Spinster Housesitter

I got this compulsion to start a blog tonight while I was at an Irish Dance performance in my small Hoosier town. The tickets were given to me by the owners of the house where I sometimes watch their Scottie Dog and where I sometimes--like now, when he is on vacation on the Gulf Coast with them--just watch the house, redecorate it in my head, and basically think of it as my own. Anyhow, the performance was no "Riverdance." When the dancers came out something seemed not quite right. For one, they looked like a high school drill team. For two, they didn't have what you might think of as professional dancers' bodies. They were nice bodies that I personally wouldn't mind trading up for, but they lacked that elk or swan look. After their first dance, one of the musicians introduced the troupe and explained that all the dancers were not so much from Ireland but from the Midwest. That explained it. They were _cornfed_. Healthy. Thick. Their curls were not natural, created by parents who love Guinness, but were synthetic. For the fourth dance, they came out, inexplicably, in too-short kilts and did what could only be called an Irish step-dance strip-tease. The lead dancer had on a belly shirt and her navel glittered when the spotlight hit the rhinestone that was nestled therein. She flipped her hair and taunted the audience with a pre-baby Britney Spears "I'm Not That Innocent" come-hither look. She and the other dancers rolled their hips and slapped their own asses. At intermission, I had to go.

The Owners have a new light in the bedroom that changes color according to the temperature and pulses when there is a chance of precipitation. It's blue right now, bordering on purple. It's pulsing. I think that means sled-riding tomorrow. At first I hated it. It kept me up at night, but I've grown to appreciate it. In the absence of dog, it has made a pseudo companion. Maybe I should get an ant farm and bring it with me when I am In House.

For the last two days we had a visiting writer at the college where I teach. He was my age. Dead middle of life. Totally suckable lips. He flew away this morning. And so I had a two-day crush. I find I like the two-day crushes. When I was younger, there was time for longer crushes that might develop into something if the planets were aligned correctly. But this speed crush, well, it works out nicely. You don't have to rearrange your calendar, figure out schedules so you can skulk around places the object of your affection might be, or fantasize about him taking you to the Enchantment Under the Sea dance. He's here; he's gone. For 36 hours or so you giggle a lot and flip your hair if you are having a good hair day. (I was.) I recommend it.

This is what you need to know about me: I'm single; I'm 39; I'm putting Japanese olive oil on my face once a day because I got sucked into DHC's marketing and free catalog samples, and also because I want to look better when I turn 40 than I did at 35. It could happen. Cher was strutting around that battleship in pantyhouse and a leather jacket when she was 40 and she looked damn good. I don't have goals so lofty. I just don't want a creased 40 year old forehead next year. A cornfed faux Irish dancer's body would be an added bonus, but I'm trying not to hope for too much. If it happens, I'll buy a kilt. I'll even post a photo.