Kangatopia

My sister asked me what the kids would like for Christmas and I was all – well, you know, I’ve already bought all the crap there is to buy for them but if you want to get them something they can use, then you could help pay for Bear’s trip to see the King Tut exhibit, dance classes for Monkey, and clothes or something for the mostly forgotten baby. (Just kidding, she’s not really forgotten but man, she does get the shit sometimes.) My sister declined on the King Tut thing, but she did go for the dance classes. You know how much I’ve shelled out on that so far? $168 dollars, that’s how much! And that’s just on a recital costume, leotard, tights, tap and ballet shoes and a cute little bag with a ballet dancing bear on the front. That’s a lot of freaking money for somebody who won’t even turn on her goddamned heat at night out of fear of TXU Energy and their evil gauge readings. Working in science only pays if you’re actually a scientist, and as I discovered recently – at least an MD/PhD kind of scientist. They make way more moolah than the lowly PhDs.

So, anyway, I left work early yesterday to go meet with the lady who owns the studio where my best friend’s kid has been going for years. I go in and the lady was very nice, but then she told me she needed the costume money right then. And if Monkey was going to sign up, she had to be ready to join that night’s class. ‘Holy shit’ were the words that went through my head, and probably would have also come out of my mouth if it weren’t for that I am so goddamned paranoid about cursing freely in front of adults who might judge my parenting manners and find them lacking. Anyway, this big rush meant I was going to have to rush to Monkey pick-up, possibly go through the excruciating hell of bathing, dressing and brushing Monkey hair, and then rush her off to a place that sells clothes, shoes and cute little bags for cute little performing Monkeys.

I left the lady with almost all the money I had left in my bank account and drove maniacally towards Monkey’s current lodging. Luck was with us all yesterday. Monkey was pretty clean. She was dressed and her clothes, even splattered with a little bit of grape jelly, didn’t have to be changed. Her father graciously did his bit to get her ready while I frantically called my sister to tell her about the hideously expensive nature of dancing, and then off we went to the tutu shop.

I didn’t know what I was doing. I had a list. The nice lady running the shop picked out the shoes. I gave Monkey a choice of the four cheapest leotards, and she chose one. The nice lady gave us tights for Monkey’s legs. Monkey picked out her bag. We were done. I dressed Monkey in the dressing room, she showed off for the nice lady and then every other nice lady we encountered between the shop door and the car, and then she even went inside 7-11 with me while I stocked up on Diet Coke and showed off her extraordinary cuteness for the customers lining up for cigarettes and lottery tickets within.

Finally at the studio I, for the apparent amusement of all the other parents, showed Monkey how to change her shoes and then I took a picture. Monkey even chose her pose. I have no idea where she got the idea that this is the proper stance of a ballerina, but she felt strongly on this point.