Crown Royal on ice...

Two weeks ago, as dance class was wrapping up, Dr. Love (so our instructor likes to be called, though I'm 99% sure he is NOT a doctor) gave us a preview of another routine we would be learning later in the session. He said it was to a song called "Crown Royal" which made me beam uncontrollably. I didn't know the song, but I'm guessing if anyone saw my ridiculous grin, they probably would have imagined it was my favorite song of all time. It wasn't the song, but the liquor that had me smiling from ear to ear. The mere mention of that specific beverage was all I needed for my own little moment of personal serenity that Monday night.

Crown Royal is very significant in my family, and no, not because we're a bunch of alcoholics. In fact, I'm not sure there's anyone who actually enjoys drinking it. Out of my immediate family, at least, my husband is the only one I know of who will pour himself a glass on a weekday night, usually after a hard day of work and usually when there's no beer or wine in the house.

It was a holiday recently, maybe our engagement dinner at my mom's house last year that I ventured out and bought my first bottle. It would have to have been a special occasion for sure, because that's the only time our family drinks it. And we drink it on special occasions because my grandpa drinks it on special occasions, or most accurately, drank it on special occasions.

Without fail, every Thanksgiving, Christmas Eve, and Easter, we were always at Grandpa's, indulging in a loud, large potluck with all my aunts and uncles and cousins in attendance. Aunt Beth would always bring the betty salad. A sports game was always on the television in the living room. We'd always hold hands around the kitchen table, all 40 or so of us, and recite our prayer together. And all the men would always gather in the kitchen for their favorite ritual, a shot of Crown Royal while the womenfolk took pictures and cheered for them.

Most of the time, I was in the basement playing with my cousins during this event, though saw plenty of performances of this ritual while passing through to get another glass of Mountain Dew or to sneak a cookie before dinner, but it's not like I understood what was going on anyway. And when I was old enough to understand, I still didn't find it interesting enough to ask anyone why they bothered with it.

When I was finally at the age that was legal for me partake in such beverages, it hadn't occurred to me to ask to be involved in their ceremony. Even as an aspiring feminist, I didn't even bother pulling out my equal-opportunity card, questioning why it was only men and why couldn't the women join in. I just accepted that it was always done this way and I never had the motivation to mess with the tradition.

Then my cousin Jamie married Courtney, and she threw a big wrench right into the tradition. I thought it was a Christmas Eve, but it would have been any such holiday occasion that the men got up to do their ritual shot of Crown Royal and Courtney got up off the couch to go join them. No one had asked her to go, not that I noticed anyhow, but she was a spontaneous, outgoing kind of person, so I wasn't surprised that she would include herself. In fact, if my husband's family had had a ritual like this, I probably would have hopped up and partaken just as Courtney did, whether I was asked to not.

On her way to the kitchen, however, she turned back to me and said, "Come on, Jenny, let's go." I don't remember if I even bothered putting up a fight or making an excuse. But eventually, I ended up in that kitchen with a shot in my hand, surrounded by all my uncles and the patriarch of the entire Gotha establishment, toasting each one of them and entering a rite of passage my brother hadn't even had the privilege to experience yet.

(My brother was absent that night, the reason now escapes me--hell, the specific holiday and specific year escape me, so what did you expect?)

In hopes to be able to write more extensively on the subject of the Crown Royal tradition in what hopes to be my book, I turned to my mother for answers on all the questions that surrounded this age-old ceremony. Come to find out, my mother had the exact same mindset as I did; it never occurred to her to ask why it happened, it was just the way things were done. But she said that Crown Royal was more expensive than Seagram's or Canadian Club, so it was only reserved for holidays and Friday night card games. My grandparents were quite the frugal pair, but still knew how to have a good time.

It is funny to think back on the tradition and how it evolved over my lifetime, how my cousins eventually got old enough to take the shot, how their wives eased into the ritual themselves, how I, the baby of the family, finally got my chance at it. At my wedding, we handed out Crown Royal shots and my grandfather got up and told me he loved me, and we all had a shot together, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws, everyone. It is a moment I will never forget.

At his funeral, towards the end of the night when most people had cleared out, and with the undertaker nowhere in sight, good old Courtney grabbed a stack of Styrofoam coffee cups and we all filed silently out of the back door into the parking lot, where my brother revealed from behind his back the majestic purple bag. We passed it around, splashing some into our cups, and I raised my glass, swallowed hard, and then said, "To Grandpa."

And we all brought our glasses to the center and then downed the potent liquid. We all shivered, but smiled proudly with our mouths open to let out some of the sting so that it might float up to heaven.

When Chris returned from the NASCAR race in Bristol with his dad, we presented me with a gift of a Crown Royal t-shirt that he had bought from the Matt Kenseth trailer. I almost broke into tears. To think, I didn't think there was anything he could bring me back from the NASCAR race that I would enjoy, and here he brought me the most perfect gift of all.

It's a shame "Crown Royal" the song has nothing to do with the whiskey. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's a song my grandfather would not approve of. Dr. Love designed all the moves around the words of the song, so he is constantly reciting all the vulgarity over and over again while he is showing us sequences. There's a high school boy in the class, and after one such explicit lyric, the boy said, "That's nasty!" And we all chuckled.

But just knowing what the song is called makes me smile at dance class anyhow. And I told Dr. Love I would be sure to wear my shirt next week so I would be dressed for the occasion.

We are all just prisoners here of our own device...

I don't know how people who work from home do it. I had an afternoon all scheduled for writing and drinking champagne on my deck, but in the allotted hour I gave myself, I ended up hanging clothes up (I hadn't anything to wear that was already in my closet), drying my hair (which seemed to be drying faster than normal, and if I let it air dry, I would look ridiculous and I had plans that evening), cleaning off the patio furniture (because I couldn't write on a table covered in potting soil), moving the laundry from the washer to the dryer (because if I didn't do it right then and there, I would certainly forget it altogether), and cleaning off the champagne glasses (because we usually never drink champagne, so they had a good year's worth of dust on them) that by the time I was sitting down to write, I had a mere 20 minutes left, and then I went ahead and wasted five more minutes whining about it here.

And yet here I am with whatever little time I have left because it's about damn time I start sticking to my guns and actually do things I say I'm going to, which I've never been too good at doing in the past. Thus, the reason I've been absent so long. There hasn't been anything worth writing about--well, of course there is always SOMETHING to write about, but as far as the status of my writing or new things I've been learning, new leaps I've taken, there simply haven't been any.

Failure, of course, is something worth writing about and something I'm getting to be an expert at for certain. However, I'm not particularly fond of writing about my failures, mostly because my failures tend to be self-inflicted. I'm perfectly aware that if I don't write, it's simply because I haven't taken the time. There is no one to blame but myself. As the Eagles might say, I'm a prisoner of my own device, stuck in a continual Hotel California not even trying to find a way out. I can't complain about my life not going the way I want because I am capable of changing it. What a powerful statement. I am capable of changing my life. I am capable. I choose not to.

And to write about my failures would feel like I was only complaining when I have no right in which to complain. Thus, I have remained quiet, not facing my life or my failures, watching time tick by, nearly three months into the project and still the same ten pages to show for it.

If it's one good thing I can say about the past month, it's that I've forced myself to go back to hip-hop dance class. At least I'm doing some extra-circular activity that gets me out of the house and gets me thinking about what I really want out of life. Believe it or not, dance classes are a great place to think, or at least they are for me. It seems like I would be too distracted with counting and memorizing move sequences and trying not to look like the white girl ironing board that I am compared to my smooth, sexy instructor who probably came out of the womb popping and locking.

But in a dance studio, I spend my entire time staring into a mirror, realizing all the flaws and imperfections, every move that is correct and every move that is incorrect, my facial expressions when I miss a move, when I get a move right, the way I feel the music and the movements. It's no internet blog that I can hide from and avoid for a whole month. Everything is laid out in front of me; all the problems that I have to fix are unrelentingly reflected back at me. And most of the time, I'm scared shitless that my classmates or Mr. Smooth Sexy Instructor are watching me, judging every one of my mistakes, but then I realize it's just me and the mirror. Everyone is focusing on themselves, finding the errors within themselves and attempting to repair them each time the music restarts.

I suppose that's what makes it hard about trying to make friends in a dance class. Sure, there are times where we're all joking about a move or helping each other out with some sequence, but for the majority of the class, we are each in our little bubble, alone with the music and the mirror. I've been meaning to stay a little later after class, try to talk Mr. Smooth Sexy Instructor about any other dance opportunity he may know of for 20-something ex-baton-twirlers or find out how the other girls in the class spend their free time. But I guess I find it exposing enough that these people see me struggle with moves and constantly misstep. I guess by the end of class, I'm just ready to get back to my safe cocoon that is my car and my normal boring life.

Which is a shame, really. I have found in the past that the bond shared between people with the same passion is the strongest bond of them all. I often think fondly of a specific moment in my past, standing around a piano late at night at Adrian College when most people are back in their rooms, surrounded by strangers who quickly became family at a summer camp, my dear friend playing a song from Les Mis his fingers have memorized and all of us singing along casually, poking at each other and laughing all the while. It's a kind of camaraderie you only understand if you've had it before. And even just standing around a piano singing warm-ups or a song everyone knows, what fun we all had. It was all we wanted or needed in that moment. It may sound silly, but I miss standing around a piano with people like me.

Sometimes I think all of this would be easier if I had chosen to hang around people who had the same life goals and passions as I do.

It all goes back to what John said that first night I attended Writing Club. He said writing is a lonely business. And it is. I keep fooling myself into believing that I can write and NOT be lonely, that I can spend time with my husband, our families, our friends, and STILL write. But that's not the case, not all the time anyhow. To achieve my dreams, I need to instill discipline in my life and I have to be willing to sacrifice, even if sacrifice means being alone, even if only for a temporary time. And I guess I haven't been willing to sacrifice yet. It's funny, really. Writing is what I really want to do, but I'm not willing to sacrifice what's necessary to get it. I suppose that's something I'll have to come to terms with.

A funny ending to a rather pensive entry: My husband came home and gave me a kiss hello, quickly followed by a, "Have you been drinking?!"

"Just a glass of champagne," I batted my eyes innocently.
"It's not even 5pm!"
"It was just one glass!"
"Yeah, right."
And then giggles ensued, which did not help plead my case in the least.