Your dancer for money . . . Good old Tina . . . I’ve had this song in my head since last night, so I was forced to buy it on iTunes and it makes me chuckle.
It’s no secret that Doctor Dash and I have been feeling a smidge stressed lately. We’re trying to sell our house in an excruciatingly slow market with three very messy kids. Getting it picked up, cleaned and “staged” at a moment’s notice is taking its toll. I, for one, can attest to feeling like a pulpy worn out nub of exposed nerves and I’m sure everyone will be happy to get the old mommy back when the house finally sells. The old mommy: the one who could live in happy squalor and would greet soccer cleats in the house with mild annoyance as opposed to hysterical, weepy rage. The new mommy: the one who puts an aesthetically pleasing ratio of red and green apples in a bowl and hisses that the apples are not for eating.
Last night Doctor Dash and I got a babysitter and stepped out for a sorely needed téte-a-téte over dinner, with tentative plans to go see Hookers and Blow (a great throw-down-and-shake-your-thang band) with some friends. We had both been feeling morose about the house and decided to skip the wild carousing and linger over a delicious meal instead. We went to Sapor in the Warehouse district. (Incidentally, a little gem of a restaurant, the food is tasty and gorgeous – we like to eat little plates in the bar – very mellow and civilized.)
Predictably, after a couple glasses of wine, Mama starts to feel festive again. I decide that I would like nothing better than to shimmy and shammy my way to a little r&r at H&B. Doctor Dash, of course, has had a long week at work and is just jonesing to take our little party back home for a relaxing and romantic denoument. So we go back and forth, a heated and complicated little tango of self-serving arguments, words like “squelcher” and “party girl” left unspoken but hanging in the stifling air.
And so we were stuck. And then suddenly we were unstuck because lovely Doctor Dash relented and agreed to go to the bar for one drink if I promised not to be a barnacle and leave willingly and quietly when it was time to go.
Which brings me to Tina. The band was smokin’, as usual, and I was working it out on the dance floor with my super fly lady friends Nanook of the North, Crackerjack, and Birdie while the husbands bellied up to the bar and watched the silliness. At one point, I turned around and looked on in horror as Doctor Dash took one last swig of his beer . . . I swear it was in slo mo . . . and placed it firmly on the bar. I smiled at him, held up the three-quarters-full gin and tonic I had been nursing and started to shake my booty like a crazed hoochie mama! I was in a fever! I was dancing for my life! I knew I was about to get pulled off the dance floor with a big wretched cane and I wasn’t finished! I was dancing for Doctor Dash because I figured there was a 50-50 chance he was either amused by my ridiculous antics or turned on by my ridiculous antics. Either way, it could bide me some time. And sure enough, it did – all the way to the end of the blazing hot set. At which time we bid our friends good night and left hand in hand . . . with me sweaty, grinning and humming Private Dancer.