April 2008 - Posts
Like eating watermelon in the summer or squash in the fall, I think there are certain drinks that go well with each season. A sparkling gin and tonic, for example, is the quintessential summer drink to me. Though I love them, once there is a nip in the air I put away the highball glasses until next summer. I haven't had one yet this year either. It's just hasn't felt quite right. There are other drinks that say summer to me, like sweet mojitos or slushy strawberry margarita (with chips and salsa of course). I wouldn't drink a Corona with it's pop of citrus in the winter either, but during the summer I wouldn't turn down a cold one.
Throughout the winter I'm more of a wine gal. I have a friend that even tailors her wine choice to the seasons. Spicy reds for winter, cool crisp whites for summer. I pass on the reds year round. But that's just personal preference. I haven't been able to get past the way a dry red sticks in my throat. But that's just me.
It's interesting what someone's drink choice says about them, or at least what an observer might think it says about them. Like a person's car, what drink they choose sends a certain message. A guy drinking a Bud Light, for example, is a no muss no fuss kind of guy. A micro brew? He's a little more high maintenance. What about the girl with a glass of wine versus a beer. Or a martini. Don't lie. You wouldn't be the only one to jump to a conclusion that she's not just one of the fellas.
I expected to get a wide range of answers at the Cedar Rapids Downtown District-sponsored bar crawl Friday. I wasn't disappointed. Some people had elaborate answers. Others simply said beer. Whatever their choice. Bottoms up!
When I was a little girl – and well into my early high school years – I was one of those girls who spent two nights a week and most Saturdays taking dance lessons. Not practical dance, like ballroom or jazz or country or Latin or anything I could use now, but the classes that taught you one routine to one song per costume. If you were in an advanced class you got to learn two or three routines (and your parents got to purchase two or three insanely expensive costumes because heaven forbid you wear the same one for multiple routines).
I still remember some of the movements to our routine to “Funkytown,” and the costume. Rather than donning the traditional spandex/glitter/frills costumes, this one was simple: a pair of disco jeans, a plain bright-colored t-shirt with rainbow suspenders and our names spelled out in rainbow iron-on letters that you could get at one of those shops in the mall.
Now, more than 25 years later, I can’t ballroom dance, I don’t know the paso doble and if it weren’t for the directions to the cha-cha slide being sung for that dance, I probably couldn’t do that, either. I did take line dancing lessons once upon a time, but unless the club is playing “Achy Breaky Heart” I’m out of luck there, too. I’m more the “hear the music and get up and move somehow” kind of dancer.
So it goes without saying that I am impressed both by and with people who dance for a living, or for a very fun hobby. To those who take the time to learn a dance – like swing – and actually put it to practical use, I tip my hat in admiration. (Actually I look horrid in hats, but you get the idea.)
Whether we can give full credit to “Dancing with the Stars” or not, a dance craze has definitely been sweeping the nation. I find I know more and more people – adults – who are taking or have taken dance lessons, anything from country and jazz to ballroom and Latin. Watching celebrities give it their all has really inspired a lot of people to learn, and has spawned some spin-offs such as the “Ballroom with the Cedar Rapids Celebrities” competition next weekend at the Cedar Rapids Marriott.
I have to admit I’m a little envious of all the moves they’re learning. Maybe that will inspire me to finally take some lessons.
Or maybe I’ll just keep moving on my own.
I have a new rule that I'm not allowed to ask people the On The Street question until I've at least tried to think of what I would answer myself. It's only fair, right? If I expect them to answer on the spot, I should be able to do the same.
So, with that new rule in mind, I was trying to think of who I would name as my favorite director. I realized I was at a distinct disadvantage to the people that I would be talking to Saturday at the Cedar Rapids Independent Film Festival. While they were all, I assumed, film buffs who watch movies knowing who was behind the camera calling the shots -- I am not. I can rarely come up with the names of actors and actresses, let alone the people behind the scenes. The best I can usually come up with is, "You know. That guy. He was in that movie. With that other guy." See where I'm going with this? While I love watching a good movie, a Hollywood buff I am not.
I decided my answer would be one of the actors turned directors, like George Clooney or Mel Gibson. Or Ben Affleck. To my husband's horror, we both really liked Gone Baby Gone. I'd also count Ron Howard among those ranks. And it was he whose name I was trying to summon from the depths of my memory Saturday when the conversation did indeed turn to the question of who my favorite director might be. But, in true Carly style. I couldn't think of his name. Luckily the woman I was talking to caught on to my game of verbal charades.
I think I should stick to just watching the movies.