten minutes and then I feel like I’m just repeating myself over and over. But, too bad. I have to dance. (Wendy on the other hand, is a fantastic, sexy dancer, has endless moves and makes priests wish they hadn't take a vow of celibacy.)
“What will move your friends to dance? Or your folks? I want people to feel like they have to get up and dance like you do.”
And then it occurs to me – “I don’t think other couples have dance parties like us sweetheart. I know Rod used to like “Red, Red Wine” but I don’t know if he would dance to it or has in twenty years. I know Hilary liked Michael Jackson but I don’t know if it would force him onto the dance floor like it does me.”
I remember my folks being moved to dance on Sunday mornings as my dad fried up eggs and bacon to Neil Diamond or Credence Clear Water Revival before we went to work in the yard or in the forest cutting firewood for the winter. I don’t think I’ve heard of many other couples being moved so much by music they grab their partner and have to dance no matter what they are doing at the time. Bacon burning or not.
What moves you to dance? What songs can you think of that make you get out of your chair and have to move to the beat?
We have plenty for ourselves, but we want other people to be dancing as well.
They don’t have a drop box at the post office.
Now, I could just put the letter in the mailbox outside our apartment, but what if the mailperson has already come through and collected that mail? Then it would be tomorrow before the letter got picked up, and, I am assuming, late afternoon or even evening before my letter gets to the post office. So, it will be put in a big pile late Friday, most likely sorted on Monday. So, I hauled myself to the post office, a half-mile away, Thursday morning to drop it in the mail slot to make sure it was sorted that day and on its way to America before the weekend, instead of Monday.
And there is no drop box.
I take a ticket and I am number 110. The sign says they are now serving number 94. So I stand for 25 minutes, hand my letter to the woman who finally calls 110, and she looks at me like “Why are you here? This is all ready to go.” And I wanted to scream “BECAUSE YOU DON’T HAVE A DROP BOX!!!”
(Word is now highlighting “YOU DON’T” in green, signaling a grammar error. When I click on it for suggestions it suggests YOUDON”T. Somehow, I don’t think that’s correct.)
Then I head to the grocery store and, as is their wont, they have moved things again. It’s like a constant shell game with these people. They have even moved certain, but not all, cosmetics from the second floor, to the first. Today they have moved shallots from near the lettuce and onions to over by the eggs, ten yards away. Why are shallots near eggs and not onions and garlic? I do not believe that there has been one single time in my three years here that we have gone to this store and not found some item moved to another aisle.
Since we plan on having a few people over on Saturday I stock up on beer, non-alcoholic beer, wine, and some snacks. Plus some basics we needed at the house. Then I load it all into my little cloth cart and drag it home. Then, I pick the cart up and cradle it like a big wood log and carry all of it up five flights of stairs. Despite the fact that I have been working out since November, this is still a challenge. I get to the top, sweating , heart beating like a trip-hammer, gasping for breath and think to myself “What am I going to do when I’m 50? I’m 44 years old and I sure would hate to die from a heart-attack." Maybe I ought to rest between floors instead of being so stubborn. I rest for five minutes sitting on the steps and gasping before finally opening the door and dragging groceries into the kitchen to be put away.
The afternoon goes okay, struggling to reorganize and edit Secret Force before finally quitting at six when Wendy suggests we go to the Mercado de San Miguel for some wine, tapas and people watching. Considering we haven’t had a drink since Sunday, or done much people watching, I am very excited about getting out of the house and doing exactly that.
We sit for a couple hours, sip wine, talk, and eat some mushrooms on tostas as well as tuna with grilled red peppers which are just amazing.
We return home to one of the most amazing evenings of my life. I cannot stop grinning this morning.
Part of it includes a dance party that lasts for three hours as Wendy plays various songs for me that she is considering for the reception, the walk in, the first dance, the cocktail party and the dance mix for the evening. The most important part of the wedding for Wendy is the music. A former radio DJ and total audiophile, she has thousands of songs on her computer and hundreds of CD’s in two drawers in the house. She wants my opinion on certain songs and I respond with “God, yes!” or “I don’t love it, but if you want it, sure.” A plain “No. Sorry, just no.” or grabbing her off her seat and forcing her to dance with me. We dance for three hours. This is a habit of ours.
One that I will fight and die for.
There are songs that move me to dance. I have a good rhythm, but I wish I had more moves. I look good for about ten minutes and then I feel like I’m just repeating myself over and over. But, too bad. I have to dance. (Wendy on the other hand, is a fantastic, sexy dancer, has endless moves and makes priests wish they hadn't take a vow of celibacy.)
“What will move your friends to dance? Or your folks? I want people to feel like they have to get up and dance like you do.”
And then it occurs to me – “I don’t think other couples have dance parties like us sweetheart. I know Rod used to like “Red, Red Wine” but I don’t know if he would dance to it or has in twenty years. I know Hilary liked Michael Jackson but I don’t know if it would force him onto the dance floor like it does me.”
I remember my folks being moved to dance on Sunday mornings as my dad fried up eggs and bacon to Neil Diamond or Credence Clear Water Revival before we went to work in the yard or in the forest cutting firewood for the winter. I don’t think I’ve heard of many other couples being moved so much by music they grab their partner and have to dance no matter what they are doing at the time. Bacon burning or not.
What moves you to dance? What songs can you think of that make you get out of your chair and have to move to the beat?
We have plenty for ourselves, but we want other people to be dancing as well.
We went to a performance of the Vienna Orchestra a few years ago and one of the Strauss pieces they performed was Blue Danube, (you may not think you know the piece but I guarantee that everybody would recognize it once they heard the first bit of it)and all kinds of couples were getting up and waltzing down the aisles, in front of the stage, everywhere they could find a spare bit of ground.
ReplyDeleteBob Seger Jamie!! Fleetwood Mac, and Stevie Nicks! Now she was sexy hot in the 70's!
ReplyDeleteSo many things make me want to dance--I dance alone as often as I can (belly dancing music, Rick Astley, Moonlight Serenade, even some Lady Gaga. So much to dance too! John's not a dancer, though, and I envy you and Wendy that. I would be one dancing while the bacon burns too. I remember my parents hearing "Moonlight Serenade" once when they were visiting me--they just looked into each other's eyes (all dewy-like), drifted into each other's arms, and moved like silk across the kitchen floor. Ahhhh! Keep dancing, guys!
ReplyDelete