Come on Eileen, get dancin’ with yourself

I refuse to lie to you: I was bringing it. One moment I was stock still, face glazed over in boredom as I stared at the seemingly-never-ending pile of laundry to be folded; the next moment, every fiber of my being, every ounce on my hips and every whacked out appendage on my person moved and jerked and bounced and jiggled in a frenzy.

The kids started off scared as they rushed to aid me mid-seizure. They ended up scarred, because this was no medical catastrophe, my friends. No: THIS WAS DANCE. More to the point, this was their step mother, dancing.

Flipping around in the 700-plus arena of my cable package, there are various music channels for one’s enjoyment. Every few months those channels change, and our most enjoyed channel changes locations, moving up or down two numbers. Searching out our usual haunt, I discovered Valhalla: CLASSIC ALTERNATIVE.

Giddiness washed over me as the first few beats of the Red Hot Chili Peppers “Rollercoaster” filled the family room. Despite the startled pleas from the Halo battling crowd up in our loft, I blasted the volume . As Anthony Kiedis kicked off the song, “Awww, yeeeeaaaaaaahhhhhh! One… Two… One, two three, four!” I commenced telling the story of my awesomeness through the art of interpretive dance.

Yes, I frightened the children.

“What are you doing?” they stammered.

“I’m having a dance party!” I hollered. “Haven’t you all every had a dance party?” Their blank, slack-jawed expressions almost moved me to tears. Well, as much as one can be moved to tears while doing the Pogo.

The poor, apprehensive babes soon accepted that my hyperactive twitching was actually careless abandon, and eventually emerged from their hiding places. Next thing I knew, the family room was filled with monkeys moving in their own little versions of rocking out-ishness.

Soft Cell came on, and I exhibited the proper way to look disaffected and disinterested and amazingly cool while moving to “Tainted Love.” I showed them how to pull their bangs down in their faces, yet still manage to see everything going on around them-- while still pretending not to care. I warned them that they had all better be wearing black during our next dance party.

The Talking Heads’ “Once in a Lifetime” (live version) gave me the opportunity to demonstrate minimalism in dance (thrusting ones’ shoulders up and down) and how to correctly perform a forehead-bonk with the heel of one’s palm without causing pain nor injury. And Billy Idol’s crooning provided the quintessential backdrop for revealing the best way for one to dance with oneself.

Like all family events, the night was marked with blood (someone fell against the dog’s crate), sweat (we were MANIACS, I tell you! MANIACS!) and tears (with that many kids, there’s always a few tears somewhere). And laughter. I don’t think we’ve ever laughed that hard, for that long, over random silliness.

Imagine my surprise when the kids insisted we repeat our dance party the following Sunday. And so we did, only this time with the entire crew on the dance floor. It was amazing. It was hysterical. It was memory in the making.

And best of all, I think we may have a new tradition on our hands. Rock on!