Category Archives: movies

That Feel When #????

That feel when your insides are suddenly like:


…but you’re eating ziti and it refuses to cooperate with your fork.

Seriously, who has trouble eating ziti*?

*I guess I do. So, that would be me. Hi.

In other news, I really need to see this movie:

Keiji Ballerino, as reviewed by Notorious Rambler, as suggested in one of WordPress’s “If you liked this post, you’ll love this other post!” boxes.

Basically, I will tell my friends about it, and they will be like, “Oh, so it’s like your life, more or less, if you were a detective, and Japanese?**”

**And if my Mom who taught dance, and if I had won a prestigious dance competition in high school, but whatevs. I can, however, attest to the fact that the “extremely small planet” effect apparent in this story is also fully operational in my life. My world is terrifyingly small, sometimes.

Also, I am reminded of this video:

Which we have all, by now, probably seen a bazillion times, but frankly it never gets old. My friends on facebook and G+ have repeatedly shared this to me with comments like, “This is how I imagine your life!”

And, honestly, I am forced to admit that while my day-to-day wardrobe department has yet to supply me with such an elaborate jacket, I have totally been known to do barre exercises on the El and … you know, basically everything else in this video, except for grand pirouettes a la seconde on the sidewalk because, y’all, I would in fact actually kill myself for reals (and probably some other people).

That said, I have been known to do them in dance clubs. Just, you know, nowhere near as well as Daniil Simkin would. Because I am not that awesome. But, frankly, there are too many clubs in Louisville where nobody dances, and somebody has to.

And then I’m all, “If not me, who? If not now, when?” And I step up and do what I can. For Great Justice, etc.


Because it’s all about your base, your base your base. All about your base, are belong to us***.


***Oh, come on. Somebody had to say it.

In other news, I took El Robertador shopping today because he did not own any proper shorts, and I wound up buying another shirt for ballet classes, a cycling-specific wind vest to replace the wind vest that is now about eleventy sizes too big for me, a pair of cycling gloves to replace one of the pairs I’ve been nursing along forever specifically because I got a great deal on them on clearance, and an actual regular shirt with, like, buttons and everything. Now I can also give away another of the button-y shirts that is now too big.

Because sometimes dancewear actually isn’t the ideal choice, at least not according to other people (but, let’s be honest: they are probably people who don’t actually know any better, and would wear dance clothes everywhere if they did).

I am proud to be able to state that I DID NOT buy any tights. Not even one pair. Because there is NO ROOM in my tights drawer at this point (I know, I know: clearly the answer is to kick Denis’ socks out of his sock drawer and colonize).

Okay, so I almost bought them anyway, but I realized that I only ever wear short tights or stirrup/convertible tights these days, so I put them back.

Even though they had pockets.

TIGHTS WITH POCKETS, YOU GUYS. The innovation that means we might never have to wear normal trousers, ever again.

And I put them back!


I am assuming that this lapse in judgment resulted from sleep deprivation, which in turn resulted from a weird series of nightmares about paranormal phenomena, such as a kitchen sink drain suddenly turning into a fearsome gravity well … because ghosts (seriously, WTF?).

For the record, I have no idea what caused the nightmares. My brain is a strange place, sometimes much of the time okay, most of the time.

Oh, and lastly, the other night I actually sat my tuchas down and watched a freaking movie, and that movie was Mao’s Last Dancer, which wasn’t half bad.

To be fair, my standards for ballet movies basically read like this:

  1. Is it yet another movie about Skeezy AD creeping on Insecure, Young Ingenue? *****
  2. If N, is the dancing pretty good?

*****There was a moment at the beginning in which I was like, “Ye gads, this is going to be Skeezy GAY AD creeping on Insecure, Young MALE Ingenue. Wheeeeee. *sadface*” but then it got better. Skeezy Gay AD wasn’t partcularly skeezy and was only a douche canoe for a small portion of the movie, and then only because Main Character’s Dreams and Not-Really-Skeezy Gay AD’s dreams were in conflict.

Mao’s Last Dancer suffered from a few plotline glitches (basically, clumsy handling of some of the more touching bits of the story, so nothing any worse than your average Halmark Channel movie, and there’s a lot more ballet in this one!), and does this one thing where Wife #1 goes, “You Have Your Career! But I Have To Think About Mine! I’m Moving To Seattle!” (I think it was Seattle?) and then in the next scene it’s five years later and our winsome protagonist is, like, totally married to some other lady.

To be fair, there was totally like 10 seconds of foreshadowing when said Other Lady was first introduced — it’s just that the particular bit of Li Cunxin’s life in which they, like, get MARRIED didn’t quite make it into the budget/allocated time.

In honesty, though, as ballet movies go, I rather liked this one (probably because it was actually based on real life).

So, like, I totally recommend giving Mao’s Last Dancer a watch if you stumble upon it on Netflix or Amazon or whatevs.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go balance people and balance on people and so forth.

Danseur Ignoble: I’m Feeling Much Better, Really?

Okay, so as always, this recovery process has been slower and more annoying, with more minor setbacks, than anticipated.

Someday, I’ll learn to take the Hoped-For Duration of Recovery and simply multiply it by three or four.

“I’ll be over this in a week or so” will then mean “I’ll be over this in, I dunno, three weeks or a month, give or take,” and I’ll be much less frustrated when, after a week, I’m not Good As New.

Anyway, I am feeling much better, but still not perfectly well. Still also tenaciously clinging to the hope of having something worth auditioning on the 4th. If we bust our buts (yes, pun intended: You know, “When the deadline’s neeeeeear, and it don’t look good — Who you gonna call? BUT BUSTERS!”), we might … maybe? … SHOULD! be able to at least put together a respectable audition, if not one that will make everybody say OMG WE MUST HAVE THESE GUYS!


In other news, we saw The Scorch Trials today and spent the whole movie making Burning-Man related jokes.

It actually wasn’t too bad: its storyline was fairly predictable “twinks versus the old ppl conspiracy versus alien zombie plague” fare, but both installments in the Maze Runner film adaptation series have done a good job mostly avoiding cringe-inducing romantic subplots whilst providing enjoyable visuals and action scenes, even if elements of those action scenes do frequently make one ask, “Haven’t you guys ever seen a movie? Hey, maybe standing around and waiting for all of the alien plant zombies to awaken within two meters of your tasty still-fully-human faces is a bad idea. Wait, what the … WHY ARE YOU CLIMBING THE STAIRS?!”

Oops, potential spoilers below for ppl who care about that kind of thing, so here comes a More Tag:

Read the rest of this entry

Ballet Squid Chronicles: Ballautopilot

Today, halfway through some barre combination or another, I suddenly found myself doing something completely different.


Because the beginning of the combo was exactly like one we often do in Claire’s class, but the last third or so was different. Apparently my ballet-autopilot — ballautopilot, if you will — had kicked on. (Please tell me I’m not the only person whose ballautopilot that sometimes goes awry!)

The same thing happened again, incomprehensibly, as we were going across the floor. This was Essentials, so the allegro combo was simple: glissade-pas de chat(1), glissade-pas de chat, tombé-pas de bourree-glissade assemblé.

For some reason, my ballautopilot decided it needed to end with “glissade-sisson,” even though nothing ends like that, ever. So there’s no rational explanation for that one, except that apparently my legs like to sisson, and I was thinking about something else (specifically, my arms).

In other news, I managed another of those lovely and enjoyable double-pirouettes that happen when you get most of the way through your first rotation and then go, “Hm, I think I’ll just go on around again.” And then you do, and then you close back and look like you’re an awesome dancer when, in fact, you’re much more half-baked than usual this week because you’ve been out of class so much lately.

In still other news, this week I decided to try a fouetté en tournant, just to see if I could do it, in my kitchen (because everyone knows that the kitchen is where you practice your turns).

You guys, it turns out my kitchen is not actually big enough for that. Whipped out the leg, and WHAM! Right into the stove(2).

So I guess I won’t be practicing fouettés en tournants in my kitchen anymore. I will have to add them to the (ahem) rotation (see what I did there?!) of turns I practice before class, like the stepover-stepover-pique-pique combination from Tawnee’s class that’s one and a half piques too long for my kitchen, no matter how diagonally I travel.

In different news entirely, my husband is incredibly sweet and, as a surprise, took me to see Big Hero 6 today. It was brilliant, and if you can, you should run out right now and see it before its theatrical run closes. And if you are feeling weepy this week (which some of us do sometimes, just sayin’), I recommend that you bring a packet of tissues and a friend.


  1. I would like to point out that my glissade-pas de chat sub-combo looked stellar today, unlike my grand battement, which involved high extensions and a jiggly, jiggly, jiggly core. Must be jelly, &c.
  2. Fortunately, this was loud, but not painful in the least. I specifically planned it so I wouldn’t crack my leg on the dishwasher door, which would probably have hurt, since said dishwasher door was propped open to let the dishes cool off, with its pointy edges out and ready to rip my legs off.
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