TUESDAYS WITH DORIE (In spirit, with the girls) -- Cinnamon Squares

Kayte happened to mention to me last week that this week's Tuesdays with Dorie baking assignment was a recipe called "Cinnamon Squares." She also said that they were very easy. Both of these things piqued my interest, so I grabbed my copy of Baking: From My Home to Yours, which is always nearby, and looked up the recipe.

I couldn't find it. I went through every single cookie recipe Dorie Greenspan listed in that enormous book. Believe me, there are a lot of them. A lot. I sat, nonplussed, with the book in my lap on the last page of the Cookies section, wondering what the deal was. Suddenly, an epiphany! Perhaps the Cinnamon Squares foretold by Kayte -- those fragrant, geometrically augmented bits of legend -- were not cookies but some other type of dessert!

It's really hard to surpass the dynamic energy that my brain generates. I should be powering New York City. I'm just saying.

I found Cinnamon Squares on pages 210-211 in the cake section of the book (with a nice photograph of the finished product) and was happy to discover that it was easy, something the girls could whip up without too much fuss, either with the recipe or each other. Since I'm still dragging around like a basket of wet washing, I decided that I would sit at the kitchen table and supervise, so after assembling all the ingredients on the counter, I wearily slumped into a chair and called the girls.

"GIRRRRRRRRRRRLLLLSSSSSS!!!!" I screamed, throwing my head back and hoping my voice would carry upstairs. Incidentally, that used up my last available bit of physical energy for the day. Lucky for me I've still got that brain thing going, you know what I'm sayin'.

Meelyn and Aisling came into the kitchen and were unenthusiastic at the news that they were going to get the opportunity to bake a cake while I bossed them around.

"Really, you're baking the cake," Meelyn pointed out. "We're just serving as your arms."

"Kind of like Rasputin and Czar Nicholas," I said tartly.

Both girls looked at me, then looked at each other. "Sometimes I just don't get you," Aisling sighed.

The cake batter went together very easily. Cinnamon Squares have a ribbon of shaved chocolate and ground cinnamon that threads it way through the batter, making for a very nice-looking little cake. Baked in a 8x8 pan and cut into nine pieces, it's a good size for a family, giving everyone a small portion for tonight's dessert and another portion for tomorrow night's dessert, with one piece left over for whoever in the house is suffering from pneumonia.

This cake is topped with a very simple mixture of shaved bittersweet chocolate mixed with butter. Yup, that's it: You melt the chocolate and butter together in a double boiler, stirring them until they're thicky, shiny and spreadable. Then you spread it on the cake and allow it to harden -- easy peasy.

However!

My final thought on this cake is that I'm not certain I'm loving the combination of chocolate and cinnamon all that much. Since Dorie encourages her readers to play around with her recipes, I'm thinking that I'd like the girls to make this again, taking out the shaved chocolate and the espresso powder that goes in the ribbon. We couldn't taste the espresso anyway, we found. I think I'd double the cinnamon-sugar mixture instead. And then I'd top it with good, old-fashioned vanilla buttercream frosting. That's so easy to make, and I think it would complement the cinnamony, buttery flavor of this nice little cake much better.

I do highly recommend this cookbook. It's fun to read and the recipes, for the most part, are so simple, which makes baking a real pleasure.

Sobering

The weather here in central Indiana today is ridiculous - about 57^o at a time of year that we usually see about 82^o and rain just weeping down, like, ALL DAY. It was a good day to be in bed with the blankets all snuggled up around one's head, whacked out on different medications for what Aisling referred to yesterday as my "ammonia."

When I woke up at 3:00 p.m., I could hear rain just hurtling onto the house, so I opened the blind on the south side of my bedroom window, the one that faces our street. Not only did I see the unwelcome rain I'd been expecting, I also saw something else even less pleasant: a large For Sale sign in our neighbor's front yard, taking the place of their tasteful business sign advertising their photography studio.

This affected me like a karate chop to the solar plexus. Those neighbors have been the friendly and reliable type, always willing to allow our company to park in their large parking area. They've always been so proud of their house, too; it's a magnificent example of a Craftsman style bungalow, super-sized - I estimate it at about 4,000 square feet. The house was designed by a student of Frank Lloyd Wright's in the late nineteen-teens (one of two in our city) and it is one of the newer gems of our historic neighborhood.

They raised their daughter in that house; I believe she's probably about twenty-eight years old now, and they home schooled her at a time when hardly anyone had ever heard of home schooling. The studio took up most of the downstairs in the house and husband, wife and daughter lived in the spacious upstairs.

They talked to me lovingly once about all their gorgeous built-ins, so popular in that Arts & Crafts style, and all their carefully tended floors, and their windows. The windows in that house are all hand-blown glass, and since our neighborhood is an historic preservation, if a window gets broken, it can't be replaced by regular glass that you can get from one of the several glaziers in the city: it can only be replaced by another piece of hand-blown glass. Spendy!

"It's a terrible pain," the husband told me once, looking fondly at the house the same way I look at Hershey and Wimzie. "But it's worth it because we love it."

And now, that For Sale sign, sitting there tauntingly in their yard, all red and white. Their business sign, gone. Their house, disconsolate with its dripping eaves and lightless windows.

I closed the window blind and turned away. I hope they decided to sell their house and close their business because they're ready to move on to a new stage of life -- maybe to move closer to their daughter and be hands-on grandparents -- and not because they had to.

BBA CHALLENGE: A setback and a move forward

If, by chance, you are a person involved with the bread baking challenge offered by Nicole Hamaker of Pinch My Salt, and you have been checking here to see how the bread is turning out in my kitchen, you have undoubtedly been left with the impression that I am either a person with a bad attitude about bread or maybe that I am the laziest person in the world. Or perhaps that I am a disgruntled and uninspired dough-kneader. Or that my arms suddenly fell off, I don't know.

At any rate, you might have noticed that I haven't posted a bread recipe ever since the first week's Anadama bread.

Here's the thing: We don't have any money, so I can't afford to buy the book, which is The Bread Baker's Apprentice by Peter Reinhart. And my local library does have a copy, but the person who checked it out has not brought it back yet and even renewed it for another month when it recently came due. I believe she must be clutching it to her chest in her warm, bread-scented kitchen and cackling wickedly because she can see on the library's website that I have placed a hold on the book and am most urgently waiting for a call from the circulation desk. Whoever she is, she is really hurting my feelings.

The book is not expensive, so I think I may buy it with my birthday money at the end of June, and then join Kayte and a group of her friends as they bake their way through Peter's book at a slower pace. Nicole has been extremely understanding of the demands of everyone's schedule, so the BBA Challenge group is very loosely formed: there are no deadlines, no pictures to post, no quotas to meet. So I feel that I can just jump back in and start baking when things sort themselves out around here.

In the meantime, Kayte forwarded a recipe for Pane di Pasta Tenera Condita (Italian Knot Bread) that a friend of hers formatted into a Word document with pictures and everything. Everything I would need to bake this lovely bread! Except, maybe, for a CLUE. Because the recipe is all grammy and millilitery and asking me for things like 0.88 ounces of honey and then there's this little paragraph, which made me temporarily black out:

30 g fresh yeast (this is what I found: 18 grams of fresh yeast = 7-10 grams of active dry yeast = about 4-6 grams of instant yeast, I don't dare calculate it right now.)

What does that even mean?! Is it in English? Is Kayte trying to punk me? Because all I want to know is this: Can I just rip open a little packet of Fleishmann's yeast and dump it into the lukewarm water or not?

When I got to the instruction which read "add 450-550 ml/ 1,9-2,3 cup water, finger warm," I began to suck the ends of my hair and mutter, like Goldie Hawn in Overboard, "Buh buh buh-buh-buh...."

This recipe, thank heaven, is not part of the actual BBA Challenge curriculum and it's a good thing because I honestly don't think I can do it. I like my cooking to be a more organic sort of experience involving regular measuring cups and measuring spoons and my favorite mixing bowl. I don't want to have to haul out the digital scale I used to use for soapmaking. That sucks all the fun right out of it for me, I find, and I think I'll do better with simpler recipes. I'm sure my results won't be as spectacular, but really, all I ask of my bread is that my family can place some deli turkey on its snowy white breast, or spread some good butter on it, and eat it with the honesty and total lack of imagination that behooves our solid peasant stock.

I'm going to check around on the internet and see if I can find a recipe for Greek celebration bread, which was the second assignment in the BBA Challenge. Obviously, it won't be Peter Reinhart's recipe, but at least I'll be able to say that I'm doing something instead of sitting here feeling intimidated by Italian bread.

So You Think You Can Dance? Season 4 Chbeeb/Muraine Pop-Off

I was so pleased to find this SYTYCD on YouTube! This good-natured competition between poppers Philip Chbeeb and Robert Muraine comes from the Season 4 finale of So You Think You Can Dance and it really shows what this dance style is all about.

Popping isn't beautiful and it's not what I'd call graceful, but it is fascinating to watch: how do they do that? That thing with their fingers? And the one where their arms look like garden hoses?

The dance portion of this video is just over four minutes long; everything else is the judges talking to Philip and Robert.

Hitch in my git-along

You know that cold I've been having?

Well, I kept getting sicker and sicker. So through some really top-flight internet research on many different medical sites, I was able to narrow my symptoms down between two illnesses: swine flu and meningitis. Look, I'm just saying....if God formed you into a certain kind of worry-wart person with a slant towards hypochondria, you might as well play to your strengths. Am I right?

Am I?

My family didn't think so. The girls each just gave me a level look, while my husband and father laughed at me and my mother scolded me like a six-year-old. They have no respect for my God-given personality.

But later that night, I SHOWED THEM, I DID! I got to the point where I couldn't draw a deep breath and I was beginning to see those little electric gnats that float around your head when you're getting ready to faint? And I felt weak and dizzy?

SWINE FLU SYMPTOMS, I typed into Google. MENINGITIS SYMPTOMS. Despite the fact that my mother had exhorted me through a combination of prayer and nagging to stay away from the computer. I felt guilty. And also very, very hot. And achey. And just wrong.

I clicked on a link. "If you are experiencing difficulty breathing, seek medical attention immediately," I read. And you know, it's the funniest thing, but when you're having trouble breathing and you read that you should seek medical attention if you're having trouble breathing, all of a sudden, you're having even MORE trouble breathing. Funny how that works out!

"I need to go to urgent care," I said to my husband, rising unsteadily from my desk chair. It was about 9:00 p.m. He sighed in resignation and tore himself away from the baseball scores as I coughed my way through the house and out into the van.

Our conversation on the way across town to the urgent care center went like this, with me gasping out my words like the dying gunshot hero in a cowboy movie:

"I'm...sorry."

"You don't have to be sorry. You're sick."

"I know, but...I feel...bad."

"I know."

"I mean, I feel bad...physically, but I also....feel bad, like, emotionally.....Or maybe....spiritually."

"I know."

"I feel....bad emotionally because....I know this will be....expensive."

"That doesn't matter. You're sick."

"And I...feel bad that I.....got back on the computer....to check my....symptoms after Mom told me not to. You know, spiritually....bad."

He raised one eyebrow. "How old are you? Look, you'd better just try not to talk, with all that coughing and fish-out-of-water business and everything."

Then it was MY turn to raise one eyebrow. Not talk?!? As if!

When we got to the urgent care center, it was closed of course, having shut its doors for the night a mere twenty minutes before we arrived. So we drove back across town to the hospital that is about six blocks away from our home, calling the girls to tell them where we were.

Just as I was getting ready to call them, my husband's phone rang. It was Meelyn. "Hello? Uh-huh....Uh, no, I don't hear them....Wait. Oh, crap, now I do...."

Yup, it was the tornado sirens, shrieking fiercely. As we drove along a residential street toward the hospital, we saw all the homeowners coming out of their houses to stand on their front porches and peer quizzically up at the dark sky. This is how we handle tornado warnings in Indiana: folks in some states head for the basement, but those of us in the Hoosier state go outside and holler across the street to the neighbors, "DO YOU SEE ANYTHING FROM OVER YOUR WAY?"

"Drop....me off....at the ER entrance...." I wheezed frantically. "Then go....get the....girls!"

My husband immediately saw the soundness of this plan, which is something he isn't often wont to do with my suggestions, proposals or outright commands. He drove me up to the entrance, helped me out and gave me a quick hug and said, "I'll be back in less than ten minutes."

I wobbled into the ER's reception area, whey-faced and quivery, and went up to the front desk, where I had to give my name, address, telephone number and state the reason I was there. The last time I showed up in an emergency room and was asked to give that information, I was very pregnant with Aisling and experiencing contractions about four minutes apart, so consuming that I couldn't speak and had to hold onto the furniture in order to cross the room. That clerk looked at me and inquired, "So you're here for maternity?" after I panted out "I'm in labor."

It took all the forebearance I possessed not to yell the thing about poo and Sherlock at that clerk. This clerk, however, was much more on the ball and asked nicely, "Can we get you a wheelchair?" and she and the triage nurse sitting there did not draw back when I told them my symptoms. While my data was being entered into the computer system, I did wander over to a brightly-colored poster with information about the swine flu on it, but the nurse, who must know my mother, came over to me and said, "Now, now! Come with me."

Two hours later, after an EKG and a chest x-ray and a hospital nightie that didn't really fit all that well, I was diagnosed with double pneumonia. The doctor, who was just lovely, said that he believed it could be treated at home, but if I experienced any more trouble breathing, I needed to come back right away to be admitted. Eeek!!!

I was commanded to go home and stay either on the sofa or in the bed until Thursday, which means that I won't be able to teach the very last Shakespeare class of the semester. Henry V has not been my favorite play by a long shot, but still...We call the last day of class the "wrap party" and we always have great snacks and talk about the different versions of the play we've seen. And we were going to talk about what's coming up the next semester, and about how later this summer we're going to go to the Frazier International History Museum in Louisville, Kentucky. So it was going to be fun, and I'm kind of sad to miss it.

However. I'd much rather be at my home resting than in the hospital resting, so I think I'll be able to deal with it. I'm doing such a good job with the resting that it has taken me six hours to write this post -- six hours and three naps. Summer vacation has begun!

Now that is strange

Today I have done something that I don't think I've done since I was, oh, maybe four months old; I'll have to ask my parents: I slept, pretty much uninterruptedly, for eleven hours. ELEVEN.

That's usually about how much sleep it feels like I get in a week, so you can understand my sense of wonder and accomplishment. That cough medicine is some powerful stuff!

I don't like to take sleepy-making cough medicine very much because it makes me have the weirdest dreams, completely unlike taking sleepy-making allergy medicine, which just makes me, well, go to sleep. After slugging down three teaspoons of this cough medicine two nights ago, I dreamed that I left my husband to go off on a wild, romantic tangent with Heath Ledger, something that is completely unlike my usual staid and church-ladyish Catholic self. Not to mention the fact that Heath -- God rest his soul -- is no longer with us. This morning, I have a vague memory of dreaming that I went to the circus and got first one balloon, then two, then three and finally so many that my feet lifted off the ground and I went up, up, up and was dismayed when my sandals fell off.

It didn't take as many balloons as you might have thought, which is the very essence of dream-ness. Well, that and running off with a willing Heath Ledger.

I guess the strange dreams are better than the experience one of my friends had when taking this particular brand of cough syrup, though. She totally hallucinated and claims that Jesus was walking around her bedroom carrying a lantern.

"How do you know it was a hallucination?" I asked. "There are many saints who have seen Jesus, like St. Anthony of Padua and St. Margaret Mary Alacoque."

"Well, first of all, I am not a saint," she replied smartly. "And second of all, when I sat up in bed and said, 'Jesus, what are you doing here?' to him, he ignored me and just kept on pacing around with his lantern. But my husband growled, 'Lie down and go back to sleep, willya?' I don't think Jesus would have ignored me if he were really there. And he probably would have said something to my husband for being so grumpy to me when I was sick."

I had to concede the point. And I've also kept an eye on her over the years, and if she's a saint-becoming, she's got a heck of a long way to go. HAHAHAHAHAAA!!! (I can get away with saying that because I'm sick and under the influence of cough medicine. Snaa-a-ap!)

Thank heaven for teenagers

I am the not-all-that-pleased new recipient of that chest cold that Nanny and Poppy brought home from Colorado, although my mother firmly and sassily denies that they did any such thing. She also refuses to claim any responsibility for the Bologna Virus and we had a spirited debate over these issues this morning on the phone, in between my bouts of coughing. I told her I was going to tell Pat on her. He'll fix 'er.

Yesterday night, I crawled out of bed at about 1:30 a.m., aware that my coughing and my mouth-breathing due to slammed-shut nasal passages was causing my poor husband to not get the night's sleep he needs. I made my way downstairs, burdened with a blankie and some pillows, the ibuprofen and about a sixteenth of an inch of cough syrup, which is all that was left in the bottle after Meelyn and Aisling both had a go at it. I finally fell into a feverish sleep somewhere around 4:30.

By morning, I was burning up, coughing wretchedly and feeling very, very sorry for myself. VERY sorry. But not as sorry as all that, because I knew that once Meelyn was awake, she would be rocky pleased to be sent to the pharmacy with my debit card and a list that included such things as a 50 gallon drum of Robitussin, a pallet of Cold-Eeze lozenges, a thermometer, some muscle rub and a saline water nasal syringe. And some dark chocolate M&Ms, but I don't remember how that got on the list. I must have been delirious.

Shivering, with my blanket all clutched up under my chin, I handed Meelyn the list: "Here, honey," I croaked. "Take the van to CVS. Buy these things. And if you find a doctor loitering around on the premises, bring him or her too. Even if it's, like, a vet."

Meelyn's face lit up and she took the list and the debit card from my trembling fingers. "Okay!" she sang out, grabbing her purse. "I'll be back in twenty minutes or so! I'll call when I get to CVS!"

She danced out of the room but turned back suddenly, her lower lip pushed out. "I'm sorry you're sick, Mommy," she said. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

I looked at her fondly. "Oh, you're doing it, believe me," I said. "THANK YOU."

If I'd known how wonderful it would be for a girl to get her driver's license, I would have installed a motor on her Exer-Saucer, I believe.

So You Think You Can Dance? Season 5 - Los Angeles and Seattle auditions

When I finished writing my review of the Miami/Memphis auditions yesterday, I found myself unable to remember what city (along with Los Angeles) was going to serve as an audition venue for last night's show. It turns out that I may be a little bit paranormally gifted, because I seemed to know in advance how much the Seattle auditions were going to stink: I completely blocked the city out of my consciousness. Will wonders never cease?

But before I go yapping on about Seattle, let me take you first to Los Angeles.

The big treat that L.A. offered right off the bat was the sight of Comfort, Katee and Joshua's much-loved faces from Season 4, joining Lauren-the-Choreographer from Season 3. It was so good to see them again. I don't know what it is about this show, but I end up loving the dancers in a way I never love the contestants on American Idol or Survivor. An added bonus was Adam Shankman in the third judge's chair -- glad to see him, too, although truthfully, I would have been okay with anybody but Tyce. Nigel and Mary were all smiles as things got started.

There were a number of comebacks in Los Angeles, the most outstanding among them being Philip Chbeeb. He was the extraordinary popper/locker who was given a ticket to Vegas in Season 4, but ended up not getting to go because he came down with pneumonia, of all things. Such a disappointment! Because he was good. Even I, who vastly prefers ballroom dancing to any other style, could appreciate his poppy/locky goodness. He can make himself look as if he has no bones, people! And he seems like a very nice guy as well.

Adam, Mary and Nigel were so glad to see him that Nigel was moved to a Christmas-morning sort of generosity: he handed the surprised Philip a ticket to Las Vegas without even seeing him perform. Which was great for Philip, but not so great for all of us in the audience who wanted to see him dance. Gee, thanks for the stocking full of coal, Nigel. Maybe in Season 6, you could get us all a fruitcake and an ugly tie.

But all was not lost because Philip came back to partner with an adorable contemporary dancer named Arielle Coker. Their routine was sweet and fun to watch; she's very talented as well. I hope they're a couple. I hope she appreciates him! And if she breaks his heart, there are going to be a bunch of fans of this show who are going to be really ticked off, including the three female people in our living room because we loved him first, ARIELLE.

*ahem*

Another partnering graced the stage with International Latin Ballroom dancers Asuka (pronounced OSS-ah-kuh) Kondoh and Ricky Sun. Asuka delightfully confided to the camera that you often see Russians or Latin Americans dancing in their style, which is good for them because she and Ricky are Asians. They stand out! Of course, they might just stand out because they are incredible dancers who do the most outrageously difficult moves with the greatest ease. And let's face it: Asuka is just about the most gorgeous thing I've ever seen, a perfect little porcelain doll of a girl. Ricky is a great partner, but he's just about eclipsed by the tiny powerhouse that is Asuka. He held his own, as the three wowed judges said, and I will give him that.

Here they are, dancing to Duffy's "Mercy."



But on the downside of partnering...wow. Our eyes out on stalks, we watched brother/sister combo Brynelle and Xaviar Blanton doing a too-close-for-comfort contemporary dance that had me nervously shifting in my seat and my husband holding the remote in a trembling hand, ready for the quick maneuver over to Sports Center. Because, eeeewwww! That was some creepy, there, kids! Where are your parents? I can see a brother/sister act teaming up for hip-hop or Broadway or even square dancing, but please! Quit assaulting our sensibilities with your romantic contemporary piece! I thought there were laws against that kind of thing.

The Los Angeles auditions were also notable for introducing us to dancers Sammy Ramirez and Nathan Trasoras. Sammy was a nineteen year old popper/locker with a smile that "[lit] up the stage," as Mary put it. He was a very likeable kid and he pulled off a wickedly good routine with talent, humor and "hair choreography." Loved him. Total cutie. Same thing with Nathan, only without the popping and locking, and also without the eighteen-years-old minimum age requirement. Nathan was such a handsome guy and he did what the judges and I agreed was a very solid and pleasing contemporary routine, but GAAAAH!!! He's only seventeen, and therefore ineligible! Mary and I almost cried. The day was saved when, somewhere off camera where the television audience was not privy to the conversation, the judges found out that Nathan will be turning eighteen this summer; he was given a ticket to Las Vegas, straight through to Season 6! Yay!

The final dancer was some dude nicknamed "Shakiro," after the pop star Shakira, she of the famously swiveling hips. Shakira has her sexy Latina/Middle Eastern vibe and she makes it work, but she is a gorgeous, coffee-skinned, dark-eyed beauty and this guy was kind of freckly and chubby and the only thing I can imagine that could have possibly been worse would be if I'd gotten up there and swiveled my hips.

Here's Kevin Cormeir, a.k.a. Shakiro:



and here's Shakira herself. You be the judge.



The Seattle hour was just awful, netting only EIGHT dancers from the whole two days of auditions. Mia Michaels was in the third chair and it was nice to see her. I love Mia's choreography and I like her as a judge for the auditions, but I can't stand her as a judge during the actual show because she's so often pretentious and egotistical and mean.

Here's one of our favorite bits of Mia choreography, a contemporary tribute to her dad who died from lung cancer. The scene is heaven, where father and daughter have finally been reunited, danced by Neil Haskell and Lacey Schwimmer from Season 4.



That was just really moving, wasn't it?

Okay, I gave you that because Seattle just really blew chunks, directly after the judges took their seats. There was a montage of the judges, including the perpetually sunny-tempered Mary, lashing out at the talentless oafs that were staggering around the stage, apparently looking like people in the throes of childbirth, or perhaps suffering from multiple beestings. Thankfully, we didn't have to see most of that sorry lot.

We did see a break dancer (emphasis on "break") named Nick Salzman, another one of the tattooed and be-pierced crowd. His dancing was so-so, especially since he had completely winded himself after about thirty seconds and abruptly got to his feet and came to the microphone.

"Why did you stop?" wondered Mia, puzzled.

I didn't catch what he said -- must have been something like, "I'm completely knackered" -- but Nigel was worried about Nick's physical fitness: dancing is a lot of hard work. Nick took umbrage at Nigel's concern and snapped some sassy remark at him, which caused Mary to go all oh-no-you-di'n't on him.

"You had my yes for choreography until you insulted Nigel," she said in a Don't-Mess-with-Mother voice. "But if you can be so disrespectful to the executive producer of the show, how will you be able to get along with the choreographers and your fellow dancers?"

Mia solemnly agreed, and Nick was forced to shamble off in a walk of shame, alll-l-l-l-l the way up the aisle past those many rows of staring eyes.

One of the nicest moments of the Seattle auditions came from a young man named Kuponohi’ipoi Aweau, a native of Hawaii, whose name means something like "Child of Truth and Beauty." I don't know about the truth part, but he had the bee-yooo-teee goin' on. Handsome guy! He did a contemporary piece and the judges and I disagreed on a point: Nigel and Mary thought that he did a few things that gave off a feminine vibe, but I honestly didn't see that at all.

There were a couple of other good dancers, but nobody who just stopped my breath, which was kind of disappointing. However, we did have to see that idiot David Soller, he with the Mommy issues who goes by the nickname "Sex." And I'm telling you, there just could not be a more ludicrous nickname. David has been around since Season 1, doting mother in tow, doing his best to blind us all.

The only other thing I can think of to say about David Soller is this: IS HE EVER GOING TO REACH THE AGE CUTOFF SO THAT HE CAN'T AUDITION ANYMORE?!?!

Here he is in a dance-off with another excruciatingly bad Seattle auditioner, Leonid Knyshov. Watch it at your peril, and please don't eat or drink anything without having a small wastebasket handy, because....oh, you'll figure it out.



Okay, I know you feel weak and shaky. Just go lie down on the sofa with a cool cloth on your forehead. I've built up some resistance to the Soller strain, so I'm fine. Let me just tell you that we now have one hundred seventy-eight dancers from across the country headed for Las Vegas with only twenty spaces to fill.

Next stop, Las Vegas!

So You Think You Can Dance? Season 5 - Miami and Memphis Auditions

If you only knew how I've been biting my nails and crafting countdown paper chains and pacing the floors of my home in the middle of the night waiting for season five of So You Think You Can Dance? to begin. If you only knew! Because if you knew, you'd understand what a letdown last night's two hour audition show was. The morning after watching it, I'm cudgeling my brains to come up with more than a handful of awesome dancers -- and I'm talking in any style, not just my personal favorite! -- and really, it's hard to do.

Here are some the standouts:

There was one couple from Miami who did the most incredible flippy-dippy salsa dance (which Nigel irritatingly pronounced "saaaalser") and it was muy caliente - so fun to watch. I didn't catch their names, but they were so good and they both got tickets to Vegas.

And there was Joseph Smith from Memphis who was full of personality and, yes, talent, who made me smile with his "ShaaaaaWHAM!" and his general joie de vivre. He did a hip-hop routine which I remember vaguely that I liked, but he got so much more screentime with the "shaaa-WHAM" and the ultimate "shaaaa-WIZZLE" or something like that, I can't recall to mind what he actually did. Like, onstage.

And oh, yes, also Memphis police officer Marico Flake (unfortunate name) with a badge and a uniform and a squad car and everything, who disconcertingly looked to be about twelve years old. Disturbing! I think that maybe there should be looks requirements to go along with the age and weight and educational requirements to qualify one as a law enforcement officer. He was dancing in a style called "Memphis Jukin'," which of course I have never heard of, but judge L'il C (a krump dancer -- don't ask me what that is -- and choreographer) waxed poetic on it, so I'll believe him because he is such a good judge.

There was also a beautiful girl from Miami named Talia Rickards who lost her young husband to a motorcycle accident. They were married four years, high school sweethearts, when he decided to go out for a ride one night. "I felt like something was wrong," she said, gulping back tears. "And a few hours later, the cops came to my door." Tears all around in the living room. The girl mentioned how she goes to visit her husband down the street where he is.....she struggled to say the word "buried" and lost, instead substituting the word "sleeping" and how she knows he would be proud of her for auditioning.

Then she danced and it was very touching and she got a ticket to Las Vegas, I think.

There were two sisters, Megan and Caitlin Kinney, both of whom made it through to Las Vegas, both of whom were beautiful dancers. Megan auditioned in Miami and Caitlin auditioned in Memphis, and of course I can't remember what genre each girl chose, but I do remember that I liked them. I totally suck as a reviewer, don't I? I'm glad I'm not getting paid for this, because I have the feeling that I would shortly no longer be getting paid for this, if you can follow me.

Best of all, though, were the Memphis auditions of brothers Evan and Ryan Kasprzak. Evan went first and did this kind of Gene Kelly-ish, Fred Astaire-like jazz dance to "The Best is Yet to Come" and highlighted, underscored and bold-texted the fact that a man can twirl in the air and leap about and still look masculine. His routine was fun and entertaining and I loved it. Then Ryan, the older bro, came onstage for his a capella tap routine accompanied by a singular prop: a whoopie cushion. The routine was just too clever and Mary Murphy giggled throughout the whole thing. I couldn't find the Kasprzaks' auditions at YouTube, but here's a link to an entertainment blog called Rickey.org where you can watch them.

Here are a few people who should've stayed home:

There were two other sisters, identical twins, who costumed themselves very strangely and inappropriately in black thong leotards. And black leggings. And some very strange-looking tie-on boots. Just....never mind. I can't explain them, the boots or the sisters. All I can say is that they were just wrong on so many levels, including the one where they both pointed their large, be-thonged rear ends at the camera. Thank heaven for the leggings, is all I can say. Yikes.

And then there was a girl in a bikini top with a t-shirt over it, only....the t-shirt didn't cover her boobs? Why didn't it? And at one point, she threw her legs wide and showed us her crotch, which couldn't be more obnoxious, and not what this show is about. The judges all flinched, along with the four of us. Make her go away. Oh, for a vaudeville hook! And, I don't know....a blanket to cover her up? Hurry.

But the worst by far of the evening was Miami judge Tice Diorio, a choreographer whose Broadway routines on SYTYCD? nearly always leave me feeling that "The Great White Way" ought to be called "The Great Wrong Way" where he is concerned, anyway. He is in luuuurve with the sound of his own voice and mugs and preens and pans for the camera, the theater audience and the other judges until you just want to slap him on the back of the head and bark, "SHUT! UP!" We were all so glad when the second hour of the program started and Li'l C came in. Tyce, banished! If only we were shed of him for the rest of the season.

Here's a nine-minute snippet from last night, including Joseph "Shaaa-WHAM" Smith and his very enjoyable routine (which I now definitely like, now that I've re-seen it) and the Crotch-Showing Girl....eeeeuuwww. It also includes the very excited dancer who exited the theater screaming, "I'm going to Vegaaaaaaaas!" and then dropped her ticket, which proceeding to blow blithely down the street. The unforgiving camera caught her in an undignified, hunched-over scramble for the errant paper, which just had to hurt, knowing that it was going to be on national television, and all. We felt sorry for her, mostly because it seemed so exactly like something Meelyn, Aisling or I would do.



Tonight! Final auditions in Los Angeles and...Denver? Is that right? Anyhoo, we'll be in front of the television, ready for the entertainment.

Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters

Here's an Elton John song I had totally forgotten about. It was used on the season finale soundtrack of the "Life on Mars" series that my husband and I just finished watching this evening. Funnily enough, I still knew all the words -- how does that happen?

At any rate, this song is a gift I received from an otherwise nondescript kind of day. It's notable for the sweetness of the often-repeated line, "I thank the Lord for the people I have found."

And I do!

Here's a touchingly young Elton from 1973.

When Monday comes on Tuesday

Oh, crazy, craaaaa-zeeee things happen. Such as? you ask. Well, lemme tell you:

1) Hershey barfed in the dining room at a time of the day when I am barely sentient and totally unprepared -- physically, emotionally, intellectually or spiritually -- for cleaning up dog vomit.

2) Aisling, in a determined effort to get her algebra text finished, did five lessons. And then discovered that she had just spent the past couple of hours re-doing the same lessons she did last Wednesday.

3) Meelyn drove all the way across town to Aldi to pick up a few grocery items, and realized when she got there that she'd forgotten my debit card.

4) Poppy, who is fighting yet another version of the Bologna Virus, got up in the middle of the night last night with an uneasy stomach, and ended up passing out cold on the bathroom floor (thankfully without throwing up in some kind of gruesome take on This is Spinal Tap) and breaking three bones in his foot on the way down. He gets to wear a boot-cast for the next seven weeks.

5) Aisling dropped one of the silver spoons behind the stove, of all places.

6) I ran out of Diet Coke.

7) I ran out of Diet Coke.

8) I RAN OUT OF DIET COKE.

9) Yesterday, Memorial Day, was windy, cool and pouring with rain half the day. Today? Why, it is warm and delightfully summery, with buttery sunshine brightening up the leaves, flowers and green, green grass, with nary a cloud in the sky.

Tell me, if you can

What would make a dog go outside and do his morning business, spend about twenty minutes sniffing over every single blade of grass in the entire yard, bark vociferously at a person on the sidewalk across the street from the house, inspect the perimeter of our property for any cats, squirrels or taunting birds....

....and then come inside to throw up on the dining room rug?

Why?

And why did it have to happen when the girls were at the gym so that I had to be the one to clean it up?