Double hip sit, dip,
Shoulder shimmy, figure eights.
Curves that move like... this!
Belly dancing! I just took my second class at a local health center and it is awesome. Sorry, AWESOME! We're learning a dance routine to Black Eyed Peas "My Humps", maybe not the most traditional belly dancing song, but definitely fun. And dangerous. I can just imagine Lesley (who is also newly addicted) and myself innocently out dancing one Saturday night and that song coming on... It could be a recipe for disaster! Because as much as I *think* I look sexy, my limited skills combined with alcohol might be more akin to muscle spasms while experiencing a high voltage electric shock. But as long I'm having fun, that's all that matters, right?
Top 5 reasons to be a bellydancer:
5. You can entertain yourself at spotlights by practicing chest isolations.
4. Costumes!
3. You can have a perfectly good reaons to tote around a sword.
2. You can sing along to lyrics in a foreign language with no idea of what they mean.
And the number one reason to be a bellydancer...
1. It doesn't seem so much like "excercise" when you're wearing chiffon!
Monday, September 25, 2006
Thursday, September 21, 2006
DJ PressPlay
Soundtrack to my life;
A piece of me, of you, there.
Play it one more time
What is it about certain traumatizing events that cause us to break all the rules? For example, I have a strong personal belief about not repeating songs. You know how tween girls love to do with their Backstreet Boys (or whatever they listen to). This principle was developed during my year at boarding school when I had an actual ROOMmate. As in we co-habitated a 9 x 9 cell (aka dorm), with bunkbeds and everything. The horror. Being an only child thrown into that situation was not cool; the mere concept of sharing anything, let alone a bedroom, was completely foreign to me. So please understand that I had some feeling of animosity towards Abi from the very beginning. The relationship may have been salvageable, if it hadn't been for one irrefutable fact: she was a Song-Repeater. She loved to play songs, or more accurately ONE song, over and over until it was the only thing I could hear in my head. A lobotomy could not remove this thing. The song that year, and I will never forget it as long as I live, was Murder She Wrote by Chaka Demus and Pliers (I had to look that up and frankly its hilarious). If you're not familiar with this particular piece of musical diarrhea, count your blessings. You're missing out on such inspired lyrics as:
Now dis one dedicated to the girls
Dem wid di angel face and the devil heart
Yuh no say Ragamuffin Chaka Demus an youth called Pliers
Come to deal with your case
Step up my youth - Hear dis!
Multiply that my 100 decibels and 2 million hours and you might begin to comprehend the slightest measure of my pain. Oh, and then there's the unforgettable chorus:
Murder she wrote (fi real fi real)
Murder she wrote
Murder she wrote
Murder she wrote
Dat is 100% fi real. I could not be makin dat up, mon.
Needless to say, my personal values lie strictly against song repetition. It's juvenile, it's annoying, it's insulting. However, now is a time of rule-breaking and I have found myself listening to the same 10 Dashboard songs for two weeks strait, probably ruining any future enjoyment of the album in the process. My life is being played out in 40 minute segments. And I'm not talking about idle background music. Un-uh. This is loud, passionate, sing-along, full-tilt consumption of the music. I'm thinking about the 1200 steps I'll need to kick this addiction.
That was until today, when salvation arrived. A concerned friend (no doubt worried about my mental stability since my vocabulary was reduced to only Dashboard lyrics) actually mailed me a new CD! Aside from the excitement of getting an actual present in the actual mail (you can touch it!), the CD is perfect. City and Colour (3 cheers for proper Canadians spelling) is suitably raw and haunting, and will accompany me in my endeavors indefinitely.
As long as I keep breaking the rules...
A piece of me, of you, there.
Play it one more time
What is it about certain traumatizing events that cause us to break all the rules? For example, I have a strong personal belief about not repeating songs. You know how tween girls love to do with their Backstreet Boys (or whatever they listen to). This principle was developed during my year at boarding school when I had an actual ROOMmate. As in we co-habitated a 9 x 9 cell (aka dorm), with bunkbeds and everything. The horror. Being an only child thrown into that situation was not cool; the mere concept of sharing anything, let alone a bedroom, was completely foreign to me. So please understand that I had some feeling of animosity towards Abi from the very beginning. The relationship may have been salvageable, if it hadn't been for one irrefutable fact: she was a Song-Repeater. She loved to play songs, or more accurately ONE song, over and over until it was the only thing I could hear in my head. A lobotomy could not remove this thing. The song that year, and I will never forget it as long as I live, was Murder She Wrote by Chaka Demus and Pliers (I had to look that up and frankly its hilarious). If you're not familiar with this particular piece of musical diarrhea, count your blessings. You're missing out on such inspired lyrics as:
Now dis one dedicated to the girls
Dem wid di angel face and the devil heart
Yuh no say Ragamuffin Chaka Demus an youth called Pliers
Come to deal with your case
Step up my youth - Hear dis!
Multiply that my 100 decibels and 2 million hours and you might begin to comprehend the slightest measure of my pain. Oh, and then there's the unforgettable chorus:
Murder she wrote (fi real fi real)
Murder she wrote
Murder she wrote
Murder she wrote
Dat is 100% fi real. I could not be makin dat up, mon.
Needless to say, my personal values lie strictly against song repetition. It's juvenile, it's annoying, it's insulting. However, now is a time of rule-breaking and I have found myself listening to the same 10 Dashboard songs for two weeks strait, probably ruining any future enjoyment of the album in the process. My life is being played out in 40 minute segments. And I'm not talking about idle background music. Un-uh. This is loud, passionate, sing-along, full-tilt consumption of the music. I'm thinking about the 1200 steps I'll need to kick this addiction.
That was until today, when salvation arrived. A concerned friend (no doubt worried about my mental stability since my vocabulary was reduced to only Dashboard lyrics) actually mailed me a new CD! Aside from the excitement of getting an actual present in the actual mail (you can touch it!), the CD is perfect. City and Colour (3 cheers for proper Canadians spelling) is suitably raw and haunting, and will accompany me in my endeavors indefinitely.
As long as I keep breaking the rules...
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Blog Virgin
A haiku dedicated to my newborn blog:
Join the ranks of geeks!
Justify my existence.
Audience? Unknown.
Recently (like last week) when I went through some serious life changes (like the end of a long-term relationship) I told my friend Allison that I thought I might like to start a blog. Her advice was this: Don't be shy about posting random crap about your life. I'm thinking I'll heed this advice as Allison is a credible source; she has been blogging successfully about her knitting and her life for almost 2 years. So here it is! (Pat myself on the back.)
Not to dwell on the negative, but there is a nagging voice in the back of my head. It says it can already foresee problems with Jessica-as-blogger. Well, only one problem, but its a doozie. The dilemma is this: I'm a false-starter and I'm in denial. What does this mean? That I love to get really worked up and excited about an idea, maybe even make the first few steps to making it reality, then, regardless of any immediate gratification, drop the entire thing. I have proof of this condition. Observe the madness: a never-used snowboard, a hard-to-store exercise ball (soon to be accompanied by a yoga mat, I'm sure), totes of yarn, several journals with only the first three pages used, cookbooks and kitchen paraphernalia, art supplies for making greeting cards, empty plant pots, a friggin' tackle box and, obviously, associated tackle, the list goes on! It may just sound like I'm a pack-rat, but I'm telling you, I am a false-starter. The denial part comes in the way that I keep telling myself I will take up all these activities some day and really, really enjoy them. Actually, admitting it out-loud feels good. Hopefully admission is first step to my recovery, if any is possible. Just know, dear self, that blogger could quickly be added to your list of poser hobbies.
While I'm being honest with myself, I should admit the real reason that this blog is even being pulled out of the realm of daydream and into reality. The reason is this: I am bored stupid because I am being held against my will. Don't be alarmed, but it's true! Basically I'm a prisoner in a hotel in Fort McMurray (a post unto itself) while I'm here for work. On its own, this situation is yucky, but bearable. Now here's the kicker: It's Saturday night. Not the end of the world for most people, but I just happen to be a person who lives for going out and socializing on Saturday nights. I'm being very serious right now. Out of everything I've ever started, I've remained 100% committed to celebrating les Samedi soirs. Getting stupid and staying out late on Saturdays is essentially a religion for me! I worship the deities of cold beer and loud music! I subscribe to the belief that God meant to slur "Let there be alcohol and parties" on the sixth day! This is bordering on persecution!
That's it, I'm taking my fate into my own hands. I'm going to search for a beverage in the hotel bar before it closes.
Pray for me.
Join the ranks of geeks!
Justify my existence.
Audience? Unknown.
Recently (like last week) when I went through some serious life changes (like the end of a long-term relationship) I told my friend Allison that I thought I might like to start a blog. Her advice was this: Don't be shy about posting random crap about your life. I'm thinking I'll heed this advice as Allison is a credible source; she has been blogging successfully about her knitting and her life for almost 2 years. So here it is! (Pat myself on the back.)
Not to dwell on the negative, but there is a nagging voice in the back of my head. It says it can already foresee problems with Jessica-as-blogger. Well, only one problem, but its a doozie. The dilemma is this: I'm a false-starter and I'm in denial. What does this mean? That I love to get really worked up and excited about an idea, maybe even make the first few steps to making it reality, then, regardless of any immediate gratification, drop the entire thing. I have proof of this condition. Observe the madness: a never-used snowboard, a hard-to-store exercise ball (soon to be accompanied by a yoga mat, I'm sure), totes of yarn, several journals with only the first three pages used, cookbooks and kitchen paraphernalia, art supplies for making greeting cards, empty plant pots, a friggin' tackle box and, obviously, associated tackle, the list goes on! It may just sound like I'm a pack-rat, but I'm telling you, I am a false-starter. The denial part comes in the way that I keep telling myself I will take up all these activities some day and really, really enjoy them. Actually, admitting it out-loud feels good. Hopefully admission is first step to my recovery, if any is possible. Just know, dear self, that blogger could quickly be added to your list of poser hobbies.
While I'm being honest with myself, I should admit the real reason that this blog is even being pulled out of the realm of daydream and into reality. The reason is this: I am bored stupid because I am being held against my will. Don't be alarmed, but it's true! Basically I'm a prisoner in a hotel in Fort McMurray (a post unto itself) while I'm here for work. On its own, this situation is yucky, but bearable. Now here's the kicker: It's Saturday night. Not the end of the world for most people, but I just happen to be a person who lives for going out and socializing on Saturday nights. I'm being very serious right now. Out of everything I've ever started, I've remained 100% committed to celebrating les Samedi soirs. Getting stupid and staying out late on Saturdays is essentially a religion for me! I worship the deities of cold beer and loud music! I subscribe to the belief that God meant to slur "Let there be alcohol and parties" on the sixth day! This is bordering on persecution!
That's it, I'm taking my fate into my own hands. I'm going to search for a beverage in the hotel bar before it closes.
Pray for me.
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