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From my wedding vows, seven years ago:

Seven years we have been together. And they have gone so fast, and every year has been so different, and so fun, just thinking about how fast it's gone almost causes me to panic. I know another seven years will go just as fast, and then another seven; and one day we'll celebrate our 25th anniversary, and one day it will be our 50th. I want all my years to be with you, and I shall love you always.

I've now been married to Damon for as long as we were a couple before. In fact . . . Damon and I have now been a couple (married and not) for as long as we spent as arch enemies. (14 and 14 years.)

It goes really fast.

:)
r

P.S. I dusted off our wedding cartoon for the occasion. (Click here if you don't see a video embedded below.)

Created by the super talented Tony Wang. This originally framed the slideshow that played at our reception.

Cheers, Everyone, :)
(d &) r

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"I'm Lovin' It!"

So my little cousin played "Fur Elise" on the piano for us the other day, and I told her this used to be my favorite piece, because it was part of my favorite commercial when I was a kid. I sang her the song—several times—and described the whole piano-recital scenario. I used to sing this nonstop on the playground to entertain my friends—and to torture Damon. I was in fifth grade, just like she is now.*

Next thing I knew, she was typing search words on YouTube: mcdonalds fur elise commercial. By morning she had watched it over and over, memorized it, and had lots to say about every detail. She sang the song incessantly, and I joined in every time.

She was intrigued by the former McDonald’s jingle ("It's a good time/for the great taste/of McDonald's!"), which I had to explain and sing. She prefers the current version (“I’m Lovin’ It”). It’s shorter.

Other than that, my cousin's reactions were point-for-point identical to mine on every detail: how that brother looked . . . annoying, how the girl was pretty (curly hair!), how playing the shake and cheeseburger was so funny, how she folded her hands, how the audience didn't know why she played that at the end . . . . I get nervous sometimes that even though I remember "everything," kids today might somehow be different. YouTube closed that gap right up. (Kind of like when Damon's little sister watched the I Heart the 80s series on VH1 five years ago and suddenly had the same favorite movies as us, and had watched them at the same age. It gives me a weird, time-machine feeling.)

Damon was groaning watching this whole thing unfold.

(*Note: D and I were actually in 6th grade. I realized this immediately but didn't bother to correct. In retrospect it seemed this singing-the-song-incessantly behavior was more acceptable in "5th" grade. Though I've actually never stopped.)

And how was your Thanksgiving? =)

r

[Cross-posted from Facebook. Mention this blog and friend me there!]

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Just saw the musical Wicked tonight. After the emotional highs and lows of this week, the release of immersing myself in 3+ hours of feel-great fantasy (both the show and its afterglow) seemed immeasurable. My dear friend Irvin knows how I can get at musicals, with all those people singing their hearts out—their hopes and dreams—onstage. (The last one I saw was Sweeney Todd with him in 2001! And it made me spontaneously ask him to be in my wedding! During intermission!) It really clears out the soul's pores. It's like detoxing for the heart.

Back to reality tonight. But Wicked is fantastic.

P.S.
And they know how to use it, too. At the end, while we were still applauding, they announced their twice-annual, Broadway charity-donation drive, for children with AIDS and women with cancer. We just opened our wallets and gave.

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I just had the craziest middle-of-the-night brainstorm. I actually got out of bed to blog this.

I could wear my high school prom dress to the SCBWI-LA Summer Conference gala this Saturday night.

The theme this year is "Paint the Town Red." (In other words, red.)

This dress is still at my parents' house (from 1992).
The lower half is shorter in front than in back (mermaid style) and has red satin lining inside. So it's vampy black velvet with red satin flare.

(I also blogged a group prom photo a while back that has Damon in it. If you go there and scroll down, you'll see.)

This is a hot dress!! At the time, I also bought red elbow-length satin gloves—in addition to the black—because I didn't know which color I'd wear. (Hahahahaha!) Those are also still at my parents' house, still new in their bag.

So not the look I had in mind. But, you see everything at the Summer Conference gala, so . . . I could.

(There've been so many things I've wanted to blog, yet this is what I get up to write??)

:)
r

P.S.
This is not the worst gala idea I've ever had. This comes up every year!

Oh, wait. I just looked at that other post. Maybe this one is.

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I have an idea.

A couple friends recently told me their favorite post in this blog was when I illustrated that "Fortunately, Unfortunately" story. (Haha, thanks!! That was really fun.) So, during weeks where I haven't posted anything by Friday, I'm going to share art (either that's very old or new), hopefully to keep you entertained. (This will be embarrassing for me, which, by my best guess, is what you will actually find entertaining.)

Here is the the first Quiss comic I ever did, a small stack of which I recently stumbled across at my parents' house. Did you know I used to be a cartoonist? Me, neither; I forgot! I did these in ninth grade to entertain friends, and, eventually, our high school newspaper asked me to do a couple for them, too. I had no idea why they were interested, but it was very pleasing.

Original Quiss Comic, #1 (20th Anniversary Edition)

(Clearly I had intentions of coloring this panel.)

Some of you guys whose blogs have lapsed lately, I know you have old art threads kicking around, too. Maybe you could share on your blogs, too!

Love,
r

P.S.
The Quiss comics I found aren't the ones the newspaper ran. I'll look for those.

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Thank goodness I'm Chinese.

The window of opportunity between New Year's and Chinese New Year has always given me an excellent, extra grace period in which to ramp up for the new year, and I always need it. Damon has three families, all of whom have super intense holiday traditions, plus my family does Christmas, too. By the time January 1st comes, I am worn. Out. It takes all my energy every year not to become a Bah, Humbug.

(I love the actual people in these families, which is what ends up saving me.)

Some years, if Damon and I don’t get to do holiday cards, we send out Chinese New Year cards instead. I always like to take this time to clear my “debts” (here redefined to include whatever things I still want to finish in the old year), clean my house (literally and figuratively), brainstorm resolutions, and go!

This year, I've decided housecleaning includes this blog. That is why, with the Year of the Rat only a couple days away, I'm going to blog about Christmas.

Christmas was actually not as long ago for me as it was for you. Damon's three families did the whole thing on time, but my family just did Christmas two weeks ago, with the meal and everyone and presents. For ritual, we just have four stockings—unmarked and unpersonalized—tacked over the fireplace very gingerly, in a way that won’t support any weight. Those stockings represent me, my brother, and our two spouses.

The stockings always look sad and empty, and two of them aren’t even “stockings”; they’re red-and-green velvet wine bags that my parents got at some holiday party. (The wine bags actually look nicer than the other two, “real” stockings we got for $1.99 apiece from a drugstore twenty years ago, so even though I make fun of them, I appreciate them, too.) These stockings excite little interest in my brother and me every year, which disappoints my mom—every year. She always has to urge us to go look, and when we do, invariably, there are red envelopes waiting inside, each containing 50 bucks—sometimes 60—in crisp 10- and 20-dollar bills.

“Ohhh!!!” my brother and I and our spouses always say, surprised all over again. “Thanks, Mom!”

“Don’t thank me!”

Thank you, Santa!!

This year, after so many years of her hinting, “Santa might have left your something. Don’t you want to look?” we finally knew what to expect. The four of us gamely went over to the fireplace and did a whole round of, “Heyy! Here’s one for you! And here’s one for you!” handing out red envelopes, my mom beaming on.

Then, at the end of the night, we discovered that one of the envelopes was short. (One of the stockings had 40 dollars, not 60.)

“MAMA CLAUS! MAMA CLAUS!” three of us sounded the alarm, my brother protesting and laughing the whole time (“It's not a big deal!”). My mother came running. I don’t think she liked the “Mama Claus” moniker much, but she liked our message even less. “One of the stockings is 20 dollars short!”

“What?! NO!!” She looked aghast, her eyes growing huge. "I put it back!!"

“Busted! So busted!!" we howled. "Dipping into the Christmas stockings!” But my mother was adamant, taking the red envelope jointly in my brother’s hands. “Are you sure you looked? Look again!” Accusing my brother of total incompetence. And lo and behold . . .

“Oh! OH!” my brother cried out, whipping out a crisp twenty. “A-HAHHAHA! It was stuck in the lining!”

We were dying. Why is my family always like this?

“Awwww,” my mom said, shamefaced. “Why’d you trick me to confess? I needed cash one day,” she confided, now triumphant. “But it didn't make sense. I took much more than twenty.”


A recent blog entry by my friend Julie gave me food for thought on the cultural mishmosh of our lives. She mentioned, just in passing, that Santa Claus brings presents for her two (soon to be three!) kids. “Believing in the chubby bearded guy was Kevin's tradition growing up, not mine, but the kids hear about Santa from school, daycare, and pop culture, and I don't see any harm in it, so we're preserving the tradition as long as the kids keep believing,” she said.

That’s all she said, but it was the first time I’d ever considered the Santa dilemma from the us-as-parents' point of view. Usually, I think of it from the kids’ perspective. (Santa still leaves me presents, after all—at three households these days, no less—and with very different cultural implications at each. The Santa that brings socks and underwear is different from the Santa that individually wraps little toys and chocolates, who is different from the Santa with the red envelopes.)

When I think about the Santa dilemma, I always think back to the raging debate I first heard in the halls outside my first grade classroom, back in the day. Some of my classmates argued—violently, ganging up with each other—that Santa wasn’t real; others still believed.

I don’t remember actively believing in Santa as a small child, myself. I don't think I'd even considered the question up until that point. Presents from Santa appeared in my house, too, but without a lot of fanfare, and for some reason I'd never been that curious. So when I heard my classmates arguing—with all the scorn and hope that came on both sides—I felt neutral. Unsurprised. I hadn’t put that much thought into it, but the explanation (“my dad says it’s all our parents!”) suddenly made sense.

I mean, I might have been a little disappointed. Shocked, upset. It wasn’t like I was looking to be randomly disillusioned that day. But no one was paying attention to my reaction at that moment, so I was able to take my struggling emotions home in peace. And let's be honest: My parents never tried that hard to make it real. The “From Santa” tags were always written in their handwriting—something I was quick to point out in subsequent years. (Occasionally, after that, however, random unlabeled presents would also appear under the tree without “From Santa” tags, which would “surprise” my parents. This became a new source of aggravation for me.)

The darnedest thing was that my parents never gave it up, either. Just look at the stocking story I just told: my mom balked at us calling her Mama Claus. Even now, when Santa’s not bringing us wrapped presents anymore, you’ll never get her to say Santa’s not real.

(I'm sure I could get any of Damon’s parents to say it, in spite of how elaborately they do it up.)

I went through a phase in 2nd grade—and off and on even through 4th grade—when I was hellbent on proving Santa wasn’t real. I ransacked the house to find where extra presents or extra gift wrap might be hidden. I never found gifts, but I did eventually find extra rolls of wrapping paper that matched Santa's—hidden high-up in a closet in the guest bedroom. My parents were completely bland about it, admitting nothing.

I remember the wild, irrational hope coming to me at times during that campaign—long after the early years when I neither believed nor felt the issue was important. In that 2nd-through-4th-grade phase, it suddenly became important. I needed to prove it. Suddenly, I was going to make them say it.

But othertimes, because I couldn’t—and because they wouldn't—I’d still think, Could it be . . . ? And something huge in me would grow, irrational.

If I had a kid today, would I play Santa Claus? Would I—could I—dare to not?

I don’t know.

(Maybe my kids will have to be extra good, and I'll just hope irrationally along with them!)

I do have this philosophy that love—and magic—is created when two or more people play a game using the same special rules and definitions.

But that is a blog entry for another time.

love,
r


What do you guys think/ remember/ plan to do—about Santa Claus?

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glower

I just had my last photography class of the year, and I got a B minus on the final project.

400 points out of 500! That's not just any B minus. That's a rock-bottom B minus!

I wonder if that 100 points will make me lose my A in the class??

Damon is cackling: "Why do you care?? You knew you didn't follow the instructions for that final. You kept saying you weren't. So why do you care??"

Yeah . . .  Grades have never "mattered" to me, but I've always known that's an easy attitude to have if you're getting A's, anyway. My approach was always to find ways to do projects that both followed instructions but that I could also make personally meaningful—and then let the grades fall where they may.

(In so far as Damon was my arch enemy in high school, junior high, and elementary school, I also cared about getting higher marks than him. But that was just for fun, and it was also good PR.)

(And he's a brat.)

Our senior year high school yearbook. I refused to hold the money for this photo ("Money doesn't mean success to me!"), so I finally agreed to hold books. And look! In our marriage today, Damon holds the money, and I hold books. Hm.

I didn't do that this time. Damon and I decided, together, that if I was going to go to all the trouble of shooting, printing, and mounting a series of very large black and white photos, then what we'd like for our home was a road trip to Mammoth. And we didn't have a trip planned, so we totally drove up just for this—with the point being to stop and take pictures.

I couldn't make this fit with the final (take one subject and shoot it as "differently" as possible in every photo, changing all shooting and lighting variables, so no "style" can be detected), so I decided . . . to heck with the grade. The thing was the class, and I'd learned a ton and done great on the assignments (which were super challenging, because I had to find things to shoot that I cared about that met all those requirements). This was where we diverged.*

(*Well. I say that now, but what I actually shot every week was Damon—over and over—in whatever light or conditions each assignment called for. So maybe the homework wasn't that hard . . . for me. For Damon . . . )

But now that I got a B minus, I care. pout

Other students went their own way for the final, too. The instructor was sympathetic, and quick to emphasize the grades reflected the assignment's parameters only, not the quality of the work. Some of the projects I loved most—that were awesome—got 400s, too.

Still. That's an anticlimactic way to end what's been a rockin' class. ("Here's a B minus. Bye!!")

Pah.

I can't show you the actual pictures. The prints are bigger than my scanner.


Damon and I have both been taking community college classes this year—me in photography at SMC and him in electronic music composition at City College. We've taken plenty of classes in the past, together and separately (ballroom dancing, acting, art), but none that have had the full trappings of a true, schoolroom setting—with grades, finals, required textbooks. It's been kind of hilarious.

Did you know that in many community colleges, you have to bring your own Scantron to your midterm or final? I did not know that. It adds this extra level of anxiety to tests for students, I've found. The Scantrons don't cost much (the two I got last semester set me back 42 cents), but it's one more thing everyone has to remember. It's also another thing the instructor has to take valuable class time to explain, because there are four to six different kinds of Scantrons in the student store, and everyone has to bring the right one. (25 questions on a side vs. 50 on a side . . . )

The students help each other out, though. People bring extras in case others forgot.

Last semester, before I took a midterm ("Are you taking a midterm tomorrow?" Damon cackled, pointing at my calendar. "Good luck!"), I sharpened two No. 2 pencils and then carried them all around my apartment in confusion, being all, "How do I get these to class without breaking the points?" Then I remembered: we used to use pencil boxes.

I dug out this awesome pencil box that I'd picked up in Taiwan a few years ago, of a cartoon I liked (Xiao Wanzi). This pencil box is sweet!! It's got a green double tier that pops out and up every time the box opens, offering you your pencils. The pencil boxes I used to have never did that!






Both my pencils were test-themed, too, which pleased me greatly. One said THE TAKER: A Novel by J.M. Steele and had the tagline, "How far would you go to ace the SAT?" (That must have been a promotional giveaway at SCBWI.) The other was for a CPA Review and listed a phone number that ended in -EXAM. (I have no idea where I got that.)

"Ahh, art school,"  my teacher bellowed, the moment I pulled this pencil box out. "The pencil box is the quintessential art-student accessory! Seemed like back when I was at Art Center everyone had to one-up each other by having the funkiest pencil boxes they could find!"

This was funny to me, because everything I did in that class seemed to remind my instructor of "the quintessential art student"�as if I was a quintessential art student—and I wasn't doing anything. A week earlier he had burst into laughter at the book bag I was carrying. "McRoskey Mattress Company!!" he had roared. "Rita, that's hilarious! Wherever did you find that?!"

(Um, at the McRoskey Mattress store on Robertson, the day Damon and I acted like we might buy super luxurious beds? The store people were quick to give us free book bags, tee shirts, and more.)

Anyway, that was all Spring semester. This semester I rented a metal locker and put a lock on it, for my photo supplies. (In fact, I shared this locker with a friend I made.) What's more, there was definitely an incident between me and another student and one of the other instructors, at the start of this semester—over a pencil (MINE) (NEW) (a 6B art pencil that I drove 25 minutes out of my way in traffic to get that day)—that got me as riled up as ever Ramona Quimby could have gotten over her new pink eraser on her first day of school.

(I'm not going to tell the story now, but it was ridiculous. You would feel for me.)

(He broke it! That other teacher broke it!! And then he replaced it with a grubby, chewed-on . . . )


Damon's had some entertaining back-to-school stories. He's been taking electronic music composition, so his class is definitely full of info that's new to him. But there came a day, three or four weeks in—after they'd familiarized themselves with software and equipment, when his teacher went over song composing.

"Now there are seven notes in a scale, and they have the same names as the first seven letters of the alphabet: A-B-C-D-E-F-G. Then, when you get to G, you don't go on to H. You start at A again and go through the seven letters: A-B-C-D-E-F-G."

Damon said that whole night, all he could think was, I'm in remedial music! The thought made him want to laugh, but he didn't let himself.

I am stunned that people could get this far in their life and not know, just for their basic information, that the "letters" in music go from A to G. But it must be easy. If you never learned an instrument, and if, in singing, you always just sang . . . And I know people who've taught themselves to play piano awesomely without learning to read sheet music; that's true.

Still. That blew me away.


Anyway. Damon can laugh at my B minus all he wants. (Not that he is; he's laughing that I care.) But you know what?

His final is tonight. 50 questions, multiple choice, on a Scantron, too; plus he gets back a grade on the final song he wrote. We'll see who laughs last.

r

My last graded project of the year

 

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Remember those "Fortunately, Unfortunately" books we had to make in 3rd or 4th grade, that our teachers helped us sew into real books?

I just wrote one, heh. And illustrated it!


Fortunately, Unfortunately
by Rita Crayon Huang, 28th grade

One day, Rita woke up happy she was going to get a lot of writing done--starting as soon as she brushed her teeth and showered.

Unfortunately, her bathroom had flooded in the night.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), this had happened once before, so Rita knew what to do. She called her landlord, who immediately told the people upstairs to quit taking baths. This gave them time to investigate the blockage.

Unfortunately, the plumber could not come "right away," so the landlord and Rita spent a lot of time bailing water.

Fortunately, the plumber found the cause: A latex glove--the kind used to dye hair--had been shoved down the shower drain.

Unfortunately, the landlord thought Rita had done this.

They got into a bit of a shouting match.

Rita is very ethical and did not deign to mention her husband is a lawyer, even though she knows that is what you all would do.

Fortunately, the landlord came up with a solution.

Fortunately, the plumber sided with Rita. This saved Rita $35, AKA half the plumbing bill.

This was especially fortunate, as Rita had no plans to call in a second plumber to appeal.

Unfortunately, Rita suddenly remembered she had forgotten to pick a book up at the library.

Fortunately, the online system said they had not charged her the $1 yet.

Unfortunately, by the time she got to the library five minutes later, they had.

Unfortunately, when she got outside, an officer was giving her a parking ticket.

The ticket was for $35--the exact amount she had "saved" by fighting with her landlord.

Fortunately, when she got home, she was able to shake it off and get some writing done.

Fortunately, she had previously defined all "bad" days to be days where she didn't write, and all "good" days to be days where she did.

Fortunately, she was still able to call this a good day.

The End!

r

P.S. Or not--

Fortunately, Unfortunately 2: The Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Pretty Good Day Continues

Fortunately, later that night, Rita had a writers' Schmooze to go to, where she could relate her whole Fortunately-Unfortunately day to her supercool friends.

Unfortunately, the group got so lovey dovey that when they got up to hug one writer goodbye, Rita got clocked in the eye (hard) by her very tall friend's elbow.

Fortunately, Rita's eye did not turn black. They were able to ice it right away, and all her friends showered her with love and concern.

Unfortunately, Rita got no sympathy from her husband.

Fortunately (see definition of Happy Ending above), this was still a very good day.

Disclaimer
I can draw better than this, guys. This post is an homage to another time and place.

The events in this story are true, but they took place over six days, not one. You know what? I didn't know if I had it in me to speed-doodle all the way through, but it was really fun! (Oh, the highs and lows! I have a new appreciation for this format.)

Looking back, I'd add a fish to the bathroom floor and make my "tall friend" tall in the drawing.

=) With apologies to my artist friends,

r

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This weekend has had great story arc, emotionally, but without any content. It's me and D's fifth wedding anniversary.

(Thank you.) Damon and I aren't big on anniversaries in general, but our wedding was a big deal, so we like remembering that. This year, for our five-year, I thought, wouldn't it be great if we finally finished that photo album I started—oh, five years ago—of all the pictures our friends and family took??

Groan . . .

I’m not talking about our professional album. That’s done; it’s awesome. This is a side album I've wanted to make. An album of the people. The only album we would have had, had we had never hired a pro. (Vernacular photography, if you will.)

We're lucky to know a lot of talented photographers—like AJ, who has actually worked, professionally, as a wedding photographer—so this would be a high quality "album of the people." (Mostly.) Still, I don't think Damon understood how large a project I had set up. Back when our wedding was new, I had printed and ordered literally thousands of photos from everyone's digital files and negatives. Then we'd moved and the whole thing had gone into boxes, never to come out again.

Until two nights ago.

As I began to despair, Damon became very determined. So, on the evening of our fifth anniversary, we sorted photos. For hours.

When we stopped for the night, we watched our wedding DVD. We skipped most of the ceremony (save the mush for the 10-year) in favor of laughing at our guests—especially on the dance floor—as captured by Damon's Uncle Willie. People dancing with their thumbs. People messing up words to songs. "Blackmail material," Benji calls it.

That is good stuff. If you were there, I guarantee you you are in this video, and we have been laughing at with you.

“It’s nice to see everyone so energetic," Damon said after one particularly hysterical shot of all our out-of-town relatives.

I thought he was going to say happy. His comment spun my mind in new, more sobering directions.

“This video is a gift," Damon declared toward the end. “This video shouldn’t even exist. Uncle Willie forgot his power cord, and the camera battery wasn’t supposed to last that long, but it lasted all night."

“Wow,” I said. “That’s just like Hannukah.”

Which, I guess, is why we watch it every year.

This morning, as we resumed sorting photos, I made a move to play some music. Before I could put in a CD, however, Damon hit PLAY and our wedding DVD came back on. “Oh, look what’s in here,” he said, and we sat down and watched the dancing again.

After that, I watched our wedding cartoon six or seven times in a row, followed by a mini slide show of our lives. Not the 11-minute slide show from our wedding. D's uncle made an abridged, under-three-minute version for this DVD, in which we grow up even faster. I watched that six or seven times in a row, too.

Damon and I and our friend Benji originally made this slide show to send out the message Damon and I were the bestest, most lovey dovey couple in the world. Now the one getting suckered was me. It was better than the AT&T commercial that made everyone cry in the 90s—the one where the two 80-year-old best friends call each other right after we've watched a montage of their entire, lifelong friendship. "Reach out and touch someone!"

Now I’m a big ball of mush.

Sitting back down to tackle the wedding photos, I feel completely different.

But, I guess, nothing has changed.

r


The photos in this post were taken by Irvin; Uncle Joe (x2); Michael & Hanh; Andre; and wedding guests using disposable cameras. Thanks, everyone!! You're the greatest!

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I have so many happy associations with Beyonce's song "Crazy in Love" (track 1 on Dangerously in Love). They just keep building up, to the point where I can now play this song on repeat and work out to it for 30 minutes at a time, three times a week, and never get tired.

I just keep getting more charged.

All my happy memories replay, too, every time the song starts over. I run through them all again. (Literally!) 

That's because this song's ridiculous, over-the-top intro always makes me think of my brother's wedding. Michael and Hanh entered their reception to this song, with Damon pumping up the crowd and really hyping up their intro—doing the world's greatest job as wedding emcee ever.

All my femme fatale cousins were rolling at my table, just from Damon ending in the phrase, "Give it up, for Michael and HANHHHHHH!!!"

Damon's stepmother laughed on one side of the room, and Damon's mom rolled her eyes on another, and toward the center, my aunts gushed to my mother, "Why, Damon's a perfect emcee!"

Then my brother and Hanh came dancing in. Rockin'. Lookin'  sweet. Gettin' down. While I ran up and took pictures.


Damon and I had suggested this song to Michael and Hanh the night before for exactly this purpose, which also makes me happy. We had a final details meeting where we learned my mom had been worrying Damon wouldn't make as "fun" and "loud" an emcee as a hired professional.

We showed her!!

She raved about what a good job Damon did, after.

But we stole this idea from Derek and Polly, who entered their reception to the same song two months earlier. So then I always think about how crazy Derek and Polly are, and how they had the two crazy emcees that got 300 Asian people up, old and young, on their feet all night.

I took some awesome pictures that night.

Then I think about how I danced my @$$ off to this song at my college's ten-year reunion earlier this summer, when this song came on toward the end of that dance. I felt so happy and carefree at that point, having gone back in time with all my old friends, this song pushed me over. And people took notice, after. 

Then I think about how the same thing happened again, at the SCBWI conference, toward the end of that night, too! Just this past August. The dance was winding down, this song came on, and I went nuts again!

That time I was on a stage.

By the time I've daydreamed my way through all these great parties (groovin' side to side and practically falling off my elliptical), the song starts over.

What a great song to enter a reception to. Michael and Hanh rocked their entrance. Hanh's dress looked amazing. Damon's stepmom cracked up. My cousins rolled out of their chairs! I can hear Damon's Barnum & Bailey routine now.

But we stole that idea from Derek and Polly . . .



When this song came out three years ago, I thought it was "fun at clubs."

Now I love it.

r


Actually, the first three songs make an awesome workout block. But at this point, all I need is Track 1.

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