In Memory

I'll go on ahead and give a warning right now, this is not really ballet related at all.  Nor is it my normal 'guess what I screwed up today'.  This is, long story short, my cat died and I feel like shit about it.  For those who would rather skip this one, I wouldn't blame you.  But if you wish, proceed.  Either way, I gotta get this down somewhere or I'm gonna go crazy.

So, I'm moving in two days time.  New flat, sorted.  New job, sorted.  Boyfriend already over there with cat #1 (Mrs Treacle) and me and cat #2 (George).  In preparation for the move, I decided I was going to get George's 1 year shots done, as well, I had kinda already paid for them and I wasn't sure how quick I'd find a suitable vet when I got over to Belfast.  My vet, being the stars that they are, let me bring him in, after I already cancelled my plan.  But anyway.  Day of the shots arrived, I roll outta bed, hungover from the night before, debate about feeding George (he's not gonna starve afterall) and coming to the conclusion that I can't be bothered filling his ball up with food, I chuck it on the floor and get some clothes on, calling my friend to see if she's still cool with me coming over. She is, which is cool cause she's closer to the vet.

I cram George into his box, scooping up the rest of the food for him to eat on the way.  He hates being in the box, so he cries and I shush and coo. Get on the bus, get to my friends, and as we have some time to kill, decide to get breakfast.  Do a quick check and George is already making him self at home, because that's the kind of kitty he is. 

So we have our breakfast, going through a play by play of the night before and after about an hour, we are sufficiently sobered up and we head back.  Once in her flat, I call up the vet to make sure I have the appointment time right and Biz (my friend) goes into the kitchen.  While I'm on the phone, I hear her crying out both cats names (she has one as well).  I try to get off the phone with the receptionist, who continues to confirm my appointment time, despite me telling her something is wrong.  I get into the kitchen and I am initially relieved, there's no blood, there hasn't been a fight.  It's going to be ok.

But George is down.  He's on his side, drool coming out his mouth and looking very wrong.  I scoop him up, check on Biz's cat, who hisses at me, thus confirming he's good.  I'm still completely calm, and I tell Biz to grab the George's box, I'm running down to the vet.

Holding him, in a near run for the vet, I am convinced he's still with me.  He's just been knocked out, he will be okay, I just gotta get him in.  Once there, it takes a minute for the receptionist to notice us and when she does, I begin to break and simply tell her 'Something's Wrong'.

She get's us into a room immediately and I put George on the table.  The same room he always goes into, the same one I brought I tiny kitten into just under a year ago for inspection, the same room I dropped him off for his neuter.  The vet comes in, stethescope in hand, quickly looks at George, then at me and tells me 'It's too late, he's gone.'

And I shatter. 

And it hits me in a way I would never have expected.  I mean, he's a cat right?!  I am overcome and I can barely speak and Biz comes in and she cries with me.  I then have to phone my boyfriend, and tell him our baby is gone.  Our healthy, happy, 14 month old kitty has just dropped dead.  He was fine an hour ago.

After than, I'm cuddling him and stroking him and just sobbing.  The vet hugs me and begins to tell me what could have happened and what options I have now.  It seems to have been his heart giving out and he went instantly.  We can find out if we cut him open, but there's nothing broken, nothing seems to indicate he's been poisoned, so I leave it.  I can't bear the thought of them cutting him open to satisfy my own curiosity.

Next step is what to do with the remains, which I haven't stopped stroking.  There's burial, disposal, communal cremation, individual cremation . . . we have a cat carriers downstairs we can get you to take him with you . . .and a hundred thousand things are running through my mind.  I managed to squeek out a joke, being he was such a good looking cat we should have him stuffed.  I somehow decide individual cremation is the way to go, I don't care that it costs extra. 

A bit of paper work is brought in for me to sign, I don't even read it, can barely scribble my name on it before I'm back at George's side, and set about the task of gently removing his collar. 

Then it's time to go, because they have a vet practice to run and they can't have me in there howling all day.  So one last kiss, tell him I love him and that I'm so sorry.  Grab the now useless cat box and head back.


Phew, so that's that.  I feel like I'm being ridiculous over this, but it happened so fast and unexpectedly, but I suppose these things do.  A fact of pet ownership is you will most likely outlive them.  I just didn't expect my 1 year old kitten to be the first to go or so suddenly.  Part of me is grateful now that he will be forever young, I'll never have to see him suffer or in pain and a power much higher than me made the choice that many other pet owners need to make.

Today's the first day I haven't cried.  This flat feels very empty and alone and I'm not looking forward to my journey as much, knowing that instead of taking a cat who was going to make a fuss the whole way, I'm taking cat ashes in a box.

And while I'm not overly religious, there's one thought that's been keeping me going.  And that is, my Grandad, who I lost in Feburary, who loved me so dearly that when I was born, he wore a baseball cap with 'Meg's Grandpa' on the front, needed someone to keep him company.  And mad as it seems, it helps me to sleep at night, thinking my wee George is curled up next to my Grandpa.

Your regularly scheduled blog will return shortly.  Sorry about the delay.











 

Baby Step Piourettes

I'm sure I misspelled that.  I could google search it, but I got 7 minutes before I gotta go to work, so I'm not gonna bother with it!

Dance with Dawn last night and we were working on Piourettes in the centre today.  I've worked on these before with Jonathan, and I'm pretty bad at them.  I'm trying to think of an image, but the closest thing I can think of is imagine you are drunk, and you decide you want to do a one legged turn.  You successfully turn around in 360 degrees, but everything else in between is just shambles.  I can't get my foot to go behind afterwards, I'm sure my non spinning foot is not where it's supposed to be.  Basically, I need to practice in this area.

Dawn had us practicing the preparation for one and then little quarter turns, four in a row so you'd go right around.  Jonathan don't pussy foot around with his piourettes, it's all or nothing, he's not interested in your silly quarter turns.  Thankfully Dawn is, as I finally be able to get the feeling of what I'm supposed to do with my feet.  She had some arm work in there as well, but I gave up, better to focus on my feet for the time being, arms will sort themselves out later  (though I think I was still trying to do the arms, but they sorta just flapped about, as they do.)

I'm looking forward to my new wood floor, because I will be doing quarter piourettes till the cows come home.  So pretty and ballerinaish!  I'm like the little ballerina in the music box, only one that stops part of the way through, then starts again.  A slightly broken little ballerina in the music box.

Your Other Right

Let's start with the first class this week, which of course, is at Dance til Dawn.

This would be the post-show class, so involved returning our costumes and getting back to basics.  To my absolute delight, the barres were back.  They'd been missing since Easter and I was feeling their loss.  I love barre work, building up fundaments and all that jazz.  And also to my delight, there were only three of us in class today, which meant we each got our own barre.  Yay for not having to share!

Dawn busted out the threa bands for our stretches today, which was great.  I've heard about these mysterious things since I've jumped into the ballet community on the interwebs, but I was still unsure of their application to ballet.  From what I can tell, just add extra resistence to stretching, which I'm cool with.  If there's any other secrets to these things, let me know.  Do I need to invest in these things?

Anyhoot, moving onto Friday.  There's a big difference between Jonathan and Dawn, mostly regarding corrections.  Dawn doesn't hand many out, while, at least with me, Jonathan has a fair few.  And I was getting LOADS yesterday.  While I get a bit embarrassed to be called out in class, I take it as a compliment.  I mean, why bother saying anything if there's no point?  This must mean that he sees a point or at least potential.  I like that.

There were some humdingers though yesterday.  So while working on ronde de jombe (horrible ballet spelling ahead) I just wasn't getting it.  From the other end of the room I hear 'You're doing like a special Hungarian character move.  Keep your feet and ankles straight, they're all over the place'.  And I take a look, sure enough my working foot is EVERYWHERE.  I just rather watch it do it's thing for a moment, wondering what the hell my foot thinks it's doing.  This isn't hard, tendu to the front, make a half circle, push the foot back through first and repeat.  My foot just didn't want to get back into first and just wiggled weirdly instead.

Right, so that's been taken on board.  So I'm working on getting my feet to cooperate, then my knees start to rebel.  My non-working knee has decided it really likes the fondue move, and keeps bending.  So again I hear his voice.  'Legs straight as possible, don't bend them just now, wait till the fondue'.  And I'm like, right, got it.  But the more I try to keep my knee straight, the more it's like, 'Screw you buddy, watch me fondue!!'  And I'm like, it's not time for this!  You can fondue in a minute.

Actually say out loud in the middle of the move, 'Stop bending!'  I just look helpless at Jonathan and tell him I clearly have homework this week.

So that fiasco over, we work on assemble, which I can't do, but neither can anyone else, so I don't worry about this.

Then we move into the centre and start this hop foward, turn and step back, hop again, turn and step towards the front.  This is not fundamentally difficult.  In my head, I get it.  It's getting my body to cooperate that is the problem.  I'm hoping on the wrong foot and then turning the opposite way, going back over myself, which takes much more work then is required.  So here comes Jonathan again.  'Your other right!'

I get told this alot.  We'll be standing in beautiful positions and while I'm sure I checked the other girls to make sure I've got the right feet in the right place, but most of the time I don't.  I struggle endlessly with keep my right and left separate.  I spend a lot of time just trying to make sure I'm not in the way.  And of course it always takes me a second to realize it's me he's telling my feet are tangled again, even though it's only me that gets this particular correction.  Only thing I can figure is that I'm American and Brits do ballet on the other side, like the way the drive, so this can't possibly, be my fault right?!

And finally, while doing the moving turning thing detailed above, my direction issues came to head again and Jonathan just took me gently by the shoulders, gingerly pushing me in the right direction.  While my face was bright red, I was grateful, being lost sucks.

You're Having a Giraffe

A conversation with my boss today:

Boss:  So we need to get a night out organized for you, as you'll be leaving the Country.

Me:  I guess so.  That sounds lovely.

Boss:  Are you busy any of these upcoming Friday or Saturdays?

Me:  Well, I have ballet class on Friday, but could meet you guys after.

Boss:  Couldn't you skip ballet?

Me: . . .. . . . . .  . . . .  It's already been paid for.

*awkward silence*

What a Weekend

So it turns out, that I really enjoy being on stage.  Last time I was properly on stage was my Junior year of high school and I was in a play called And they Danced Real Slow in Jackson.  It was a great show, so good we got to go to the high school theatre convention and perform it for a group of our peers.  I had a good sized supporting role playing an eight year old and despite sporting 50 yards of duct tape and three ACE bandages to flatten my money makers out (bullet proof folks, nothing getting in, nothing getting out, no shapely figure for my character) but it was experience of a lifetime, figured that was the last time I'd be on stage.

Then rolled on Friday. After a rough dance reheresal, I went home practiced, ran steps through my mind at work and did port de bra in the streets.  And it came time on Friday for me to get to the side of the stage and I nail it.  Didn't miss a step, didn't get lost, remembered to not look at my feet but at the audience.  When it came time for the bow, I was so pleased I could have burst.

Saturday would be the day my most beloved boy, my friend and her male friend who was in town, would be in the audience.  I was a lot more nervous on Saturday, knowing this.  I was a bit shakier, but remember a moment when I finally listened to that advice to pull in my tummy muscles and there we are, solid again (crazy how that works!)

Then afterwards got a bit sad.  Yeah, the shows over, which is always a bit sad, but I'm moving soon, and I've just gotten into the swing of my Edinburgh ballet routine. I'm sure I'll figure something out for when I get to Belfast, but quite sad to be leaving here, but anyway.

Sunday brought a day of packing and Jon was off to Notheren Ireland himself with one of my kitties in tow.  And now I'm alone (well, one kitty left!) and very glad I have ballet class to keep me occupied. 

Very bittersweet.  I'm such a weenie.

And on another note, greater ballet public, any thoughts for classes for in Belfast, Northern Ireland?  Google isn't giving me much hope.  Looks like it might be me and some 10 year olds, which while that will be ok, not necessarily ideal.

Dress Rehearsal

The end of year show for Dance Til Dawn is this weekend (omg I know, right!?).  This means we had a dress rehearsal yesterday to run lighting checks and basically see what kind of shape we were in for our paying audience.

And there's all sorts, little girls from no older than 3 all the way up to us old timers.  It seems to be organized chaos, but I stride on in there with my chinese takeaway in hand and I am pointed to the adult dressing room, which is a kitchen.  Which is handy, cause I need a fork!

Anyway, unload my stuff, meet some of the other ladies I've never seen before because they do tap, jazz, contemporary, etc.  I get changed into my costume and realize that I've not brought my makeup and I make a mental note to pack that along on friday, as I was looking a bit pasty in comparison.  And after all, stage lights wash you out and if you're not wearing loads of makeup, you're not doing it right.

Because I'm in the second half of the show, I take the opportunity to watch the other dances.  And let me just say, the little girls and the girls who are younger than me, but far better than me, are my favorites.  The little girls just sorta flail adorably and say hi to their mums and dads who are beaming with pride.  The older girls just remind me of what could be.

Stroll back to the dressing room to don my sarong and get my slippers on.  I follow my classmates backstage and we await our turn in the dark amongst the curtains.  And then our music comes on and the lights change for us and we classical walk our way out there.

This is when everything went wrong for yours truly.

My feet have decided that they're done for the day and they're not having any of this dancing nonsense and just give up.  My arms, however, troopers that they are, desperately try to remember what they're supposed to do, but they're about 10 counts behind and just waving uselessly about the place.

I'm blinded by the lights and and trying to catch a sneaky glance of the others to try and catch up, but it's over.  I'm facing the wrong way, just lost on stage.  And while I can't see much, I'm sure I can feel Dawn's eyes of disapproval on me.

Feeling utterly embarrassed with myself, vowing to practice this at least one thousand times when I get home, we leave the stage and the next group comes on after us.

We're all crammed backstage now, the next dancers doing their thing and we can't find the door.  10 grown women and we are stuck, where loads of small children succeeded before us, we failed miserably.

Of course we're laughing, because it's been about 2 minutes now and if we don't figure this out, we're gonna create a massive jam.  Suddenly light floods in and we're free.

Head back to the kitchen/dressing room for a debrief on how we did, thankfully I wasn't the only one who wasn't feeling terribly confident for our upcoming performance, but they have other things to do and are off.

I start to practice.

Shoe Fittings

Took myself to the ballet shop on Sunday and told the nice shop man I needed a new pair of soft ballet shoes.  He has me take off my socks and shoes and asks if I want full sole or split sole.  My recently ruined pair were split sole, but my all important internet research tells me beginners really ought to have full sole, better contact with the floor, helps develop foot muscles, etc etc.  So I got for full sole.  He takes a look at my feet and wanders off, grabs one pair of shoes, hands them to me.

The first thing I notice is they're so small!  I've got small feet (UK 4, US 6) but goodness me, these are wee!  While my other ones weighed in at a UK5, these were a child like UK 3.5.  I slip the shoes on and they fit, my toes are where they're supposed to be, just a light adjustment of the drawstrings and I'm ready.

I'm trying to look like I know what I'm doing, by flexing my foot and tell the shop owner I'm very happy with these.

So I walk out with a new pair of Bloch full sole, soft ballet slippers with the added bonus of already having the elastics sewn on, as already demonstrated, my sewing skills are shite.

A minty-licious disaster!

Whew, sorry about the break!  Real Life got in the way there!  But that's boring, away we go!

So last time we talked, I had lovingly sewed my shoes back together with dental floss and was feeling very proud and peaceful.

The next day, walked into my Dance Base class ready to be the dancing queen . . .and I was!  Well sorta, but I was definitely doing better, you know, with my shoes tied now.

Anyway, I'm doing barre work like there's no tomorrow, my port de bra* was rocking, I had my serious, but pretty, ballet face on, my feet and looking great when I tendu*, generally loving it.

Then we move into the center and things are still going well.

That is until we reach the turns.

That loose feeling is back.

I have come undone.

I'm not sure if the "Goddamnit" I uttered in my head was out loud, but now I'm standing at the back of the class, desperately trying to find the drawstrings that have slipped back into the depths of my slipper while I'm missing out on much needed practice on pirouettes.

And my mind was made up, these are not going to do the trick, I require a new pair of shoes.

* Side note:  I can't spell or speak French.  So until I absorb the correct spellings, I will just spell as I hear.  Do not judge me!