Saturday, December 10, 2011

A Broom in Hand
Lucca has started to get festive with the Christmas lights and music and special little open markets and outdoor skating rink.




Last night I was woken up by drunk people (outside of the house, you weirdos, why would you think there would be drunk people inside the house?) And I couldn't go back to sleep. So I woke up full of acciacchi/aches and pains, having to teach my intensive two hour class for only seven women. Why didn't anyone tell me this weekend was il ponte or a bridging holiday so everyone would be away?

While I was awake last night, I was hyperventilating about the sexy bidella/janitor routine I have planned for the high school students that Happy Gym is entertaining next week. It is based on the routine from the musical Stomp in which they use brooms to make music and the song Push It by Salt n' Peppa, as remade by Glee. I once had a brief conversation with the woman who was known as Salt about holistic medicine at a fundraiser for Haiti, but that will have to be for a different post. Anyhoo, I bought a broom with hearts on it, but I haven't really choreographed enough of the performance to feel comfortable. And I have a sore throat so I don't feel like practicing.

On the one hand, I'm thinking I should pull out of the whole deal because my boss asked me if I was sure I wanted to do the routine alone without proposing who in the world would do it with me--surely not any of my students. She alternates between being super enthusiastic and offering me her mother's housecoat as a costume with looking pitifully at me, like maybe I should just give up now. She can't have too much faith if she is making the head teacher decide on Saturday whether she even wants me to go on or whether it would be too embarrassing . . . for them. She was a bit horrified when I confessed that I can't find where the music attacca/starts and so I improvise everything which gives me a lot of angst before a performance. And then she  taught me how to spin the broom to look like I know how to twirl and then left to answer the phone. An hour later the only words she said to me were that a stray cat had taken a crap on the floor and to watch my step as I exited.

On the other hand, I have made a sort of secret resolution to live life as if I were Demi Moore, if she had stayed married to Bruce Willis, if he were a really smart web designer. And I think she would go on with the show. If I had another hand, which thank god I don't, on that hand, I would also add that I don't even like Demi Moore. Which is sad in this particular instance.

The one thing that kept me going all morning is that my real husband, being supportive of my hopes and dreams and knowing how to work a machine, sewed a golden satin lining into my sweatshirt hood and bedazzled the sleeves, leaving Bruce and Ashton in the dust.


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