Just got off the phone with a lovely woman from the American Red Cross. Actual transcript:
Lovely woman: Is Megan available?
Me: Oh, Lord, a telemarketer. Yes, this is Megan.
LW: I'm Lisa from the American Red Cross and...
Me: Hey, excuse me, I'm sorry, but you guys call me seriously once a week asking me to donate, and last time I donated, back in April, I passed out and bonked my head, and every time you call I ask please not to call me until, like, September, and...
Oh, wait, it's totally September, isn't it.
Oh, dear, I'm sorry.
Well, obviously I jarred something loose back in April -- can you put me on the list for, say, December?
Me: Okay, thanks.
Total idiot, yours truly.
Joel went in for an MRI this morning, for his knee. Results next week.
Lucy had her first dance class yesterday, and I was a nervous wreck -- she'd spent the entire morning whining "I don't WANNA go to dance class!!!" so I was gearing up for a big old fight. And then, when we got there, they kicked out the parents right away. I had visions of Lucy refusing to give her name, or telling the teacher she was "Fajhe" (more on that later), or simply dancing on her own in front of the mirror, with her "listening ears" turned firmly off. But apparently she was a champ. I peeked in through the blinds (which wasn't easy, mind you) and it sort of looked like she was doing the moves along with the rest of the class.
Afterward, Lu told me that she didn't sit in her spot, but the teacher told me Lu was "a hoot" (whatever that means) and the teacher wasn't actually shedding tears, nor bleeding, at the end of class, so I'm guessing it went all right. Ed and I got some quality time waiting in the hall, and he made friends with a pudgy little 14-month-old Josephine, so truly it wasn't half bad. And Lucy took a terrific nap yesterday afternoon. Which is the most important thing, after all.
I went to an intermediate-level dance class yesterday evening at Dance Spectrum on Grand Ave. I loved it! It was incredibly challenging, but there were only 4 gals in the class and I didn't feel totally outclassed. We did about a 40-minute warmup, which was a serious workout, and the instructor is adorable and fun -- she reminds me of the second can-can dancer in Moulin Rouge; the one who rats out Satine. But much nicer. And probably not a prostitute. Although she did make a comment about one of the other teachers, who is "like 34 or 35" and, amazingly enough, still dancing. Oooh, that one hurt a little bit. So, maybe part-prostitute.
Fazje! Right. So Lucy has this imaginary shape-shifting ethnic friend named "Fajhe." I spell it that way because sometimes Lu pronounces it "Faje" and sometimes it's much more like "Fazhe". Anyway, Fajhe has been around for several months; maybe even the better part of a year. Sometimes Eddie is Fajhe; sometimes I'm Fajhe. Sometimes Lu herself is Fajhe. Sometimes Fajhe gets scapegoated for various wrong-doings around the house; sometimes Fajhe is "still using" one of the toys that Ed tries to appropriate. It all seems like pretty-standard imaginary-friend fare, so we go along with it and enjoy it.
There should be a much-funnier story about Fajhe right here, but I simply do not have one. Oops!
I did want to mention that I sliced off the tip of my thumb slicing tomatoes on Sunday. I sort of forgot that I'd had my knives sharpened. At the moment it happened, I had some serious flashbacks to my mom doing the same thing one day in the kitchen. Hers was much worse, if I recall correctly -- I think she may have gone in for stitches, and I vaguely remember it being a larger slice off her thumb than mine. It is really hard going through life with only one thumb, though, I tell you what.
Well, I've got a johnny-glasses pile of dishes waiting for me that I'd better tackle. Ick. When are we acquiring that dishwasher, again??