Friday Night, 80s style

Friday night... 1980 something.

The General Lee.

Three kids sprawled out on the floor at 1052 Hemlock Avenue in the grooviest basement of all time. Orange carpet, two red brick walls, two paneled walls. Mom sitting on the tan tweed couch. Working on her latch hook. Microwave popcorn is ready. Dukes of Hazzard is on.

But, really, we're waiting for Dallas.

Dallas, Dallas, Dallas.

I was truly too young to be watching Dallas. But, it was Friday night and I got to stay up until 10. There was no VCR, DVR or any other technology to record it and watch later so, if I was up until 10 and my mom wanted to watch Dallas, well, I got to watch it too.

It's disheartening to report that neither show holds up. I've caught a couple of marathons in recent years. Last time I had the flu I stumbled onto a Dukes marathon. At the time I thought it was a fantastic stroke of luck. Sick, miserable, catching up on some 80's tube. Turns out, the writing is terrible. Really terrible.

Best. Bad. Guy.

No part of the Dukes is even plausible. Starting with the car. Really? Was everyone that gullible in the 80's that they thought you could jump that car over every manner of barn, bridge or gully?

And then there's Dallas, where the writing is bad but the direction is worse.  How did all of America watch and wait through all those cliff hangers? JR, Bobby, Sue Ellen, Pamela, Cliff... I remember all of them and the fantastical drama.

JR Ewing was the best bad guy around. Everyone in America waited an entire summer to find out who shot him, that's how bad he was. If there is a list of people who might murder you, you're seriously bad.  He called every woman in his office 'honey' or 'darling'. I dare a guy at work to call me either one. There won't be a cliff hanger. It'll be obvious who pulled the trigger.

I was pretty young to be learning about affairs, murders, rehab... plus, you can die and come back to life all via dream... Turns out you're just in the shower... When you're angry you throw wine glasses - full. Seems like a horrible waste of wine to me, now that I'm an adult. I can get pretty angry. Scary angry, in fact. The only thing I've ever thrown across a room in anger was my own glasses. Which, was really stupid as then I just had to find them, blindly...

I think part of me thought that when I was a grown up, life would be a little more dramatic. Turns out there are no evil twins, there's not a list of people who want to kill me (that I am aware of), I've never had amnesia, there's no mansion where we all still live with our mother. You're supposedly rich, but you've never bought your own place? You still live with your 'momma'?

The producer of Dallas was Philip Capice. And my brother loved to wait for that pause, the freeze frame at the end of the show and he'd shout out, "Philip Capice!" just as the name flashed up on the screen.

And then, Friday night was over.

Forget the Charger, this is the car for me!

Step Ball Change

Back when I was ten, I was forced into tap dance lessons. Forced. Totally against my will. It was an effort to make me 'graceful'. If you actually know me, you understand that this attempt was a total failure.

Holy Hell.

Thirty years before, my mother asked for dance lessons. Instead she was given a piano and lessons for years. When I asked for piano lessons, the piano was sold. Because, 'I'd never practice'. And yet she seemed shocked when I didn't practice tap...

There were five kids at the start of the class. Just two of us stayed the whole year and were in the recital. I remember standing there - an angry, hands on hips smart-assed ten year old staring at the teacher, refusing to move my feet.  (I'm certain she hated me right back, rightly so.) Our first steps were to Dipsy Doodle. In 1986. Dipsy Doodle.

I fractured my ankle that year. You'd think that four weeks in a cast would have gotten me out of tap, but no. She drug me right on down to the studio, where I sat in a chair and practiced. Tap shoe on my left foot, bulky cast on my right foot.

Step, ball, change.

I was desperate. I had to get out. I went to my only possible option. Grandma. I was on the green stool in the kitchen while she cooked dinner - the best time to have a BIG conversation. And then I begged.

Her response, "Give it time. It will be fun. I'm sure the music is modern and something you like. It's not like you're learning to dance to Dipsy Doodle."

Um, actually... 

My last hope. Dashed.

As you can imagine, the recital was a total disaster. Grandma was wise enough to not attend. We moved soon after. Probably unrelated.

And nearly 30 years later. Guess what I'm doing? Taking tap dance lessons on Friday nights.

So shocking to some of my friends, that when I was asked to join in on a Friday night girls night out, and said I could, but it would be after 8:30 when my tap dance class was over, one burst out laughing. In her defense, I'm sarcastic most of the time and she had no idea that I was serious.

Know what? Tap dancing is f***ing hard. It's a super challenge. I will beat it. I will be in the recital. I will own that dance.

Own.

And, my mother is going to pay for it. She just doesn't know it yet.

Tied!

I learned to tie my shoes when I was four. Bev taught me. She watched me four days a week while my mom worked. I remember emerging from my bedroom, the next morning, shoes tied, very proudly telling my mother that, 'I did it all by myself!'

She looked down at my blue and red sneakers and said, 'No you didn't. You slipped those on'.

Concentrating.

Don't worry, I proved I could. I'm pretty sure she felt bad about her lack of faith. And, just one of the things that's made me a pretty damn tough adult.

I don't remember if it was hard to learn but I'm assuming Bev had the patience of a saint because over the years I've tried to teach my children and suffice it to say, it's not gone well.

I tried and tried to teach the boy. Finally one afternoon he learned. Not by me. By the baby sitter. The one who watched him four days a week while I worked. The one who probably has the patience of a saint.

The girl though. Holy hell. Loop, swoop and pull. She couldn't do it. Add in her need for perfection and we would often have tears over shoe tying.  All the while I'm thinking, 'come on! I could do this when I was four!' She's seven. And a half.

Enter Kelly. Kelly runs the before and after school program. Got a text from her today - the girl can tie her shoes! Probably because Kelly has the patience of a saint.

Clearly proof that it takes a village.

VICTORY!

To the pain

Here I am again. Icing.

Sometime over last winter I hurt my shoulder. I noticed that it hurt to put my arm into the sleeve of my coat. I can't really pinpoint the injury. I can sort of pinpoint the time - cold enough to need a coat.

It's possible, but not confirmed, that I was injured when some of the guys in the office thought my football skills were lacking. I can throw. I can put it on your numbers. But, it doesn't spiral. They practiced with me, gave me tips. At the time, I thought, "man, I'm going to be sore in the morning."

At no time did I think, "shit, this is going to hurt so bad you'll cry nearly every morning for 10 months."

Now, I'm no pansy. I'm sturdy. I'm pretty tough. I've had broken bones and waited to go to the doctor until the next day. But this. This grinds on you. Day after day. 

I can't lift anything over my head. It's my right shoulder too. I'm hopelessly right handed. My left side is so pathetic I can't even really use it. My left arm just sort of hangs there. Like an ornament.

I've been to the doctor. She thought bone spurs. And if you read up on that, the symptoms fit. 

Negative on that X-ray. 

Torn deltoid. Negative.

Impingement. Still possible. But then they started second guessing that diagnosis because it seems like torn labrum is a possibility. That's surgical.

Now, it's possibly tendonitis and bursitis. Bursitis sounds like an old people disease. I'd prefer it to not be that. Because I'm not old. Dammit!

To treat the latest, we're working through stretches, ibuprofen, twice daily icing and an occasional muscle relaxer. Which I have no business taking. The other night, I decided, while medicated, that I'd like to be a mermaid. For a number of reasons. One of which was 'no pants'.

If someone told me they could fix it by stabbing me with a rusty spoon, I'd be game. Seriously. I just want it fixed. 

It seems to be down to a hardware issue. It's essentially hinges and pullies. Someone should be able to figure this out. So far, four highly educated people are struggling.

After a few more physical therapy appointments I'll finally be able to get a MRI. At least there will be some type of confirmation. Hopefully.

Because, I'm about to punch someone. If I could. But.. I can't punch for shit with my left arm.

Medicated.

TV!

I love television. Probably because I love stories. And, TV is stories. Right at your finger tips. Any time day or night.

Today while doing the drive to soccer practice, the boy asked what my favorite show was when I was a kid. I had to think about it. Impossible to answer. Love too many shows. Too many genres.

And then he followed it up with, 'When you were a kid, were the shows in color?'

Um, what?! I'm an 80's kid! We had color!

Why, I oughta!

That got me thinking... I was a latchkey kid. On top of that I was sickly. I was home in front of the television a lot. A lot.

Your fresh breath goes on and on.

I was stuck on Bandaid brand, cuz band aids stuck on me. I raise my hand because I'm Sure. I take the nighttime, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy head fever so I can rest medicine. From Vicks of course. I also know spaghetti doesn't really grow on trees but if it did, nobody would grow spaghetti like American Beauty. And I kiss a little longer, longer with Big Red.

The Facts of Life are all about me. I bet we've been together for a million years and I bet we'll be together for a million more. As long as we've got each other, we've got the world spinning right in our hands. Baby, you and me. Different Strokes rule the world. It's time to light the lights.

I grew up on sitcoms and game shows. I watched The Price is Right when they were called 'Barkers Beauties' and if you had the exact amount on a bid, you reached into Bob's pocket and pulled out a one hundred dollar bill. I wanted big money, no Whammies. And stop! From the center square Joan Rivers, Jim J Bullock and me, I'm Shadoe Stevens.

I wanted my mom to be like Mrs. Huxtable and my grandma to be a little bit like Sophia. Not Blanche though, because, does anyone want a slutty grandma? I wanted a retired boxer to be our housekeeper and our house to be decorated by Sugarbakers.

(Note to self: the above would be a great show.)

I love television. And maybe I could have been a neurosurgeon but my brain is full of commercials and theme songs. I'd prefer if all challenges in my life could be wrapped up in 28 minutes and the worst thing that happened was to be continued until next week.

On a very special episode.

The most beautiful thing I ever saw in 1984.

Running, with dogs.

So, got up early the other morning to get my run in. I’ll be honest, I’ve been slacking. The dark mornings are not very motivating. And, I’ve had a cold. Not feeling great and certainly not well enough to run. At least very well.

Got a puppy this summer. Her sole purpose (other than snuggles) is to be my running partner. She’s a Border Collie. She needs a job. She has great ‘eye’. This means that she doesn’t just look at you, she looks into you. Her face and eyes are black and even though she’s as sweet as pie, if she thinks you’re a threat to me, she doesn’t look friendly. And when the hair on her back goes up, you should probably cross the street. I have no fear running in the morning or evening with her – she sees everything.

Running Buddy.

I’ve had this cold, it lingers. Puppy was restless. Hadn’t had a run in four days. 

The alarm went off at 5:30. The dog pack jumped up. Well, some of them. Yes, it’s true. We have four dogs. 

One senior, two small dogs and the border collie. And, yes, I know it’s too many. But, the senior is three paws into the grave so it’s just a matter of time until we’ve got three dogs. Which is actually much more manageable and honestly, the perfect number for our house. Senior rolled over and refused to get up. The young three ran out to do their business. I let them back in when I went to the kitchen to have my pre-run toast with peanut butter. Small, spoiled girl dog went back to bed. Small boy dog sat there. With sad eyes. He clearly wanted to go run too.

Here’s the thing. He’s a hypoallergenic hybrid. He wasn’t cheap. He was flown cross-country. He’s the sweetest funniest little guy. And he has an adorable face. His legs, well, his legs are, to put it mildly, jacked up. He’s bow-legged. And his left foot is turned so far it almost looks like it’s on backward. Running is not for him. He needs a trip to the doggie version of Shriners hospital. He needs some Forest Gump braces on his legs. But, he looked so sad. And, well, if he wants to run, who am I to shatter his dreams?

For a 20-pound bow legged dog, the dude can pull. Border Collie runs on a gentle leader – goes around her nose. She doesn’t pull at all. Trots right along side. Gentle leader rules. So, I figure, I’ll put him in the gentle leader. 

Put Border Collie in a regular leash. She looks slightly offended that he’s using her collar and lead. We head outside. Turn on my running app and snap the leader on his face. 

And then all hell broke loose.

You’ve seen those fishing shows where they hook some giant shark or something and it runs to the end of the line and then throws itself in the air while trying to kill the person who hooked it. I’d have been less scared if a shark was on the end of this leash. It was quite a show.

I stopped and readjusted the lead. He calmed down and trotted along for a half block or so. Then had another utter meltdown.

Running app is not pleased with my distance or pace.

Stopped again. Adjusted.

Things were going better. He was right behind me - that seemed to work for a few blocks. He wasn't pulling at all.

And then, (the 'and then' is always the best part, you know?) the leash tightened behind me. I kept going, he's got to learn at some point. I stopped under a street light and glanced back. It took a moment to realize what was happening. He, with his desire to get the leader off his face, was hopping down the sidewalk on his back feet while desperately trying to push the leader off with his front paws. He was a small dog possessed. 

The readjustment, jog, readjust continued on. Until he won. At about mile 2. 

What was supposed to be seven miles, adjusted to five because of the cold ended up being 2.76. 

I didn't get my miles. Border Collie didn't get her miles. Spoiled boy dog slept for two days.

There's a winner in there somewhere.

What? These legs are fine!

Old?

At some point, I'm not sure exactly when it happened, I became old. I think. I'm 39. That doesn't seem old, really. Right? Oprah says 40 is the new 30 and if Oprah says it, it must be true. So. I'm young. Yes?

I don't really feel old, per se. Well, I feel old the morning after.

Went to Costco today after work, kid pick up, cleaned out the fridge, made dinner, went for a run (5M), watched cartoons with the kids (Phineaus and Ferb are making a title sequence!).

In bed at 9:30. On a Friday. Exhausted. Now, in my defense, that is a lot of stuff. But a few years ago I would have done that stuff, met up with some friends and stayed out late. Would have crawled into bed giggling and smelling (reeking) of bourbon.

All I could think about tonight was how I need to get up early and have a big list of stuff to get done this weekend and how it's better to go to bed early than be miserable and tired for days...

Perhaps that's a sign of maturity? Mature sounds better than old. Except when I hear about 'mature men' on dating sites - then that's code for 'old'. Just like houses listed with 'easy freeway access' equals 'under an overpass'.

I did spend an hour watching cartoons today so that should count for something. And, I'll watch some in the morning. It'll be Saturday after all. Looney Tunes is on.

Maybe I'm just tired.