he's my Eric Nies/dancin' on the Grind such a sweet surprise,
tastes so good makes a grown man cry/sweet Eric Nies.
Occasionally, I will play the role of Molly Good Spouse and pick up the N from work in the evening. Yesterday, he came bounding out of his office door with a look of maniacal glee in his eyes, something I haven't seen since the "Great Rotten Fruit from Kroger Baseball Game of '97" (more on that some other time.) He got into the car and immediately reached for his bag.
"I've got presents!!!!"
(The N comes from a long line of random crap collectors, his fathers attic bursting at the seams with countless broken computers and radios that he'll "fix, someday, they're still good!" and books that "he'll read someday, too" - usually, starting to read them right about the time the rest of the family realizes they're 20 minutes late for something. Fortunately/unfortunately, the N's little prizes are usually awesome- often collected from coworkers when they are cleaning out their desks. Which means our house constantly has ginormous, retarded amounts of junk laying around. Sphinx-shaped coin bank that eats quarters you flip into it's mouth? Scrolling LED belt buckle, never programmed? Three Hulk Hands [no idea where the fourth went?] All things of this sort: please, just ask. I'm sure we could provide.)
1. I am exceptionally Scandinavian and high-strung (often, but not always, mutually exclusive)
2. I have no sense of rhythm
3. I can't dance
4. Refer to all of the above
5. No, really
The N, after years of cotillion training and complete lack of self-awareness/shame, thinks he can dance. The boy has more rhythm that me, true - but that's not saying a lot. My office chair has more rhythm than me. The N walks a thin, gossamer line between being a really, crazily, outrageously, creatively good dancer; and the worst dancer wyou have ever experienced in your young life. Most of his dance moves are a hybrid of the Rerun dance and Kid N Play. Sometimes excellent, sometimes awful, always.... breathtaking.
Anyblahs, some sort of spousal challenge was issued last night, and so please expect "Liveblogging: Eric Nies the Grind" to be coming to your Dell screens sometime in the very near future. I'm thinking one full week of "Grind" coverage - alternating days between the N and the G.
Some early predictions:
1. I will not make it five minutes into the workout without folding my arms defensively, emmitting a pitiful little "meh," and taking a seat on the giant exercise bal lin our basement to eat popsicles and watch "Law & Order."
2. The N will fully avoid all instruction from EN and his fancy dance headset, going off into some little Alternate Grind Universe, flailing about until the dog goes apeshit and something gets broken/shelves of CD's rain down upon him as if our basement turned into some sort of dance/rave/workout Sodom.
- - -
The Cosmetic Surgery book gets a separate blog entry all to itself, I just kind of felt the need to photograph the two together. Like newborn twins in ICU co-sleeping to grow stronger or whatever. Patience, children. Patience. Soon, you will also learn more than you ever wanted to know about flossing after chin implants (HINT: YOU MUST WAIT THREE WEEKS OR GOD WILL KILL YOUR PUPPY.) Also, can someone please confirm that Beth Morgan MD was the one who was in hiding for years with her daughter? I couldn't remember last night, and I a so way to lazy to google that. I've got snakes to think about.*
*The G: guess who already has her tickets to Snakes on A Plane?
Justin: The same member of the buying public that will contribute to the eventual downfall of any quality films being released by a major studio?
The G: I have a teeshirt that says all that, ironically. and as if any "quality films" have been released by a major studio lately, dreamer. Armegeddon's already been made.
Justin: consider me your teeshirt muse.