Cuz Everybody's Dancing and I Don't Feel the Same

Last weekend Julie and I decided, at the behest of our privacy lacking roommates, that we would go out for a night on the neighboring town. Since moving here, and thanks to our good pal "the recession" we have undertaken a miser lifestyle. It is because of this that we have been very limited in our adventurous excursions. Unlike the city, leaving the house and wandering aimlessly is much more frightful than it is fruitful. Aside from the occasional geo-trek through the woods, life away from the house is always costly (namely in the usage of the precious gasoline gold).

We felt that after months of being couch potatoes we'd splurge and go out for drinks and dancing with Julie's dear cousin Christine Bale and her friend Kim Possible. While we are no strangers to the Manhattan club scene, this was our first taste of some good-old, small town bump & grind.

I had heard once that pheromones had no odor, but discovered last Saturday that they indeed do. Likening itself to a combo of stale beer and the latest discount cologne at Walmart, the pheromones were out in full force and dancing the night away in Keene with us. Luckily I had Zane de-singled shortly after we became a couple. That involves removing any odor to attract females and injects a “where’s my girlfriend?” desperation gel.

Drinking with my cuz was a new experience, albeit no different than just hanging with a gal pal. I followed her and her friend throughout the evening to witness their “game” and boy am I impressed! I feel as I get sucked, I mean committed, deeper and deeper into this relationship I have lost any ability to keep up on the singles scene. Good for Zane, bad for me if Zane ever finds that wad of hair Zane replica I’ve been constructing. Eww. What we witnessed Saturday was a fine tuned dance of the sexes involving exchanges of talk, drinks and sometimes saliva.

I must say, the place was impressive. Half black light infused dance hall, half sports bar, the place certainly had the charm of an underground dance club but with actual elbow room. Like magnets, singles met, mingled, then retracted back into the mix to find yet another connection. Everyone seemed okay with this, and some even swapped people they had connected to in exchange for the hotter guy talking to their friend.While Julie was put off by all the meat heads and grey hairs in attendance, I found the ratio to be pretty right. With 90% of the dance floor being composed of college-aged girls, and a cast of colorful characters worthy of roles in a Homestar Runner cartoon, it was the best people watching we've had in a long, long time.

First there was Rubber Man. He enchanted the ladies with his crazy leg style of dance that, in combination with his patented "shirt dance" was a sure-fire hit with every young lass he chose to dance on. I’d like to explain the shirt dance. It was sexy, it was odd, it was creepy, but somehow it got you… and it pulled you in like no other dance could. Imagine the nursery rhyme about baking bread. The “roll it” “pat it” “mark it” blah blah blah one. Okay, now take the “roll it” motion… but tuck it under your shirt. Then work it up and down your stomach. No no, still keep it under your shirt. There you go. Now add your rubber leg movements and a “yeah, you know you like it” smirk. Perfect! If you feel you’ve exasperated all the shirt dance can offer, just send it on a little trip. Have it roll up high, like to your neck line, or down low, just toying the hem of your Hanes wifebeater. Now just let the ladies roll in. If you want to up your game, as Rubber Man taught me well, perform the shirt dance with camouflage pants on. This way, drunk college girls are mesmerized that your pulsating shirt creature can keep you so sexy even without legs!

Next we had Pity Sex Guy, whose entire game was to sit on a stool sulking the entire night. I thought perhaps his plan was to wait for his song to come on, or a drunk girl to try and pull him our of his shell, however this turtle had no intention of ever giving up his seat. Despite many men claiming to be a "babe magnet" he seemed to truly possess the gift for drawing females to him since by the end of the night he had a girl in his lap being made out with. Either that, or he was using the old "venus fly trap" technique. Little good that tact did ME in college. I should have known I was missing the key element "a stool".

I did enjoy one man’s pickup line. Never has the line “Yeah, I have a son who’s 18” ever worked on so many ladies before! It may have something to do with the fact that he was the most willing to open his wallet for a mere moment of your time. When questioning my cousin of the safeness of these drinks (me in the mindset of a 1950s housewife being concerned her dear little girl would be slipped a mickey) she replied confidently, “it’s ok, I only have them bring me bottled drinks.” I just nodded but… don’t those have openings too? I kept my eye on Mickey Man, but he never did any slight of hand, only slight of hips. Those shimmying dance moves would have wooed the pants off a Men’s Warehouse shipment.

Rounding out the creepy musketeers was the obligatory Random Old Guy. While he spent most of the night peering from one of the side tables and floating in Rubber Man's wake he did come away with a "late evening companion". While she may have been older and stockier than the median of the populace she was waaaay in his league. By the end of the night everyone had sufficiently rubbed against enough strangers to feel satiated. That is, except the last couple who were willing to give out their numbers in hopes of future pheromone sniffing. I have no concern that Zane will ever give out his phone number to anyone, seeing as how he hasn’t even memorized it yet. It was embarrassing enough when we first met he had to check his shirt tag for where his mom had sewn in his information.

With all the good sights our night could have been complete there; this however was not the case. Julie was determined to try out the shirt dance for herself. After dancing near, next to and around Rubber Man for hours, I came up empty shirted. My mojo was depleted and Rubber Man did not pick up what I was droppin'. Zane was pleased and I trudged on.

We all had a blast and picked up cute guys. Woah woah, I meant Zane I meant Zane. In the end I was the only one who brought someone home, but that’s only because I had to. The ladies had taught me well the intricacies of their seasoned mating calls. Next time we go out, I’ll be sure to wear more mascara and have my plumage fluffed ahead of time. Maybe then Zane can drive separately and we can just “happen” to end up dancing together. Maybe next time he’ll pay for my drinks, but not with the money he offered to hold onto for me so I didn’t have to carry a purse. (Yeah, I noticed…)

Unfortunately for Julie the town's motto isn't so much "what happens in Keene stays in Keene" but rather "thanks for coming, now continue about your usual business".

Maybe next time I’ll be ready to present my very own shirt dance. One can only hope.

P.S.

A special shout out to two of our most loyal fans!

Happy 25th Anniversary

Mom and Dad Gould!

Perfect for a Chili Autumn Day...

No, Zane, this doesn't mean I'm making it for dinner...

Enjoy readers! xoxo J

We Love Our Fans!

Here is a little tribute I put together in honor of our first 100 facebook followers!

THANK YOU so so much for giving faces to the readers we work so hard to alienate!

Let It Burn

One of the greatest additions to our lives in moving North has been the spaces designated for burning stuff. Our choices are not limited either! Not only can memories of lovers past be burnt asunder in the living room fireplace, but literature of questionable taste can perish outside in the massive fire pit as well! The question now is not so much "how do I build a good fire?" but rather "what else can we set on fire?" Old furniture, treadmill boxes, girly magazines have all met their fate in our fire pits (or Flame Arenas as my roadside advertisements would call them).

Now before all you crunchy readers out there shun us for driving the planet ever closer to global meltdown, just check out all the fiery glory!

"What on earth is that wooden structure that has me completely captivated?" you ask. Well, it happens to be the former frame of a cheap, Swedish couch that met an untimely, albeit expected, end just a month ago. Piece by piece the joints of the frame began to separate until one fateful evening when it finally gave in. Julie accompanied S-Dub and Balls of Neil on the couch for some quality Food Network Challenge when they were joined by everyone's favorite bi-eye colored pup Allie-gator. It wasn't long before Julie realized that she had just been the recipient of a canine shart attack, when everyone burst into uproarious laughter. Frightened by the strange behavior of us semi-hairless bipeds, Allie scurried off the couch. After a frantic bound, the couch creaked one final death rattle before giving way to its complete implosion on the unsuspecting Whitehots.

It was a bitter sweet farewell to a couch that has served many well in its single year of life, but we had been prepared to move on to a more "grown up" couch anyway. While burning household objects is fun, it has been the experimenting with various woods that has really made it enjoyable. We spare no expense in finding the sweetest smelling wood to fill the house with, even if the tree is technically on the neighbor's property. Still, there is nothing more pleasurable than the warm loving embrace of 6C10H15O7 + Heat!

Sibling Rivalry

As many of you may know, we have recently (and very proudly) reached 100 fans on Facebook! To those baby boomers reading, this might be Greek to you, but think of it as our own little Red Hat Society. In order to get those last few people onboard, we started to offer incentives such as the previous two blogs, but kept a highly coveted prize for #100... your own blog entry.

Well, here it is #100, your very own epic, we hope you aren't disappointed (since you live with us and we'll have to hear you griping)....

***

My brother. He's the smart guy whose shadow I've been attempting to escape for a quarter century. He's the man who comes home to our hostel hostile just looking for some peace and quiet. He's my car-loving, boredom-hating, goofy older brother who has for the first time in our lives claimed to be my "fan."

Neil (Neily Dan), as his friends call him, but "Boog" to us insiders, is a stand up guy who just wants the simple things in life: a dog, a girl who makes him pie and a garage. Growing up together was always interesting, never dull, and full of enough drama to fill at least one season of Grey's Anatomy. Neil was an awesome older bro who never failed to pull me back up hills on my sled, stay out till dark playing Horse with me and letting me spell it with extra letters, pimping out my pink Huffy for me or scheming with me a new way to make money.

We would have made Donald Trump's children look like slackers. Among the many jobs my brother and I had we've sold Kool-Aid and brownies roadside, both had paper routes (he claims mine was better... and it was!), invented a household newspaper that we charged our parents to read, even picked our own corn at a local farm and hiked up the price to rip off drivers by. Through it all we always managed to get along.

Despite our camaraderie we always were vying for the top child position. Sure, he was the first born, but come ON, they must have thought they could improve so voila! Me! We swapped back and forth, taking turns at being the good child for years. He was a smarty pants and I was the artsy slacker. He went into mechanical engineering and I majored in basketweaving. Well, if you ask him, that's what I got my degree in. Neil enjoyed likening ourselves to those old school Highlights duo, Goofus and Gallant. To those young fans: Highlights was a magazine. Here's a picture of our beloved friends:

Goofus was the bad son, he always went down the wrong path and was most definitely headed straight for hell. Gallant was the obviously better child who did everything by the book and most likely received countless wedgies at school. Growing up, Neil was Gallant.

That is, until a few years ago when he realized Goofus had a lot more fun. Neil started living the life he never had and made me look like a golden child. Thanks Neil! It was a win win for all, and I'd like to honor this change of heart with a photo essay depicting our sibling rivalry at its finest.

Being inspired by our bud Sarah Lohmeyer!

Just wanted to take a moment and appreciate our 99th Facebook fan, Sarah! Zane and I recently sought some career advice from her, because she just got A NEW JOB! Yay you Sarah!

Spending a little time with our pal Kristin Hayes!

In celebration of Kristin becoming our 98th Facebook fan, Zane and I decided to treat her to a fun weekend of girly time, nights out, and dishing about her recent engagement!

Stately Rivalry

There are things that sprout up when dating someone that would be considered "deal breakers". While Julie claims that no such thing exists, not with me at least, there is one big factoid that has been nagging at the back of my mind like a Julie. Sports rivalries between Massachusetts and New York are nothing new, and as some of you may know, Julie was born a Masshole and comes from a long line of Massholes. As such, there lends a lot of rivalry possibilities: Red Sox - Yankees, Red Sox - Mets (Holla '86!), Knicks - Anyone able to hold a basketball really (so Celtics by default). There is but one rivalry that actually means something to me, and that is the one between the New York Jets and the New England Patriots.

Allow me to emphasize, that I am a die-hard Jets fan; and that's saying something. Whether it's Vinny Testeverde's proficiency at throwing the ball to the defending team or their inane ability to lose all the games they should win and semi-visa-versa, or the fact that they've been through 5 head coaches in the past 10 years; loving the Jets is like pulling for a person to quit smoking cold turkey. There are countless "this is it!" moments with an inevitable fall back to the harsh unforgiving reality.

Living across enemy lines hasn't been easy. I can't wear my Jets helmet out on the town, nor can I regale others with my favorite Tom Brady jokes in mixed company. Thankfully at the time of this writing my Jets lead the division with a 3-0 record. Do not take that as gloating though, with one of their toughest games of the season coming this weekend I wouldn't want to say anything that could remotely be taken as jinxing.

Last week the rivalry extended from the 100 yard fields to the 3 yard couch. With the Jets playing Tennessee the same time the Patriots faced off against Atlanta, the battle was just as much over the pigskin as it was the remote. What resulted was a person with ADHD's dream. My thumb firmly held to the "last" button I blindly directed the focus of the day's double-header. While I thought the Patriots-Falcons game would be a wash, it actually proved to be a much more pleasant experience for Crunchberry & Co. A few weeks this season the Jets and the Poops... oh I mean Pats... no I don't... what was I talking about? Oh right, in a few select weeks this season The Shats will be playing games at the same time on a different network. As some great cosmic gift, it somehow works out that if New England isn't playing they choose to air the Jets game.

Last Obama-mas (or Omas for short) Julie tested the waters of my seriousness with gifts that ran the gambit of our territorial allegiances. The first gift I was bestowed with was a homemade #1 Patriots Fan Jersey. While my immediate reaction to a Patriots Jerseys is "FIRE", this one reeked with all sorts of "emotional attachment": meaning, "fire proof" until the onset of a break up or the wearer revealing them-self to be a witch. On the other side of things though, she did get me great tickets to the last Jets game of the season. A momentous occasion to anyone who actually liked having Brett Favre and (coach) Eric Mangini on Gang Green.

All-in-all our war has been civil. Having my team in first place and plenty of callouses to losing from over the years, I am quite impervious to these people and their pride. Patriots fans are new to this whole "losing" thing, so while I refrain from rubbing it in their faces, I continue to hold out hope that the tide has finally turned for the next few decades. Now if only Julie can stop making "Dirty Sanchez" jokes.