How I Deal with 5pm
I break it down. Somewhere between the hours of 4pm and bedtime, I am breaking it down, gettin’ loose wit it, and frankly just downright tearing it up on the old linoleum dance floor. That’s linoleum, as in the kitchen floor you see above (and in case you got panicky, there's nothing actually "cooking" on that stove top). I also haven’t had a working oven in 1.7 years, but seriously I digress and we can talk about it another time.
The “witching hours” are not just reserved for your demonic toddlers and fussy babies. They are my least fave hours of the day, too. I’m fucking tired and have run out of “fun” ideas. The kids are hungry and are quickly melting down, and Tom is just about to start his “terrible commute” where he gets to sit on a train listening to music and reading ‘reddit’ posts. Wahh, commuting is so hard. I’d be straight up lying (and I would never do that to you) if I said I conduct these dance parties and they always immediately make everything better, the kids are always willing participants, and we all have a fucking ball. The truth is it looks a little less Meredith and Cristina on Grey’s Anatomy and a little more bad reality TV show audition.
The party commences at the first moment Vivi or Billy start whining, which usually lines up with the time I’m supposed to be cooking dinner. I used to like cooking dinner, like real dinner where I’d find a new, delicious recipe. I’d take my time and drink some wine. Nevermore, nevermore. I’m basically a bad short order cook now. If you don’t eat what I’ve whipped up in my over sized toaster oven, you get a choice of bread: bagels, waffles, pancakes or toast. I jazz it up with some fruit and shit; gimme a break, okay? While I’m creating these “meals”, I put the kids in their assigned seating and give them a pre dinner snack called a cookie. Don’t worry, they’re organic and an excellent source of iron and zinc, unless they’re chips ahoy.
Back to the main event. I like to start out with a little Rush Hour Mix on HOT 96.9 hosted by the world renowned DJ Roy Barboza. And seriously, if you tell anyone I just admitted to listening to DJ Roy Barboza, I will deny, deny, deny. Anyway, a little Missy Elliot can really kick start my “routines”.
“Me I’m supafly, supadupa fly,” I rap along whilst doing my semi robotic moves. Billy smiles because that kid is always giving it away for free and Vivi does one of three things: gets on the floor and shakes it with me, keeps her back turned toward me with a look on of pure anguish or watches dumbfounded from her seat.
Do I love it when Vivi joins me? Of course I do! It’s a goddamn Kodak moment – nobody even knows what that means anymore, do they? Let me try with “it’s a goddamn Instagram moment” – I’m sorry, no, it’s just not the same. I’d like to go back to the 80’s now. What I’m trying to say is, I love LOVE dancing with my kids, but for like, one song, and then I’m going solo again. I’m the Beyonce, and Bill and Viv, I’m sorry, but you guys are the Michelles in this scenario.
Okay so Vivi doesn’t last long anyway before she starts asking for a treat just because for existing, and I oblige because I’ve got a lot of dope ass beats to kick it to. Inevitably Roy queues up a Shaggy song that gives me the yucks, and I head straight for YouTube. Search: Rebirth Of Slick (I’m Cool Like Dat) by Digable Planets, please, thaaaaank you.
Awwwww shit, here come the early 90’s moves. And I’m not talking Roger fucking Rabbiting. It’s like a lot of alternating bent knees and elbows, throwing my hands in the aiyah like I wrote this shit that I’m now performing live.
This sort of act is nothing new for me. I’ve been embarrassingly fake performing for a lifetime, but now I have two kids. It’s a built in audience! You can “dance like no one is watching” in front of them until no one is someone named your brother-in-law who showed up to meet your husband to borrow some stupid piece of man equipment. Whatever, he instantly confessed to doing the same thing at home with his kids, which left me feeling embarrassed for both of us.
I want to pause here to let you know that I do spend the majority of the day pretending to love the Mickey Mouse Clubhouse Pandora channel. “OMG, it’s love is a muthafucking open door again even though I thumbsed down all Frozen songs on this channel. This is supposed to be strictly Mickey. Ugh and I’m getting flashbacks of when Michael Buble ruined my whole Christmas by crooning and soft shoeing all over my playlists last year.
Okay time in. It' my turn now, and I think I’m going with NWA’s Express Yourself.
Listen it’s a far cry from “Mousercise”, but shit if my kids wont be musically cultured. I don’t mean to give you the impression I’m so hardcore. I’m not above giving my children a private Barbara Streisand concert. Call it being musically bipolar. Whatever. NWA’s song ends and Vivi nods her head saying, “Wow, that was a good music.” Hell yeah that was a good music. And the path to bedtime just got a little smoother. So, thank you throw back hits for paving the way right on through 5pm.