So, this past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to see #1GF!’s niece perform in a dance recital. Given that I have had testicles since birth, I was sort of against doing the dance recital thing, but there was no real way to attend the niece’s birthday party while missing the recital. I really think it was cleverly planned as a package deal by the womenfolk of the family.

On the drive up, we noticed that on the official Cow Hampshire border sign, they’ve replaced the slogan “Live Free or Die,” with “You’re going to love it here.” I don’t know who pulled off that slight of hand, my friends, but being allowed to pussify the U.S.’s most kick-ass state slogan is like jamming Mr. T. into pink hot pants, calling him Mr. Theresa, and thinking no one would notice or care. And I pity that shit, my friends. I pity it to hell. Once they slip the death reference out of the slogan, it won’t be long before they’re forcing bikers to wear brain buckets and charging sales and income taxes. Then, Taxachusetts citizens will have no taxless, barbarian neighbors to the North to threaten our officials with, and we’ll all end up at the mercy of big government. So, do us all a favor and put the damned slogan back before you wreck everything.

Anyway, once we were safely “loving it” across the border in Massachusetts’ fastest growing new suburb, we headed to #1GF!’s niece’s dance recital which was to be attended by the little one’s teacher, “Miss Alexis,” who I would only refer to as “Missile X’s” complete with missle sounds and forearm crossing, superhero exploding X noises (for the kids benefit of course).

I have to say that I was a little confused when we were actually introduced to Missile X’s because in my day, an elementary school teacher was a pudgy, middle-aged woman in a long skirt and stubby heels who was addressed by her last name, not her first. Given the number of years that I was a recipient of a fine, public education, when I’m set to meet a teacher, that’s what I’m expecting. If you introduce me to a nice looking twenty-something with a nose ring, I’m going to retreat in confusion and just listen to the drums to “Hot for Teacher” that have involuntarily filled my head until drowned out by whatever Shirley Temple music the recital happens to start with.

Once the show started, I spent a lot of time laughing my ass off at the really young kids who couldn’t have been corralled into a routine even if they could’ve been stopped from waving. In the middle of thoroughly enjoying the sixth or seventh act in a row, I suddenly thought to myself, “Oh fuck. Have I finally crossed that age where I actually like dance recitals? Shit, I think I have. Double shit. From here it’s only a short jump to putting the hat collection in the rear window of my car or stuffing rolls and sugar packets in my pockets at restaurants. We can safely say that if I ever had a temporary visa to Coolsville, someone, somewhere officially just tore it up for good.”

Then, at some point toward the end, the recital got a little weird. I’m no prude, but when pre-teen girls start doing gyrating booty-shaking dances to thump-thump music, I get a little embarrassed. When it happens in the middle of a dance recital, I now know that I officially get creeped out. The girls looked as uncomfortable dancing as people were watching it, and I just sort of stared at the floor until the whole thing was good and over. If I get a vote, I’m voting that we save that shit for the buxom, legally-aged glitter critters at the Conference Room Mashpee.

After the recital strangely and abruptly ended without the expected bowing encore, we headed back to the cabin for the birthday party. The kids are always a blast, and I think my favorite moment was when one niece wearing green pajamas turned to the other and said, “Hey. Make pretend that you hate green,” and then ran out of the room squealing, chased by a sister who for that moment suddenly sought to destroy anything green. I love it when kids come up with strange things like that.

Soon after, we had to hop in the car to start the long trek back to home, leaving me to reflect on the day in between picking CDs to keep #1GF! calm in the nighttime downpour that invariably seems to manifest itself on the ride home from the state formerly known as “Badasssss.”

Posted in #1GF!, Happy, Rug Rats