Snake And Mayonnaise

Yes, that title does actually read ‘Snake And Mayonnaise’.  That’s what I thought I saw on a poster not long ago.

You guessed it – I’ve been misreading words as usual.

It turned out the poster was actually advertising the movie ‘Snake and Mongoo$e’, but snake & mayo sounded more appetizing.  (I was hungry at the time.)  I’ve had rattlesnake fondue and it was tasty, so I was willing to give snake & mayo a try.  I thought maybe it would be like a lobster roll.  Yum.

Or not.

Speaking of eating, I did a double-take a few weeks ago when Hubby and I were shopping for new cutlery.  I didn’t realize Lagostina made flatware called ‘Enema’.  It sounded… uncomfortable.  Fortunately, the flowing script on the box actually spelled out ‘Enigma’, but we bought a different brand just in case.

And my mind must have been in that… er… area, because a few days later, I saw a Facebook status that read ‘I just pooped in Safeway’.  (Safeway is a supermarket chain here in Canada.)  I was recoiling in disgust when I realized it really said ‘popped into Safeway’.  Whew.

Also on Facebook, I came to a screeching halt when I read the status of one of my guy friends:  ‘I can’t believe I’m following a live blog about an erection’.

I couldn’t believe it either.  In the first place, who live-blogs about their erection?  Wait, no!  Don’t answer that!  I don’t even want to know…

Anyway, it turned out the word in question was ‘election’, so that was a relief.

In advertising news, I discovered the headline ‘Volkswagen takes big swing with Golf Rodent’.  I realize car manufacturers must be struggling to find names for their new models, but ‘Rodent’ was one I never thought I’d see.

And I still haven’t.  The headline was ‘Volkswagen takes big swing with Golf R debut’.  But you know?  I’d totally buy a Volkswagen Rodent.  Perfect for scurrying through traffic and squeezing into tight spaces…

Speaking of advertising, I got all excited when I discovered an ad for  ‘Vicious Women Magazine International’.  Now that sounds like my kinda mag!

But… no, not so much.  Turned out it was ‘Virtuous Women Magazine’, a religious publication written “…to encourage young ladies to embrace their calling of becoming virtuous women and daughters polished after the similitude of a palace”.  It scared the shit out of me, but I’m sure lots of young ladies (or more likely their parents) find value in it.  Different strokes…

Then I thought I’d found an ideal reader for Vicious Women Magazine, if there was such a publication.  The young woman in question was wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Kiss me, I’m a monster”.  I was chuckling and wondering where I could buy one when I took a second look and realized the T-shirt said ‘modster’, not ‘monster’.

I didn’t know what a modster was, so I googled it.  And even then, I wasn’t sure.  There’s a Modster site that offers fashion advice; but the Urban Dictionary says a modster is “An asshole hipster. Usually someone who ruins the vibe at a good bar.”

I have no discernible fashion sense and I like to think I’m congenial company at the bar, so I guess I won’t buy that T-shirt after all.

But I’m still willing to try snake & mayo.  And if they ever release a car named the Rodent, I’ll be first in line!

* * *

Belly-dancing update:  We learned some new moves this week.  Or rather, the instructor introduced some new moves, which is not exactly the same thing.  One of them was the ¾ shimmy:  shaking our hips in ¾ time while walking.  Ever heard of St. Vitus’s Dance?  Yeah, that’s how I looked.  I nearly dislocated my butt.

I tried a memory technique to remember the names of the new moves, and it worked really well.  “Umi” refers to a circling movement of the hips that includes a suggestive pelvic tilt.  That move became “do-me” in my mind, and I’ll never forget it now.  But I don’t think I’ll share that particular mnemonic with the rest of the class…

Shakin’ It Up

I like to try something new every now and then, so this year I decided to take “shaking it up” literally.  Yes, I signed up for belly-dancing classes.  I do not expect this to contribute in any way to building my self-esteem or maintaining what little dignity I possess.

I went to my first class this weekend.  I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty.  I’m not uncoordinated, but I’m incapable of translating verbal instructions into useful movement.  I know that.  I’ve known it for years.

I was the woman flapping around like a brain-damaged goose at the back of aerobics class in the 80s.  I’d barely have caught onto a move when they’d change.  Forget lagging one beat behind; I was a whole song behind.

I had the same problem in Jazzercise.  The instructor busted out a new move and the rest of the women nailed it in minutes.  I flailed around as if in the throes of an epileptic seizure for the rest of the class.

It’s no coincidence that I haven’t attempted anything of the sort for decades.

Part of my problem is scale.  In the studio mirror, I look as though I’ve been badly Photoshopped.  I’m in proportion by myself, but I’m scaled up 10% compared to all the other cute little women.  When my arms are extended, they span six feet.  This means I need a LOT more space than everybody else.  This is not viewed kindly by anyone standing next to me.  Particularly not if the choreography involves vigorous arm movements.

The other problem is that my body is conditioned to run, jump, kick, punch, and heft heavy objects as forcefully and efficiently as possible.  This does not translate well to activities requiring feminine grace.

But I knew all this up front.  My expectations were realistic.

I arrived at the studio early and bought a bright, jingly hip scarf.  It fit.  So far, so good.  (Yeah, I know it’s virtually impossible for a hip scarf to not  fit.  But like I said:  low expectations, yada, yada.)

The other students were half my size, but that was no surprise.  The instructor was (shockingly) almost as tall as me.  For a few moments, I had hope.  Then she moved.

Oh my God.

The woman was sheer grace.

She explained the dance posture.  Even standing still, she was graceful.

I tried to copy the position.  I looked like a linebacker with hemorrhoids:  ready for scrimmage, but poised gingerly on tiptoe.

The hip scarf didn’t help my look.  I have no hips to speak of, so where the other women’s scarves draped gracefully on their bodies, mine looked like a bandana tied to a telephone pole.

Then we started some simple choreography.

Well, the rest of the class did.  I galumphed around in the back row, seven beats behind.  I know it was seven beats because there was one merciful portion of the song where we shook our hips for eight beats, and I caught up on the very last one.  Then the dance went on, and I was lost again.

On the up side, I discovered my core strength and flexibility are good.  Maybe by the end of the course, I’ll even be able to do something remotely attractive with them.

Or maybe not.

But, hey, I’m shakin’ it up.  And if nothing else, it’ll be a character-building exercise.

I’ll keep you posted…