"FORTHAJULY!!"

"Forthajuly"- the greatest Wing-Ding of the year! Not as generous as Christmas nor scrumptious as Halloween and Easter, but a day of pure excitement from wakeup to far after dark!

Our little house on Clark Street, a tiny subdivision long since paved over to become the parking lot for Utah Valley Medical Center, backed right up against the Hospital's north lawn. It was a great green field then, studded with apple trees, saved for someday-expansion (and how!) Two long blocks to the east was the dead-end of University Avenue, and the hill of the brand new "upper campus" of BYU. It already boasted the elegant Maeser building for administration, the Grant building for classes and library, and the Brimhall building for the sciences. A small stadium built into the hillside (where the Richard Building now stands) had an actual (!) football field with WHITE LINES PAINTED RIGHT ON THE GRASS!

There, on July 3^rd (barring rain, which we NEVER had, but always searched the skies for with worried faces), gloriously magical floats arrived, lining up in expectation of the "Forthajuly" parade! Daddy never let us go look ahead of time, but Mom busily made us costumes: sometimes cowboy outfits with fringed skirts and shirts, a felt vest with a star, and even cap-guns that would bang most delightfully, creating that unmatched, sulfurous smell of daring, wild-west bravado. (Mike tried his best for years to wish those caps into bullets that would shoot us girls to smithereens.)

Some years we went as Indians, with up-side-down paper grocery sacks fringed at the bottom, and holes in the top and sides for heads and arms - not too comfortable, but soooo exciting to our pre-school imaginations. We even had a strip of grocery bag taped around our foreheads with a stiff chicken feather sticking up for authenticity. We argued over whether real Indians wore their feathers in the front or the back. We had never seen a real Indian. (I believe Grandma had chickens in her back yard in those days). Daddy even made us bows one year, from narrow branches and string. No arrows, though. Who knows what depredations we would have wrought! (Mike-the-menace would have absolutely shot us dead!)

Then, just before ten a.m., we all walked, bounced, skipped and jumped to University Avenue to watch the parade. (We had no car. Occasionally we all loaded onto Daddy’s bike: Dad on the seat, Mom sidesaddle on the horizontal bar, Mike on the handlebars, me on the back fender, and Joan in Mom’s arms. I’m surprised we weren’t all killed! (There’s a photo somewhere. Anybody got it?)

I was enchanted at the gorgeous, colorful confections, like gigantic bridal cakes, that drifted along the parade route with no visible means of propulsion. Pretty ladies in bathing suits or ball gowns stood on top of them and waved at us, smiling, their lipstick bright red! (This was the late 40’s.)　

A clown on a unicycle rode past, occasionally falling down and howling. We laughed until we wet our panties. (I enviously wished I could ride a unicycle like they did.) Sometimes there were clowns on stilts. I was astonished they could balance up that high! How did they do that?

Bands played and marched, coming from BYU, whatever passed as Provo High, and maybe Springville.

(They always stopped playing in front of us for some reason, and started again on the next block.) Our pulses raced! Our feet marched in place! Our eyes sparkled! How I envied the girls in swirly short skirts, kicking their white, tasseled boots sky-high while twirling shining batons on their fingertips, flashing them like light-speed windmills, and tossing them in the air. (I always spent that afternoon hiding in the back yard, trying to twirl a stick between my fingers – with little success. I did once buy a painted wooden baton at Kresses after saving my pennies for weeks, but a genuine, silver one was beyond my wildest dreams! Boots and courage were beyond my wildest dreams in those days, as well.) (Now I’m an exhibitionist show-off!) (CLOTHED, of course! What did you THINK!)

The parade went south on University, turned west on Center, and ended at Pioneeer Park, which was neat, because that park had an irrigation canal running along side, and we all loved to get wet and ruin our crepe-paper decorations and clothing in it.

Usually a carnival had set up in the street beside the park, and we rode the merry-go-round and the little toy cars or boats, feeling so BIG and BRAVE! I was always way too scared for the Ferris wheel! We tried to throw rings around coke bottles in the arcade, and invariably missed (I also practiced that all afternoon with Mom’s vinegar bottle, determined that next year I would WIN! Still can’t.)

We sometimes got cotton candy, which was the supreme treat in the world. And then went home for naps (Mom and Dad’s naps. They were exhausted dragging 3.5 kids around town – Yeah, mom was ALWAYS pregnant.) (For 26 years she was pregnant every other year – I now wonder how she held Dad off through those whole, alternating, non-pregnant years).

Over time it became traditional for Dad to make root beer after the parade by stirring together a bottle of flavoring, sugar, water, and dry ice, all compacted in the pressure cooker for an hour or so. Ahhhhh! Dad’s Root Beer! We could hardly wait until it was ready, and nobody will ever forget it! (In later years, Mom took to making root beer with yeast, and letting it zazzle up a couple of days in the fridge. Definitely a weird flavor, but we would do anything for the magic of carbonation!) (Except BUY it! We could never afford “store-boughten” anything.) (I don’t think I had a bottle of store-bought pop before I was 12!)

At night, and for the only night of the year, we kids were allowed to stay up late and watch the fireworks being shot off from the BYU football field. Everyone on the street was out on their lawns on kitchen chairs, ohing and ahing like the enchanted hicks we were (and still are). I gasped at the glory of stars exploding in space like the beginning of the universe, which then spilled down and landed in the big fields that later became Provo High and a few BYU playing fields. They were all meadows in the 40s and 50s. Each and every year I SAW those stars fall right into the meadows, and swore with all my heart that the next day I would remember to go out into the fields and pick up some of those stars to keep. How I would love owning my own stars! But I always forgot until the next year, when I cursed my bad memory and swore that vow once again.

When the fireworks ended, Mom and Dad insisted we were tired, which was totally, absolutely untrue! We were so stoked we could have galloped up Y Mountain! But we sure fell asleep fast when they forced us, whining and protesting, into bed.

Now the Provo 4^th of July Celebration is billed as the biggest in the nation. People camp-out on the parade route, starting on the afternoon of the 3^rd, to save themselves places for a parade twenty times the size and brilliance of the ones of my youth. Bands and floats come from California, Wyoming, and Texas. The clowns throw baskets of candy at the kids. The Stadium of Fire costs $40 a seat, and big name entertainers come to tell jokes, play music, dance, march, and keep thousands of rich people entertained for the hours before the fireworks.

(The year Ben got home from his mission, I actually bought tickets! The first and last time ever. Bob Hope came and told dirty jokes which received dark mutters from the crowds. But the fireworks were spectacular up close!)

Nevertheless, nothing will ever match those Forthajulys from my childhood!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY NICKI

That's her, over there on the left with the red arrow above her head! Adorable Nicki Davis, my own, and ONLY, sweetest daughter-in-law. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DARLING GIRL! Gorgeous blue eyes, clear complexion, silky hair, petite and dainty, (I don't think she's 5 ft tall in her bare feet!) full of love, tenderness and devoted mothering.

Yes, that's me beside her, and Ben on the right. Lucky Ben somehow managed to catch her. (It's quite a story, and if you'll go here, you can read about one of the most imaginative marriage proposals you've ever heard!)

Nicki is the most patient, loving, involved, diminutive little wife and mother you could believe. Long after I, (in my earlier motherhood) would be screaming at my kids (WAY too often!), or drop-kicking them out an upstairs window (figuratively), or taking ANY opportunity our wallet would afford to hire a sitter and escape with what little sanity I had left, Nicki will simply take a deep breath, gather her little ones onto her lap, and read them a book. I believe she would rather be with her darlings at home than on a 2 week Vegas vacation without them.

And she knows just how to handle Great Big Ben (6 ft. 2), who actually has to stoop down or plie' to kiss her, and doesn't mind a bit!

And boy, does she make gorgeous kids! (Although I have a notion Ben helps - - especially when I look at young James).

Thanks for being in our family, Precious Nicki!

HAPPY BENDAY

Today is such a special day! June 1^st is the day I welcomed my adorable, gigantic son into the world at an ounce under ten pounds. And, of course, the doctor did NOT get there in time to administer anesthetic, so I delivered this giant infant virtually “natural.” He was a delightful, super-bouncy boy who never got sick in his life. I attribute this to the fact that I ate like a pig during the entire pregnancy and gained 50 lbs. Oddly, I was only down to 145 lbs a week later. Go figure!

Ben was a chaotic joy as a child, forever with that thousand-watt grin, charging through the house at top speed, scooping thing off shelves and tables on his way past them in order to hear the delightful reverberations of things crashing, breaking, and screaming (I was the one breaking and screaming). We called him “Ben the Wrecker.”

Ben was often tender and kind, too, trying to pick up the emotional and household-job ends that Jim sometimes dropped, feeling the self-imposed obligation to make me happy. That is too big a burden for a kid, so I officially announced to him his release from that job at age 16. Just to see if I meant it, he acted like a bratty, irresponsible teenager for a few years until I was glad, GLAD to see him off on his mission with not one tear for his departure.

In years since, we have become the BEST adult friends, and Ben is my delight. Whenever we visit, he always takes me on an adventure date: once canoeing down a river -- eating tons of ripe blackberries from wild bushes along the shores. Another time we took a long walk through a deep woods, stopping midway to discuss philosophy. Last year we went gold panning in what passes for mountains in Oregon, and found a couple of molecules of the precious metal. (He was also rehearsing the for a boy scout camp-out later on.)

Nobody could be a better son than my Ben. Not only is he handsome, polite, considerate, (helpful, friendly, clean, courteous, reverent, etc) (he is the personification of scoutmaster in his ward). Plus he is a loving husband and father to his wife and children. I envy them! He competes in triathelons, can do anything from cabinet making to car repair, designs anything on a computer, and is still as cheerful as he was as a little kid.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WONDER-BEN!

June 1st is secondarily a special day because it used to be my wedding anniversary with Jim (and might have been our 39^th one under different circumstances). HAPPY ANNIVERSARY JIM (up there in that great Pit Crew in the Sky)!

(And wait until you see Ben’s son, James, grown up!! We Xerox them in the basement!)

June First was ALWAYS goofed up by double celebrations. (But the same went for Halloween: my poor self worked to a frazzle to dress up all the kids and make a Birthday cake or pumpkin pie and Wiennerschnitzle for Jim’s Birthday dinner simultaneously, both events truncated by Trick-or-Treating.) But as I was saying about June 1… Would Ben accept his party before or after June 1 so Jim and I could have a romantic night out? Or would I spend all day making birthday cakes and planning games for Ben’s party, and be too pooped for a proper anniversary and romantic night out? OR fatigued night IN, for that matter! I could usually bribe Ben into taking the nearest Saturday.

Now that Jim is dead and Ben is in Portland, June 1 is the most relaxing of days. I just phone one, and send an angel message to the other, and then do what I feel like doing all day and night.

Today that happens to be cleaning my house in preparation for a 10 day trip to Portland for a late Ben's Birthday Celebration. Not fun at all (the cleaning), but better than coming home to a trashed house and longing for extinction.

SO, HAPPY BIRTHDAY BEN! AND HAPPY ANNIVERSARY (sort-of), JIM!

(You will notice I procrastinated the cleaning by spending 3 hours finding pictures, PhotoShopping, and writing a blog entry. I suppose that now I HAVE to go clean. But WAIT! Supper first! And I AM in the middle of a great novel!)

TREK RIDES AGAIN!

I hardly need tell anyone who knows me that I am, and have been, your friend* a rabid Trekkie. My kids used to give me Star Trek books, movies, outfits, mugs, and other memorabilia on every holiday for decades. I own three uniforms. Jennie once said, “I don’t know what we’re going to give you if you ever get tired of Star Trek.” No Chance!

I saw the new Star Trek, Bad Robot for the second time last night, and loved it better than the first time! WOW! Now that I’m able to look past the immediate excitement, of which there was MORE than plenty, I can pick up tons of little IN-jokes and allusions that make this a true classic. (For example, when Kirk, Sulu, and Edwards are commanded to jump out of the shuttlecraft and sky-dive down to destroy the drill that is destroying earth, I instantly noticed – this time - that Edwards was wearing a RED SKYDIVING SUIT! OH NO!! All Trekkies know that the guy in the red shirt is the one who dies. What a hoot for cognoscenti! Also, did you catch the quick passing shot of the previous Uhura – Nichelle Nichols – working a console the first time we scanned the bridge of the enterprise?) The special effects were fantastic! I plan to see it again a couple more times on the big screen. DVD’s don’t cut it with movies this oversized! (But what a dorky title! I don’t recall a single robot in the movie!) (I know, I’m over-exclaiming.)

I trust you picked up on the fact that in creating and going through the black hole, the evil Romulans threw the whole show into a slightly different alternative universe. How clever is that? We have all the original characters and races of beings with all their innate talents and personalities, but NONE OF THE TREK WE KNOW HAS HAPPENED OR WILL HAPPEN! Paramount is free and clear to start a whole new series of adventures!

And MAN, doesn’t Leonard Nemoy look OLD! Well, He’s probably 70-something, (only a few years older than I) but looks every year of the 140 he is supposed to be in the show’s time-line. Rugged living in Hollywood! He should have used sunblock for the past 60 years. It is interesting to me, however, that when Hollywood uses old, tried-and-true stars in new movies, what perfect acting comes forth. The experience of decades pays off! In the movies, especially, we tend to think people’s brains are as rackety as their bodies. They aren’t.

I love the new Spock, Kirk, and McCoy – what great matches! Possibly better than the originals. Kirk is HOT! The actor who plays McCoy has the original’s voice and intonation (and insults) stone cold! If I hadn’t guessed the character when I first saw him, I sure would have the second moment, when he started to complain about space travel, and describe how your eyes will hemorrhage in a vacuum. Scotty is fun, though ridiculously young and a bit frenetic. (note that we have a cute sidekick for him who will be this show’s comic-relief -version of R2D2) Not quite as fond of Checkov or Sulu, though they’ll do.

And Uhura is a whole new ball of wax! Sooooooooo…a romance between her and Spock? A romance for Spock at all!!! I wonder what will happen when he goes into Pon Farr (Vulcan heat). Being several times stronger than humans, it takes another Vulcan’s strength and durability to survive the overwhelming power-passion of mating. A human would be crushed or mauled in the encounter. But then, Spock is half human. Hmmm. (Well, Spock’s mother survived.) I’m sure this problem is about #102,731st on your list of topics to wonder about, although I pondered it upon waking at 5:30 a.m. this morning.

In spite of my daughters’ blog comment, to which I was forbidden to reply, I did not wear any of my uniforms to the movie. ( I couldn’t find them!!  ) I did get a nice photo with this yummy 6 ft 7 inch Klingon who was at the movie, though.

*Trekkies will get this.

Whose Vacation IS this???

I just got home from an EXHAUSTING but often delightful 10 days with Jennie and family in Austin TX. I had the questionable joy of baby-sitting all six kids for 4-5 days while Jennie and Mister went to New York City to see the sights and the shows.

The kids were darling and fun, except for Jasper, who screamed for hours upon any occasion of being put to bed. I feel like I've been trampled by a herd of Texas Longhorns, what with only 5 to 6 hours of sleep per night, and non-stop activity during the day. I lived, perforce, on diet Mountain Dew, left-over Easter candy, and Mylanta to settle it all down.

Though eating like a pig, I only gained 2 pounds, such was my activity level. (80 times up and down the stairs each day will do that - especially while carrying toddlers)

Today and tomorrow are all-day Professional Career Workshops. Thursday I plan on a day of unconsciousness to catch up, but will probably unpack my bags instead. Then Thursday nite to Friday eve I've got Arianne's two while she gallivants off to Vegas with her "pregnancy team" of yesteryear. Yes, she needs it. (so do I)

Saturday a baby shower for half-sister Leslie, followed immediately by 7 hours of temple work. (Listen for gasps of erratic panting from over-stimulation and fatigue.)

I plan a physical breakdown for Sunday. The mental one is already well underway.

WEIRD LORIE’S INVENTIONS

SLOGANS: The USA has “E Pluribus Unum.” The bold have “Seize the day.” California has “Don’t tread on Me.” Inigo Montoya has “You killed my father. Prepare to die”. Never mind what Captain Moroni had -- it was so long it took his whole coat to write it out, and was spelled in reformed Egyptian to boot.

But if there is a slogan that has guided my own life, it would have to be “There’s gotta be a better way!” I’ll bet I’ve said that a hundred thousand and twelve times throughout my life when faced with a problem nobody has bothered to solve in a cheap and easy manner.

My children call it “Our mother is insane, but inventive.”

Like: “There must be some gentle way to hold one’s mouth shut so one won’t snore.” (I created a 3.5- inch-high foam C-shape cushion cut to my front neck size, then put it inside a knee-sock and pinned it around my neck. It worked!)

Like: “How can I lie on my side in bed while suffering degenerative disk disease without my waistline sagging and causing agony?” (I had a plaster cast made by my doctor of my torso in correct posture, cut it in half at center front and back, lined it with 1 inch foam, and slept in it. In bed, of course. It worked, but did not ignite my husband’s passion).

Like: “How can I create a 3 ft deep soaking tub that fits inside my current bathtub?” (I made a plywood form from scrap lumber in the garage, lined it with a plastic tarp held on by duct tape, and made a small opening for a large cork to plug the drain. It was great! But ugly.).

Even at age ten: “How can I make a mermaid fish-tail from this green crepe-paper so I can be exotically romantic. (I sewed the crepe paper up on Mom’s machine without her knowledge – my very first sewing project. I made a tightly fitting under-tube from an old flour sack so the crepe paper wouldn’t rip, donned both, and hopped around feeling very mermaidish until I got bored).

I’m not Edison, so I don’t do my strange projects beautifully, nor develop them until the world would desire them. Just enough to get me by with a solution to my latest need.

Well, weird Lorie has TRIUMPHED yet again!

I have sleep apnea, caused by my over-large tongue sliding back into my sleeping throat and blocking off my air -- about 81 times a night, according to my friendly neighborhood sleep lab.

So they gave me a CPAP machine, which requires me to wear a plastic mask over mouth and nose, and blows wind down my throat past the obstruction which has made me stop breathing (my fat tongue). But in order to blow hard enough to get past the tongue, the doctor had to set it on highest pressure. It blows the mask right off my face, blows air into my stomach, or both. I get less sleep than I did before.

After enough nights without sleep, or jerked awake by a stomach full of air, I knew there had to be A BETTER WAY way to get that tongue to stay inside my mouth and out of my throat. Sleep on my side? That would work if I didn’t have bursitis in both hips. A mouth-appliance, tried previously, pulled my lower jaw forward to hold my tongue out of my throat, but unfortunately reshaped my teeth to look like a bulldog. (My dentist called it “Home Orthodontics.”) I briefly wondered about a pierced tongue with a ring I could fasten to a securing device outside the front of my lips. For about 3/10^th of a second I considered it. Argh! The pain! The ugliness! The ripped tongue! I even, in weeping weariness, considered a tracheotomy.

Finally it came to me: Could something glue my tongue to the roof of my mouth while I slept? Although super glue would work, it might be a tad too permanent. (My children might relish that, though, come to think of it.) Then, Eureka! I rushed to my all-night Walgreen's and bought their strongest brand of denture adhesive, Polygrip. I washed and dried both tongue and roof of mouth. With a thin layer of pink goo spread on my tongue, like butter on bread, I gently pressed it up against the roof of my mouth. VIOLA! My tongue stayed right there! And stayed and stayed! I plopped into bed, and was able to sleep ten hours straight without obstruction! The next morning I felt fabulously rested!

However, that very SAME morning presented the problem of how to get my tongue unglued! According to directions, I swished my mouth with warm water, and the glue turned into what bubble-gum looks like when chewed extensively with candy – long stringy, sticky goo. I tried scraping it off. 20% success. I tried brushing it off with toothpaste. Another 10% success. I tried scrubbing it with olive oil, remembering how you can remove stickers from plastic things you have just bought, and the stupid stickers will not come off without scratching the plastic. But I didn’t HAVE 8 hours to let the oil soak in. I suddenly remembered that the slight graininess of peanut butter, added to its oiliness, often does the trick with stickers on plastic. I pasted my brush with Skippy, and IT TOOK OFF THE GOO! But there’s something even too weird for me about brushing my mouth with peanut butter.

After cleverly re-reading the package directions, I learned that a warm, wet washcloth will remove the “residue.” Fortunately it did, and after only a minute of gentle rubbing. Further experimentation showed that half a cup of hot tap water, vigorously swished, one mouthful at a time, will thoroughly wash out the goop, leaving no residue, and no peanut-butter breath.

So now I’ve had MANY nights of good sleep without a CPAP machine! I intend to write the Polygrip people and tell them about this new marketing angle. I’m sure the world of large-tongued apneatics (?) will be thrilled, and the Polygrip people will show a sudden growth spurt in stock value!

February: Crushes and Loves

In response to my daughter's challenge to answer 7 questions about my history of LOVE, I could not but think back, and back, and back. So here they are. I want to hear YOURS, too.

FIRST CRUSH: For someone whose short term memory is less than 4 seconds, flat, I remember my ancient crush life with amazing thoroughness. Kindergarten: Garth Powelson. 1st and second grade, Ronnie Wilson (cute blond), 3rd to 5th Glenn Bullock (gorgeous guy who finally hugged me at our 35th class reunion), 6th through college- Rick Skousen, (interspersed with Dave Shaw, Dave McKinley, and Doug Hadfield. I wasn’t blind, after all!)

CELEBRITY CRUSH – This has to be Han Solo – not Indiana Jones or other incarnations of Harrison Ford. Also, what heart cannot palpitate at the pure charisma of Sean Connery at ANY age! (well, under 50, anyway). And I will have to admit George Clooney is ridiculously, impossibly, ungovernably handsome and charming. Gregory Peck was no slouch, either, but you youngsters will have to go back and see Roman Holiday or To Kill a Mockingbird to understand that “sexy” assuredly did not begin in the 1990’s. He’ll knock you flat!

THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY: Rick Skousen, again, who became a great and wonderful friend, and whom I probably would have married had he bothered to drop a hint or two while on his mission that he planned to come back and marry me. Sheesh! He swore later that he must have let me know his expectations. But a later reading of our correspondence, done together, made him realized that signatures like “Love in the Gospel” or “Your friend forever, Elder Rick” did not a proposal hint.

FIRST KISS -- Was HORRIBLE, stolen from me at a “necking party” by a pimply boy named Barry. (Don’t ask what I was doing there. 13-year-olds will agree to anything their friends suggest.) I ran out of the room and nearly threw up in the bathroom. Later, I GAVE my first kiss to tall, dark, handsome Doug Hadfield as we walked together down Canyon Rd, both of us age 14. Alas, he lived in Lehi, which was long-distance by phone, and our parents did NOT allow long-distance romantic phone calls. So, sigh…. that crush died of malnourishment. Also, that kiss took place on a Sunday eve when I skipped Sacrament Meeting. My dad saw us, arms around each other, as he drove to church with the family. BOY! Did I get Hail Columbia that night when I got home!

FIRST DATE – Eternally memorable! At age 13 (before Church dating standards) I invited the above Rick Skousen to a formal dance at our Junior High. My mom remodeled an aunt’s brides-maid dress into a floor length formal for me, basting the waistline together to shorten it to my size. As Rick and I climbed the 3 steps into the ballroom, Rick stepped on my hem while I ran up the stairs. RIPPPPP! The dress tore half way off at the waist, dropping to reveal my mother’s safety-pinned girdle beneath. That event put a crimp in my crush for some time, but has been a fruitful topic for endlessly required school papers entitled “My Most Embarrassing Moment.” Rick and I now laugh about it.

FIRST LOVE -- The great love of my life was my first husband, Bill Brooks. DARLING! Curly brown hair, blue twinkly eyes, deep dimples, cleft in his chin, tall and muscular, southern drawl, great sense of humor. My adoration of him outclassed anything I felt before or since. We were married in the Temple after a 9 month courtship. But immediately I learned that great looks and a temple marriage guarantee NOTHING! A recent convert, Bill apostatized when he learned that an addiction he had would not be tolerated by the church. He then tried to pull me out, too. After 5 years and a nervous breakdown for me, we divorced. But my love for him will always blaze in my memory.

FIRST DATE WITH MY HUSBAND – (#2, that is). I would never have dated Jim Davis if he hadn’t asked me on the single most boring day of my life. We met on a BYU Stake Temple trip where I avoided him like cholera. He was skinny as a broomstick and had a mustache that looked like two black caterpillars. After accepting the date I instantly forgot it, and did not remember until he rang the doorbell. “OH NO!” I shouted as I heard his voice asking for me. I threw on my easiest dress over my sweaty body, hardly ran a comb through my hair, and prepared to be as non- charming as possible. Jim took me to his apartment and grilled me a steak dinner (which he burned), and then we went to see a race car movie starring Steve McQueen. I never touched him on that date, and didn’t even try to be more than vaguely pleasant, which intrigued him. He was wonderful to me then, and continued to be sweet, considerate, courteous, and charming for the next 8 dates, which I didn’t want to go on, but didn’t have the guts to turn down. After 3 months he “niced me out” and I realized that whether or not I felt passion for him, I would be a fool not to marry him. (Interestingly, he was already engaged to another girl in Chicago at the time.) I did love him, but I did not grow to be IN love with him until after we married.

Dancing and Cleaning

A longtime friend who has taken ballet for 60 years (YES! I mean Sixty whole years!) asked me what I do for exercise. I told her, "Belly-Rock-Reggae while house-cleaning." She asked me what on earth that was, so I thought I'd tell all of you. It's exercising for fun and profitable. (not profit)

Belly-Rock-Reggae.... I have recorded dozens of albums and singles to my i-pod and to i-tunes on my computer. Some are Belly Dance, Some are rock music (Michael Jackson's "Thriller," Elvis's "Jail House Rock," with a little nippy surfin' music thrown in). Some are Caribbean reggae music, but all of them have a pretty rapid beat. I even have some electronic music (sounds like robot rap), and am waiting for some bouncy pirate ditties from my daughter-in-law. I clean my house while I dance. Fun!!!! And definitely aerobic! Plus, I end up with a tidier house.

I now have about 360 tunes on my list. I click "alphabetize," and they all fall into title order, but not style order. So it's quite amusing to be jitterbugging through the kitchen, and suddenly have to switch to belly dancing on the way to the bedroom, returning later to a brisk Sousa March. Anyway, the only time my house is tidy is after I've dancercised around the rooms. I even mop and vacuum while I prance. It's strictly belly dancing for doing dishes, though, since my feet can stay in one place while my hips and arms undulate above them, sloshing water over the countertops.

Half an hour of dancercise takes me through about 7-10 songs, so I can make it about a month before hearing repeats. But I'm always looking for new fast songs. (Donations are MORE than welcome!)

After 15 years of this, I have one thing to say about "pop music" of any style. Having grown up with classical music, I never cease to be amazed that people actually MAKE, and other people actually BUY "songs" that contain not more than five notes, screamed, growled or moaned in a voice without ANY tone quality, in words so repetitious one goes mad hearing "Baby, baby, baby, baby, baby! Oh, Oh, Oh! I want you, I want you, I want you...."

The only saving grace of such lyrics is that the diction of most singers is so muddy you have to listen a few dozen times before you can be sure what it is they are repeating ad nauseum. And, of course, you have to watch out for gradually coming to understanding that some of the words or meanings are shockingly obscene. (Never mind tasteless. We can live with tasteless. It's TODAY!) That's why some of my favorite songs are in Spanish. Catchy beat, and I can't tell if the words are dirty.

Anyhow, it keeps me in shape, and frightens away peeping toms.