Um Florida called . . .

Oh wait - before we go on to read about these
 Floridian people, try and grasp the amount of
celebrating I did when I accidentally discovered a
HUGE Costco case of toilet paper stashed on a high
 shelf in my laundry room.  (see the blue
wrapped package way up there)
I must've jammed it up
 there on some odd occasion when I organized my
laundry room and wanted to clear the floor space
(where cases of toilet paper usually get tossed).
 It may have been up there for a year or more.  By
 the looks of things in my laundry room the organization
 process has not happened in quite some time.  I hope
 that you look at the state of this space and think, "Shit.
  I thought I had problems.'  See how I just made
 you feel like you got your act together?  Mission
accomplished.  You're welcome.

So this post was prepared BEFORE we all took shelter and started dealing with rationing squares of toilet paper.  I believe you will enjoy this post despite the fact because of the fact that it is not about being stuck at home and will hopefully be a distraction from all the vacations we are missing and other anxiety ridden news we are surrounded by.  So, without further ado . . . 

The whole point of the 'popsicle stick' post was hard to pick up on because I totally switched gears while writing it so the main point was not ever mentioned.  I did introduce a new point about the possible racists judges, because what is a blog post without a point - you won't find anything that crazy over here.  I did want to share that judging frustration with you, since it was so blatant and awful.

So I would like to share with you the original point from the original post, but first I have to get one more thing off my chest from the dancing competition.  I did not sleep well last night (confronted my folks about the 'Hey, it's just Ernie, she'll get over it mentality' so my head is all kinds of foggy - even though these posts are out of order) so it is hard to stay on track, but I will try.  

Curly danced at 7:45 am.  We stayed at the cheaper, popsicle stick hotel down the street.  (a post that very few of you read - maybe you were stuck in long grocery lines, but jump back and read it if you are now stuck in your house wondering what to do with yourself).  To be ready to dance at 7:45 am one must rise crazy early.  Duh.  There are wigs to be attached, and free hotel breakfasts to be eaten (the host hotel did not offer free breakfast because it was too swanky, so score one measly point for the popsicle stick place), and then the dreaded makeup segment.  

People, I do not know what to do with makeup beyond blush, lipstick, and mascara.  At big competitions like Worlds and Nationals and Oireachtas, I pay someone to make my kid look like a tramp stage performer.  In Lake Geneva, Curly did her own.  Wise girl.  She has been poked in the eye plenty of times by yours truly.

Anyway, you need to GET to the stage well before 7:45 am to warm up and get shoes on and tape shoes and check in to the stage.  I only mention this because being early to things is NOT my strong suit.  I have evolved though, thank you Irish dancing.  

This feis (that is what these Irish dancing competitions are called.  Pronounced:  fesh.  You learn something new everyday, so you are done for the day, congrats) was run like a tight ship.  The people in charge announced that any dancer scheduled to dance at 7:45 am who was NOT checked in PRIOR to the first dancers taking the stage would NOT be allowed to compete.  Translation:  get your butts up to the stage and get checked in so you don't delay us.  Dancers like to mill around and avoid checking in, because no one wants to be first on stage -it is avoided like last year's dancing dress styles.  This was great because some of us were banking on a lovely nap back in  Chicago.

Curly was checked in.  Most of the dancers in her competition were also checked in.  The stages are set up in a banquet room and there are rows of chairs arranged in front of the stages.  Since we were there by 7:05 am, we tossed our stuff on chairs midway up the isle.  We chose seats at the end of the row, because Curly dances, plops down and changes shoes, and then dances again, repeat, etc.  

Moments before the first girls took the stage a frantic woman came rushing in and dropped her suitcase full of dance paraphernalia on the floor at the end of the row just in front of us.  She called to me, "Where do you get the numbers?"  Ms. Atlanta's mom (see previous post) was in the row behind me:  "Out in the hall."

Frantic:  "Would you please get her number, her name is Mitsy Bitsy."  I mentioned to Frantic, whose kid was in a wig and makeup but still had no shoes or dress on that they had announced that anyone who wasn't stage side by the time the dancing began would not be able to dance.

"Please go tell them that my daughter is dancing and she will be up to check in in a minute," Mrs. Bitsy directed this order to me - believe me I checked over both shoulders to see if she was actually demanding some person that she KNEW well do this duty for her.  No, I felt, um, privileged?

I walked up to the podium and told the women that there was a dancer who had just arrived and that the cray-cray mom (so that was implied by my tone) wanted her kid to be able to dance.  I added:  "I do not know this woman, but she asked me to check her daughter in."  

They ended up allowing her to dance.  Frantic later thanked me for my assistance.  "We came all the way from Florida.  I thought the 7:45 am was just a check in time," she explained.

Really?  I don't know how these things work in Florida, but the schedule was pretty dang clear.  Posted on the website for weeks now.  

Later I asked Ms. Atlanta's mom if she had ever laid eyes on Mitsy Bitsy and Frantic from Florida.  She said she had.  They knew each other a bit from competitions, but she flashed me a telling eye roll which spoke volumes about being ordered to get the girl's number as if her hair was on fire.

Guess what?  Mitsy Bitsy placed first in the competition.  Major eye roll. 

Don't get me wrong, Mitsy was a great dancer.  Even great dancers and their Starbucks cup carrying mothers, who took time to stop for a coffee, should follow the rules. 

The plot thickens:  Backing up to just before Mitsy danced . . . another Rushed woman came and plopped her suitcase and another large case down at the end of my row -blocking my exit from the row.  Another bag was tossed on Curly's chair.  Curly's warm up jacket was draped over said chair, so it was clearly not an available seat.

Curly was about to dance.  When she dances, I stand in the isle so I have a clare view of her feet and I don't risk blocking people from view who are sitting behind me.  In other words, I have manners.  I was not about to stumble over Rushed's bags to get in and out of my row.  

Me to Ms. Rushed:  "So, this is my daughter's seat.  She is going to sit her to change her shoes.  You are going to have to move this stuff."  

Ms. Rushed:  "Oh, well how many seats are you saving?  Do you need all of these seats?"

See the suitcase in the isle?  Rude.  This was AFTER
 I asked her to move it from my isle and she left it
in the isle making it hard for people to walk.  In
 the background is a male dancer clad in pastel pink.
 I have NEVER seen anything like it. 
The boy dancers typically
 wear black.  I do not think the Irish dancing world is
 ready for that look.  Yikes it was
 striking and not in a good way.  Not trying to make
 any statements against individuality but it really
 looked like an Easter suit for a toddler.
 Can't go wrong with the traditional black pants
 and shirt and the embroidered vest..  

Me:  (in an intentionally pleasant voice that screamed:  eat shit and die):  "Nope.  You are welcome to have the seats inside from the isle, but we are using the seats on the isle to make it easy for her to change shoes.  That's why we arrived at 7:00."  

Ms. Rushed:  continued to direct her objections to how many seats I was 'saving'.  No fear though.  This woman did not realize:  

     1.  no one messes with me - remember the people who SAT on my camera bag in Vancouver?  Does anyone miss the Vancouver posts?  All 80 of them?  

     2.  I had not slept well and I don't do coffee so there really is no 'fix' 'cept stay the hell out of my way,  

     3.  I am not shy.  You want to tangle with me with words - your mistake, I am not going to shut up and sit down.  I also workout.   

Note:  No one really sits in the chairs away from the isle unless they come with little siblings or grandparents who need to be tucked away with books and devices or cups of coffee.  Our stuff was spread out a bit over like 5 seats but the end seats were all we really needed.  No one was displaced because we were 'hogging' interior seats that no one wanted that early in the day.  

I am NOT blocking out Ms. Rushed's
 face ON PURPOSE.  She is the blond
 standing across the isle getting
ready to put a wig on
a small girl sitting in the chair. 
In the foreground of the picture
is Curly's sweatshirt draped
 over her chair. Florida friends (aka Suz): 
please claim this
piece of work and reel her in.

SO of course Ms. Rushed did not jump at the chance to crawl over me and grab those less than desirable interior seats as I knew she wouldn't.  Instead she shuffled her shit into the isle to make it hard for people to walk past her place in the isle.  I believe Ms. Rushed was Mitsy's teacher, but Ms. Atlanta's mom pointed out to me later that Ms. Rushed was an older sister AND her teacher.   I promptly took her picture while she was putting her kid's or some little kid's wig on in another row once I held my ground.  I will share the photo of this freak of a woman with my dance teacher and see if she knows her. 

My dance mom friend, Ms. Fun, was sitting in front of me in the interior seats.  Mitsy was on the end of the row. My friend's daughter (who is Curly's Irish dancing BFF but who is a year older and they do not compete against one another) didn't dance until after Curly's competition was done in which case the isle seats would open up and she could bump over.  

I leaned forward and whispered to Ms. Fun:  FLORIDA CALLED.  THEY WANT THEIR ASS HOLES BACK.