Ida Clare, Dance Like You Mean It

And if the music is good: Dance  www.idaclare.com

Well, it seems like this has been, Ida Clare digs dancing week. And I guess you’d be right.  I do like to move to music that moves me whenever I get a chance.  Dancing down the hall in my socks is the only way this old floor gets polished, so that’s a real plus.

 I have friends who watch Dances with the Stars and So You Think You Can Dance like it’s church and the participants are angels come from heaven to show us what it’s gonna be like when we ascend and get our wings.  Although my sarcastic friend says Dances with the Stars should be renamed Dances With Someone You Might Have Heard Of.

Regardless, I am into these shows too. I love the choreography, the costumes, the dance moves and the drama.  Watching feels about the same way as reading a steamy romance novel set to music.  I get to live vicariously through the dance routines without having to worry if it will be me who is about to have a wardrobe malfunction in front of millions of viewers or that those cheeseburgers I have been enjoying lately are getting slung around the dance floor in the form of thunder thighs.

I like the imperfect bodies.  I root for the chubbiest contestants.  I want them to beat out the ones with the naturally lean bodies who never have to eat celery sticks when what would make them really dance a jig is a fried mozzarella stick.  My heroines are the women who endure all that make up, get their hair frizzed, wear costumes held together with scotch tape and a safety pin and still manage to be able to speak in complete sentences without the help of a ventilator after the dance is over. 

I know I have harped about this every time I talk about dancing, but men, pay attention here.  A woman will take the risks equivalent of a trained circus performer being flipped flopped around like a trapeze artist and danced backward in high heels with the concentration required of a dare devil on a high wire just to get a little dancing action.  And the ladies down at your local VFW hall will dance with you for the pleasure of your company and your ability to feed quarters into the juke box.

Dancing is a way to connect and disconnect at the same time.  What you are connecting to is your business, whether it is your body, your partner, your audience, or your spirit; the connections are what you make of them.  Disconnecting has its payoffs as well. One of my favorite ways to disconnect while dancing in my living room is to close my eyes and forget my saggy Rancho Wrecko surroundings and all the stuff that needs my attention.  I only have to attend to the moment of movement and let the music take me away.

I’m gonna dance on out of here and crank up some music and maybe paint something.  Yay.  Here’s a video that I recommend.  If it doesn’t make you move, you might want to check your pulse.

Have a great weekend.
Hugs,

Rancho Wrecko

Meet Rancho Wrecko. This is not a photo of my house, but almost.  I can’t show you my real house because it’s still not wise to reveal my actual location.  (Only Google knows exactly where I live.)

I have been in this house for a little while now.  I have most of my boxes unpacked.  I didn’t have too much because when I married Ida Man the 4th(the last man I will ever marry, and you can quote me on that!), he had much nicer things than me, so my crappy stuff ultimately had to go.

You know how that is.  I would bring in a perfectly good knick-knack and place it on the book shelf next to one of his collector items (collected on his travels, not from the discount beanie baby table at the antique mall, either, but from a market in Zimbabwe or Zim-some-where).  Anyway he would get that pained look on his face.  Oh you know the look, the one that looks like he has need of some Prilosec or Excedrine.

My stuff really wasn’t good enough to cozy up to his.  I though he was going to faint when I brought out my shabby-chic crusty-rustys.  You would have thought I was introducing the Klingons to the Romulans instead of faded rose toile to modern sterile. 

I tried ya’ll.  I fought for the loves of my life; my wire baskets, my mismatched china, the old silver plate, but he brought in the big guns.

Now I can’t name names here, but I was waylaid, over ruled and de-cluttered down to my distressed linens by an interior designer with pointy shoes and a fake accent.

Her work has been shown in magazines.  What work?  Did she sew the cushions?  Did she lay the expensive carpet?  No, she waltzed around spending my ex-husbands money buying art work that made no sense, making me feel stupid for owning my grandmothers footstool.

Here at Rancho Wrecko, I am the interior designer, the dust bunny catcher and the decision maker.  Oh, god, didn’t George Bush say something to that effect?  When I start quoting W, it’s time for me to go lower my blood pressure. 

I usually do that with an adult beverage.  Ya'll have a happy Saturday!