. . . with my two favorite past entries, now rewritten for your enjoyment as one ALL-NEW, EXCITING ADVENTURE-STORY! Because I’m really, really not supposed to be blogging right now. I’m supposed to be packing for the beach. See you in four days!
Happy 1-year, Blue Ox!
Somebody Better Ban Hokee-Dinkum Before I Throw a Grenade at the Music School
Blonde By Day, Domme By Night
We’ve been taking Rocky to this new music class. Now I always have all these goddamn wacko kiddie songs in my head. Lately it’s been “roo, roo roo roo, sing-a-roo, sing-a hokee-dinkum!” I shit you not. We’re teaching our child to say “dinkum”. The teacher is an ANIMATED!!!!! woman we’ll call Miss Elsa. Miss Elsa has long blond hair, a slightly European accent, a mouth the width of the Colorado River filled with gleaming white teeth and a long, lean body that says “I power-walk Town Lake every morning with little purple hand-weights and an AKC golden retriever”. Rukan gets VERY excited when it’s time to go to Music Class. When people ask about how Rocky likes her class, Ru answers “oh, she loves it! Miss Elsa is SO beautiful!”
Miss Elsa’s teeth in her grinning stretch-limo mouth outshine the flourescent lights. Her big spakling blue eyes catch you in their OH-MY-GOD-I’M-SO-EXCITED-ABOUT-THIS-SONG stare and pin you to your spot. Poor Rukan. I bet it’s hard, being so close to such a Magnificent Beauty of a Woman. It must be hard to sing hokee-dinkum.
Today Ms. Elsa has on butt-hugging white knee-pants and a chest-molded black tee with something written in white, something in French, that I can’t quite make out because her long, glorious flaxen hair is sashaying playfully across her lush bosom. During “Doom-Dicka-Doom”, I glance over at Ru and catch her squinting at Ms. Elsa’s chest. I elbow her in the ribs. “WHAT?”, she whisper-yells. “Quit it,” I hiss. “What does her shirt say?”, she whispers. “Yeah right,” I whisper back.
Then Ms. Elsa freezes us in her eye-beams. Her look says “Hey, you incredibly fabulous mommies! We’d SO LOVE for you to stop talking in freakin’ class!” She’s grinning, of course, ear to ear, and you can see the whites all the way around her eyeballs. Suddenly it hits me. Rocky’s music teacher is a dominatrix. Take my reaction as proof. At that moment, I had to resist the sudden urge to crawl over and beg her forgiveness lest she choose to teach me a lesson. This is what happens: at night she gets out of her music-class capris, dons tall black high-heel boots and one of those scary-sexy outfits, grabs her bag of torture devices and sets off for the office. I’m really sure of this.
So anyway, Rukan and I, properly chastised, focus on the task at hand – preventing Rocky from thwacking toddler-heads with the drumsticks she’s spinning around with. Until Rocky runs up to us: “Mamas, I have to go pee-pee!” Ru grabs her up and runs out the door to prevent any spillage on Ms. Elsa’s somehow spotless carpet. She’s obviously afraid of the paddle Ms. Elsa is hiding in her handbag.
At that moment, Ms. Elsa’s face lights up (more? Is it POSSIBLE??). The room goes quiet in antici . . . pation. She starts to clap her hands. She takes a deep breath . . . “Roo, roo-roo-roo,” she sings! The children clap and cheer and jump up and down!! “Sing-a-roo . . . SING A HOKEE-DINKUM!!”
Of course. Rukan and Rocky would leave me all alone with this mad German Kiddie-Song-Domme JUST IN TIME for the dumbest, most maddening song ever written. I’m sitting there slumped on the floor and Ms. Elsa starts singing right at me with that brighter-than-a-thousand-suns happy face, nodding encouragingly (threateningly?) at me and what can I do? I have no choice but to singaroo. I clap my hands limply and sing Hokee Dinkum as low as I can, sinking into the floor.
Just then, Ms. Elsa tosses her hair and reveals the words printed across her boobs. It is, indeed, in French, and translates: “Speak slowly, I’m blonde”.
I start shaking with laughter. Obviously it’s a ruse, but still, I can’t stop the silent guffaws, clutching my ribs and hiding my face, so that Rukan, upon returning, gives me a “what the hell?” look. I’m not sure why it was so funny. Something about it being in French, on a sexy tight black shirt. I laughed all the way out the door, surely pissing Ms. Elsa off, which could spell bad news for me if I ever chance upon her in a dark club somewhere on a Saturday night.