Dancing: Episode 3 "Game on!"

 

You know those activities you do, where you can let your hair down and be you? There's something for everyone --- Enter: NASCAR. 

Dancing is for me, what driving around in circles is for that guy with the dual-beer-hard-hat. The endorphin-release is addicting... and can somewhat cloud my judgment. For me, it's times like these that maturity becomes less necessary. With that disclaimer in mind, I'll explain a couple of the games we tend to play while dancing. 

That's-What-She-Said Game:

You're familiar with the pop-culture antics of  Michael Scott (The Office)  and the "That's what she said" tag, right? Same concept applies. Should you find your mind recognizing a what-could-be sexual reference, you shout "THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID" -- and here's where the game begins; if you are not the originator of the thought you have to quickly touch your nose... The last player with a finger to their nose loses and is then forced to make a sex noise. Those are the rules.

You can learn a lot about a person playing this game. And I'm not just talking about their dexterity. 

It gets to the point that everyone's minds have been brought down to the same level, and you may as well keep your finger on your nose. I've laughed myself to tears too many times to count. You'll find that the game is about done (but even more fun to play) when you hear one of your friends say: "What? Guys! That one doesn't even make sense... UUUUHHHHH Heh Heh Heh Oooooo!" (MAJOR brownie points to you if you just read that last paragraph out loud to someone.)

Give it a try with your friends. Enjoy!

My Team Game:

This game certainly extends beyond the dance floor for my closest girlfriends. The funny thing is I can’t really explain the rules of sport since I’m still in the process of constructing ‘my team’…. Then again, you could say creating the team IS the sport.

The goal is simple: Create a dream team. That is, the best of the best in every category. You want to make sure your team can kick any other team’s butt - at anything and everything. And that's it. 

Let me explain what playing the game looks like;

We (the aforementioned girlfriends and I) go dancing all the time, right? Walking into a crowded club with easily a few hundred people, it becomes almost necessary to start calling dibs on potential teammates. You see a good looking fella? You call "my team". And he's on your team. Easy win! You see an awesome dancer? No sweat, just beat your friend to the punch by vocalizing "my team", another easy win. ... Simple, but fun. 

In the reverse (or you could say "defense") you can also play the same game like this:

Say you are flying home via a crowded airport... see that one guy's nasty ponytail? Snap a picture to send to your girlfriend with the caption "Ponytail: Your team"... All calls are final, so she can't argue. The most gratifying of wins? Just bid that guy, the one your age who you caught checking out your grandma's pink-plaid tush, "your team". No need to feel offended that your silver-jean-co clad rear didn't grab his attention, just gift him to another team. One less handicap for your team gives you an advantage! 

The teammate doesn't have to agree to the draft or trade. Actually, very rarely do they know they've even been selected. 

The game has become particularly brutal between me and one of my best friends. (Remember Judy?) The competitiveness stems from our unnaturally similar tastes. We tend to go after the same guy, every. freaking. time. ---  "My Team" has saved our friendship, and probably our lives. 

And besides, we know you're a little bored with all the  "Team Edward" or "Team Jacob" nonsense.

Anyway. It's all fun and games. But just remember, if life really is a team sport -- you certainly want to be on MY Team.

-Mag

Toenails and Tightie-Whities have no place in the work-place...

(For effect: This was meant to be posted on/around Halloween.)

   

There is something to be said for having "Cooth". One of grandmother's greatest fears was that I would grow up not having any, and I know this because on a daily basis she would find reason to ask me if I had it. She was as persistent with this line of questioning as she was about making sure I always had on clean underwear. I could never fully understand her fascination with my possession of some strange Scottish coloquilism or the state of my panties..... That is, I couldn't until recently.

At a work event over Halloween I met the embodiment of my grandmother's worst fear in the form of one of my clients. He certainly lacked any Cooth, and gave me first hand knowledge about the state of his undergarments in one of the most traumatic experiences I've had in my office to date. 

To begin my story, it's worthy of note that the unfortunate placement of my office situates me very close to the office bathroom (which gives me uncomfortable perspective on the bowel patterns of my coworkers) and it is this fact for which I blame the run-in I had with Mr. No-Cooth. 

He had approached me looking for a gym bag he had sent in with his son earlier that morning. This isn't unusual, we will do searches in the large bathroom adjacent to my office when our residents come and go from the facility. I told him that the bathroom was currently occupied, but that we would look once it was open. 

"Great." he said, "I am pretty sure my socks are in there. I'm on day 3 with the ones I'm wearing right now - I really could use a change." 

I just stared at him. 

Not that there wasn't like a million- or exactly 3- things going through my mind at that exact moment though.

First; WHY would this man be wearing the same pair of socks he left his home state with, when I KNOW he'd been checked into the hotel down the street for 2 days? ... The same hotel that is conveniently located near a Wal*Mart..... They sell socks at Wal*Mart.

Second; WHY would you share that kind of information with a stranger? What could possibly be gained by disclosing the status of your socks in casual conversation? ... Was I supposed to feel pity? Was I supposed to feel a bond of closeness because, at some point in life, surely everyone wears the same pair of socks for 3 days in row?... Clearly my conversation etiquette has a few gaping holes if there is an obvious way to react and converse in this situation.  

Third; (And maybe this was my overactive imagination) I immediately started to smell the nasty-man-corn-chip smell that usually accompanies men's gym bags and college dorm bedroom carpets. ... With this thought, I was tormented with the onslaught of instant nausea. I had to brace myself against a wall to keep from hunching over the trash can. 

The smell had little but dissipated when the bathroom became free and he retrieved the gym bag. The next thing I knew he was sitting down, AT MY DESK, and changing his socks. I stared at him in horror. I was only half aware that he was talking to me, saying something like "I just hate to put on dirty socks after a shower, it feels so wrong!". I really don't remember much of what he said, as most of my attention was focused on holding down the bile in the back of my throat, until I heard him declare "Look at those toenails!"... To this day, what continues to baffle me is his tone of pride behind that statement. 

And, y'all, I couldn't help myself. I looked. 

That hue of green has denied me of any appetite for split pea soup.... forever. Enough said.

Once his socks were replaced, I saw him gather in his hands the clothing he had discarded on my desk - including the corn-chip smelling socks... only there was more than socks. I distinctly noticed the blue and yellow line that don the Fruit Of The Loom waist band. I couldn't believe it. The man had the audacity to place his questionably clean tightie-whities, on my desk!! I had no idea where they came from, and I didn't want to know. I was far too absorbed with the thought of sanitizing my entire work space with Lysol, and creating ways to avoid crying myself to sleep at night. 

It was days before I could fully describe the horror of the situation to my coworkers and friends, and it came to me as I made the connection in my mind between those years as a child when my grandmother demanded an answer to the question "Ain't you got no Cooth?" and Mr. No-Cooth's actions that morning.

I was sure my grandmother rolled over in her grave. And maybe his grandmother too.... and every other self-respecting, cooth-reminding, ever-loving grandmother that ever lived.

Truly, there is something to be said for having Cooth. 


-Mag