Dancing has been called many things – sex with your clothes on is one. But that doesn’t explain why you can still do it with your parents or a friend or your sister and it’s not weird. What does explain that is that dancing is one of the most fun things people ever concocted.
WASPs ain’t inclined to boogaloo. Or boogie. For us, a boogie something for which you need a tissue. We’re not wired in such a manner. We waltz or two-step and that’s kind of it. Fortunately, I’m half a guido. So I do have a few good moves. Most of them are featured in the video above.
Let’s start with Madonna’s “Holiday”. I’ve never been at a family function where this was played and Mom Crocker didn’t come over, grab me, and proceed to Tear. It. Up. Neither of us gets through it without hysterical giggles. And there’s history there.
In 1983, I was 16 and the proud owner of Madonna’s first album. On vinyl! I hosted my own birthday party, and convinced Mom and Dad to go out. But, like all smart parents, they left late and came home early. My friends were – are – nice people, so there were no real worries. I found out more about this later.
Seeing Mom and Dad come downstairs in their going-out finery was nice. Mom had on this gorgeous pink silk suit with a cream-colored blouse and pink linen stilettos, and her hair was up in an amazing chignon with a marcasite barrette, and she looked like a lovely Dynasty Mom. Dad was in a Mad Men-era navy suit with shiny shoes, and had stolen one of my skinny ties from my closet. That should have been my clue. This Dad was a much-changed Dad from the Saturday- morning- with- a plate- of- waffles version.
A dinner comprised of all hors d’ouvres is The WASPy Way, and an East Williston tradition. So, at 8 or so, about 30 nicely-dressed kids showed up. No one was going home hungry. The horror unfolded shortly after. Mom and Dad greeted everyone and swept off into the foyer.
But there’s a lot of house, and once you see someone in the foyer, it’s kind of not always clear to a busy teenaged host that they’ve actually gone. I was pouring drinks and passing little party dogs in pastry and in general having a blast.
My friend Devin told me “Your folks are outré”, about 10 minutes in. The living room had gotten quiet, I noticed. Everyone seemed to be watching something hilarious unfolding in the kitchen.
Madonna’s “Holiday” was on the stereo, and my parents were dancing.In front of the dishwasher.
For some reason, my parents LOVE Madonna’s first effort. This has survived nearly 30 years. I’ll never know why and I’m not sure I want to. This was obvious as they shook it before the KitchenAid. There were 14 people peeking in from the butler’s pantry and 10 more from the foyer. Mom’s skirt, in the fashion of the time, was narrow at the knees, so she hiked it up a bit and every girl yelled “WOO!” Dad did a THING called The Bristol Stomp. I was afraid he was having a stroke.
“Holiday-ay!” yelled Mom.
“Cele-BRAY-ayte!”, said Dad.
“We need a holi-DAY-ay!” they sang together.
I about died of red roaring shame. Because the one thing worse than having overbearing parents is having cool ones. Or ones who think they’re cool and are kind of a little off. My friends were laughing, some with them, some at them.
But every time we’re all together at a family event, Mom fiddles with the music, pops in a Madonna CD – she must wedge three copies into her bag right after she puts her earrings on. Then she finds me – she can always find me no matter how I hide – sashays over and asks me to dance while my father points and laughs. I pretend to be annoyed. She knows I’m not. She’ll be doing this when she needs a walker to ambulatory.
Leave your funny, tragic, wardrobe-malfunctioning stories in the comments, but I just remembered one more.
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2004. My college friend Dominic was marrying his beloved and asked me to be an usher. After the short ceremony, we piled into the limo for the long trip to the ersatz Water Mill catering hall. (Ever been to one of those on LI? They ALL look like The Sopranos’ abode. Marble tile! Brass n’glass! Flowers tormented into out-of-season blooming!)
There were seven guys in the limo, including a big, burly guido who I didn’t know. I promptly forgot all about the fact that my own beloved was on his way to the reception in his own car, and commenced a mental affairette in my head with the burly guido man.
Let’s call him Big Joe. A LOT of drinkin’ was going on in that limo! Big Joe put away about a fifth of scotch himself. But he was so big and hot I overlooked it. Some nugget of genius had brought Doritos. Dorito orange cheez paste is tough on a tuxedo. Big Joe ate a whole bag, and I got to dab at his shirt and lapels with seltzer water to remove said orange cheez paste. At this point I was looking at him and chewing ice cubes.
At the reception, I collected myself, calmed down, and acted like a good usher should. This involves working the room for lonely ladies and asking them to dance. So, I’m on the dance floor with Dominck’s cousin Francine. The bass is loud, as it always is. The song was a favorite classic: Jamiroquai’s “You Give Me Something”. Francine’s really into it, and so am I, and we’re doing a little waltzy thing I learned in high school.
Then I spot Big Joe and he’s looking a bit worse for wear. And at a moment of quiet… he FARTS. It was a blast like the trumpet of a horny elephant with a little wet squeak at the end. Francine grabbed my hand. “Did you just hear…”
Well, everyone did and there was no dog to blame it on. Then came the stench. Low tide. Dorito cheez, scotch fumes, eggs, maybe a soupcon of rotten meat.
The dance floor cleared like the upper class decks on the Titanic, leaving Big Joe swaying at its center. That’s pretty much a confession in my book. His erstwhile dance partner was in parts unknown, probably Kalamazoo. People were muttering some pretty terrible things about Big Joe.
Francine looked like she might barf, until I started laughing with actual tears, which got her started. The hapless DJ segued into KC And The Sunshine Band’s “That’s The Way I Like It”. Francine was laughing so hard she cried off her makeup. The oblivious bride wandered by and said “You two are sure having fun…” I said “Oh honey, we’re having a BLAST!” Francine pulled me to a now-empty table where we sat so she could convulse in peace. We watched as the reek spread to people who hadn’t heard the actual Trumpet Of Doom.
Every song lyric became a double-entendre.
“Yowza, yowza, fuckin’ yowza!” she howled. “I thing Big Joe just pooed!”
“You can feel it! It’s electric!” I gasped when they played The Electric Slide.
“I bet he’s in the can, Shaking His Groove Thing!”
“Pardon me boys? Was that the Chattanooga choo-choo?” More tears.
This went on for 20 minutes, until our respective spouses teamed up to find us. Mr. Francine was none too happy to be abandoned at a wedding where he didn’t know anyone and finding his wife yukking it up with a Gay. My own Cap’n had heard what happened from the bride herself, who was so angry she wanted him to accompany her as she asked Big Joe to sober up in the bridal suite. None of them thought this was funny at all.
I walked Francine to the lobby restrooms so she could fix her makeup, followed by our husbands and the still annoyed bride, who had dispatched the maitre’d to the still-empty dance floor with a can of Glade.
“Just a second.” I said. Paused by the table in the lobby, I wrote in the Guest Book: “BIG JOE’S ASS”.
Top picture Flickr.